Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes [1 ed.] 9781402010279, 9789401005067

Table of contents :
Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes (Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind, Volume 1)
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Contributors
Abbreviations
Preface
Introduction
Goodness and Rational Choice in the Early Middle Ages
Medieval Theories of the Passions of the Soul
Weakness of Will: The Plurality of Medieval Explanations
Free Will and Self-Control in Peter Olivi
Reflections on John Duns Scotus on the Will
A Nominalist Ontology of the Passions
Buridan's Theory of Free Choice and Its Influence
Emotions in Renaissance Humanism: Juan Luis Vives' De Anima et Vita
Late Scholastic Theories of the Passions: Controversies in the Thomist Tradition
The Rationality of Cartesian Passions
Descartes on the Will and the Power to Do Otherwise
Bibliography
Name Index
Subject Index

Citation preview

EMOTIONS AND CHOICE FROM BOETHIUS TO DESCARTES

STUDIES IN THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY OF MIND Volume I

Editors Henrik Lagerlund, Uppsala University, Sweden Mikko Yrjiinsuuri, Academy (~f Finland and University oj lyvaskylii, Finland

Board of Consulting Editors Lilli Alanen, Uppsala University, Sweden Joel Biard, University of Tours, France Michael Della Rocca, Yale University, US.A. Eyj61fur Emilsson, University oj Oslo, Norwav Andre Gombay, University ojToronto, Canada Patricia Kitcher, Columbia University, US.A. Simo Knuuttila, University of Helsinki, Finland Beatrice M. Longuenesse, Princeton University, U.S.A. Calvin Normore, Unil'ersity of California, Los Angeles, US.A.

Aims and Scope The aim of the series is to foster historical research into the nature of thinking and the workings of the mind. The volumes address topics of intellectual history that would nowadays fall into different disciplines like philosophy of mind, philosophical psychology, artificial intelligence, cognitive science, etc. The monographs and collections of articles in the series are historically reliable as well as congenial to the contemporary reader. They provide original insights into central contemporary prohlems by looking at them in historical contexts, addressing iss lies like consciollsness, representation and intentionality, mind and body, the self and the emotions. In this way, the books open up new perspectives for research on these topics.

EMOTIONS AND CHOICE FROM BOETHIUS TO DESCARTES

Edited by

HENRIK LAGERLUND Uppsala University, Sweden

and

MIKKO YRJONSUURI Academy of Finland and University of Jyvăskylă, Finland

....

"

Springer-Science+Business Media, LLC

A C.I.P. Catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 978-1-4020-1027-9 ISBN 978-94-010-0506-7 (eBook) DOI 10.1007/978-94-010-0506-7

Printed on acid-Iree paper

AII Rights Reserved © 2002 Springer Science+Business Media N ew York Originally published by Kluwer Academic Publishers in 2002 Softcover TepTint ofthe hardcover 1st editioll 2002 No par! of this work may be reproduced. stored in a retrieval system. or transmitted in any form Of by any means. electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the Publisher, with the exception of any material supplied specifically for the purpose ofbeing entered and executed on a computer system, for exclusive use by the purchaser of the work.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contributors

vii

Abbreviations

IX

Preface

xi

Introduction Henrik Lagerlund and Mikko Yrjonsuuri Goodness and Rational Choice in the Early Middle Ages Calvin G. Normore

29

Medieval Theories of the Passions of the Soul Simo Knuuttila

49

Weakness of Will: The Plurality of Medieval Explanations Risto Saarinen

85

Free Will and Self-Control in Peter Olivi Mikko Yrjonsuuri

99

Reflections on John Duns Scotus on the Will John Boler

129

A Nominalist Ontology of the Passions Vesa Hirvonen

155

Buridan's Theory of Free Choice and Its Influence Henrik Lagerlund

173

Emotions in Renaissance Humanism: Juan Luis Vives' De anima et vita Lorenzo Casini

205

Late Scholastic Theories of the Passions: Controversies in the Thomist Tradition Peter King

229

v

VI

The Rationality of Cartesian Passions Deborah Brown

259

Descartes on the Will and the Power to do Otherwise Lilli Alanen

279

Bibliography

299

Name Index

317

Subject Index

327

CONTRffiUTORS

Lilli Alanen is Professor of Philosophy at Uppsala University. She is the author of the forthcoming monograph Descartes's Conception of Mind, and has published a large number of articles on Descartes and other areas of Philosophy. John Boler is Professor Emeritus and former Chair of the Philosophy Department at University of Washington. He is the author of Charles Peirce and Scholastic Realism: A Study of Peirce's Relation to John Duns Scotus and several papers on semantics and theories of the will, in addition to other topics. Deborah Brown is Lecturer of Philosophy at the University of Queensland. She has written several articles on philosophy of mind and the history of philosophy. Her publications include "A Furry Tile of Mental Language" and "Ockham on Analyticity" and she is the author of a forthcoming monograph on Descartes's theory of emotions. Lorenzo Casini is at present finishing his Ph.D. thesis at Uppsala University. It is on Juan Luis Vives' theory of emotions, its scholastic background and

its influences. Vesa Hirvonen has recently defended his Ph.D. thesis at Helsinki University. It has the title: Passions in William Ockham's Philosophical Psychology.

Peter King is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Toronto. He has published several translations and commentaries including John Buridan's Logic: The Treatise on Supposition, The Treatise on Consequence and Augustine: Against the Academicians and The Teacher. He is the author of several articles on medieval philosophy. Simo Knuuttila is Academy Professor at University of Helsinki. He has published extensively on different topics, specializing in ancient, medieval and early modem philosophy. His publications include the book Modalities in

vii

viii Medieval Philosophy and he is also the author of a forthcoming monograph on emotion in ancient and medieval philosophy. Henrik Lagerlund is Lecturer and Research Fellow in Philosophy at Uppsala University. He recently published the book Modal Syllogistics in the Middle Ages and is presently writing a monograph on philosophical psychology in the later Middle Ages. Calvin G. Normore is Professor of Philosophy at UCLA. He has published a large number of influential articles on medieval and early modem philosophy as well as other areas of philosophy. His most recent publications include "Some Aspects of Ockham's Logic" in The Cambridge Companion to Ockham and "Picking and Choosing: Anselm and Ockham on Choice". Risto Saarinen is Professor at Helsinki University. He has published extensively in theology as well as in philosophy. His publications include the monograph Weakness of the Will in Medieval Thought: From Augustine to Buridan. Mikko Yrjonsuuri is Academy Researcher at the University of Jyvaskyla. Specializing on medieval and early modem times, he has published several articles in philosophy and the monograph Obligationes: 14th Century Logic of Disputational Duties. He is the editor of the recently published anthology Medieval Formal Logic: Obligations, Consequences and Insolubles.

ABBREVIATIONS

This is a list of the abbreviations used throughout the book. The individual papers may have their own abbreviations as well but they are in that case explained in the footnotes of the paper. AT

Rene Descartes, Oeuvres completes de Descartes, vols. I-XII.

CSM

Rene Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vols. 1-11.

CSMK

Rene Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. Ill.

LS

Long, A.A., & Sedley, D.N. (1987).

OP & OT

William Ockham, Opera philosophica et theologica.

PL

Patrologia latina.

ST

Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, vols. 4-12 in Sancti Thomae Aquinatis doctoris angelici opera omnia.

ix

PREFACE

As with almost all books, this one took much longer to complete than we thought when we started. It began within the research project "Actions and Passions of the Mind from 1200-1700" which was financed by the Nordic Research Council in the Humanities (NOS-H) between 1999 and 2001, but as the topic became clearer the book grew and the final product involves several people outside the original group in the NOS-H project. Many of the papers published here started as talks given at meetings of the project, but no meeting resembles the finished book. Indeed, all the articles are, in the end, written just for this volume. One of the overarching aims of the NOS-H project was to highlight the continuity between medieval and modem philosophy of mind, and, as editors, we also took this perspective when planning the volume. The individual articles pertain to give an accurate and philosophically interesting treatment of the thinker or period they discuss, but nonetheless the overall picture is one of continuity between not only medieval and early modem psychology of action, but also between late ancient and medieval thinking on emotions and choice. There are many people we would like to thank. Foremost, some graduate students at JyvaskyUi and Uppsala have read and commented various articles in the volume. Jari Kaukua read carefully the whole manuscript commenting especially form the perspective of a doctoral student beginning serious work in the field, and Minna Koivuniemi and Frans Svensson at the Philosophy Department in Uppsala read and gave valuable comments on our introduction. A special thanks to Juhana Toivanen for preparing the indexes. As editors, we want to express our profound indebtedness to one of our contributors - Lilli Alanen. She was the organizer of the NOS-H project and she has supported both of us in our work over the years. She also lies, in many ways, behind much of the work included in this book. Henrik LagerIund and Mikko YIjonsuuri Uppsala and Helsinki, June 2002

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INTRODUCTION

Video meliora, proboque, deteriora sequor. (I see the better and approve it, But I follow the worse.) Ovid, Metamorphoses, VII, 20

Ovid puts these now infamous words into the mouth of Medea, and they, like no other, seem to characterize her tortured soul. We all know the story as Euripides tells it: her husband, Jason, deserts her in order to, he claims, secure the future of their two sons. She, on the other hand, is banished from Corinth by its king Creon, but she does not succumb. Instead, she retaliates by killing the king and his daughter, which Jason is set to marry, and finally she also kills her two sons in a furious attempt of revenge on their father. Ever since this was written commentators have disagreed on how to understand Medea's behavior. Why, in particular, does she claim that she knows better and acts for the worse? Are we really to believe that she, of all people, has a weak will? It seems clear that Medea is tom between conflicting emotions. This is, at least, the interpretation the Stoic Seneca gives in his own version of the tragedy. Tom between love for her sons and hatred towards her treacherous husband, she acts as uncontrolled as waves in a stormy sea. Seneca does not let Medea say that she knows better. He portrays her as utterly unable to fmd a rational stance towards what is happening and to grasp her role in the situation correctly. She does realize, it seems, that she ought to be controlled by reason, but she cannot see what reason would dictate. Seneca's Medea does not have a weak will. She is a captive of her emotions; feeling the insufficiency of her reason. H. Lagerlund and M. Yrjiinsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes 1-28. © 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers.

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Sixteen centuries later Thomas Hobbes reacts to the quoted line by proclaiming: "that saying, as pretty as it is, is not true". He does not see how Medea's actions can result from anything else but "the last dictate of her judgment" preceding them. As he construes the situation, her emotional action simply means that she follows her "present thought [ ... J of the good or evil consequence". With rational deliberation, the good or evil sequels come to be evaluated more carefully, but this is not what Medea does. Although she has time for deliberation, she is unable to do it. Medea's example has not been at the center of contemporary discussions in philosophy of mind and action, at least not as it used to be up to the time of Hobbes. One possible reason is that philosophical problems related to emotions and to emotional motivations for actions have risen to the awareness of analytically oriented philosophers only quite recently. Howsoever one interprets Euripides' or Seneca's tragedies, Medea's example is not an example of rational choice, which used to be the paradigm case for the analyses of the reasons and motivations for human action. Medea's example is an example of someone acting under the pressures of a multitude of rational and emotional motivations. In this book, we are not developing a theory of action in the sense of contemporary analytic philosophy. Instead, the purpose is to give a detailed account of how philosophers, roughly, between Seneca and Hobbes have dealt with certain problems of the philosophy of mind associated with human action. The articles attend different topics, different periods of time, and a multitude of theories created by different authors, but as a whole they cover the topic in a historically continuous way. The intention is to shed light on the development of the philosophical psychology of human action in the Middle Ages. While there has been a considerable amount of work done on this topic in the area of ancient philosophy, medieval theories of emotions have hardly been studied at all and medieval discussions of freedom and will have so far been looked at mainly from a theological viewpoint. We see no reason to neglect the wealth of philosophically elaborate material existing from the Middle Ages. On the contrary, it seems even more important, since it is the period when ancient conceptions gradually lost their grip and gave way to what we now know as the modem way of understanding human emotions and rationality. We are particularly interested in seeing how the modem conceptions arose.

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3

The papers aim at full historical accuracy on the topics they discuss. At times, this means recognizing the present gaps in knowledge and the inability to clear mists over yet unexplored territories. Medieval philosophy is still not very well-known, which applies particularly to the topic of this book. Most of the textual material is still hidden in unpublished manuscripts that have not been studied or - as the case often is - even properly catalogued. This situation must not, we believe, hinder us from using what has been brought to our attention by modern scholarship. As we see it, drawing from these resources can help us understand better the philosophical problems we encounter nowadays. While the articles avoid making speculative historical claims, the aim of the rest of the introduction is to find a general overall description of the philosophical development of this topic, and we ask the reader to keep this in mind while reading. Drawing a history of philosophy with only a few bmshstrokes always becomes speculative, and the case is even more so in this area. ANCIENT MODELS The first person mentioned in our title is Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius (c. 480-525). He was a wealthy Roman born at a time when his nation was in decay. He made a distinguished political career under the gothic king Theoderic, but this is not why he is known today. His fame is instead based on his achievements in transmitting the disappearing philosophical knowledge of the ancient time to future generations. He produced textbook presentations on several topics, and, according to himself, his translations and commentaries of Aristotle's logical works are only the beginning of a more ambitious project of translating all of Plato and Aristotle into Latin - knowledge of Greek was becoming rare among his contemporaries. Boethius' friend and colleague Cassiodoms (c. 490-585) has left his footprints in history as well. He founded the monastery of Vivarium, which was to play a major role in establishing the tradition of producing new manuscript copies of ancient books during the 'dark centuries' to follow. Contemplating the lives of these two makes one suspect that Boethius, to some extent, was aware of his status as "last of the ancients, first of the medievals". Though he, of course, could not know what was to come, he seems to have been aware of the fact that the ancient civilization was in danger of disappearing. He, thus, fits very well as the first milestone of our

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presentation. The task of the first three articles of this volume is, namely, to provide a picture of how the ancient traditions were gradually, but innovatively, absorbed by early medieval intellectuals. We are, of course, not so interested in Boethius' achievements on the general cultural scene. Our main interest is in the way he transmitted ancient outlooks on human moral psychology to later generations. As Calvin G. Normore shows in his contribution, Boethius' The Consolation of Philosophy presents the philosophically cultivated viewpoint towards morality as based on two theses. According to Boethius, human action always aims at what is perceived to be good, that is, everything we do is ultimately motivated by some kind of apprehension of the goodness of things. Furthermore, he also seems to think that deliberation is not about the ultimate good, but about the means of achieving it. It seems that modem scholars have more or less confirmed Boethius' sympathetic understanding of the overall tendencies of classical moral psychology. For example, in the conclusion of her book The Morality of Happiness, Julia Annas presents the philosophical starting point of ancient ethics as the idea of an overarching value giving direction to the whole life of the morally reflective person. Annas does not hesitate to claim that on the ancient picture - excepting only the Cyrenaics - "all the various aims and values do hang together", and it is the main task of moral philosophy to make one more able to organize one's aims and priorities in respect of this 'fmal end'. Furthermore, she draws the main lines of ancient ethics in such a way that a single concept of 'happiness' captures relatively well the general content of what the final end for humans is. As the ancients saw it, all human beings do and ought to aim at happiness, but the problematic issue is recognizing what this happiness really is. (See Annas 1993, p. 440.) Since we are here interested in ancient philosophical psychology only as the background for the medieval discussions, we can accept the concept of happiness as it is used by Annas. As she herself recognizes, one of the main problems in the use of this concept to describe the good, is that happiness seems to be a self-centered concept. When I seek happiness, it seems to be my happiness that I am after. In a way, we appear to jump from the good to the good for me. This seems to exclude genuine friendship, where I am acting for the best of my friend even against my own interests; furthermore, this kind of ethical stance seems to leave no room for justice as a virtue. When I am just, I have concerns for others even when I have no special relation to

INTRODUCTION

5

them. If the good for me clashes with the good for society, I am supposed to give way. How can this be, if my sole moral motivation is happiness? This is an important question that lies behind many of the medieval developments discussed in this book. In this way the medieval discussions of the contrast between self-interest and moral motivation are characteristically modem. The modem conception of morality is typicaUy articulated as utterly opposed to (or at least distinct from) self-interest. We would like to stress the fact that this way of looking at the problems of morality did not arise out of nothing in early modem philosophy. Instead, it was a natural result of the medieval developments, where the traditional equation of happiness and goodness was considerably problematized, and where philosophers started to consider whether and how one can be motivated to act against or independently of one's own interests. In twentieth-century continental philosophy the concept other has had a crucial importance in designating the way in which we as subjects realize the presence or the possibility of other subjects. One may well ask if such a concept played any role in ancient ethics. For example, the conceptual content of justice and friendship need not be understood in terms of a distinction between me and the other for whom I have concern, not even on the eudaimonist picture. A relatively feasible way to conceive of such a concept is to extend the range of the happiness I am seeking outside my own person, and think of the relevant moral subject as a larger whole. In such a way, justice can be seen as the balancing of the parts of a whole. Notoriously, Aristotle's idea is that individual humans are mere parts in larger wholes. He writes (Nicomachean Ethics I, 7; 1097 b8-11): We apply the term perfect and self-sufficient good, not to a solitary life of living on one's own, but to a life lived with parents, children, wife, friends and citizens.

In this well-known sense, Aristotle's eudaimonism is not egoistic. Nevertheless, it seems not to require a genuine concern for others, who are not in any way attached to me. Indeed, Aristotle notes that we do not have concern for ''the furthest Mysian" - which is his term for a completely unknown stranger from the furthest place on earth. If we look at the Stoics, we seem to find a somewhat similar picture. According to a fragment by Hierocles (LS 570) from the second century AD, we humans are "encompassed by many circles" enclosing each other, and consisting of closer and more remote families, relatives, local residents,

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HENRIK LAGERLUND AND MIKKO YRJONSUURI

fellow-citizens, fellow-countrymen and ultimately the whole human race. Self-centered as this model is, it clearly is not self-centered in the sense of excluding the interests of other people. I have as the center of the circle concern for others in the wider circles, or even for everyone in the outermost circle, simply because that is the whole moral self whose best I am seeking. And Hierocles urges us to conceive of the circle including those we care for in as wide sense as possible. At this superficial level, it can perhaps be claimed that in classical moral psychology there is no explanation for someone having a genuine concern for another, in the sense of another person having her own interests wholly distinct from mine. This may seem natural, given the above mentioned starting point of moral psychology. If there is only one human good, happiness as the one final end that all human beings seek, love for one's friends and companions is sharing in the activity of pursuing the common good rather than submitting one's own goals to their goals even when they are foreign to one's own. The idea of love as instantiating this kind of submission is natural only if the others' goals are understood in such a way that they cannot be assimilated to one's own. This interpretation of the requirements of love and justice appear to be lacking from the ancient models, since their paradigmatic account of moral motivation is based on some kind of self-interest. As Normore points out, Anselm of Canterbury's (1033-1109) theory of moral motivation already contains a distinctively modem element in this respect. He sees a genuine difference between the good and the good for a person. As a consequence of this, he cannot take it for granted that there is no conflict emerging between different goods, as Boethius seems to do. For Anselm, the good for me might be in opposition to the good for another, and justice may indeed require sacrificing my genuine benefit. The motivation for justice cannot, therefore, be based on self-interest. On the general ancient picture, if I am aiming at my own personal happiness without concern for my nation, my conception of the subject whose good I seek is too restricted. This point is perhaps most clearly put by the Stoics. As they see it, the fools - normal human beings - naturally and emotionally aim at their own self-preservation like all animals. Becoming wise means transcending this interest, finding freedom from the passions (apatheia) and directing oneself in accordance with the rational nature of reality. Thus, the wise person conceives good rationally in terms of the

INTRODUCTION

7

whole reality, while the fool conceives it emotionally in her own private terms. This kind of motivational aspect of emotions is widely discussed in ancient theories. Emotions are analyzed as natural impulses guiding action in a fast and straightforward way. They are understood either to include or simply to be evaluations of the world from a personal point of view, suggesting certain lines of action. Fear, on this model, either includes or simply is an evaluation of something present as potentially harmful to me and, thus, suggests that I should flee from it. On the Aristotelian picture, the emotional reactions of a person with a virtuous character are generally correct. Emotions ought, however, to be controlled by reason, and one's personal character ought to be educated rationally. Nevertheless, there is nothing wrong in principle with an emotional reaction in the various incidences of ordinary life. The self-interested direction in which emotions guide a human being is for the most part morally correct. Aristotle also puts emphasis on the socially constructed role of many of the emotions. Such a viewpoint, of course, undermines any restrictively selfcentered or egoistic view of the motivational aspect of emotions. According to Aristotle, emotions serve well as rough and approximate guides to how one should react in different circumstances. Indeed, he thinks that the edification of socially learned emotions is an important part of a good human life. The Stoic view is, as seen above, different. According to their famous doctrine, emotions are false judgments, and, consequently, the best way to deal with them is to extirpate them. The doctrine has been much discussed and this is no place to give a final judgment on its content. We may, nevertheless, remark that on the Stoic theories emotions are directly tied to the bestial impulse of self-preservation, which is to be overcome by human rationality. In all ancient theories emotions are in principle something humans share with all animals. The Stoics think that human nature is such that they ought not strive restrictively for their own good, but act in accordance with the rational nature of the whole world. This implies that self-centered passions will generally guide us in the wrong direction. Only through reason can we reach to the rational nature of the world and be motivated by rational habits (eupatheiai). Acting emotionally means that one has made a stupid judgmenl, that is, not a rational one. Furthermore, Stoics generally seem to have held on quite unhesitatingly to the so-called Socratic view that one always acts in accordance with one's best evaluation of the situation. Making the stupid judg-

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ment of acting emotionally (and striving for one's self-centered best) shows how foolish one is. The Socratic principle that virtue is knowledge is thus interpreted as requiring a rational evaluation of the situation based on a correct understanding of the general nature of the things involved. While the Stoics are relatively strict in their adherence to the Socratic principle, the Platonists and Aristotelians do not really reject it either. According to Aristotle's much discussed doctrine of weakness of will (akrasia), acting against one's better knowledge always implies that the knowledge at issue is somehow impeded and, thus, not really actual in a full sense. It can be claimed quite generally about ancient theories of action that they adhere to the principle that humans always act in the way they believe to be best. Other ways of understanding human choice were to come, however. AUGUSTINE ON FREE WILL In the models we have discussed above, it is perhaps best to speak of deliberation when an action is not done in an impulsive emotional way, but rather a conscious decision is made. In the picture drawn up by Augustine (354430), there are situations in which it is much more natural to talk about arbitration or choice. His Confessions (VIII, 8) describes a situation where he

wants conflicting things. He experiences that he cannot achieve a unified will by reasoning his way to the best choice; he already knows that the best choice is to tum to God, but he finds that he cannot do this with a unified will. To the disappointment of many generations of philosophers, the Confessions does not really tell how Augustine finally is able to make up his mind. He just somehow in the end decides or makes a choice, and, consequently, for almost two subsequent millennia scholars have argued about the exact content of Augustine's theory of the will. However, Augustine is usually taken to be a central innovator with respect to philosophical theories of free will. The concept of 'freedom' (libertas) used by him seems, nevertheless, to have been connected with 'decision' (arbitrium) already before him. The expression 'free decision' (liberum arbitrium) may have come into the Latin West as a translation of the Greek 'to autexousion' used by Origen (184-253) in his discussion of how humans can choose to sin rather than follow God. Originally, this expression was understood in opposition to slavery; meaning, thus, the capacity of being self-determined instead of being guided or coerced from the outside. The term retained this meaning for a long time. Consequently, it seems natural that the

INTRODUCTION

9

ideal of being 'free from sin' dominated much of the early Christian definitions of freedom, which is certainly true of Augustine's discussions. Nevertheless, already Origen's treatment also contains the idea that freedom can be explained as a choice between alternatives, that is, since humans are free, they are able to sin or not to sin. To some extent, we encounter already here two rather distinct concepts of freedom. Augustine seems to think that not only simple emotional impulses but even a completed deliberation may tum out to be insufficient for producing action. Something more is needed. In the case of emotions, the picture is perhaps simpler to draw. Following the Stoic model as it was developed by Seneca and the Egyptian fathers, Augustine thinks that it is necessary to distinguish between the first motions of the soul and fully developed emotions. On Seneca's picture, a fully developed emotion makes one act while the first motion does not. In a frightening situation I cannot avoid becoming emotionalIy moved, but I can still avoid consenting to the first emotional movements and, hence, not act on the emotion. I can, thus, avoid the full emotion, according to Seneca. Unlike the Stoics, Augustine clearly allows various contrasting impulses or suggestions to be present in the mind simultaneously, pushing it in different directions. The problem of choice becomes a matter of consenting to one of these conflicting impulses. The Confessions (VIII, 8) seems, furthermore, rather clearly to allow that a rational deliberation may also fall short of making one act in the decided way. A rational evaluation of the situation perhaps yields only one want (voluntas) to compete with the emotional wants (voluntates). (For the ambiguity in Augustine's use of the term voluntas, see Simo Knuuttila's article.) Indeed, the Confessions sketches a picture of Augustine choosing between simultaneous alternatives, so that neither reason nor the emotional impulses seem sufficient to produce the choice. Many later scholars have - perhaps retrospectively - seen in this picture the emergence of a distinct faculty of the will. EARLY MEDIEVAL DEVELOPMENTS It seems, however, clear that early medieval authors did not get a model of

the will as a faculty of choice from Augustine. Something in that direction can, instead, be found in the twelfth-century Latin translation of parts of Avicenna's Shifa, which was first taken to be a commentary on Aristotle's On the Soul (De anima). Aristotle's work itself was not used much at that

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time. We will return to Avicenna's work below. Before that, let us have a look at certain earlier influences of Augustine's theory of the will. Augustine was, as is well-known, perhaps the most important single source for early medieval authors. Among his works, the treatise On the Trinity (De trinitate) has not attracted much attention by modem philosophical commentators. It was, however, from the perspective of the thirteenth century one of the most central discussions of philosophy of mind, and it seems to have been relatively influential already before Avicenna's and Aristotle's respective works On the Soul became known and established. As Augustine there presents the motivational psychology of the human mind, everybody seeks happiness by her own nature. It is an inseparable feature of human nature to aim for happiness, but, more interestingly, the text also puts forward the idea that justice ought to be seen as a restriction on the way in which we seek happiness. As Augustine puts it, we always want to be happy, and we are happy, if we get what we want, but we ought not try to get things unjustly. Justice, thus, comes forward as a restriction on the general natural desire for self-satisfaction, and seen from this point of view, Anselm of Canterbury's theory seems like a relatively small step away. As Normore shows in his article, Anselm made a full conceptual distinction between the two basic motivational drives towards happiness and justice. Everyone wants to be happy, but the just person wants to be just too, and exactly because of this latter motivation she will allow restrictions on the former. The picture is, however, complicated by the fact that in wanting to be just, there really is no external thing one wants. In a way, the desire to be just is a second-order desire concerning what kinds of things we should desire. It remains clear, however, that it is a motivation that is not reducible to the basic and inseparable desire for happiness or self-satisfaction. In Anselm's On the Fall of the Devil (De casu diaboli), it becomes clear that the freedom to sin is explained through the idea of choosing to want self-satisfaction and, as a consequence, to not care for justice. Every free agent is, therefore, put into the position of having to choose what kind of basic and primary motivational drive she is to follow. For the thirteenthcentury Franciscan theories emphasizing the freedom of will, Anselm appears as a central innovator. If we try to see his theory from their perspective, he should be interpreted as opening the door to a whole new issue in the history of philosophy: the idea that a human agent can be motivated by something categorically distinct from self-interest.

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It was, of course, generally acknowledged, since Plato, that justice is a virtue that requires us to put the interests of others over our own. Nevertheless, Plato and other ancient moral theorists thought that in order to motivate a person to be just, it must be shown how justice, after all, is in one's own interest. This may have required showing that the self whose interest one is seeking ought to be understood in a wider way, as is argued in the Stoic theory described by Hierocles. According to Anselm, however, justice appears as a 'good', which is distinct from one's own self-interested benefit (commoditas). Instead of talking univocally of the good, we talk about two basic goods - happiness and justice. Justice cannot be sought for self-interest; only for its own sake. It is important to keep in mind that Anselm's distinction between two basic motivational drives is not based on a distinction between higher and lower parts of the soul. Neither does Anselm think that the human affection for happiness or benefit is inherently evil. On the contrary, it is directed at one of the two dimensions of goodness that there are, and, thus, it is a morally good affection. Evil is articulated as a choice to act on this affection in such a way that one gives up one's natural affection for justice. It is also worth noticing that the Augustinian texts that Anselm is relying on can be characterized as eudaimonist in the Aristotelian sense. As humans, we have an inborn desire for flourishing as human beings, and there is nothing vile about it. In other texts, Augustine also elaborates on a distinction between the lower and higher desires that we humans seem to have. As Knuuttila shows in his article, such considerations come from a tradition of Church fathers' discussion of the role of emotions in human life. The core of this theory is to emphasize that the emotional life of a good Christian ought to be reoriented. Instead of allowing oneself to be affected by 'lower' mundane things, a good Christian should be affected by 'higher' godly things. As a consequence of original sin, humans are, however, apt to allow lowly bodily things to take command over their actions, and one of the main tenets of Christian reeducation is to learn to defeat such desires. To a great extent this program can be seen as a version and development of the Stoic program of the extirpation of passions. As we already have seen, Augustine draws on the distinction between a first motion and a fully developed emotion made by Seneca and others. Augustine's view of the 'mundane' emotions as sinful motions of the soul had a strong influence on many medieval authors' treatment of the rela-

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tion between emotions and voluntary choice. Philosophical discussions of emotions as motivations for action are from this period found in a context where emotions are discussed as representing the influence of original sin. Thus, one of the most widely discussed topics is the question of the moment at which an emotional response can be said to be under voluntary control. This was seen as absolutely crucial in order to establish when a person can be held responsible for having the emotion. When, for example, a delicious scent of some food penetrates the nose of a fasting monk, he cannot avoid the suggestion that it would be pleasant to eat. According to the standard medieval Augustinian response, he can, nevertheless, tum his thoughts elsewhere and, thus, avoid having delight in the idea of eating. It is clear that these kinds of discussions contributed to a negative attitude towards emotions. However, there were also other approaches. In the monastic tradition transmitted by John Cassian the step of purification from 'mundane' emotions was only the first step. It was supposed to be complemented by a mystical emotional experience of God. As Knuuttila shows, authors working in the Cistercian monastic communities of the twelfth century analyzed emotions of this kind. Using the terminology of emotions to describe one's religious experiences naturally entails in this cultural setting that emotions are elevated to the highest possible sphere. The lowness of ordinary emotions is, therefore, not simply connected with the mere fact that they are emotions, but linked with their objects and causes. The Cistercian analyses are also characteristically introspective. The experience of higher emotions or spiritual affects makes one more aware of oneself as affected by God. Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1163) was perhaps the most influential author to present this kind of discussions, though he was, of course, influenced by Augustine in stressing the self-conscious experience of emotions. THE RISE OF ARISTOTELIAN PSYCHOLOGY IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY After the middle of the twelfth century philosophical psychology became reorganized with the textbooks written by A vicenna and Aristotle. The translation of the sixth part of Avicenna's Shifii dealing with the soul gained popularity first. Its direct predominance lasted only for a relatively short time, and it was replaced by Aristotle's On the Soul read together with Averroes' commentary. Avicenna's work is not a commentary, and it was, thus,

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only used in a more implicit way after Aristotle's work became the established textbook. However, it seems to have had a major influence on the conceptual scheme with which Aristotle's rather complicated work was analyzed. Avicenna's approach to human psychology dominated much of the thirteenth century, and it was from him authors like Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas acquired their so-called faculty psychology. According to this picture, all the powers of the soul divide into separate faculties. The vegetative soul includes the faculties of nutrition, growth and reproduction, while the animal soul includes sense perception and locomotion. The human intellectual soul includes all these faculties in addition to the specific human powers, namely, the capacity of theoretical reason, practical reason, and also the faculty of rational choice or of will. Simo Knuuttila's contribution includes a careful treatment of the influence of this particular Avicennian theory. When Aristotle's theory of the human soul became known and influential, it is natural that the philosophical problems connected with human action had to be reconsidered. For example, Aristotle is rather clearly committed to the view that all humans seek what they believe to be happiness. Anselm, on the other hand, had in On the Fall of the Devil provided a generally accepted and well-known argument showing that, if happiness is the sole motivation in a choice situation, one will always and necessarily strive for the happiness that is perceived to be greater and thus there is no alternative - and, furthermore, no responsibility for the choice. Following Normore, such a view can be labeled rational determinism. It had, however, by this time become a central Catholic doctrine that moral responsibility requires that human beings do not act ex necessitate. Aristotle's reputation was not helped by the fact that Averroes was viewed as the foremost interpreter and, hence, was seen as the Commentator with a capital C. Averroes' theory is quite deterministic, and it seems that the well-known condemnation of 1277 was to a large extent directed against his followers at the University of Paris, namely, Siger of Brabant and Boethius of Dacia. It was an acute question whether Aristotle's theory, where happiness is the sole motivation, commits him to rational determinism? How should his theory be interpreted and perhaps revised? Thomas Aquinas' (c. 1225-1274) most elaborate solution to the threat of determinism is to be found in question six of On Evil (De malo). It is based on two ideas. The human will is not directed simply towards happiness, but

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towards perceived happiness, and, consequently, the subject must process the information gained through the senses before the will has any direction; one has to deliberate before one makes up one's mind. This does, however, not suffice to save the theory from rational determinism, since animal desire follows a similar structure, but they are nonetheless not free. The human will is also a universal power, and thus there are multiple ways of realizing what one wants. Therefore, particular choices are not necessitated; the results of the process of deliberation are not determined by the informational input. Aquinas' way of revising Aristotle's account was ingenious enough to survive - though not untouched - in the quarrels leading to the great condemnation of 1277. Philosophically, Aquinas' way of saving the freedom of the will against putative determination by final causes is based on the idea that in a free choice, the alternatives are somehow on a par with each other. He seems to admit that if there is a clear reason to prefer one alternative, humans cannot avoid choosing it. Quite famously, Aquinas explicitly holds that the human will cannot reject a clearly understood perfect good. Freedom of choice pertains to situations where neither of the alternatives is in any way superior to the other. In On Evil, q. 6, the paradigmatic example used is the way a craftsman building a house is free to choose to build a round or a square house. As he puts it, the will is a self-mover in the limited sense of being able to move itself to either of such alternatives, because it already has a movement towards the good and only has to determine which good it will move to. He explicitly denies that the will can move itself in the sense of starting to will something without any motivation in an earlier volitional state. For Aquinas, we naturally want the good, and our will is constantly in motion striving for it in such a way that one volition follows from a previous volition. Aquinas attaches a special importance to deliberation, namely, it is exactly the non-demonstrative character of moral deliberation that explains the non-necessitated character of human volition. When deciding to take a bad tasting medicine, humans deliberate, and since the result of this non-demonstrative deliberative process is open, the will is not necessitated. The person first chooses to deliberate whether taking the medicine is the way to health, which she already wants. If she realizes - or chooses to realize (Aquinas appears to have two solutions to weakness of will as Risto Saarinen points out in his contribution) - that health is more important than the taste, she will take the medicine. In this process, the self-moving will is, in fact,

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involved several times: she decides to deliberate, she decides to act rather than deliberate more, and so on. However, Aquinas seems to put no special emphasis on the theme of moral uncertainty that was to become an important topic later. In general, the Aristotelian tradition, represented in a paradigmatic way by Aquinas, understands human motivation in terms of the will as a natural (but not necessitated) drive towards self-realization. Humans aim at fulfilling their nature and their goal is happiness. The moral problem is to fmd out what this happiness really is and how it can best be fulfilled, while still, of course, taking into account the fact that a single individual human is really nothing more than a minor element in the society and ultimately in the whole universe. Besides the motivation for action arising from deliberation, Aquinas also recognizes that emotions too serve this role. He describes them in relation to two motivational powers of the sensitive soul, namely, the concupiscible and the irascible. These are Latin translations of Plato's lower parts of the soul, and treating them as faculties was the established use after Avicenna. Although Aquinas' discussion of the emotions in the Summa theologiae probably is the most extensive in the Middle Ages, it is, as Simo Knuuttila shows, hardly original. He instead lends heavily from A vicenna, but particularly from the Franciscan John of La Rochelle (1200-1245). According to John of La Rochelle, the concupiscible power commands motion towards things, while the irascible power commands motion away from things. They can also be activated positively and negatively. If the concupiscible power is activated positively one feels a liking of the object activating it and, correspondingly, if it is activated negatively one feels a disliking towards the object. John of La Rochelle further developed his theory by presenting a grand taxonomy of the emotions, on which Aquinas based his own better known taxonomy. Aquinas adds, however, a few innovative features to the theory. On his model, an act of the irascible faculty presupposes an act of the concupiscible faculty. The former is in fact an enhanced reaction on the latter. The motivational role of emotions in Aquinas's theory seems to be the same as in Aristotle's theory. The emotions are reactions of the lower, sensitive part of the soul, and they play no role in the intellectual deliberation of how to act in a particular situation. They do, however, provide important first reactions to the various occurrences in ordinary life, and in that sense their role even in the life of a perfectly virtuous person is very important.

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There is no human flourishing in the full sense without a well-functioning emotional life. Aquinas was a relatively faithful Aristotelian in an era when new innovative philosophical ideas concerning the human motivational psychology were coming from other directions. In the Franciscan tradition, Aristotelian ideas seem to have been accepted only at the terminological textbook level. Their philosophical treatment of the psychology of human action deviate from the Aristotelian model deeply. CHALLENGES TO THE ARISTOTELIAN MODEL Peter John Olivi (1248-1298) was a relatively unknown thirteenth-century scholastic until quite recently, but he has lately been getting considerable attention. As Mikko Yrjonsuuri points out in his study, scholars nowadays see him as one of the most innovative thinkers of his period. Olivi strongly defends the freedom of will, and his contra-Aristotelian opinions are often expressed in a rude language. He clearly accepts the Anselmian idea that human action is not motivated by self-interest alone, howsoever nobly that natural drive is understood. He does admit that human nature is such that it tends towards its own satisfaction, but insists that this nature must not be understood as binding. Humans may choose to aim at other ends, and they may disregard or even act against their own interest. An interesting topic of discussion at the University of Paris in the late thirteenth century concerns whether it can be rational to give one's own life for the benefit of society. The discussion specifically excludes any religious kind of motivation through eternal life, and, thus, it explicitly tackles the question whether it is possible to find rational motivations for choosing the best for society over one's own restricted self-interest. It also shows in a particularly clear way that the restrictions connected with the concept of selfinterest were taken to be a philosophically problematic topic at this time. As Godfrey of Fontaines (c. 1250-1306) develops the issue, it becomes a matter of choosing to act for the sake of God or the society rather than for the sake of oneself. From his Aristotelian viewpoint, this could and should be seen as a rational decision motivated by appropriately understood self-interest, because "a part is sacrificed for the whole". One of the elements of this discussion is to contrast the term 'love of friendship' (arnoT arnicitiae) with the term 'love of desire' (arnoT concupiscentiae). In the love of friendship one seeks the best for the object of love

INTRODUCTION

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and does not aim at gaining any object for oneself. The paradigm case of this kind of love is the way in which everyone is her own friend, or loves herself in the sense of wanting her own best. This is not, as such, love of desire, since the desire to gain the possession of some object comes at a logically posterior stage. Naturally the extension of the concept is not restricted to this example; we do not love only ourselves with the love of friendship but also our friends. Godefrey of Fontaines distinguishes further between friendly love towards other human beings and friendly love towards God or the society, since these latter things can be seen from the point of view at which oneself becomes a minor factor in the whole whose best is being sought. The discussions of the relations between one's own best and the best for society show in an illuminating way how late thirteenth-century Aristotelian scholars try to understand the Anselmian will for justice in terms of friendly love towards God. In loving God one wants the best for God, which is to be just. This simple principle can, of course, be construed in different ways. On the one hand, the idea is relatively close to the ancient Stoic view, in which the wise person wants the best for the universe and does not anymore care more for her own best or for the best of her close ones than for the "most remote Mysian". On the other hand, if God is thought of as a triune person, the idea seems to be that one gives up one's own self-interest and sacrifices it for the sake of God in the same way as one might sacrifice it for a friend. The idea of loving another human person for her own sake is used by Olivi as an example of how the human will can and does constitute new ultimate ends which cannot be reduced to either of Anselm's two basic ends. If I love some specific person for her own sake, I am not seeking my own happiness - otherwise I would not love her for her own sake. This kind of love does, furthermore, not arise from the desire to be just, since it concerns a specific person, and justice would be impartial. By loving a person in this way, I posit a genuinely new end for my will. The above considerations by Olivi and by the Parisian masters show in interesting ways how the terminology of emotional love is used to discuss problems of human motivation for action. That they use such expressions as a part of their terminology does not imply that they are dealing with the lower animal part of human psychology. On the contrary, the discussion concerns the ends of morally good behavior, and the kinds of choices at stake must be termed rational. In the medieval terminology of the faculties of the soul, we are dealing with the intellectual part of the soul, and its appetiti ve faculty, the will.

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The first to develop in a more systematic way the idea that the will itself has passions in the emotional sense of the term was perhaps John Duns Scotus (1265-1308). Aquinas, for example, specifically points out that in his view, the term 'passion' can be applied to the will only in a loose sense. The idea was not, however, invented by Scotus. For example, it is hinted at by Olivi, as YIjonsuuri notes. As such, the idea of attributing passions or emotions to the will is a rather natural result of earlier discussions. As we already have seen, the taxonomy of emotions by John of La Rochelle was based on the idea that an appetitive faculty reacts to the confronted object passively with a liking or a dislike. Scotus seems to suggest that the same story can be told about the appetitive faculty of the rational part of the soul, namely, the will. Its first reaction to the confronted object is quasi emotional and partly caused by the cognition of the object. The will reacts first with a liking (complacentia) or a disliking (displacentia), and forms the volitional state of election (electio) only as a second step. If whatever the will wills is attained, there is pleasure in the will, and if not, there is pain, but these emotional states are, of course, only indirectly free. This approach to the acts of the will as a faculty became a widely used model and was developed in detail by William Ockham and John Buridan, among others. In this sense, there seems to be no doubt that Buridan's troublesome theory of the will, which we will return to, was Scotist. As Vesa Hirvonen stresses in his contribution, William Ockham (c. 12851349) developed Scotus's theory of the passions with mainly ontological interests in mind. Accepting the main lines of the Aristotelian componential analysis developed in the earlier tradition, he thought of passions as consisting of (1) acts of an appetitive faculty caused by (2) a cognition of an object, and also including an (3) affective component. The two first components serve rather straightforward roles. Seeing a lion, I might estimate it to be dangerous. Such an act of the sensitive cognitive faculty causes in the sensitive appetite an act of avoidance - I want to avoid the lion. In the traditional model, the third component of an analyzed passion is the affective state. In our example, the subject has an awareness of an unpleasant shrinking of the heart. Ockham does not pay much attention to this topic, which is understandable especially in the case of the passions of the will. The will was traditionally taken to be a faculty of the incorporeal intellectual soul, and, thus, its reactions need not have a material dimension. Indeed, as Ockham defines passions, they need not contain any affective elements at all. He clearly puts

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emphasis on the idea that emotions are desiderative acts caused (or partly caused) by certain cognitions of the relevant objects. It seems clear, however, that the Franciscan theory of passions of the will did not imply that these passions are not felt. One important dimension of the discussion was the problem of the beatific vision. In heaven, the resurrected saints will see God face to face and, hence, achieve a state of perfect enjoyment (jruitio). Both Scotus and Ockbam saw this heavenly state as a passion of the will, and indeed as a phenomenon which is not actively caused by the will itself, that is, it is not an act of the will. It seems clear that they would have rejected as absurd the suggestion that such an enjoyment is not felt. From the motivational points of view, the Franciscan tradition attributing passions to the will has very different implications than the Aristotelian view represented by Aquinas. It seems that Aquinas conceives of the motivational force of the passions in rational decision making mainly through the practical syllogism and weakness of will. For example, in On Evil, q. 6, he considers the case where "someone is disposed by habit or passion in such a way that something seems good or bad to him in this particular", apparently referring to the minor premise of the practical syllogism. A passion may make a thing appear good or bad in the deliberative process, and in that way influence the decision. In the Franciscan model, the will can be seen as tempted by causal influences on it. Decision making even at its most rational level, is basically emotional. It is a matter of liking or not liking certain possible ways of action suggested in some manner by the apprehension of the situation. This is not to say that the Franciscans would have disapproved of rational evaluations, but rather that they wanted to emphasize that the ultimate decision to act in one way or another is not made by pure calculations of how the universal aim of human flourishing is best achieved. The will can and in fact often does feel tempted to other directions too, and there may be no rational calculations showing which way one should go. Despite their strong emphasis on freedom of the will in its choice, Franciscans were particularly interested in the ways the will can be influenced and inclined in an emotional way. Perhaps the clearest difference between Aquinas' and Scotus' theories of the freedom of the will concerns their respective views on the actual free act of the will. As we have seen, Aquinas discusses freedom of the will as the possibility of choosing between alternative ways of achieving what the will

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naturally aims for, namely, the good. For Scotus, the freedom of the will is explained mainly in terms of its ability not to will, and he, furthermore, recognizes no natural goal that would necessitate the will. Scotus argues explicitly against Aquinas' restrictive way of explaining the self-motion of the will. The will is, according to him, a genuine selfmover, since nothing other than itself can move or cause it to act - not even its earlier acts, as the case is for Aquinas. Even if there are very strong motivations inclining the will to a determinate direction, the will itself is the decisive causal factor producing the volitional acts. Anselm's two primary motivational drives, the affection for benefit and the affection for justice, are also recognized by Scotus. As John Boler argues in his contribution, we should understand Scotus' use of these affections as two God given basic motivations. The basic idea of Scotus' moral thinking is, thus, that we should keep track of both these motivational drives. There is nothing especially praiseworthy about following one's affection for benefit, since it is a natural inclination, it requires no effort to follow it. It leads us, nevertheless, to the good in the ethical sense of the term. Moral praise and blame are, however, more specifically connected with how we deal with our affection for justice, which is a distinct motivational drive and may require us to not follow our affection for benefit. If we in such a situation ignore the affection for justice, we sin, according to Scotus. The morally praiseworthy kind of freedom that we have, becomes in Scotus' eyes especially clear in the case of not willing what the natural affection for benefit suggests. Ockham does not let Anselm's two affections restrict the scope of the will. He seems more like a follower of Olivi than Scotus in his emphasis on the power of the will to posit whatever end for itself. The late fifteenth-century Buridanian, Jodocus Trutfetter, characterizes Ockham's view by saying that the scope of the will is being (ens) and, thus, not only the good (bonum). This way of characterizing the will's extreme freedom can be found in texts by Rene Descartes and later libertarians, but it was never a particularly popular view among the later scholastics. In fact it was rather quickly after Ockham seen as too extreme. John Buridan (c. 1300-1358) was an unusually clear-minded thinker just a generation after Ockham. As Henrik Lagerlund points out, Buridan saw rather clearly two medieval traditions on free will - which are the two traditions we have been trying to characterize as the Aristotelian or Thomistic and the Franciscan traditions. Buridan seems in a way to agree with both and also to disagree with both. Superficially, he seems to be a rather clear fol-

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lower of Scotus, foremost, in terminology and in taking on the model of two stages or acts of the will. In a first stage there is a liking or disliking of some object in the will and, then, in a second stage the will chooses to pursue or avoid the object. He also stresses the Scotist idea that the will's freedom mainly lies in its power or ability to not will whatever it is inclined to pursue. But such an interpretation does not as such fit Buridan who thought that there is only one ultimate end - the good - and that whatever we choose or elect is always instrumental in achieving this end. Everything is, thus, directed at its own flourishing and cannot want anything else. Justice, in particular, does not come up in Buridan's treatment as a special basic motivation of the Anselmian kind. Buridan, thus, in the light of these aspects seems to come out as a rather faithful Aristotelian or Thomist. He stresses himself that he indeed wants to develop a third or "middle position", as he calls it. Buridan's theory of free choice or will has been intensely discussed by contemporary scholars and one crucial problem of interpretation has been whether Buridan thinks we always need a reason for refraining from following a suggestion. That is, do we need a reason to not will something (non velle), or to not will-against (non nolle) something? This is a point at which the so-called voluntarists will differ from so-called naturalists/intellectualists. It seems to direct us to problems concerning the role of deliberation in choice. As both Saarinen and Lagerlund show, moral uncertainty holds a crucial position in Buridan's theory of will and in his solution to the Aristotelian problem of weakness of will. In his view, we always will what we perceive to be good. Furthermore, in most cases or perhaps always we are also uncertain in this perception about the goodness of things. But now, this uncertainty provides us with a reason or motive not to will. The more certain we are, the more inclined we are to will what we perceive to be good. In slightly different words: I might be wrong in my belief that what I am about to do is good, and, therefore, I might be better off not doing it. There is, of course, a limit to this self-determinacy of the will. It cannot but will what is clearly and without any distraction perceived to be perfectly good or the ultimate happiness, since there will be no uncertainty in such perceptions. Buridan would then agree with Aquinas on this point although for different reasons. But as another late fifteenth-century nominalist, Bartolomaeus Arnoldi de Usingen, puts it: a motivation to not will something might be that I just want to experience my freedom. The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries saw the emergence of several schools following in the footsteps of some of the greatest medieval thinkers.

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There were, for example, Ockhamists, Thomists and Scotists, but there was no school of Buridanians. In fact, as Henrik Lagerlund notes, Buridan is hardly ever mentioned by name by later authors. There can be several reasons for this, however, but it is nonetheless strange that the person who was maybe the most widely read and copied of all late medieval authors is not even mentioned by name. It is difficult not to see the influence of his thinking, however, and his third way of explaining free choice seems to have been very popular. Perhaps one should not take the labels of the schools too seriously. Often thinkers who claim to be, for example, followers of Ockham, like Trutfetter and Usingen, are in fact at closer inspection followers of Buridan. And as Peter King shows in his article, the thinkers responsible for the sixteenth-century Thomist revival were hardly faithful Thomists, at least not in theories on passions. FROM RENAISSANCE HUMANISM TO DESCARTES In 1326 the 22-year old Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374) moved back to Avignon, where he had spent most of his childhood. At the same time Ockham, the venerable inceptor, now a famous logician in his forties was there to respond to accusations concerning his faith. We do, of course, know that the young humanist saw Laura there, but we cannot be sure whether he met the middle aged scholastic in person. In any case, already their presence in the same city serves well as a symbol for changing times. Dante had died five years earlier, Duns Scotus already in 1308. The Scholastic way of doing philosophy was hardly dying, however. Buridan was to become the rector of the University of Paris in two years, and many respectable scholastics were not even born yet. Two centuries later in Spain there would be a full revival of Thomist philosophy - which of course in a way lives even in our days. But with Petrarca's De remediis utriusque Jortunae (1360) we have to incorporate into our discussion a new, so-called humanist, way of looking at the philosophical discussions of emotions. The dividing lines between the Middle Ages, the Renaissance and the socalled early modern period is extremely vague - if at all existing. It is simply not possible to come up with a clear border between them. In this respect, the situation is very different from the shift from the ancient to the medieval period. In fact, the seventh and the eight century saw very little philosophical or scholarly activity in western Europe, and thus it makes sense to speak of a clear break between the ancient and the medieval period.

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No such break can be found from the renaissance. Furthermore, in terms of philosophical ideas, locating a borderline anywhere between, say, Duns Scotus and Descartes seems rather difficult. In terms of the style of writing, however, there seems to be a considerable change. Consider, for example, the very different ways of approaching philosophical problems adopted by Ockham and Petrarca. It seems relatively credible to claim that the humanist line of thinking opened by Petrarca revolutionized more the way in which philosophy was done than its content as such. This is nowhere more clearly visible than in the use of language. The scholastics had a thoroughly international or, so to say, global attitude to writing. They worked in universities, which were places that gathered scholars from all over Europe, and the only shared language was Latin, which was nobody's native language. Furthermore, the content of the philosophical ideas was always put before the artistic values of presentation - research was done with the aim of universal scientific progress. In the humanist tradition started by Petrarca, philosophy was seen as a personal undertaking. De remediis, for example, aims at personal extirpation of the passions, both of the author and of the reader, as he claims. Furthermore, the humanists put great emphasis on the artistic values. The text was to speak to the reader not only on the abstract philosophical level, but also in other ways. Quite naturally, the practice of writing philosophy in one's own native language spread little by little. Given that our point of view in this book is that of contemporary analytic philosophy, it is not surprising that we find philosophically deeper work from the scholastics than from the humanists. Our approach is simply closer to that of the scholastics. It is, however, important to remember that in order to understand Descartes' project, it is not sufficient to take into account the work done by the scholastics. He seems also to have been influenced by certain systematically new and innovative philosophical ideas of the humanists. Thus, although our interest here is not that of drawing a full picture of the Renaissance, but that of sketching the lines leading to Descartes and 'modem philosophy', we have to take certain humanist discussions into account. A word of caution seems necessary, however. If possible, Renaissance conceptions of philosophical psychology are known even less than those of the medieval period. We know that the literature is huge, commentaries to Aristotle's On the Soul alone fill shelf after shelf in old European libraries.

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On the Soul was compulsory reading for virtually all university undergraduates at that time, and lectures were given regularly in all universities. But modem studies on the topic are very few, and since we are dealing with a period in which approaches proliferated widely, making overviews without crucial oversights is impossible. Petrarca's De remediis is basically a treatment of the stoic ideal of extirpation of the passions. He gained with the text many enthusiastic readers, but acceptance of the Stoic ideal was not univocal. It was generally considered as too harsh, and suitable only to those who could believe with the Stoics that we humans are, foremost, souls, which is a view contradicted by the Catholic faith. If our bodies were external to us, it would be fitting indeed to live altogether without passions. But as the facts are, humans are bodily beings and need emotions. Now scholars approach the problem of emotions in a way different from the discussions we have looked at so far. The humanists draw on ancient sources in a different way than the scholastics. To some extent their enthusiasm for classical texts and fear of subtle distinctions works against deep philosophy. The problems are discussed in a rhetorically elevated way, partly at the expense of argumentative and conceptual content. But new philosophically interesting developments did, however, arise. Petrarca opens the way for a therapeutic emphasis on theories of emotions. He returns to the Hellenistic sources and finds aspects that can easily be brought to his contemporary attention. The problem is, how are we individual humans supposed to live with the emotions we naturally have? Should we accept the Platonic-Aristotelian doctrine of moderation (metriopatheia), or should we follow the Stoics in the extirpation of passions (apatheia)? And ultimately: Do passions have a useful role in guiding human life, or are they simply disturbances? As Lorenzo Casini notes in his contribution, Juan Luis Vives (14931540) rejects Stoic discussions of the emotions as "babbling" with "subtle trickery". This may explain why the ideal of apatheia found few followers in the Renaissance. The conception of emotions had changed during the Middle Ages so much that the Stoic ideal seemed not to apply correctly to what the humanists saw as the emotions of ordinary life. Instead, it seems mere conceptual trickery. Vives seems to realize that it would require profound and subtle textual exegesis of a deeply philosophical kind to go back to the same kind of concept of emotions that the Stoics actually had in order to see their point in the ideal of apatheia.

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Vives' discussion of the motivational and cognitive aspects of the emotions are philosophically not very innovative. The more original side of his approach is related to the physiology of emotions. As we have seen, the scholastic discussions of the thirteenth and early fourteenth century did not pay much attention to the affective component of an emotion. For them, emotions were more importantly motivational states than affective states. It is this aspect of Vives treatment that is most original. He adheres to the traditional view that emotions are rough guides for action, and that they provide motivation for acting in a certain way. However, more importantly he seems to have been interested in the ways in which emotions are connected to bodily states, and he even wanted to approach emotions from the medical point of view. These discussions are very interesting, if one keeps in mind Descartes' influential work, The Passions of the Soul (Les passions de l'ame) , which spends considerable time on the structure of the body and the physiology of emotions. Vives is, furthermore, referred to in The Passions of the Soul. The attitude towards emotions developed by Descartes should also be seen in the light of the Thomistic revival during the sixteenth century. As Peter King shows in his article, the internal debate within this tradition on Aquinas' theory of passions leads to a considerable revision and ultimately a complete rejection of Aquinas' original theory. The most original representati ve of this movement was Francisco Suarez (1548-1617). He argued strongly against a real distinction between passions into concupiscible and irascible and, hence, saw no reason to uphold the Thomistic division between eleven kind of basic passions based on the distinction between concupisciple and irascible faculties. Suarez' modification opened the way for Descartes' reclassification of the passions. Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, there was a large literature on emotions both within the humanist and the scholastic traditions. It is against this fact that we have to understand Descartes's claim that he is the first to treat emotions en physicien. It would be absurd to interpret the claims as asserting that he is the first to write on emotions tout court; like, for example, someone now publishing a book on economic preferences claiming that no such book has been written. Descartes's point is that he takes the physician's point of view, and, thus, we have to ask: How does this point of view differ from others? It seems clear that it differs from scholastic discussions in terms of the emphasis on the bodily aspect of emotions, which received little attention

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from them. This is certainly one part of the novelty claim. But we have just seen that Vives paid considerable attention to this aspect of emotions as well, and Descartes' reference shows that the book was known to him. Is there any content in Descartes' novelty claim, then? Perhaps not much, though we must remember that Vives' work is not a typical representative of the humanist literature on emotions, but a clearly original work. Also, despite his physiological interests, Vives is clearly not writing as a physician, but as a humanist. Thus, by taking the physician's point of view, Descartes indeed takes an approach that has not been taken before, although all the major issues he raises have been raised already earlier. Like Vives, Descartes also accepts the traditional cognitivist view of emotions. It is noteworthy that all the therapeutic suggestions that he makes (as a physician!) are cognitive. He even ignores Vives' traditional prescription of wine for melancholy. As Deborah Brown shows in her contribution, emotions are for Descartes rational in a crucial sense. They clearly are not mere physiological processes. It is interesting to notice that Descartes seems to adopt the Scotist view of allowing passions of the wilL As Brown notes, Descartes' passions have effects on the mind, and thus they are not mere phenomena of the lower souL Furthermore, Descartes even allows for 'intellectual emotions', which have no connection with bodily phenomena. This seems to be a rather clear mark of the Scotist tradition. The most crucial point is, though, that for Descartes emotions are directly present in the highest cognitive center making decisions about how to behave. He does not, like Aquinas, push emotions down to lower layers of the human cognitive system. On theories of the will the humanist writers seem to have produced even fewer genuinely new systematic philosophical ideas. It is customary to see traditional humanists on a scale between Pomponazzi's deterministic position and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola's emphasis on human freedom. On the one hand, there are authors who to varying degree stick to the principle that the human will is always directed at what is perceived to produce the greatest genuine benefit. On the other, there are thinkers like Pi co emphasizing that as humans we are self-determining and free. As Pico famously points out in the Oratio, humans are the only creature who lack a nature and who, therefore, can openly choose what they want to be. In its original context, the claim is not as radical as it may sound to a modem ear accustomed to genetic engineering and utopian views on artificial intelligence. Pico is thinking of a scale of beings, where humans can

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choose whether to sink to the level of animal or rise to the heights of God. He clearly thinks that one may freely choose a lower goal with full awareness of higher alternatives. His point follows, thus, the line opened by Olivi and developed by Ockham, where the will can take anything as an end in itself, regardless of how good or bad it is considered to be. It is difficult to find any genuinely new systematic philosophical idea in Pico's text from the viewpoint offreedom of choice with respect to motivational psychology. This holds true of Descartes as well. As Lilli Alanen shows in her contribution, his theory of the will is basically Scotist. She sets up three points characterizing Descartes' conception of the will and its freedom: (1) free will is the highest of human perfections and it is the sole basis for attributing responsibility to actions; (2) the will is a genuine self-mover with a power for opposites, that is, its freedom lies in its ability to not will; and (3) this ability is evident by experience. As we have seen and will see in several of the articles in this book, these points are not new and most elements of Descartes' celebrated theory of will can be found in Scotus, Buridan, and several authors following them. Interestingly, it seems that Buridan's idea of the importance of moral uncertainty for free will plays a role for Descartes as well. Jesuit thinkers close to Descartes' time and to the school where he was educated had developed further the relevant notions of probability and moral uncertainty, as Saarinen notes in his article. In Descartes' hands these notions yield a picture according to which we can come to doubt the most certain things by lack of attention. This is most clearly seen in a letter to Mesland in 1644, quoted in length by Alanen. If we merely have memory images of the things we perceived clearly and distinctly without actually attending to them, a shadow of uncertainty is cast over their distinctness and, hence, we can suspend our will. Uncertainty thus becomes a crucial element for the freedom of the will for Descartes in the same way as it was for Buridan. If we evaluate Descartes in terms of the scholastic and humanist traditions concerning emotions and human decision making, he seems to come out as a well-educated scholar, who chooses to work in an independent way. We can see the central ideas of his theory being developed by earlier authors whom he certainly knew. It seems clear that Descartes was not a radical innovator in the sense of starting a new philosophy from a scratch. Instead, he was, at least in this field, a remarkable scholar who was able to work with the earlier philosophical theories and materials in an original way. Descartes' inventions were made possible by the extensive work done on the relevant

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issues during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. But nevertheless, not everything is reducible to medieval ways of thinking. As a whole, Descartes' theory of emotions and will in context of his psychology of action is new and innovative. To conclude, we have in this introduction stressed the ways in which medieval thinkers reinterpreted and developed themes from the ancient discussions on this topic. More importantly, however, we want here to point to the so-called modern thinkers' dependence on the medieval discussions. Medieval philosophy is not an isolated 'dark' era in the history of philosophy, but intellectually and philosophically an extremely vital period which underlies most of what is often thought of as modern philosophy. Even more strongly, the medieval discussions to a great extent opened the conceptual possibilities that provide the basic framework for modern philosophy. It is, of course, no coincidence that we have chosen to end this book with Descartes. He has, like no other thinker, come to represent 'modern philosophy' , and by ending with him we would like to emphasis his dependence and ultimately the dependence of 'modern philosophy' on the Middle Ages - but without denying his originality or that of later thinkers.

CALVIN G. NORMORE

GOODNESS AND RATIONAL CHOICE IN THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES 1

Twentieth-century discussion of the history of the notions of will was dominated by debates about whether free choice is compatible with efficient causal determinism. One consequence of this was that a related but distinct issue - whether free choice is compatible with determination by final causes and, in particular, compatible with the givenness of ends of action was largely ignored. It was not always so. In late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages debates about the nature of choice centered as much (if not more) on the issue of rational determinism than on its efficient causal cousin. The aim of this paper is to trace part of the story of the evolution of discussion of this issue and of the evolution of conceptions of choice and of freedom which paralleled it. The debate about rational determinism is complex and several strands may be distinguished within it. One of them, which I want to identify in order to set aside for the purposes of this paper, concerns whether rational deliberation need always playa role in action at all. Historically this issue was raised in a particularly acute form by Ghazali and responded to by Averroes in his Tahafut al-Tahafut. We might pose it (following a terminology introduced by Sydney Morgenbesser and Edna Ullmann-Margalit) as the issue of whether picking always involves choosing. 2 Ghazali considers the case of a hungry man lying beneath a date tree laden with dates many of which look equally attractive. He claims that such a man need not deliberate about which of these dates to pick. He has, says GhazaJi, a power simply to pick without having a sufficient reason for picking the date he picks. Ghazali's point is that the explanation for the picking lies not in a property of the date but in a power of the agent. Ghazali goes on to claim that if we posit such a power in humans we should posit it in God - and so God 29 H. Lagerlund and M. Yrjonsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Clwicefrom Boethius to Descartes 29-47. © 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers.

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can pick a time at which the universe is to begin without there being anything about that time in particular which attracts him. This idea, that the power to determine itself to an alternative lies with the agent and not with the object of the action, is closely connected with the thought that the principle that everything which is moved is moved by another has exceptions in the realm of the will. This complex of ideas, worked out in the Latin tradition by Olivi, Scotus and Ockham among others, plays an important role in the debate about rational determinism in the later Middle Ages, but seems not to be in play in the Latin tradition before the translation of Ghazali and I will ignore it here. I want instead to focus on debate about two other theses. A. Everything sought is sought under the aspect of (that is because it is perceived to be) good. B. Deliberation is always with respect to means rather than with respect to ends.

I suggest that the history of the theory of rational choice within the Latin tradition from late antiquity to the thirteenth century is importantly a history of consideration, complication and to some extent rejection of these two theses. First let me make a bit clearer what I take to be at stake. The thesis (A) that everything chosen is chosen under the aspect of the good is in some ways an analogue of the thesis about self-motion with which this paper does not deal. Here I want to focus on only one aspect of the thesis - the question of the unity of the good. Granted that the ends of human action are given there still remains the question whether they are many. If we also grant that everything sought is sought under the aspect of the good then to suppose that the ends of action are plural commits one to supposing that goodness itself is in some way multiplex. I want to consider the development of this idea. The thesis (B) that deliberation is always with respect to means and never with respect to ends is also connected with the question of the givenness of ends. If ends are not given but are somehow chosen then one would expect deliberation with respect to them. But even if ends are given there may still be some significant sense in which there may be deliberation with respect to them. Ends may conflict - or at least may appear to conflict. When ends appear to conflict a rational agent may have to choose between them. This process may involve something which it would not be out of place to label deliberation.

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In the early Middle Ages these theses were the foci of complexly intertwined debates. I shall argue that the conventional position emerging out of late Greek philosophy and represented in the early Middle Ages by Boethius, maintained both the unity of the good and the confinement of deliberation to means. Another tradition, influenced perhaps by Rabbinic scholarship, had begun to challenge both these theses as early as Paul of Tarsus (c. 5-67 AD). This second tradition received an important impetus from Augustine and reached a particularly interesting pitch of development in Anselm of Canterbury from whom it influenced the later Middle Ages.

THE UNITY OF THE GOOD Boethius was not the first to claim both that the good (for humans) is unitary and that deliberation is confined to means. I have claimed elsewhere that this is Aristotle's position and I believe a strong case could be made for it being a position on which Peripatetics, Platonists and Stoics could agree. 3 Nonetheless the Boethian development of it is not merely a repetition of earlier thought. Boethius is very clear that the good for humans is unitary. For example, in Consolatio, III, Prose IX, speaking of the good he writes: This, therefore, which is one and simple in nature human depravity splits up and while it seeks to obtain a part of that thing which lacks parts neither obtains a portion (of which there are none) nor the very thing itself - which it is not at all seeking. 4 Boethius identifies human happiness with the good for humans and that with the Good itself. In tum he identifies the Good itself with Unity, Being, and God. We become happy by becoming good and we become good by participating in Goodness itself. Our goal is union with Goodness itself (which Boethius does not hesitate to identify with becoming divine).5 It is a single goal which is implanted in us by nature and which we pursue whether we realize it or not. Everything, whether rational or not, pursues the Good but, Boethius argues, rational natures pursue the good in a special way - they have libertas arbitrii. This Boethius' Lady Philosophy explains this way: "There is (libertas arbitrii)" she said "nor would there ever have been a rational nature which did not posses libertas arbitrii. For what is able naturally to use reason has judgment (iudicium) by which it dis-

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CALVIN G. NORMORE cems. Therefore through itself it distinguishes (dinoscit) what is to be avoided and what sought. What it judges to be sought that it seeks, what it estimates to be avoided that it flees. Therefore in those in whom there is reason there is also a liberty of willing and refusing (libertas volendi nolendique).,,6

Boethius here makes clear that for a rational agent an action is the outcome of a process of rational deliberation and freedom to will or nill is the power to discern what is to be sought or avoided. Once one has so discerned the rest follows.? Any single deliberation has this structure. The end of the deliberation (the good that is to be sought) is given for the deliberation and is not itself in any way determined by it. Deliberation is always with respect to means for attaining a given end. The given end of the deliberation is perceived as good by the agent. 8 The process of deliberation which Boethius has in mind here is a causal process. If we abstract for a moment from whether we are dealing with final or efficient causes we can say that the action is the effect of a desiderative state and belief. Given those and given that nothing interferes we will simply get the action. Since the desiderative state expresses a perception on the part of the agent about what is good it would seem then that action is simply the causal result of the good, the agent's apparatus for perceiving the good and the agent's beliefs about how to obtain it. 9 What is crucial for my purposes is that the model of action involved is one in which a process of deliberation simply leads to a conclusion which either is the action or leads to the action without any additional step that we might plausibly call choosing. Since this process of deliberation just is an assessment of what is either a good means (one view) or the best means (another) to accomplish a given end, the agent will fail to bring about that end only if either it is mistaken about the efficacy of the means, something interferes with the process of deliberation or something prevents the conclusion of the deliberation (if it is not itself the action) issuing in action. Passion has been the traditional case of such a something. But again this either is powerful enough to interfere or it is not. There is no further act of choosing which determines whether it will or will not succeed in interfering. It follows from this picture as I have outlined it that it is not crucial to human choice that the agent be confronted with several means to an end. The process of deliberation may normally involve several means but it could proceed even if there were just one. In particular there is nothing in the virtuous

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agent's conduct which requires that a vicious act be in any way a live option for her or him. One further consequence of the model is that if we find agents whose knowledge is great enough and whose deliberative powers are strong enough we will find agents which of their nature act for the best. Thus it is that within the late Greek philosophical tradition God acts for the best simply by God's nature. And the closer an agent is to God the closer its virtuous action is to natural action. Within the picture suggested by this model that agent is most free which does the good by nature. Humans are not such beings. But humans can be molded and through such molding can come to do the good as a matter of character - by 'second nature'. Thus the ideal human on this model is one for whom choice is a matter of considering the options, recognizing the optimal one and straightaway act. It was this model of freedom - with its close identification of free action and rational action - and its identification of rational action with the action that promotes the optimum - which dominated late antiquity. But another wind was blowing. As we have seen it is central to Boethius' picture that the good be unitary. Indeed he maintains his position that the Good, the good of a thing (what is for that thing to be good) and the good for that thing are identical by insisting that the good for a human being is God and that human beings become better by becoming more divine. This is at best problematic: despite its assimilation of the late Platonic language of union with God Christianity was very loathe to admit that any human other than Christ could be God. As these problems became clearer it was plausible enough that thinkers would begin to distinguish various dimensions of goodness - indeed some such distinctions were nearly forced on them by some basic aspects of late antique and early medieval metaphysics. Although Aristotle's Physics was not available until the thirteenth century various aspects of his view had passed into the tradition and become common coin. Among these was the claim that what is potentially comes to be in act through the activity of an efficient cause. This cause typically brings it about that a (substantial or accidental) form (or, on some pictures, a higher degree of such a form) comes to be present in matter in which it was not previously present. A passage from potency to act is the completion of a thing previously incomplete. The Latin word for this completion is 'perfectio'. Thus there is a sense in which the perfectio of something is simply its complete existence. But 'perfectio' is

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not always used so neutrally. In Latin as in English more perfect (perfectior) and better (melior) are close to being synonyms. Thus there is a semantic push towards identifying the good of a natural thing with being a complete instance of its kind. Since kinds are varied so would be goods. A tension seems to have been sensed between considerations of this sort and those which motivated Boethius' identification of the good of a thing with God. We find this tension right at the beginning of Anselm's work in Chapter 1 of his Monologion. First a passage which could be straight from Boethius: Whatever things are called something in such a way that they are called it either in greater or lesser or equal degree in relation to one another - they are called it with respect to something in them which is identical (rather than with respect to something different in the different things) whether it be regarded as in them either in equal or in unequal degree. [ ... ] Therefore since it is certain that all good things are either equally or unequally good when compared with one another, it is necessary that all good things are good with respect to something which is understood to be identical in these various goods.

But immediately following we find: [A]lthough sometimes different things seem to be called goods through different things. For the horse which is called good because it is strong and the horse which is called good because it is swift seem to be called good through different things. For while it seems to be good through strength and good through swiftness, strength and swiftness do not seem to be the same thing. [But] in truth if the horse is good because it is strong or swift how is that that the strong and swift thief is bad? Therefore more properly in the way in which a strong and swift thief is bad because harmful, a strong and swift horse is good because useful. And indeed nothing is usually thought to be good unless it is either on account of some utility, as health and those things which contribute to health are called goods, or on account of some honestas as beauty is thought a good and arc those things judged beautiful. But because the reason already seen cannot be undermined in any other way it is necessary that all things useful or honestum, if they are truly good, be good through that very same thing through which it is necessary that all things are goods - whatever it may be.lO

Despite this final insistence that both the useful and the honestum are called good because of their relation to goodness itself Anselm thinks of these as

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two dimensions of goodness which are at least conceptually distinct. This, as we shall see, gives him the resources to draw a distinction at least very close to that between the good and the 'good for me'. Within the unitary conception of the good as, for example, it is found in Boethius there simply is no possibility of a conflict of goods - there is no plurality of goods to conflict. At most there can be conflict among apparent goods. Once the possibility of a distinction between the good and the good for a thing is in play to maintain that goods never conflict requires a substantive principle. I call this the Principle of the Concomitance of All Goods. Medieval theorists are committed to such a principle by their commitment to Providence but they are not always committed to the rational inescapability of such a principle. As we shall see the possibility of rationally rejecting such a principle is crucial to Anselm's account of choice. DELIBERATION ABOUT ENDS

I think we will have to look at least as late as the thirteenth century to find a medieval thinker who rejected the view that everything sought is sought because it is considered to be good. Still, once the possibility of different dimensions of goodness is in play so is the question whether these different dimensions might conflict or at least be thought to conflict. If one think they might then the further question arises whether the resolution of such conflicts is a matter of clear thinking or of something else. Again it is Anselm who poses this question particularly acutely. It seems to be assumed throughout much of the Middle Ages that natural objects do not have built in tendencies to their own destruction but do have built in tendencies to their own perfection. This fact about natural objects provides a natural end for each of them. Thus non-rational animals have various powers which, at least normally, work toward the natural end of the animals survival and perfection and the animals activity can be explained in terms of the ends of the activity. The best known medieval ethical tradition relies heavily on the claim that natural things, especially humans, are so constructed as to naturally desire what is metaphysically good. It is this natural tie which connects goodness and motivation. This is not an entirely satisfactory resting point since it seems to leave the connection contingent. What after all is metaphysical goodness to me? What reason have I to care about it? How can an end simply given to me by God or nature be relevantly my end?

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It seems to have been assumed right up to the late thirteenth century that there had to be some such end simply given if activity was to be possible at all. The locus classicus for this discussion is a passage in Anselm's De casu diaboli in which he imagines that God has constructed a creature with everything required for a 'willing' (voluntas) except a willing itself. Anselm asks whether such a creature could will. Anselm's student replies that the creature could will if it wanted (vult) to. Anselm replies that that is precisely what is at issue - how could it come to want to will (or anything else) if it were not already willing (or is it wanting?) something. Anselm's conclusion is that a creature has to start off with a motivational push towards an end if it is ever to be active at all. Nothing can bootstrap itself into activity.ll Although he thinks that ultimate ends have to be given to us Anselm does not think that it is essential to a nature as such that it have only a single end. He does think this is the case for non-rational natures for whom their own perfection is that at which they naturally aim. But rational agents find within themselves distinct sources of motivation which can (or at least can be perceived to) lead in different directions. Here it is not the case that one source of motivation is seen as an impediment on the other - both are in some sense positive and neither is 'really' the agent. The agent chooses which to follow. Again the central text is Anselm's treatise De casu diaboli. In chapters J 2-14, Anselm presents a thought experiment. He begins Leaving aside the fact that every nature is called good, we commonly speak of two goods and of two opposing evils. One good is called jus· tice, whose opposing evil is injustice. The other good is what seems to me able to be called benefit (commodum) to which the opposing evil is disadvantage (incommodum).12

It is appropriate to ask what the relation may be between this division of goods (and evils) and that presented at the beginning of the Monologion. Anselm never explicitly tackles this issue but I believe we may construct a plausible hypothesis. On Anselm's picture every rational being is constructed so as to seek its own happiness (beatitudo).13 That happiness he says "consists of benefits" (constat ex commodis) and in it is an "adequate sufficiency of benefits without any lack" (sufficientia competentium commodorum sine omni indigentia).14 Now, although Anselm does not say so I think it plausible to conflate the utile of the Monologion with the commodum of the later treatises, that is, when we evaluate something as useful or as beneficial we do so from our own point of view. Something is useful or

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beneficial if it is useful or beneficial to the agent in question and in the default case useful or beneficial to me. Thus both the utile of the Monologion and the commodum of the later treatises are means to or constituents of beatitudo which is the good for the agent in question. The connection between the honestum of the Monologion and the iustitia of the later treatises is more complex. lustitia, says Anselm, is "uprightness of will kept for its own sake" (rectitudo voluntatis propter se servata).15 What then is the relevant rectitudo? We get one clue, I think, from Anselm's remark in the Monologion that "for a rational nature to be rational is nothing other than to be able to distinguish the just from the unjust, the true from the non-true, the good from the not good and the greater good from the lesser." The idea that there may be distinct goodnesses even if there is only one Good gets worked out further by Abelard, particularly in his Second Collatio - that between the Philosopher and the Christian. There Abelard argues that 'good' (bonum), used adjectivally, is applied in accord with different standards depending on whether it modifies an adjective used substantively or a noun and if a noun on the noun it modifies - what it is for a thief to be a good is not what it is for it to be a good thief (though it is what it is to be a good thing) and what it is to be a good thief is not what it is to be a good human (homo). Abelard claims that in the case of a human a good human is one equipped with good morals. 16 Abelard applies his analysis of 'good' to two main ends. First he is concerned to refute the Stoic claim that in the case of a human goodness just is virtue so that there is no point to a reward for goodness and so no point to heaven. Second, by distinguishing among a good human, a good thing, and a good 'existence of a thing' (existentia rei) he provides tools for defending the goodness of God while admitting that some of the things God makes are bad of their kind. But Abelard does not draw many explicit connections between his complex analysis of the good and choice. In particular he seems not to have picked up a theme I believe we find in Anselm - that genuine choice requires that an agent be sensitive to more than one dimension of goodness. This is a central theme in De casu diaboli. There Anselm argues that every creature wants (vult) its own happiness and insists that no one can be happy who does not want his own advantage while no one ought to be happy who does not want justice. This claim presupposes a distinction between two wantings, two voluntates in Anselm's terminology of this period, and Anselm goes on to exploit this distinction to provide an account of liberum arbitrium.

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Having introduced the distinction between justice (iustitia) and benefit (commodum) in chapter 12, Anselm begins chapter I3 by supposing a being so constructed "that at first God gives him only the voluntas commodi" and argues that in that case he "does not yet will anything other than happiness". He continues by arguing that in such a case "it is obvious that he is not at all able by himself to keep from willing the only thing that he has received to will" and further that "he wills a greater happiness in proportion as he understands it to be greater". He concludes that if such a being thought he would be happier by being like God (which is what Satan is said to have wanted) then he would of necessity seek that. 17 Anselm then turns in chapter 14 to imagine a being constructed in a different way. Precisely what this second way is has been the subject of some recent controversy and it matters a great deal to exactly which claim Anselm is making. The heading of chapter fourteen reads "The case is similar if he received only the voluntas rectitudinis and so he received both wills at the same time in order to be both just and happy".18 This heading clearly supposes that one could have a voluntas rectitudinis without a voluntas commodi and makes it sound as though these two are parallel in structure. I think the heading does express Anselm's view but, it may well be it is not Anselm here speaking.19 If we set aside the chapter heading on the grounds that it may be from a hand other than Anselm's another view of the second voluntas may seem the more attractive. This second view begins from Anselm's claim that every creature always vult its own happiness and uses this as an interpretive guide to understanding the second voluntas as a voluntas for willing the commodi to the extent that is just or fitting. On this picture one does not will justice instead of happiness, rather the willing of justice is a way of willing one's own happiness - a tempered and fitting way - and so as a conceptual matter presupposes a voluntas commodi. But even if we set aside the heading of chapter 14 there are serious difficulties with supposing Anselm to hold that when we act the goal of our activity is always in some way or in some part our own happiness. First note that as the view stands it requires that a rational agent (who can, according to the Monologion, discern greater and lesser good) can choose a lesser happiness rather than a greater. This must be so because we can make no sense of Satan's choice if we do not suppose that he saw it at the very least as a choice between a greater (but unjust happiness) and a lesser (but just) happiness. The angels who did not sin faced the same alternatives but chose dif-

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ferently. Hence they chose a lesser (but just) happiness over a greater (but unjust one). The defender of the view now under consideration must suppose that when the happiness involved in one of the alternatives drops to zero it suddenly becomes impossible for the rational agent to choose it over the other. Such cases, in which a greater good which has nothing to do with the agent requires the complete sacrifice of what the agent perceives to be its happiness do not seem impossible, and so the second view requires a lacuna in Anselm's theory of choice which the first does not. Second consider the phrase "for its own sake" as we find it in the definition of justice as "uprightness of will kept for its own sake". On the second interpretation of Anselm's view this must be read as something like "for the sake of (willing) (appropriately) tempered happiness". But it is hard to see how that could be an ultimate goal of action. The tempering involved cannot be specified in terms of happiness itself but is rather a limiting of happiness in the light of other considerations. Hence the agent must be looking to these other considerations in tempering its happiness. But then it seems the agent is acting on the basis of these other considerations and so is keeping uprightness of will for the sake of these other considerations. On the first picture that is exactly right but on the second the considerations are not the uprightness and so the phrase (for its) is at best quite misleading. Things would be different if we could specify tempered happiness in terms which did not involve plain happiness and its tempering but the burden certainly lies on the defender of the second view (and would lie in Anselm were he an adherent of it) to give some indication of how this might be done. It seems to me then that in the absence of strong reason to the contrary the first reading of Anselm's view is to be preferred. But is there not strong reason to the contrary in the form of Anselm's repeated claim that any creature always wills (vult) its own happiness? There would be if vult in this context meant what Anselm in De concordia calls the 'exercise' of the power of willing and meant it in the strongest of the four senses of 'velie' which he distinguishes in his Incomplete Work but there is simply no reason to think that it does mean that in this context. In De concorida, Anselm distinguishes three uses of the word 'voluntas'. Voluntas seems to customarily be said to be equivocal in a threefold way. For the instrument of willing is one thing, the affectio of the -instrument another and the use of the instrument yet another 20

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In his Incomplete Work Anselm distinguishes four senses of what in De concordia and elsewhere he calls the use of the will. Only the strongest of these four senses requires that one actually act for the sake of a goal. Thus to create a problem for the first reading the defender of the second has to suppose that in claiming that every creature always vult its happiness Anselm means the strongest of the five things he might mean. I see no reason to believeit. With this in mind let us return to Anselm's thought experiment. Having argued that a being created with only a voluntas for happiness would not be able to choose anything but the alternative which promised the greatest happiness Anselm now considers the case of a being created with only a voluntas for justice and argues that in that case the being could only will what was just and further that this agent "would not thereby be just, since it would have received this capability in such a way that it would not have been able to will otherwise." He then concludes: Then since he cannot be called just or unjust merely because he wills happiness or becausc hc wills what is fitting (for he would will these of necessity). It is necessary for God to make both valuntates to agree in him that he wills to be happy and wills justly. 21

On Anselm's account Satan (or anyone else) sins when, in a situation in which it seems to the agent that what would increase happiness is not identical with what is just that agent acts on the voluntas for happiness and does not act on the voluntas for justice. The key element of Anselm's account to which I wish to direct your attention is his claim that an agent chooses by following one (voluntas) rather than another and the associated claim that free choice requires (at least) two voluntates because an agent with only one would act out of a (natural) necessity - since an agent can do only what it has a voluntas for, that is, I would say, only what it is inclined to do. In the preceding discussion I have moved freely among translating voluntas as 'will', as 'inclination' and as 'motivation'. Anselm himself indicates the slipperiness of the term in his time by the distinctions he draws in De concordia among its various senses but it is important for understanding the history of the theory of choice to see that behind the slipperiness of the term lies both a history and a picture.

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In De casu diaboli (and subsequent works) Anselm is working up suggestions he fmds in Augustine who is himself indebted to a tradition of Latin writers going back at least to Cicero. In her dissertation on 'voluntas' in Cicero C.A. Begley argues that it already there is used to translate a wide range of Greek vocabulary concerning choice - including 'boulesis', 'prohairesis' and even 'hekon' and that Augustine's use of the word is a natural development of Cicero's.22 In a remarkable paper "Will and Emotion" in which she presents and argues against a tradition which claims a close affmity between will and emotion E.A. Anscombe draws attention to a passage from De civitate dei. Speaking of passions Augustine writes:

There is voluntas in all of them. Indeed they are all nothing other than voluntates. For what is desire (cupiditas) and joy (laetitia) unless a voluntas for consent to those which we want? And what is fear (metus) and sadness (tristitia) except a voluntas for dissenting to those which we do not want (nolumus). But when we consent to seeking those things which we want it is called desire; however when we consent to enjoy those things we want it is called joy. Again when we dissent from that which we do not want to happen such a voluntas is fear, when, however, we dissent from that which happened to the unwilling such a voluntas is sadness. 23 Here Augustine takes the Stoic view that desire and joy are a matter of consent (Stoic assent) while fear and distress are a matter of dissent. When we consent to (dissent from) the enjoyment of what we have it is joy (distress) when the consent (dissent) is to (from) seeking what we do not have it is desire (fear). But, says Augustine, it is voluntas with which we consent and dissent and these states of consenting/dissenting are voluntates. On this picture to have a voluntas is rather like taking up a pro- or con- attitude toward something. Augustine's conflation of (for example) desire with a consenting was resisted by writers both before and after Anselm. The distinction between a voluntas and a consent to a voluntas is, for example, central to Abelard's ethics. Indeed Abelard chooses an example of Augustine's to make his point. Look, here is some innocent person. His cruel master is so enraged with fury at him that with a bared blade he hunts him down to kill him. The innocent man flees him for a long time and avoids his own murder as long as he can. Finally, under duress and against his will, he kills his master in order not to be killed by him.

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CALVIN G. NORMORE Whoever you are, tell me what bad will (voluntas) he had in doing this deed. If he wanted to flee death, he also wanted to save his own life. But was this willing a bad one?24

Abelard is arguing that one can sin by consenting badly to a voluntas which is not bad and merit by dissenting from a voluntas which is bad. The locus of sin, he insists, is not in the voluntas but in the consenting. We can see here a development in the concept of 'voluntas' which is connected with the issue of whether there is deliberation with respect to ends. Augustine inherits from Cicero a Stoic conflation of a motivational state (an emotion) with the taking up of a pro- or con- attitude. Thus he maintains that the basic motivational states - desire, joy, fear and distress - are really voluntates which we have when we consent to/dissent from their objects. Anselm recognizes Augustine's usage but distinguishes others as well. Anselm maintains (with Augustine) that we can only consent to that for which we have a voluntates but he does not believe that we have a voluntas only for that to which we consent. Rather, he claims we have freedom of choice precisely when we have more than one, potentially conflicting, voluntas and our freedom of choice consists in it being the case that nothing determines to which voluntas we will consent. Abelard goes further, insisting that while it may be that one can consent only to something for which one has a voluntas it is not as the object of that voluntas that that to which one consents has its moral value. I may consent to save my life but if the act by which I save my life is one I know to be a murder then I also consent to a murder and am a murderer - even if I have no voluntas for a murder. This picture is taken up and somewhat refined by Robert Grosseteste in his De libero arbitrio. In chapter 15 of the first recension, discussing how temptation and threat work he suggests that in such cases we always find two voluntates: Again someone who lies from fear of death has two voluntates - one for living and another for not-lying. But the voluntas for living is greater than the other and overcomes the other and as it seems the other is compelled to lie. And this is always how thc voluntas is compelled and is not free. Whether or not the whole voluntas for not lying remains, the voluntas for living which is greater, produces the act of lying. And he lies not form a voluntas for lying nor from a compelled (coacta) voluntas for not-lying, rather he lies from a voluntas for living. And so the act of lying in this case is educed from the voluntas for living and this is

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what is meant by saying that the voluntas for not lying is compelled, namely that its act is impeded through this [fact] that the stronger vo/untas educes the opposite act into being. 25

Grosseteste concludes that: it is not true that every voluntary act comes from a voluntas for that same act because in this case the act of lying does not arise from a voluntas for that very act but from a voluntas for a different act. 26

Here we find a use of voluntas very close to that Anselm employs in his 'two voluntates' doctrine in De casu diaboli. Where Abelard distinguishes the voluntas for consent to an act, Grosseteste speaks of competing voluntates and of one overcoming the other. We can see clearly here that consensus on the reservation of 'voluntas' for that faculty or power which chooses is still future. By the time of Scotus it is, however, complete. Scotus takes over and develops the doctrine for which Anselm, in De casu diaboli, had employed the terminology of the two voluntates but he consistently employs the terminology of the two affectiones voluntatis to which Anselm had turned in De concordia. Thereafter, so far as I know, it was in this form that Anselm's picture was propagated. Grosseteste is heavily indebted to Anselm for his general picture of free choice (and clearly has chapter 5 of Anselm's De libertate arbitrii in mind while writing the passage just quoted) but there is one crucial respect in which he quite consciously differs with him. Anselm defines freedom of choice (libertas arbitrii) as the power to keep uprightness of voluntas for its own sake and does not make any capacity to do otherwise essential to it. 27 Grosseteste diagnoses this move on Anselm's part as due to the way Anselm interprets his two basic voluntates, goes on to argue that Anselm should have included such a capacity in his account and tries to show how it could be done. First the diagnosis: It does not seem according to this account of Anselm's that flexibility or turnability of the will to either of two is part of what free choice is but [rather] only a power of staying in truth or rightness and not falling away from or deserting it one has it. His reasoning seems to require this for if turnability to either of two is the power of doing well or of sinning, yet in God and in the confirmed angels there is no power of sinning, then in God and the angels there is no turnability to either of two. But there is freedom of choice in them, therefore this turnability is not part of what free choice is. 28

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The solution, Grosseteste claims, is to remember that to sin is to will contrary to the will of God while to will well is to will in conformity with the will of God. Hence whether a particular choice is a choice between sinning and doing well is not a matter of the objects of the choice considered in themselves (nude) but of how they are related to the will of God. Hence there is nothing in the idea of choice requiring a 'flexibility' or 'turnability' of the will that requires an ability to sin. This flexibility is essential to free choice but that it involves a capacity to sin is not. 29 By disentangling the power to choose between alternatives from a supposed power to choose between good and evil Grosseteste has restructured the context for the debate about whether freedom of choice requires an ability to do otherwise. Ethics and theory of action are affected profoundly by the program of translation and study of Aristotle which dominates medieval philosophy during the thirteenth century but the Anselrnian tradition remains alive and well in the midst of this program and forms a interesting counterpoint to the reception of Aristotle. Anselm's influence on John Duns Scotus has by now been well-documented. 30 Less well-documented but no less profound is his influence on a succession of thinkers who form a chain (an unbroken chain?) between him and Scotus. Very likely the background to Scotus' use of Anselm's framework (perhaps mediated by William of Ware) was provided by Henry of Ghent?1 Henry makes increasing use of Anselm in his Quodlibeta and in Quodlibet, XIII, q. 11, presents a full-dress discussion of Anselm's thinking on the two affectiones of the will and on the thought experiment (the jictum Anselmi as Henry calls it) in De casu diaboli. Henry himself seems to be responding in Quodlibet, XIII, q. 11, to issues raised by John de Murro in the seventh of his Questiones disputate. 32 De Murro in tum seems to be taking up themes raised by thinkers immediately influenced by Grosseteste - thinkers like Richard Rufus of Cornwall. Thus between Anselm and Scotus stand a line of philosophers, many but not all of them English Franciscans, who kept alive the Anselrnian tradition with its emphasis on the importance for free choice of there being distinct ends of human action which could claim to be ultimate ends. It is the interaction of this tradition with the new Aristotelianism of the thirteenth and early fourteenth century which shaped the conceptions of goodness and choice we find in the later Middle Ages.

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NOTES 1

2

3 4

5 6

7

8

9

10 11

i2 13

14 15

16

17 18

I would like to thank the Dept. of Philosophy at the University of Queensland for its hospitality during much of the writing of this paper and the editors of this volume for their patience. My interest in the themes of this paper was sparked by conversations with Prof. Lilli Alanen about the background of Descartes' conception of choice. For Ghazali and Averroes cf. Averroes, Tahafut al-Tahafut, pp. 1-36. For the terminology cf. Ullmann-Margalit and Morgenbesser (1977). See Normore (1998). For the most sophisticated discussion of Aristotle's position on the unity of the good cf. Lawrence (1997). "Hoc igitur quod est unum simplexque natura, praevitas humana dispertit et dum rei quae partibus caret partem conatur adipisci, nec portionem quae nulla est nec ipsam quae minime affectat assequitur." (Boethius, The Theological Tractates and the Consolation of Philosophy, eds. Stewart et aI., p. 266.) All references to the Consolatio are to this edition. The translation is my own, though, of course, influenced by Tester's. Boethius, Consolatio, III, X, 280, 85-90. Boethius, Consolatio, V, II, 390. If we combine this with Boethius's remarks about the unity of the good we arrive at a picture of a single treelike structure in which all of an agent's deliberative activity can be located but that is not crucial at this point. It is enough for present purposes that each deliberation be structured in this way. There is a difficulty into which I will not enter here. Boethius's view is that the aim of our action is not the apparent but the real good. How this interacts with the agent's deliberative process is not a simple matter. I fudge this in what follows. It is here, of course that the Socratic problem of akrasia enters - the problem which seems to structure much of Aristotle's account of prohairesis. If the end of deliberation is given and if the beliefs about how to obtain it are given how can it happen that an agent sometimes acts for the 'worse'? This problem has been central to the entire Aristotelian tradition. Once one admits either a plurality of ends or admits ends which are not given this problem looks significantly different. Anselm, Monologion, in Opera omnia, ed. Schmitt, I, 14, \0-17 and 14, 18-15,3. Cf. Anselm, De casu diaboli, I, 252, 15-30. Ibid., I, 255, 4-8. Indeed Anselm claims (De casu diaboli, l, 255, 9-11, that "Commodum vero non solum omnis rationalis natura, sed etiam omne quod sentire potest vult et vitat incommodum." Whether he would speak of the 'beatitudo' ofa non-rational being is unclear Anselm, De casu diaboli, I, 241,13-14, De concordia, II, 285, 20-21. Anselm, De veritate, 1,194,26. Peter Abelard, Dialogue Between the Philosopher and the Christian in Peter Abelard, Ethical Writings, p. 121, § 304. Anselm, De casu diaboli, I, 256-7. "Quod similiter sit, si sola accepta sit voluntas rectitudinis; et idcirco utrumque voluntatem simul accepit, ut et iustus et beatus esset." (Ibid., r, 258, 6-7.)

46

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

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This was pointed out to me by Tomas Ekenberg. The view presented in the next paragraph is based on my understanding of his position. It is also closely related to that presented by

Daniel Rakus in his dissertation. Cf. Rakus (1997). "Voluntas utique dici videtur aequivoce tripliciter. Aliud est enim instrumentum volendi, aliud affeetio instrumenti, aliud usus eiusdem instrumenti." (Anselm, De concordia, II, 279,13-15. "Quoniam ergo nec solummodo volendo beatitudinem, nec solummodo volendo quod convenit cum ex necessitate sic velit, iustus vel iniustus potest apellari, nee potest nec debet esse beatus nisi velit et nisi iuste velit: necesse est ut sic faciat deus utramque voluntatem in illo convenire, ut et beatus esse velit et iuste velit." (Anselm, De casu diaboli, T, 258, 18-22.) See Begley (1988). In her abstract Begley summarizes her findings thus: "voluntas ranges in meaning from a desire for a specific end or intention to perform a specific deed to a general attitude. The use in the letters and speeches makes clear that voluntas is a mental phenomenon occurring often in conjunction with intellectual acts but not itself strictly intellectual. Neither is voluntas simply one of the irrational passions. It is a desire or inclination arising from within, undetermined by natural temperament, external compulsion, or the demands of an obligation. Unusual uses of the word in the philosophical works are natural extensions of the ordinary meaning of the word. Cicero renders several Greeks terms - including boulesis, proairesis, and hekon - with voluntas. In each case, the normal meaning of voluntas as an undetermined desire or intention makes it an accurate translation of the Greek, though it has connotations which each of the Greek words separately does not have." "Voluntas est quippe in omnibus: immo omnes nihil aliud quam voluntates sunt. Nam quid est cupiditas et laetitia, nisi volunlas in eorum consensine, quae volumus? Et quid est me· tus et tristitia, nisi voluntas in dissensione ab his, quae nolumus. Sed cum consentimus ap' petendo ea quae volumus, cupiditas; cum autem consentimus fruendo his quae volumus, laelilia vocatur. Itemque cum dissentimus ab eo quod accidere nolumus, talis voluntas me· tus est, cum autem dissentimus ab eo quod nolentibus accidit, talis voluntas tristitia est." (Augustine, De civitate dei, XIV, cap. VI quoted in Anscombe's "Will and Emotion" in Anscombe (1981), p. 101.) See Peter Abelard, Ethical Writings, p. 3. "Item, qui mentitur ob timorem mortis duas habet voluntates, unam vivendi et alteram non mentiendi. Sed voluntas vivendi maior est reliqua et superat reliquam, et, ut videtur, men· tiri cogit. Et ita semper voluntas cogitur; et ita non est libera. An forte remanet integra voluntas non mentiendi, tamen voluntas vivendi, quae maior est, producit actum mentiendi. Et mentitur non ex voluntate mentiendi nee ex voluntate non mentiendi coacta, sed mentitur ex voluntate vivendi. Actus itaque mentiendi in hoc casu ex va/un/ate vivendi eductur, et hoc est quod diditur voluntatem non mentiendi cogi, a suo scilicet actu impediri per hoc, quod vo/untas fortior educit in esse actum oppositum." (Robert Grosseteste, De libero arbitrio, ed. N. Lewis, p. 74 -75.)

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27 28

29

30

31

32

47

"Et secundum hoc non est verum quod omnis actus voluntarius egreditur a voluntate eiusdem actus, quia in hoc casu actus mentiendi non egreditur ab eiusdem actus voluntate sed a voluntate alterius actus." (Ibid., p. 75.) Cf. Anselm, De libertate arbitrii, I, p. 225. "Secundum hunc modum Anselmi non videtur ipsa flexibilitas vel vertibilitas voluntatis ad utrumque esse de quidditate fiberi abritrii, sed solum ipsa potestas standi in veritate sive rectitudine et non decidendi ab ea vel deserendi eam si habita est. In hoc videtur cogere eius ratiocinatio. Si enim vertibilitas ad utrumque est potestas benefaciendi et peccandi, in Deo autem et in angelis confirmatis non est potestas peccandi, in Deo et in angelis non est utrumque vertibilitas, sed in ilis arbitrii libertas. Ergo haec vertibilitas non est de arbitrii liberi quidditate." (Robert Grosscteste, De libero arbitrio, ed. N. Lewis, p. 84.) As Grosseteste puts it. "Nee est haec potestas qua pOlest velie libere utrumlibet oppositorum, quam etiam vocavimus voluntatis vertibilitatem, idem simpliciter quod potestas peccandi et non peccandi, cum sit in Deo qui peccare non potest. Cum enim ipse sit per se rectitudo et ideo res rectae quia ipse vult eas, non potest velie non rectum, quia si vult aliquid eo ipso est rectum. Et igitur praedicta vertibifitas ubi non est peccandi potestas, ergo haec non est illa." (Ibid., p.86.) Cf. Boler (1993), and the references therein. This was pointed out to me and stressed by Stephen Dumont in a seminar he gave at the University of Toronto in the Fall term 1995. Cf. E. Longpre (ed.) L'Oeuvre scholastique du cardinal Jean de Murro O.F.M. (+ 1312) in Longpre (1947), pp. 467-492. For discussion cf. Lottin (1949), pp. 648-9.

SIMa KNUUTTILA

MEDIEVAL THEORIES OF THE PASSIONS OF THE SOUL

Studies on the emotions became popular in the analytically oriented philosophy of mind in the 1980' s. They have been accompanied by a great number of works on emotions in ancient philosophy, since it was realized that many central questions had already been treated in classical texts. 1 There has not been a similar boom in studies of emotions in medieval philosophy, though this is also a topic of considerable philosophical interest. My aim is to sketch some features of ancient theories and their impact on twelfth-century thought through theological, medical and philosophical literature, then to analyze the theory of the emotions in Avicenna's faculty psychology, which to a great extent dominated thirteenth-century philosophical psychology, third, to describe the influential new taxonomies of the emotions which were introduced in the thirteenth century and to comment on some problems which were associated with these and, fourth, to mention some new themes in early fourteenth-century discussions of the emotions. I mainly use the term 'emotion', since the Greek term 'pathos' and the Latin term 'passio' do not suggest extreme emotions as the word 'passion' nowadays might do. EMOTIONS IN ANCIENT AND EARLY MEDIEVAL THOUGHT In his Philebus Plato argued that physical pain as a feeling is primarily in the soul, though it is caused by a physical state or condition and directed to it. The bodily pain is thus an unpleasant awareness of something in one's body, and the bodily pleasure is a corresponding pleasant awareness (33d-e, 43ac). In realizing that bodily pleasures and pains are forms of perception, Plato came to think that they are certain modes of self-disclosure, pleasant or unpleasant ways of being aware of oneself. He then applied his theory of the bodily pleasures and pains to the emotions. These also involve pleasant and 49 H. Lagerlund and M. Yrjonsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes 49-83.

© 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers.

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unpleasant feelings and are associated with another type of self-awareness. The emotions in which Plato is interested involve a pleasant or unpleasant awareness of oneself in relation to friends and enemies in various situations - in the tragedies and comedies of life, as Plato puts it (47d-50d).2 Plato's sketchy remarks in the Philebus form the first attempt to present a compositional cognitive theory of the emotions. Aristotle developed it in a much more detailed manner in his Rhetoric (1.10-11, 2.1-11). Aristotle argues that pleasures and distresses other than the bodily ones are caused by changes in one's image of oneself in various situations. Such feelings are then treated as components of occurrent emotions. Aristotle's analysis of various emotions in the Rhetoric involves the same elements as are mentioned in his other works. There are three basic components in an occurrent emotion. (I) The cognitive element is the unpremeditated evaluation which states that something positive or negative is happening to the subject or to someone else in a way that is relevant to the subject. (2) The affective element is the pleasant or unpleasant awareness of one's new state or position in the situation which is grasped by the emotional judgement. The affection is associated with physical reactions, though emotional feelings are not primarily perceptions about these but, as Aristotle says, about ourselves. (3) The dynamic element is the spontaneous behavioral suggestion toward action which is typical of the emotion in question. 3 Aristotle learned the idea of the compositional analysis from Plato, but their general attitudes to emotions were very different. In Plato's view the emotional reactions, which are not based on rational deliberation, entail misguided evaluations of contingent things and bind the soul to earthly things in a way which disturbs the higher activities of the reasoning part. Emotions should be kept in strict control by continuously re-evaluating and often rejecting their behavioral suggestions. Plato has a very high opinion of the philosophical love of truth and eternal things. It is presented as a sublimated form of sexual love in the Phaedrus, but elsewhere it is strictly separated from the standard emotions which exist in the lower parts of the soul. Aristotle did not share Plato's detached attitude to life. He thought that a considerable part of the good human life consists in participating in the various activities of civilized society and consequently in a complicated system of emotions, which one should learn to feel in an appropriate manner (Eth. Nic. 2.6). Since Aristotle regarded the edification of emotional dispositions as a central task of education, he considered it worthwhile to analyze the

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cognitive structures and motivating functions of emotions both at a general level and at the level of particular types of them. Plato and Aristotle took it for granted that it is not possible to get rid of emotions. The human soul is divided into three parts, the reasoning (10gistikon), the spirited (thumoeides, Lat. irascibilis) and the appetitive (epithumetikon, Lat. concupiscibilis), of which the spirited and the appetitive give rise to emotional reactions and guide judgements accordingly.4 The Stoics endorsed the unity of the rational soul and consequently believed that one can learn to live without emotions, which they treated as self-regarding and action initiating evaluative judgements. In fact they considered emotions as harmful mistaken judgements based on the childish habit of regarding oneself as the center of things. People should follow cosmic reason and see themselves as singular moments in the rational structure of the universe. The edification of reason and rational habits (eupatheiai) and the extirpation of spontaneous emotions (apatheia) are the basic constituents of a good life. The way to this end is through cognitive therapy. Human beings are rational animals and can become convinced of the truth of the Stoic world view which, when interiorized, makes the emotions disappear. 5 In answering the criticism that apatheia is impossible the Stoics developed the doctrine of the so-called first motions. This was meant to explain why there can be something similar to emotional affections even in Stoic philosophers. At the beginning of the second book of his treatise On Anger, Seneca says that certain appearances can induce an affective thought which is accompanied by bodily changes. This first motion of the soul is involuntary. Seneca calls it a preparation for emotion because it suggests an emotional interpretation of the situation: I am harmed and I should exact retribution. The transient presence of this thought in the mind is not an emotion since assent to it is also needed. (ef. the quotation from Epictetus found in the Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius, 19.1.17-18.) This Stoic theory of the first motions (pre-passions) proved to be very influential. The Stoics divided emotions into four main types: pleasure (hedone) and pain (lupe), which relate to the present, and desire (epithumia) and fear (Phobos), which relate to the future. Pleasure and desire were directed to something thought to be good and pain and fear to bad things. This systematization was very influential in ancient and medieval times and was often used also by authors who did not accept other parts of Stoic theory. It is still popular. It can be presented as follows:

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I

VALUE

I Good I Evil

TIME Present

Future

pleasure

desire

pain

fear

In Hellenistic philosophy the aims of the Stoic and Platonic therapy models were described by the terms apatheia and metriopatheia.6 While moderation (metriopatheia) was commonly called a Peripatetic conception, its Platonist adherents (Alcinous, Plutarch etc.) were closer to Plato than Aristotle in their view of the value of emotions. For them the ultimate goal was the ascent of the soul through likening oneself to God. According to Plotinus, the founder of Neo-Platonism, moderating the emotions of the lower soul belongs to the ordinary good life. The perfect soul leaves this behind. It seeks similarity to God, which is apathetic, and correspondingly freedom from the emotions. When the higher part of a person lives in the intelligible spheres, which do not evoke human emotions, it receives special noetic facuIties analogous to lower sense faculties. Through these mystical powers an apathetic elevated soul can have supersensitive experiences? The Hellenistic theories of moderation and eradication of emotions, the Stoic theory of first motions, and the doctrine of the special spiritual senses came to play an important role in early Christian spirituality. The Stoic idea that the right insight is the basic medicine for the emotions of the soul occurs in Clement of Alexandria's works in the form that Christ as the Logos is the healer of the emotions (Paedagogus, 1.1). Clement sees the therapy of emotions taking place first through moderation and control. s This was the elementary ethical level which all Christians should achieve, but the ideal of perfection demanded more. The advanced Christians do not have emotional ties to the earthly world. Consequently they pass from the simple moderation of the emotions to their extirpation, i.e., from metriopatheia to apatheia. In this state they do not desire anything. They see themselves as souls attached to divinity through loving affinity (Stromateis, 6.9, 7.11, 7.14).9 The more elaborated foundation of the higher part of this spirituality was established by Clement's protege Origen. Like Clement, Origen could apply the Platonic jargon of controlling the emotions, but the more perfect goal was apatheia, a radical eradication of all emotions directed to contingent things.1O Origen' s metaphors pertaining to the progress of the soul and its mystical union with God had a great influence on later mysticism. The same holds true of his theory of the spiritual senses. According to Origen, there are

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five spiritual senses, analogous to the bodily senses, which are awakened by grace and through which the transformed persons can experience God. The theories of the spiritual senses in Origen and Plotinus are probably derived from a common Alexandrian source.!! The Alexandrian conceptions of mortification and deification through divine participation were developed by Evagrius of Pontus into a religious program for the Egyptian cenobites and anchorites; through John Cassian's Institutes and Conferences some of its basic tenets were embedded in the tradition of Western monastic spirituality.12 Origen's works also influenced the thought of the so-called Cappadocian fathers: Basil, Gregory of Nyssa, and Gregory of Nazianzus, but they were more bound to the Platonic psychology of emotions than Origen was. The emotional life of perfect Christians includes all parts of the soul, but because of their reorientation they are not affected by any mundane things understood in a secular way.13 Augustine's view of emotions and the perfection of the soul was closer to this approach than to the Alexandrian view. Augustine discusses the philosophical theories of emotions in books 9 and 14 of City of God. Augustine has both a broad notion of volition, which refers to all kinds of dynamic acts of the soul, and a more restricted notion, which refers to the acts of the dynamic and controlling power in the superior part. These notions are linked together by the fact that the motions of the soul can be controlled by the superior part. This explains Augustine's prima facie confusing uses of the term 'will'. Even if emotions in their initial state are not controllable, the superior will can react to them either by consenting to emotional suggestions or refusing them. Independently of what the superior will does, the emotional motions are regarded as accepted as soon as they can in principle be defeated or consented to (cf. On the Trinity, 12.12, City of God, 14.19).14 This is one of the basic ideas of Augustine's analysis of sinful acts. Concupiscence as the permanent inherited weakness we have for sinful things causes evil desires to arise. These are signs of original sin, but they are not counted as fresh additional sins if they are immediately defeated by the controlling will. They become sins through the consent of Will.I5 This is said to take place also when bad thoughts can be defeated but are not (Confessions, 8.9.21, On the Spirit and the Letter, 31.53). When Augustine says that desire leads to action through suggestion, pleasure, and consent (suggestio, delectatio, consentio), suggestion refers to the cause of an actual desire, pleasure to its initial state, and consent to the acceptance of thinking about the deed with pleasure or to an intention to act (On the Trinity, 12.12, On the Sermon of the

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Mount, 12.34-5).16 Augustine's analysis of sinful motions is similar to Origen's in On First Principles, 3.1.3. Both authors were influenced by the Stoic theory of pre-passions. (Cf. City of God, 9.4-5.) Augustine's theory of the sinful motions of the soul became one of the dominant models for treating emotions and will in early medieval literature. In the introspective monastic tradition which was shaped by the works of Cassian, Augustine, and Gregory the Great and others, all wrongly directed motions of the soul were considered particularly harmful. Developing effective tools against them was considered an important task, and a detailed analysis of the first motions and the ability of will to defeat them was part of this project. Monastic life induced people to develop fine distinctions between the stages of the motions of the heart and the degrees of their sinfulness. The interest in questions pertaining to first motions was increased by the fact that there were various opinions of whether the impulses toward forbidden things were immediately sins or not. Many twelfth-century authors referred here to the traditional distinction between the appetitive and the spirited part of the soul. Their spontaneous activations were called first motions as well as pre-passions. These Stoic terms became known through Jerome's commentary on Matthew. All twelfth- and thirteenth-century theologians who wrote about the doctrine of sin dealt with the first motions. These discussions induced the elements of the logic of will and various conceptual distinctions pertaining to the notions of free choice, will, and emotions. 17 The control of the spontaneous motions of the soul formed one side of the approach to emotions in the introspective monastic tradition. Its complement and rationale was ascension toward the mystical union. This part was particularly developed by Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153). The Origenist doctrine of the spiritual senses plays a central role in Bernard's writings on the mystical union, particularly in his Sermons on the Canticle of Canticles. The dominant spiritual sense for Bernard is that of taste. The experience of the sweetness of God is associated with the spiritual love which combines desire and fulfillment. 18 The basic element of a higher spiritual affect is the subjective feeling through which one is aware of divine presence. Bernard often repeats the idea of perceiving an effect of divine action in oneself (sentire intra se actitari).19 Some of Bernard's remarks on selfconsciousness through affect were taken from Augustine, but he stressed the subjective aspect more than Augustine did. 20 Learning through experience (experientia) is another centrai theme in Bernard's Sermons on the Canticle

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of Canticles. Understanding the text consists in becoming more and more involved in the original affections of the inspired author. Through meditating Christians learn the new modes of affection which tie their souls closer to divinity. Affective experience is the medium of understanding biblical texts and also the source of the certainty of faith?! Bernard of Clairvaux and William of St. Thierry were the main representatives of the twelfth-century Cistercian mystical theology. William's treatise On the Nature of the Body and the Soul represents Cistercian theological anthropology, which concentrated on questions of the immateriality of the soul and the relation between the body and the sou1. 22 Other Cistercian works of this kind were Isaac of Stella's Letter on the Soul,23 an anonymous treatise On the Spirit and the Soul,24 and Ailred of Rievaulx's On the Soul. 25 The Augustinian Abbey of St Victor of Paris was another center of monastic spirituality, its leading theologian in Bernard's time being Hugh of St Victor (1096-1141). In a small work on the nature of love Hugh put forward an often-quoted distinction between the components and stages of love. Love (amor) is divided into mundane love of contingent things and heavenly love of higher things. According to its general definition love is a pleasure (delectatio) of the heart which is directed to an object because of that object. It is an affective attitude towards something (affectio). This becomes desire (desiderium) when it moves the subject towards the object (per desiderium currens; 'running there with desire'), and it becomes joy (gaudium) when the longing finds its fulfillment and the motion turns into rest (requiescens per gaudium, 'resting there with joy'). In this model the stages of an appetitive affect are taken to be accompanied by a pleasant feeling (delectatio) and compared with the moments of a physical motion?6 This passage was also quoted in the Pseudo-Augustinian On the Spirit and the Soul (PL, 40, 813) which gave it authority. After Hugh the chief representative of Victorine spirituality was Richard of St Victor (d. 1173). In The Twelve Patriarchs (also called Benjamin minor) he presents the progress of the soul through a personification allegory. Jacob represents the rational soul, his wife Rachel reason, and his wife Leah affection. Rachel's handmaid Bala is imagination and Leah's handmaid Zelpha is the power of sensation. Leah's children are virtues, i.e., ordered and moderated emotions of the lower sou1. 27

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NEW PHILOSOPHICAL AND MEDICAL IMPULSES Most extensive twelfth-century Latin discussions of emotions are found in theological and spiritual treatises influenced by the monastic tradition. Though this literature was not philosophical as such, it contained elements of ancient philosophical analysis. As far as emotions are concerned, this is clearly seen in the discussions of first motions toward sin. Another philosophically remarkable layer was the interest in subjective feelings and the special form of the awareness of oneself as a feeling subject. An impulse to discuss the emotions from a new point of view was supplied by newly translated philosophical and medical works. Among the influential medical works was the collection later known as the Articella and the partial late eleventh-century translation of the medical encyclopaedia of 'Ali ibn al-'Abbas (the Pantegni) by Constantine of Africa, which contained a theory of the emotions based on Galen's medical philosophy.28 Some elements of ancient philosophical and medical theories were also found in Nemesius of Emesa's De natura hominis (c. 400), first translated by Alfanus of Salerno (c. 1080) and later again by Burgundio of Pisa (c. 1165). Parts of Nemesius's discussion of emotions were copied in John Damascene's De fide orthodoxa, which was translated into Latin by Burgundio of Pisa c. 1153. Ancient philosophical theories were also described in the works of Augustine, Seneca and Cicero. Around the middle of the twelfth century, Aristotle's De anima and Avicenna's De anima were translated into Latin. Aristotle's De anima was first translated by James of Venice. Avicenna's psychology reached the West through the sixth book of his encyclopedic work al-Shifa. It was translated by Gundissalinus and A vendauth and called in Latin De anima or Liber sextus de naturalibus because of its place in the complete work. This sixth book contains five partS. 29 Avicenna's work strongly influenced Western philosophical psychology in early thirteenth century. The legacy of Aristotle's De anima began later; the first commentaries on it were written in the 1240's. Among the psychologically interesting parts of the Pantegni is a detailed account about three material spirits: natural, vital, and animal. The vegetative powers of generation, nutrition and growth act through the natural spirit which is located in the liver and the veins. The vital (or spiritual) spirit is produced in the heart from the air and is distributed through the arteries to vivify the whole body. This spirit is transformed into the animal spirit in a net of arteries at the base of the brain. The animal spirit is the medium of the

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animal faculty located in the brain. This faculty comprises the powers of sensation and motion and the ruling power. Sensation operates through the sense-organs and the front of the brain, which are connected by the nerves. The power of motion is the system of the middle ventricle of the brain, the spinal cord, and the nerves branching from it. The ruling power includes fantasy, cogitation, and memory, which are situated in the two front ventricles, the middle ventricle, and the rear ventricle of the brain, respectively.3D In the Pantegni the emotions are dealt with from the point of view of the motions of the vital spirit and the natural heat. Excessive joy and anger cause the vital spirit and heat to move from the heart to the extreme parts of the body, while fear and sadness have the opposite effect of making them withdraw to the heart. These physiological concomitants of the emotions are similar in human beings and irrational animals. The animals are led by the emotions, while in human beings these are subject to rational power.31 Excess or lack of humors and weakness of spirits can cause somatic or psychic disease. The unbalanced emotional dispositions may be cured pharmaceutically or through other medical treatments of the humors and spirits (massaging, diet, bloodletting), but because of their somatic effects the emotions themselves can also be used as remedies. Timid men are cold and their coldness increases their feeling of timidity and vice versa. This cycle can be broken by inducing feelings of wrath or joy which make the vital spirit and natural heat rush out from the heart to heat and dry the body. 32 The cure of melancholy, a disease of the brain with many varieties from depression to lovesickness, involves medicaments and bathing as physical treatments and, furthermore, music, pleasant discussions and other activities, which make habit of joy and gladness and change the bad complexion in the brain.33 The main lines of Galenic medical approach were also presented in the translations of some other Arabic medical works?4 The Pantegni lists six emotions or, as they were called, six accidents of the soul, which were regarded as relevant in medicine: joy (gaudium), sadness (tristitia), fear (timor), anger (ira), anxiety (angustia) and shame (verecundia). Two emotions (joy and anger) are associated with the motion of the vital spirit from the heart to the extreme parts and two others (anxiety and fear) with the motion toward the heart. These motions are further divided into slow (anxiety, joy) and quick (fear, anger). On the basis of the direction and intensity of the motions the basic four emotions can be put into a fourfold schema. Using the term 'sadness' instead of 'anxiety', as later authors often did, the classification can be presented as follows: 35

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I

INTENSITY

I Slow I Quick

DIRECTION Centrifu!{al

joy anger

Centripetal sadness fear

The theories of the temperaments and spirits were discussed by Salernitan commentators on medical works and by other pioneers in natural philosophy, such as Adelard of Bath, William of Conches and Alfred of Sareshel.36 There were also discussions of the humors and spirits in the Cistercian works mentioned above and in other twelfth century theological treatises. 37 EMOTIONS IN AVICENNA'S PSYCHOLOGY Avicenna's De anima was the main source for medieval philosophical psychology until the middle of the thirteenth century and influenced its terminology even later. Let us have a look at those parts of the work which are particularly relevant with respect to the scholastic discussions of the emotions?8 Avicenna's theory of the soul is based on Aristotelian and NeoPlatonic doctrines. The vegetable soul provides plants with the faculties of nutrition, growth, and reproduction. Animals are formed by the animal soul which endows them with these faculties and the faculties of apprehension and locomotion. Because of their special human soul, human beings have all these faculties and theoretical reason, practical reason, and rational choice as well. The human soul animates the body as its form, but this is only one of the functions of the soul, not its essence. In itself the soul is a spiritual substance (De anima, 1.1, 19.27-27.36,5.1,80.58-63). Treating the soul as an organizing and animating principle is the Aristotelian strand of A vicenna' s dualistic theory. The conception of the soul as a substance is its Neo-Platonic element?9 As distinct from the vegetable soul and the animal soul, the human soul can subsist independently and by itself and be immediately aware of itself. A vicenna tried to demonstrate this through his famous flying man argument. 40 Avicenna divides the faculties of the sensitive soul into moving and apprehensive powers. The moving power is divided into two species: the one commands behavioral changes and the other effects motions. The executive power operates through the nervous system and the muscles. Impulses to behavioral changes are also provided by instinctual tendencies which are activated by certain imaginative or estimative acts. The apprehensive powers involve five external senses and five internal apprehensive faculties: com-

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mon sense, imagination, the imaginative power, the estimative power, and memory. The intellectual human faculties, which do not necessarily require any bodily organ, are also divided into powers of knowing and acting. Human beings have all these faculties, but there is only one intellectual soul in them. The human soul is the organizing principle of a being with several functionallevels. 41 The external senses receive the sensitive forms of things. Common sense receives all the impressions of the five senses and turns them into distinct acts of perception. It also relates the sensible forms received through different senses to each other. Common sense is localized in the first ventricle of the brain. The sense impressions proceed to this part of the brain along the sensory nerves - the neural spirit provides the material medium for the acts of common sense and of the other internal senses. Imagination, which retains the sensations, is localized at the back of the anterior part of the brain. In the middle ventricle of the brain there is a power which can create various configurations of the sensible forms in imagination by combining and dividing them. This power is called imaginative in beasts and cogitative in human beings, whose rational faculty is prepared by it for receiving the emanation of the active intellect. The other power in the central ventricle is called estimative. It evaluates the objects of the external senses from the point of view of their convenience or inconvenience. These aspects of things which are not perceived by external senses are called 'intentions'. In animals the acts of this power are often immediate and instinctual (the sheep regards the wolf instinctually as dangerous), but it also operates on the basis of earlier pleasant or unpleasant experiences (the dog regards the stick as painful because of an earlier experience). Memory is localized in the back most ventricle of the brain. As a retentive power it stands in the same relation to estimation as imagination to common sense (De anima, 4.1, 1.4-11.50, 4.3, 37.19-40.57)42 All abstract concepts are emanations from the hypostatic Active Intellect. It illuminates the soul and makes it see the essences of the things with which it is acquainted through the sensitive faculties. The contemplative power of the intellectual soul should deal with universals and other intelligible things, while the active intellectual power should look downwards and keep the emotions in strict control so that the material level does not disturb the perfection of the souI. 43 According to an often quoted simile of Avicenna, the rational part of the soul has two faces, one which looks downwards to the body and the sensitive part of the soul and another which looks upwards (De anima, 1.5,94.8-14, Kitab ai-Najat, 6.2.4, transI. by Rahman, p. 33).

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In describing the commanding motive acts Avicenna assumes that the human estimative power first treats the objects of the sensitive representations in terms of whether they are pleasurable or painful or harmful. Depending on the state of an animal, it is possible that an affective evaluation does not actualize the commanding motive power at all, gives rise to a weak appetite, or gives rise to a vehement appetite. The first alternative shows that the appetitive acts are not simply evaluative acts of the estimative power. A weak appetite is a form of affective attention without an impulse to action. If the appetite is strong enough, it actualizes the executive motive power in animals, though not necessarily in human beings. This power is distributed through the nerves and muscles and contracts and relaxes the muscles and pulls and stretches the tendons and ligaments in accordance with the intended behavior (De anima, 4.4, 54.82-56.5, 59.47-8, Kitab al-Najat. 6.2.2, transl. by Rahman, p. 26). By drawing a distinction between the commanding acts and the executive acts of the moving power Avicenna wanted provide human beings with an opportunity to control the actualization of emotional suggestions by their rational faculties. The will can prevent the acts of the executive moving powers.44 The commanding motive facuIty is divided into two parts: the concupiscible and the irascible. The reactions of the concupiscible power are acts of desiring things which are taken to be pleasurable or useful for achieving pleasurable things. The reactions of the irascible power are acts of desiring to defeat adversaries and to repel things which are regarded as harmful or destructive (De anima, 1.5,83.47-52,4.4,56.6-57.9). The actions of animals are only partially guided by the commanding motive powers. They also have instinctual behavioral patterns which are directly actualized by certain imaginations and evaluations, such as releasing themselves from a trap, building nests and taking care of their offspring. So the motive principles of the sensitive soul are the concupiscible power, the irascible power and the estimative power in combination with instinctual inclinations. With the exception of simple reflex reactions, the motive acts either orientate toward a behavioral change without an impulse to action or are efficacious desires which initiate action if there is no hindrance (De anima, 4.4, 57.10-58.25). It is not quite clear why some instinctual estimative acts are thought to activate the executive motive power without first activating the commanding motive power. The emotions of the soul, such as joy, pain, fear and anger, are also called the emotions of the spirit, since they are accompanied by cardiac and spiri-

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tual changes (De medicinis cordialibus, 190.48-9).45 According to Avicenna, the physical affections which are referred to by the names of the emotions are caused by the psychic emotions (De anima, 4.4, 61.80-62.96). Avicenna deals with the physiological aspects of the faculties and activities of the animal soul in the first book of the Canon of Medicine. This large work in five books was translated into Latin by Gerard of Cremona (d. 1187). The doctrine of the spirits is also summarized in the De medicinis cordialibus. Avicenna' s approach is similar to that of the Pantegni. In the medical contexts the sensitive emotions are treated as affects suffered by the spirit. When people experience the same emotion often, they become prone to have it because of the changes in the system of the spirits and humors and the habituation of the faculties which are induced by it. Medicines and diets can improve the quality of the spirit and to lessen proneness to bad feelings and emotions. Even though the soul is the source of lower behavioral acts, it functions through a material medium and its acts are influenced by the qualities of the spirits and, more indirectly, of the humors.46 In De anima Avicenna stresses the priority of the soul and form to matter. Forms determine the motions of matter in natural compositions, and similarly the presence of the forms in the soul can affect the material parts of living organisms. In illustration Avicenna refers to the healing power of positive thinking, which can surpass the effects of medical treatment, and to the difference between walking on a narrow board on the ground and above water - people lose their balance through imagining that they may fall. A vicenna thought that the cardiac and spiritual motions which are caused by the emotions of the soul are teleologically purposeful. When the estimative power gives rise to motive acts, it also causes cardiac and spiritual affects in a manner which serves the actualization of the emotional suggestions (4.4, 62.88-96, 64.20-33). Avicenna's examples of the concupiscible acts involve desires for food, wealth, and sexual intercourse, which are forms of seeking pleasure for oneself. Because of natural instincts animals also have other inclinations which Avicenna did not locate in the concupiscible power, though he says that they are concupiscible in the sense that animals suffer when their actualization is prevented (De anima, 4.4, 57.10-19, 58.32-59.35). The irascible power is directed toward victory and repelling antagonistic things. Avicenna' s examples of its acts are pain, sadness, fear, and anger (De anima, 4.4, 58.26-32). One might think that Avicenna mentions pain and sadness here because the desiderative irascible acts are reactions to their causes, either attempts to

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overcome them when one meets with them, which is anger, or avoiding them by fleeing, which is fear. But he also says that pain and sadness are acts of the irascible faculty. It is also somewhat strange that pain and sadness are mentioned in this context while pleasure and joy are not. Pleasure and joy are said to belong to the apprehensive power (De anima, 4.4, 57.15-17, 59.34-5). Avicenna seems to think that pain and sadness, as distinct from pleasure and joy, can involve a desiderative element. The object of the concupiscible power, the pleasurable, does not affect the irascible power, and the object of the irascible power, the harmful, does not affect the concupiscible power (De anima, 5.7, 158.90-4). The two sensitive motive powers have contrary objects, but there are no contrary concupiscible emotions and no contrary irascible emotions. 47 Though Avicenna mainly speaks about the emotions of the animal soul as desiderative motive acts, his view of joy and pleasure as perceptions shows that some emotions belong to the apprehensive powers. In De medicinis cordialibus Avicenna says that sensitive pleasure is a perception of the fulfillment of a natural appetite or of the good functioning of the organism. This perception is pleasant - pleasure is the feeling aspect of the awareness of something positive taking place in the subject. Pain and sadness are the corresponding feelings with respect to negative things (De med. cord., 192.67194.14). Sensitive pleasure and pain are primarily embedded in perceptions about bodily states, but they can also qualify other forms of awareness (De anima, 1.3,65.21-66.33,4.4,57.15-8). Pain and sadness can apparently occur as apprehensive acts or as desiderative acts. Avicenna seems to assume that when there are desiderative emotions, the apprehensive acts which activate them may already involve pleasant or unpleasant feelings. In addition there are pleasant or unpleasant perceptions of the physiological changes which are caused by emotions. In addition to the emotions which are common to beasts and human beings, there are also specifically human emotions. Avicenna assumed that there is a close co-operation between the active part of the intellect and the sensitive estimative power which he treated as some kind of lower reason. The estimative faculty of animals makes emotional judgements on the basis of earlier experiences or instincts. The dominance of the instincts in animals makes their behavior stereotyped. Their desires serve the survival of the species and there are no variations in their social activities. The sensitive emotions of human beings are based on a more conceptual orientation to the world. Fear and hope with respect to not yet actualized future things presup-

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pose a sense of time which animals lack. Similarly human social life is based on learned attitudes and habits rather than on instincts. Shame at wrong action is an exclusively human emotion which demands the concept of rules. Human beings distinguish between common and uncommon things, and accordingly they have the emotion of wonder at unusual things, which is expressed by laughter. It is also human to express anxiety by weeping (De anima, 5.1, 69.5-76.3). In discussing the relationship between the commanding and executive motive acts, A vicenna states, according to the Latin translation of De anima, that animals perceive their commanding acts, because otherwise they would not move themselves in an adequate way (De anima, 4.4, 54.82-55.84). The Arabic text also speaks about the perception of desire but does not combine it with action in the same way. The Latin reading is probably based on what Avicenna later says in his argument for the unity of the soul (De anima, 5.7, 157.87-174.2, Kitab al-najat, 2.6.15, transl. Rahman, pp. 64-8). Let us consider this argument. Avicenna takes for granted that the sensitive appetites are activated by the intentions of the same external objects to which their acts are directed. But if the estimative faculty has evaluated an object as annoying, how can the corresponding irascible act be directed to the same object, since each faculty has a function of its own, and the irascible faculty does not identify or evaluate objects? Avicenna's answer is that the soul is a conscious subject. When various sensitive acts are directed to an object, they are so directed because they are acts of a subject which is aware of itself in relation to that object and reacts to it through its apprehensive and motive faculties. Avicenna writes: Again, we say 'when 1 perceived such and such thing, I became angry', and it is a true statement, too. So it is one and the same thing which perceives and becomes angry. [... ) But when one says, 'I perceived and became angry', one does not mean that this occurs in two different things in us, but that something to which perception transmitted its content happened to become angry. r...1 Its being in this status, even though it be body, is not due to its being body alone; it is then due to its being in possession of a faculty by which it is capable of combining both these things (transl. Rahman, pp. 65-6). An occurrent emotion is primarily an act of an agent who evaluates the relevance of something to him- or herself and reacts emotionally to it. This event can be described as a sequence of the acts of various faculties, which

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form a causal chain, but this chain is an instrumental substratum of the level of conscious experience and intention. Mental events are analyzed into various parts, each of which has a faculty of its own; the unity of these events is constituted by their being acts of a conscious subject. The souls of small children and animals are apparently also unifying centers, but they are not self-conscious. Avicenna's view of the emotions of the sensitive soul shows similarities to Aristotle's compositional theory. Emotions have cognitive causes and they involve feelings, behavioral suggestions, and bodily affections. However, Avicenna's phenomenological descriptions of particular emotions are sketchy. He is mainly interested in treating the generic components of emotional phenomena and in arranging them into causal sequences. Since the distinction between the apprehensive and motive powers belongs to the main issues of Avicenna's psychological theory, he accordingly divided the emotions into desiderative and non-desiderative, depending on whether their dominant aspects can be regarded as the acts of the motive powers or as the acts of the apprehensive powers. Avicenna does not develop this idea any further, and his remarks on the feelings which are associated with the desiderative emotions are also sketchy. While occurrent emotions seem to comprise various components which, according to the faculty theory, are acts of various powers, the emotions themselves are treated as motive acts or apprehensive acts. This non-compositional layer of Avicenna' s analysis proved to be more influential than his more sketchy remarks on the synthetic structure of an emotional experience. EMOTIONS IN EARLY THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PHILOSOPHY

Dominicus Gundissalinus combined Avicennian views with the traditional Augustinian psychology in his De anima. It was only partially an independent treatise, consisting to a great extent of texts from the translation of Avicenna's De anima.411 There was a theoretically more advanced reception of some themes of Avicenna's psychology of the faculties of the soul in early thirteenth century works which concentrated on an analysis of the psychic powers, such as John Blund's De anima (c. 1200), the anonymous works De anima et de potentiis eius (c. 1225) and De potentiis animae et obiectis (c. 1230), Tractatus de divisione multiplici potentiarum animae by John de la Rochelle (c. 1233) and Summa de anima by the same author (c. 1235).49

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Half of Gundissalinus's quotations from Avicenna's account of the emotions concern the question of how the acts of the concupiscible and irascible powers are related to the changes in the heart and the spirit. The author also quotes A vicenna' s view that the emotional acts of the soul are the causes of the bodily affections which accompany them. Some early thirteenth-century authors seem to have thought that perceiving the bodily affections is among the causes of the emotions. 5o This position did not attract adherents. The standard view came to be that commanding motive acts are reactions to evaluative acts and cause behavioral changes and inner physical affections. 51 One of the widely discussed themes in early thirteenth century philosophical psychology was the question of how various types of emotions should be classified with respect to the concupiscible and irascible parts of the soul. This was already a controversial topic among twelfth-century theologians. One popular combination was put forward by Isaac of Stella. He described the types of the emotions by using the Augustinian reformulation of the Stoic division, and combined them with the Platonic parts of the soul as follows: Affect is fourfold: as for things which we love, we either rejoice as present or hope for as future; while with respect to things which we hate we are already plunged into pain or else are in fear of being plunged into pain. And so joy and hope arise from the concupiscible power, while pain and fear arise from the irascible power (Letter on the Soul, 1878d).

Isaac thought that the concupiscible emotions are reactions to things which are regarded as good and pleasant and the irascible passions in their turn are reactions to things which are regarded as evil and unpleasant. Isaac's division was quoted (with minor changes) in the Pseudo-Augustinean On the Spirit and the Soul (PL, 40, 782; cf. 814). A division of the emotions into those of the concupiscible and the irascible on the basis of whether their object is good or evil was also suggested by A vicenna' s De anima, which added to the popularity of this view. John Blund defended the same division and tried to adapt it to Aristotle's remark that the same faculties have contrary acts (Tractatus de anima, 18.25-19.2,20.19-24,22.11-6). The conception of the concupiscible emotions as reactions to good things and the irascible emotions as reactions to evil things is also found in the anonymous De anima et potentiis eius. The emotions which are acts of the sensitive motive power are further divided on the basis of whether the acti-

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vating cognitive acts evaluate things as easy or as arduous (47.388-48.406). This terminology is also applied in the anonymous treatise De potentiis animae et obiectis, but it is now associated with the Aristotelian idea that there are contrary concupiscible acts. The contrary concupiscible passions are reactions to sensually good or evil things, and the contrary irascible passions are reactions to great and arduous things (159.33-5, 164.3-5). In his Summa de bono Philip the Chancellor also made use of this new taxonomical principle, and it is mentioned in an anonymous treatise De anima (c. 1235).52 John of la Rochelle developed it further in his detailed classification of the emotions in the Summa de anima (c. 1235). After this it became the dominant view. 53 Before discussing John's taxonomy, let us have a look at some earlier classifications. The fourfold Stoic classification of the types of emotions (pleasure, pain, hope, fear) was the most popular systematization in the twelfth century. It was commonly known through the works of Augustine and Boethius. Through the works of Nemesius of Emesa and John Damascene twelfthcentury authors were also acquainted with a classification in which the basic types were pleasure, sadness, fear and anger. 54 The same typology was used in the medical systematization (see above) and mentioned in Ca1cidius's partial translation of Plato's Timaeus which was found in many monastic and Episcopallibraries. 55 Nemesius of Emesa and John Damascene also put forward more specific classifications which were sometimes mentioned but seldom commented on; some of the terms used in those lists were apparently considered strange. There were also longer lists of emotions (without explanations) in Ca1cidius's commentary on the Timaeus and in Isaac of Stella. 56 John of La Rochelle assumes that the behavior of animals is led by appetites for pleasure and self-assurance and that these general inclinations dominate the sensitive level of human beings. Correspondingly there are two commanding motive powers, the concupiscible and the irascible. Following Avicenna, John says that the fantasy moves these powers by presenting sensible forms of things and the estimative power by presenting the emotionally relevant intentions of the sensible things, such as convenience, inconvenience, pleasurability or painfulness. When the cognitive act vanishes, the motive act disappears. This was a common view in ancient and medieval theories and the ground for the cognitive control of the emotions. The genuine moving powers are the concupiscible and the irascible, the acts of which give impulses to external behavioral changes. These impulses are realized by the executive moving powers, which are infused in the nerves and muscles.

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In activating the executive moving powers the concupiscible and irascible commanding powers also give rise to physiological changes. In this role they can be called affecting powers. John thinks that this was Avicenna's view (Summa de anima, 2.104-5, 108, pp. 253-4,263-5). John thinks that the moving powers are naturally inclined to react to certain kinds of apprehensions with certain kinds of impulses. The concupiscible power commands motions through which one acquires things which are regarded as necessary or convenient for an appetite for pleasure, while the irascible power commands motions through which one repels things which are regarded as harmful or noxious for an appetite for victory. Certain apprehensions activate the concupiscible power positively (confortatio) while others activate it negatively (disconfortatio). When an apprehension activates the power positively, there will be a liking (placentia) for the object. When an apprehension activates the power negatively, there will be a corresponding dislike (displicentia). In introducing liking and dislike as the basic concupiscible attitudes which precede the appetitive acts and accompany them, John obviously wanted to add some kind of felt affection to the model of the concupiscible emotions. The corresponding irascible states are strength (corroboratio) and weakness (debilitas). They precede and accompany various acts of the motive power with respect to arduous objects. The terms 'strength' and 'weakness' seem to connote contrary irascible feelings. For any concupiscible emotion there is a corresponding contrary concupiscible emotion and the same holds of the irascible emotions, except anger and magnanimity (Summa de anima, 2.107, pp. 256-262). The contrary pairs of the concupiscible acts are classified as follows: (1) concupiscence (concupiscentia) vs. (2) disgust (jastidium) which are the occurrent orientating acts toward something considered good or rejectable, (3) desire (desiderium) vs. (4) avoidance (abhominatio) which are more intensive acts than concupiscence and disgust and initiate action, (5) joy (gaudium) vs. (6) pain (dolor) which are felt when the desire is fulfilled or when that which is avoided happens, (7) delight (laetitia) vs. (8) sadness (tristitia) which are caused by the thought that the actualized pleasant or unpleasant state of affairs will be of longer duration, (9) love (amor) vs. (10) hate (odium) are acts of desiring something good or something bad to somebody else, (11) jealousy (invidia) vs. (12) pity (misericordia) of which the former is an act of dislike with respect to another person's prosperity and the latter with respect to another person's troubles (2.107, pp. 256-9). More schematically the classification can be presented as follows:

68

SIMO KNUUTTILA Concupiscible acts Concupiscence Desire Joy Delight Love Jealousy

Disgust Avoidance Pain Sadness Hatred Pity

The acts of the concupiscible power are divided into contrary pairs in which one act is associated with liking (placentia) and the other with dislike (displicentia). The self-regarding acts are arranged in accordance with the model of the stages of motion (initial state, active state, and end state) which was suggested by Hugh of St Victor (see above). This model was also employed in Thomas Aquinas's famous taxonomy of the emotions. John of la Rochelle's classification shows similarities to that of Aquinas, but they are not identical. One of the differences is that while Aquinas sees the contrariety of the emotions in their being directed toward contrary ends, John of la Rochelle sees it in the contrary feelings, liking and dislike, which are associated with the motive acts. There can be no dislike with respect to what is actual and regarded as good for oneself and no liking with respect to what is actual and regarded as evil for oneself. Therefore the contrarieties between joy and pain and delight and sadness imply that the intentional objects are different. Similarly there can be no liking of future things which are evil for oneself, but through a surfeit there may be dislike with respect to a future thing which the evaluative power regards as good for oneself. Therefore the contrarieties between concupiscence and disgust and between desire and avoidance do not demand that the intentional objects be different (2.107, p. 258). The irascible power is directed to things which are regarded as arduous and difficult. The basic attitudes of this power are strength, or feeling confident, and weakness, or feeling diffident, with respect to an object. Of the acts of confidence which are directed to achieving good things (1) ambition (ambitio) and (2) hope (spes) pertain to future honor and excellence, while hope involves a belief that they will be achieved, (3) arrogance (superbia) and (4) dominance (dominacio) are attempts to strengthen one's social ranking and power by ruling inferiors and (5) contempt (contemptus) by disdaining one's superiors. Of the acts directed to evil things (6) bravery (audacia) is a desire to meet the enemy with the confidence that one is going to win, (7) anger (ira) is a desire for revenge and (8) magnanimity (magnanimitas) is insurrec-

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tion. The corresponding contrary acts which are associated with the feeling of diffidence are (1 *) poverty of the spirit (paupertas spiritus), the opposite of ambition, (2*) desperation (desperatio), the opposite of hope, (3-4*) humility (humiliacio), the opposite of arrogance and domination, and (5*) reverence (reverentia), the opposite of contempt. John mentions three emotions which represent various forms of the flight from evil and are somehow opposites of bravery: penitence (paenitentia) toward past evil things, impatience (impaciencia) with present evil things, and fear (timor) of future evil things. More schematically: Irascible acts Ambition Hope Arrogance, Dominance Contempt Bravery Anger Magnanimity

Poverty of spirit Despair Humility Reverence Penitence, Impatience, Fear

John of La Rochelle simplifies Avicenna's theory in treating all emotions as acts of the motive powers. Subsequently the sensitive emotions were commonly discussed as desiderative acts and described from the point of view of the behavioral changes induced by them. John of La Rochelle tried to combine the feeling aspect and the motive aspect in his taxonomy, but he concentrated on the motive component, and the same was done in many thirteenth-century theories of this kind. EMOTIONS IN ALBERT THE GREAT AND THOMAS AQUINAS In the 1240's philosophical psychology received new impulses from the commentaries and questions on Aristotle's De anima. Among the first commentaries are Peter of Spain's commentary on books I and 2 (until 415b278, c. 1240)57 and three anonymous commentaries, one of them attributed to Peter of Spain by its editor but commonly regarded as anonymous,58 one on books 1 and 2,59 and one on books 2 and 3. 60 Averroes's commentary on De anima was increasingly studied at the same time. 51 New psychological questions were brought into the scope of attention through these works,.but there was no sharp break with earlier approaches. The first commentators on Aristotle's De anima continued to employ the Avicennian doctrine of the facul-

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ties of the soul and they adopted his dualistic conception of the soul as a form and as an individual substance.62 Albert the Great (c. 1200-1280) was a central figure in the rise of Aristotelianism in the thirteenth century. He dealt with the emotions in many places by combining various sources in a somewhat eclectic manner. 63 In his treatise De homine Albert describes the apprehensive and motive powers of the sensitive soul by referring to Nemesius of Emesa's De natura Iwminis, which he mistakenly attributed to Gregory of Nyssa, John of Damascene's De fide orthodoxa, Avicenna's De anima, Aristotle's De anima, and some other sources. In dealing with the concupiscible and irascible powers Albert puts forward traditional ideas with the qualifications found in John of La Rochelle's works and in some earlier treatises: emotions are acts of the sensitive motive powers which are actualized by the estimative faculty; the concupiscible power reacts to pleasurable and painful and the irascible to arduous desirable and harmful things. 64 In De bono there is a longer discussion of the classification of the emotions and an evaluation of them from a moral point of view. Albert mainly follows the taxonomy in Nemesius of Emesa and its paraphrase in John Damascene and comments on some details of this classification.65 A question which Albert found particularly interesting pertained to the ontological nature of emotions as categorical passions. Let us have a look at Albert's discussion of this theme. In chapter 8 of his Categories Aristotle states that the third group of quality involves passible qualities and passions and, furthermore, that there are pas sible qualities of the soul, such as madness, irascibility and other permanent emotions, and quickly subsiding conditions, such as occurrent anger, which are called passions but are not qualities. Ancient commentators thought it confusing that Aristotle first says that the passions are qualities and then that the passions of the soul are not qualities. These queries were known to early medieval authors through Boethius's commentary on the Categories. He did not manage to explain the problematic title of the third class of quality. However, he stated that occurrent passions of the soul are not called qualities, and some authors took this to mean that they are qualities but are not called SO.66 Albert the Great followed this interpretation,67 but he was particularly bothered by the question of what was meant when the passions were called the motions of the soul. Albert's answer in De bono is somewhat confusing. He first states that passions are qualities (3.5.1,196.289), then that they are motions by which the appetitive powers are actualized (196.42-4), and then that in truth they are not motions but qualities which are

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generated by motions (197.5-10). The last alternative is his official view (cf. 3.5.3, 208.37-41, 91-5). In explaining this Albert refers to the anonymous Liber de sex principiis which he and other medieval authors after him mistakenly attributed to Gilbert of Poitiers. 68 In his commentary on the Liber de sex principiis Albert defines the categories of action and passion and their relationship to motion as follows. Action is the agent's causation of change or motion, and passion is the reception of it. In so far as a motion is treated from the point of view of the category of action, it is an expression of the potency of an agent and can be called the perfect act and the act of something perfect. When a motion is treated from the point of view of the category of passion, it is a subject's proceeding to an end under the influence of an agent and can be called the imperfect act and the act of something imperfect. Action and passion are the two categories in accordance with which a subject can be related to a motion, either as an agent or a patient. While being in motion and being at rest are qualities of a subject, a singular motion belongs to the same category as its term (2.1,320-1,2.5,326-7,3.1,331-2). Albert then proceeds to explain the nature of the emotions which are mentioned in the fourfold Stoic classification. If a future object is considered as good and the sensitive motive power reacts to it, there will be a new appetitive state which is called hope. It belongs to the category of passion, since it is caused by an evaluating act, but it also belongs to the category of action, since it makes the heart dilate and the spirit diffuse and, furthermore, gives rise to an attempt to reach the goal. Similarly an evaluation of a present object as good causes a passion of joy, which in its tum intensifies the dilation of the heart and the diffusion of the spirit and initiates enjoying. The same analysis is applied to sadness and fear which are caused by negative evaluations and which cause the contraction of the heart and the withdrawal of the spirit and initiate mourning or flight (3.1-2,331-3). Albert treated occurrent emotions as actualizations of the concupiscible and the irascible powers ofthe sensitive soul. They are short-term emotional qualities which are caused and kept actual by the simultaneous agency of the estimative faculty. When the cognitive cause ceases to exist, the corresponding emotional quality vanishes. Emotions are passions in being cau-sally dependent qualities and actions in being motive acts. They are misleadingly called motions, since they are generated by alterations and they give rise to bodily changes (De bono, 3.5.1,196.27-32,42-53,3.5.3,208.31-41,91-3).

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Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274) was a student of Albert the Great and, like Albert, also treated emotions from the point of view of thirteenth-century faculty psychology. Emotions are acts of the sensitive motive powers caused by external objects through the evaluations of the estimative power and necessarily accompanied by motions of the heart and the spirits. The human estimative power is called the cogitative power or particular reason. It makes particular judgements about things and can relate them to general value judgements of the intellect. This is how the intellect can control the concupiscible and irascible powers, which are analogous to the motive powers of animals. Aquinas discusses the emotions in many works. In ST, 1.78.4 and 1.80-81, there is a summary of the nature of the sensitive faculties. ST, II1.22-48, involves a detailed theory of the emotions, the most extensive medieval treatise on the subject.69 The general structure of Aquinas's detailed taxonomy of the emotions was not original. John of La Rochelle's more extensive classification included all those emotions which occur in Aquinas's list and was also organized by distinguishing between the various contrary acts of the concupiscible faculty with respect to good and evil and the contrary acts of the irascible faculty with respect to arduously good or evil objects. Aquinas's innovative ideas pertained to the principles of classification rather than to its items. For one thing, he stressed that any act of the irascible faculty presupposes an act of the concupiscible faculty. The former acts are strengthened reactions which are called for when an obstacle supervenes in pursuit of what is sensibly agreeable or in avoiding what is disagreeable or, as in the case of anger, when one encounters something evil and hopes for revenge. Furthermore, he thought that the contrariety among the emotions and the order of their occurrence were not satisfactorily analyzed in earlier approaches. Aquinas tried to resolve these questions by referring to theories about natural movements in Aristotle's Physics. He apparently believed that the systematic use of the principles of natural philosophy made his taxonomy more scientific than those of his predecessors. This is the most idiosyncratic part of Aquinas's theory. As for the contrariety of emotions, Aquinas states that since an emotion is a kind of motion, the criteria for contrasting two emotions will be the same as those for contrasting two motions or changes which Aristotle put forward in his Physics (5.5). The first contrariety is between an access to a term and a recess from the same term. This primarily pertains to the contrariety between generation and corruption, coming into being and going out of being. The

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second contrariety is based on the contrariety of the terms and pertains to processes; thus bleaching, the motion from black to white, is the contrary of blackening, the motion from white to black. In applying this distinction to the motions of the soul, Aquinas fIrst states that there is no motion of the soul away from the sense-good without qualifIcation and similarly no motion towards the sense-evil without qualifIcation. Consequently all concupiscible emotions with respect to a good object are motions toward that object and those with respect to an evil object are motions away from that object. There are no mutually contrary concupiscible emotions with respect to the same kind of object. Their contrariety must be of the second type (ST, II-1.23.2). The contrariety of the emotions directed to arduous matters can be of the first type. In the concupiscible faculty there are three pairs of contrary emotions which correspond to the three stages of the natural motions of inanimate things: (1) love and (2) hatred are the contrary basic orientations with respect to sense-good and sense-evil, (3) desire and (4) aversion are the corresponding motions towards and away, and (5) pleasure and (6) pain or distress are the emotions associated with encountering the things desired or avoided. An occurrent irascible passion presupposes a concupiscible passion. If a desired object is arduous, it can activate the irascible appetite and its reaction is either (1) hope or (2) despair. If a disagreeable object is arduously avoided, it gives rise to either (3) fear or (4) courage. A present evil thing which already causes pain may give rise to (5) anger (ST, 11-1.23.4). More schematically: Concupiscible motions Love Desire Pleasure Irascible motions Hope Courage Anger

Hatred Aversion Pain

Despair Fear

In treating the emotions as motions, Aquinas chose a position which was criticized by Albert the Great, who argued that they are primarily qualities and not motions. One obvious problem of the motion terminology is that of the stages of natural processes (inclination, movement, rest) the fIrst precedes a temporal process and the third follows it. Only the middle part seems to be a motion. Aquinas was aware of this objection. He states that there are

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two sorts of motion in the appetitive faculty. One is the actualization of something existing in potentiality, i.e., motion as a temporal process as defined in the Physics (3.1). Aquinas claims that emotions other than pleasure are motions of this kind. Another kind of motion is an act of what is not potential but actual. It is not essentially successive and is said to be a motion because it is an act of a potency which is kept actual through an activator. Pleasure is said to be a motion of this kind (ST, II-I. 31.1, ad 2).70 Aquinas's comments on the nature of emotional passions as motions remained somewhat sketchy - he apparently thought that the problems associated with the details of his conception were less important than its systematic weight. Let us return to Aquinas's examples of the similarities between the motions of the soul and the motions of inanimate things. In the three-stage model, the second phase is a continuous movement to one's natural place. Aquinas sometimes describes desire, which corresponds to this second phase, as a motion toward a pleasurable object and sometimes as a motion of the appetite toward a pleasurable object. This terminological vacillation is a sign of some problems in Aquinas's approach. An example of the first formulation runs as follows: It is clear, first, that everything which is bent upon a goal has an attachment or proportion to the goal, for nothing bends to a goal which is not proportionate; second, it moves towards the goal; third, it comes to rest in the goal once it has been attained. In the appetite of a good thing this attachment or proportion is love, for love is precisely the liking for some good, the movement towards the good is desire or concupiscence, and the rest in it is joy or pleasure (ST, II-l.2S.2c). The second formulation is found in many places, one of them running as follows: Thus the pleasurable, by attuning the appetite to itself in a way and making it conform, causes love; by attracting it to itself when absent, causes desire, and by bringing it to rest in it when present, causes pleasure. Desire therefore constitutes a species of emotion distinct from love and from pleasure (ST, II-l.30.2c). In these texts the positive concupiscible emotions are described with the help

of the physical model which Aquinas apparently associated with a pattern of emotional behavior of the following type: a cat sees that there is milk in its dish, becomes attentive, walks towards its dish, laps up the milk, and lies then down with satisfaction. This could be characterized as a sequence of

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acts caused by love, desire, and pleasure. The paradigm can be changed by adding something which makes it difficult to reach the milk and the acts corresponding to the emotions of hope or despair. A similar episode caused by acts of hate, abomination and pain is easily imagined as well as its modifications by the acts caused by fear, bravery and anger. The problem with these examples is that they refer to behavioral changes which are caused by the emotions rather than to the appetitive acts which are emotions proper. Aquinas himself drew this distinction, but it did not prevent him from vacillating between speaking about desire as a motion of an agent toward a pleasurable object and as a motion of the appetite toward a pleasurable object. Equating desire with a motion which is caused by desire is confusing, but even the alternative conception of the motion of the appetitive faculty is not without problems. Aquinas mainly speaks about the emotions as the acts of the appetite, but according to his theoretical view, these acts are the formal element of the emotions. Their material part consists of bodily changes, such as the motions of the heart, the spirits and the humors (ST, II-1.28.5, 44.1). Aquinas's remarks on this matter are based on traditional medical views. He also thought that inner physical changes can be regarded as initial stages of the behavioral movements which are caused by the appetitive acts: But in those who are afraid an increasing frigidity results in the transfer of spirits from higher to lower regions. The frigidity itself is produced by an imagination of one's failing strength. Therefore, heat and spirits are not concentrated in the area of the heart but rather deflected therefrom. This is why those who are afraid draw back rather than press forward (ST, 11-1.44.1, ad 1).

Why did Aquinas not include behavioral acts in the material part of the emotional passions, since they seem to be actual as long as the formal elements are actual? One obvious reason is that an emotion can be actual even though the external motions are prevented. All emotions involve internal physical motions, but Aquinas did not refer to them in explaining why emotions are motions. He thought that the acts of the appetitive faculties themselves should be treated as goal-directed motions, some as successive and some not essentially successive. What these motions are remains unclear; the only suggestion pertaining to desire is that it is an attitude with a varying intensity.

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There is no systematic discussion of the feeling aspect of the passions in Aquinas, but his comments on pleasure and pain shed some light on his view. In ST, II-1.41.3, Aquinas asks whether any fear is natural. He states that some movements are called 'natural', because they are based on a natural inclination. These are of two kinds. The first is completed by nature without any apprehension being involved. The second is completed only through apprehension. He continues: In the fust sense of the term 'natural' some passions are sometimes said to be natural, such as love, desire, and hope, but others cannot be so designated, because love and hatred, and desire and aversion involve an inclination to pursue the agreeable and avoid the disagreeable and this sort of inclination is also found in a natural appetite. Thus there is a natural love and we may even speak of desire and hope in natural things lacking cognition. But the other passions involve motions for which a natural inclination is altogether inadequate. First, these passions may of their very nature entail perception or cognition. We have seen that pleasure and pain naturally require apprehension. If it be lacking, neither pleasure nor pain can be experienced. Second, motions of this kind may be contrary to a natural inclination.

Aquinas refers to previous places in which he has stated that two things are needed for pleasure: attaining something good and being aware that one has attained it (ST, II-1.31.1, 32.1, 32.5, 35.1). Perception and cognition precede appetitive acts, but Aquinas is not merely interested in this fact. The acts of pleasure and pain are appetitive motions, i.e., they initiate behavioral changes, but as emotional states they also involve an awareness of one's encountering something pleasant or one's being met with something unpleasant. As distinct from the acts of love and desire, which can be treated as merely inclinatory acts, pleasure and pain involve an awareness and feeling. Aquinas states that when inanimate things come to be established in a condition which is in harmony with their nature, they do not perceive it, but animals do, and this perception gives rise to the motion in the sensitive appetite which is called pleasure (ST, II-1.3I.Ic). Similarly Aquinas writes in II1.29.3 that the inconvenience of the object which is hated is perceived more sensitively than the convenience of what is loved. Perceiving the convenience or the inconvenience of an object is here associated with a subjective feeling. Even though Aquinas sometimes refers to experienced feelings, this is not a central theme in his theory of the emotions. Following thirteenth-

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century philosophical approaches he analyses and classifies the sensitive motive acts from the point of view of behavioral changes and, in moral contexts, discusses their controllability by the rational part of the soul. EMOTIONS IN EARLY FOURTEENTH-CENTURY FRANCISCAN DISCUSSIONS John Duns Scotus and William Ockham did not follow Aquinas's problematic attempt to treat the emotions as motions, preferring the view defended by Albert the Great that they are qualities of the third groUp.?l In line with thirteenth-century theories John Duns Scotus states that the appetitive powers of the sensitive soul, the concupiscible and the irascible, are activated by various perceived objects and that they then tend to initiate behavioral changes depending on whether the objects are pleasurable, painful or offensive. In a less conformist manner Scotus adds that the immediate reactions of the will can also be divided into concupiscible and irascible and their subclasses. In so far as emotional terms are regarded as referring to the various reactions of the motive powers, they can be applied to the intellectual as well as the sensitive soul. 72 Scotus was not the first to make this terminological point, which deviated from the sharp division between psychosomatic emotions and intellectual volitions in the theories of Augustine, Avicenna and Thomas Aquinas. The wider notion of the emotions was employed by some Franciscan authors before Scotus, but it seems that his terminological revision contributed to the fact that early fourteenth-century Franciscan discussions about emotions were to a great extent concentrated on the emotions of the will. Even though Scotus thought that the basic typologies of the passions can be applied to the sensitive and intellectual appetitive powers, he stressed that these powers in themselves are very different; the will, as distinct from the sensitive appetite, is a free cause of its acts. 73 Using the terms which John of la Rochelle applied to the sensitive appetitive acts, Scotus says that the immediate concupiscible acts of the will are liking (complacentia) and dislike (displicentia). These are not efficacious volitions, which Scotus calls elections. Liking and dislike are affective attitudes toward an object. Since they are acts of the will, which is a free cause, they have a cognitive act as their partial cause but no decisive efficient cause except the will itself.?4 The nature of liking and dislike as immediate acts makes them resemble the phenomena which are called emotions. They are unpremeditated reactions to

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things in the same way as sensitive emotional reactions are. They also resemble subjective feelings, for they are not identifiable through external changes and, being caused by an individual will, cannot be predicted through lawlike regularities. Liking as an attraction, dislike as an aversion, and the efficacious acts of the will, which are based on these, are strictly separated from the pleasure and pain of the will. These are said to occur when that which the subject wills or tries to avoid is realized. In speaking about the will, Scotus primarily means by 'pleasure' and 'pain' those states which make the subject enjoy or suffer with respect to new states of affairs, but the terms can also refer to the feelings which accompany desiderative acts and are based on anticipations. Pleasure and pain are caused by the free acts (with some additional cognitive acts), but they are not themselves free acts. When a person is suffering, he or she cannot restore the state of pleasure by simply willing it, because pleasure is generated through an actualization of what is willed and is something else than pleasure itself. Hoping for pleasure may be pleasant, but this accompanying feeling as well as the pleasure of fulfillment itself may be prevented by sadness or pain. Even though pleasure and pain are causally dependent and not free states of the will, they are indirectly voluntary. Giving up liking or love for an object makes one immune to the sadness of loss?5 Scotus's interest in these questions was primarily theological. He wanted to shed light on the theological doctrines of ultimate enjoyment (jruitio) and eternal punishment. 76 Enjoyment remained a popular topic in Franciscan theology after Scotus and this was one of the main contexts for discussing the theory of the emotions, as can be seen from Adam Wodeham's Lectura secunda on Peter Lombard's Sentences. Wodeham's work involves an extensive evaluation of various views on enjoyment and punishment put forward by his English contemporaries in the 1320'S.77 There were several different positions pertaining to the questions of whether enjoyment is distinct from cognition and pleasure. Wodeham criticizes the view of Walter Chatton and William Ockham, according to which there is a real distinction between love and cognition, as well as the cognitive theory of some other Franciscans, who argued that love, fear and other emotions of the intellectual soul are judgements. His own theory was a modification of the judgement theory. A really distinct cognition precedes the acts called love, fear, hope, and so on, but these are also cognitive acts. The first cognitive acts are partial causes of the emotive acts which evaluate the states of affairs apprehended by the first acts as desirable, avoidable, lovable, terrible, joyful, and so on.

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These evaluative cognitive acts are accompanied by proper behavioral inclinations of various intensities. In order to distinguish his position from the judgement theories Wodeham stresses that evaluative acts are not necessarily acts of belief. Since Wodeham also criticized the idea of a real distinction between the cognitive acts of the intellectual and sensitive parts of the soul, his theory came pretty close to the Stoic view of the emotions, though his hormetic evaluations are not necessarily judgements.78 There are some obvious differences between early fourteenth-century Franciscan theories (Duns Scotus, William Ockham, Adam Wodeham) and typical thirteenth-century approaches (John of La Rochelle, Thomas Aquinas). The Franciscans treated emotions in the context of specifically human thought and action, gave up the sharp distinction between emotional and volitional phenomena, preferred questions pertaining to feeling and awareness, and did not provide for the taxonomy of the motive acts and its principles the same systematic role they played in thirteenth century discussions of the emotions. 79

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NOTES

JO II

12

13

14

15 16

17

18 19 20 21 22

23

24

25 26

27 2"

For some examples, see Nussbaum (1986), Nussbaum (1994), Price (1995), Sihvola and Engberg-Pedcrscn (1998), Sorabji (2000). See Knuuttila and Sihvola (1998), pp. 5-8, and the introduction in Frede (1993). See Cooper (1996), pp. 238-257, Knuuttila and Sihvola (1998), pp. 8-12. See ibid., pp. 2-5. For recent works on the Stoic theory of emotions, see Nussbaum (1994), Brennan (1998), pp. 21-70, Sorabji (2000). See Dillon (1990a); first published in Anton and Preus (1983), pp. 508-17, and Irwin (1998). Dillon (1990b); first published in Caquot et al. (1986), pp. 443-455. For Clement's view and its probable model in Philo's conception of the non-moderated emotions as diseases healed by the Logos, see Lilla (1971), pp. 95-99. For Clement's view of the removal of emotions, see Volker (1952), pp. 183-94, and pp. 524-540. There is a detailed analysis of Origen's view of perfection in Volker (1931). See Louth (1981), pp. 67-71; Dillon (l990b). On Cassian and Evagrius, see Chadwick (1968). See, e.g., Gregory of Nyssa, The Life of Moses, trans. A.J. Malherbe & E. Ferguson, 2.8999. See also Knuuttila (1999), pp. 208-10. Exposition of Some Propositions in the Epistle to the Romans, PL 35, 2066. CfRist (1994), pp. 136-7, and Kahn (1988). Knuuttila (1999), and Lottin (1942-60), Tome II, pp. 494-589. Bernard ofClairvaux, Opera, eds. 1. Leclercq, C.H. Talbot & H.M. Rochais, 3.143.2-15. Ibid., 2.10.26,5.205.17. See Kopf (1980), pp. 136-161. For some related philosophical themes in Bernard, see Brague (1993). See Kopf (1980), pp. 188-222. William of St. Thierry, De natura corporis et animae, ed. M. Lemoine; an English translation by B. Clark in McGinn (1977), pp. 101-152. Epistola de anima, PL 194, 1875-90; an English translation by B. McGinn in McGinn (1977), pp. 153-177. De spiritu et anima, PL 40, 779-832; an English translation by E. Leiva & B. Ward in McGinn (1977), pp. 179-288. This was mistakenly regarded as a work of Augustine and for this reason it was pretty influential until the time of Albert the Great. Ailred of Rievaulx, De anima, ed. C.H. Talbot. See De substantia dilectionis in Hugh of St. Victor, Six opuscules spirituels, ed. R. Baron, 83.10-12,86.48-52. Richard de Saint-Victor, The Twelve Patriarchs, eds. J. Chlitillon & M. Duchet-Suchaux; an English translation by G.A. Zinno Sec Burnett and Jacquart (1994).

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30

31 32

33

34 35

36

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38 39 40

41

42 43

44 45

46 47

48

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Avicenna, Liber de anilTUJ seu sextus de naturalibus, ed. S. Van Riet. 'Ali ibn al-'Abbas al-Maqusi, Pantegni, 4.1, 9, 19; Harvey (1975), pp. 17-8, Burnett (1994). 'Ali ibn al-'Abbas al-Maqusi, Pantegni, 4.7-8, 6.109-113. See Ibid., 6.109. The chapter about the causes of death (ibid., 4.7) involves an influential remark on dying of fear or joy. Excessive joy may cause the spirit to rush from the heart in such a violent manner that the vital spark is extinguished. Extensive fear may cause a violent opposite motion which chokes the vital spark. See also Harvey (1975), pp. 16-9. See Wack (1994), pp. 195-6. For therapeutic intercourse for lovesickness, see also Wack (1990). See Harvey (1975), pp. 9-13, and pp. 21-30. See 'Ali ibn al-'Abbas al-Maqusi, Pantegni, 5.1, 6.109-114 and, for the diagram and its history, Gil-Sotres (1994). Medical authors often used this schema and it was also known to other learned persons. John of La Rochelle, a Franciscan theologian, referred to it as a commonly known model in his Summa de anilTUJ (c. 1235), ed. J.G. Bougerol, ch. 107, 262.118-30. See Burnett (1994), pp. 111-113, Ronca (1994), and Alfredus Anglicus (Sareshel), De motu cordis, ed. C. Baeumker. See McGinn (1977) and C. H. Talbot's preface to his edition of Ai1red of Rievaulx's De anilTUJ, ed C.H. Talbot. For Avicenna's influence, see Hasse (2000). Rahman (1952), pp. 3-12, and Verbeke (1968), pp. 20-46. In the flying man argument it is assumed that if a man were to come into being in an adult condition but floating in space so that he could not affirm the existence of his body, he would still be certain of his existence as an individual self (De anima 1.1, 36.49-37.68, 5.7,162.51-163.64). See Rahman (1952), pp. 9-11, and Verbeke (1968), pp. 36-39. For a summary, see De anima 1.5, 82.40-102.15, Rahman (1952), pp. 25-33, Harvey (1975), pp. 40-48. Cf. Rahman (1952), pp. 30-1. See Davidson (1992), pp. 95-102. See also Verbeke (1968), pp. 58-9. The Latin manuscripts of Avicenna's De anima contain parts of Avicenna's treatise De medicinis cordialibus. These are included in van Riel's edition of Tiber de anima seu sextus de naturalibus. See Harvey (1975), pp. 25-8. Tn De anima, 4.3, 44.21-3, Avicenna states that fear is the contrary opposite of hope and desperation is the privative opposite of hope. The text is edited in Muckle (1940), pp. 23-103; excerpts from the passages on the emotions in Avicenna's De anima are quoted on pages 80.24-82.5. See John Blund, Tractatus de anima, eds. D.A. Callus & R.W. Hunt, Anonymous, De anilTUJ et potentiis eius, ed. J.G. Gauthier, De potentiis animae et obiectis, ed. D.A. Callus,

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51

52

53

54

55

56 57

58 59

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61 62 63 64

65 66

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68 69

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John of La Rochelle, Tractatus de divisione multiplici potentia rum animae, ed. P. Michaud-Quantin, and John of La Rochelle, Summa de anima, ed. J.G. Bougerol. Davidis de Dinanto, Quatemulorum jragmenta, ed. M. Kurdzialek; and Maccagnolo (1988). Sec also the somewhat unclear remarks in John Blund's Tractatus, 25.380. See, for example, John of La Rochelle, Summa de anima, ed. J.G. Bougerol, 2.105-6, pp. 253-4. See Philip the Chancellor, Summa de bono, ed. N. Wicki, 4.2, 161.56-8, PseudoGrosseteste, De anima in L. Baur (cd.), Die philosophischen Werke des Robert Grosseteste, p. 266. For this division in Odo Rigaldi, Albert the Great, Bonaventure, and Thomas Aquinas, see Gauthier (1951). See the translation of Nemesius's work by Alfanus of Salerno, Premnon physicon, ed. C. Burkhard, chs. 18-21, the translation by Burgundio of Pisa, De natura hominis, eds. G. Verbeke & J.R. Moncho, chs. 17-20, John of Damascene, De fide orthodoxa, ed. E.M. Buytaert, chs. 27-30. Ca1cidius, Timaeus a Calcidio translatus commenrarioque instructus, ed. J.H. Waszink, p. 37. Ibid., pp. 216-7, Isaac of Stella, Sermons I, ed. A. Hoste, 17,318.95-320.119. Peter of Spain, Obras Filos6ficas Tl: Comentario al 'De Anima' de Arisr6teles, ed. M. Alonso. Peter of Spain (Pseudo), Obras Filos6ficas Ill: Expositio libri de anima, ed. M. Alonso. Anonymous, Anonymi Magistri Artium (c. 1245-1250), Lectura in lib rum De anima, ed. R.A. Gauthier. Anonymous, Anonymi Magisrri Arrium, Sententia super II and III De anima, ed. C. Bazan. Averroes, Commentarium Magnum in Aristotelis De anima libros, ed. F.S. Crawford. See the introduction by C. Bazan in his edition of Anonymous, Anonymi Magistri Artium, Sententia super II and III De anima. For a partially outdated analysis of Albert's psychology, see Schneider (1903-06). Albert the Great, Summae de creaturis secunda pars, quae est de homine, q. 66-67 in Alberti opera omnia, ed. A. Borgnet, vol. 35, pp. 553-558. For Albert's views of physiological and medical aspects of sensitive acts, see Theiss (1997). Albert the Great, De bono, in Opera omnia, eds. B. Geyer et aI., vol. 28, 3.5. Boethius, In Categorias Aristotelis libri quattuor, PL 64, 245d-250c; Anonymous, Commentarium in Aristotelis Categorias, ed. S. Ebbesen, pp. 357-362. Albert the Great, Liber de Praedicamentis in Alberti opera omnia, ed. A. Borgnet, vol. 1, 255-8; see also William Ockham, Expositio in Librum Praedicamentorum Aristotelis, in OP 2, ch. 14.8,279-281. Albert the Great, Liber de sex principiis in Alberti opera omnia, ed. A. Borgnet, vol. I. See also King (1998). Giles of Rome was one of the authors who found this use of the term 'motion' strange; see Marmo (1991).

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75 76

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John Duns Scotus, Ordinatia, in Opera omnia, ed. L. Wadding, vol. 7, 3.15.8, p. 332, William Ockham, Expasitia in Librum Praedicamentarum Aristatelis, in OP 2, ch. 14.9, p.282. John Duns Scotus, Ordinatia, in Opera omnia, ed. L. Wadding, vol. 7, 3.15.10, 12, pp. 329-339 and 3.33, p. 706, 3.34, pp. 728-731; see also the translations in Wolter (1986), p. 341, and pp. 359-65. I shall not entcr into details of Franciscan voluntarism and its concept of will as a free cause. For a recent introduction, see Kent (1998). John Duns Scotus, Ordinatio, Opera omnia, ed. L. Wadding, vol. 7, 3.33.17, p. 704. Ibid., 3.15.12-3, pp. 334-5. John Duns Scotus, Repartatia Parisiensis, in Opera omnia, ed. L. Wadding, vol. 11, 1.1.3, pp. 26-7. Adam Wodeham, Lectura secunda in lihrum primum Sententiarum, eds. R. Wood & G. Gal, vol. I, 1.5, pp. 272-93. See Knuuttila (1995). For a more detailed discussion of this question and other themes dealt with in this paper, see my forthcoming book on emotions in ancient and medieval philosophy. Section 1 is partially included in Knuuttila (2002).

RISTO SAARINEN

WEAKNESS OF WILL: THE PLURALITY OF MEDIEVAL EXPLANATIONS

ARISTOTLE'S AKRASIA AND ITS INTERPRETERS Sometimes the history of philosophy can provide us with a laboratory situation in which new ideas are introduced into old contexts in such a way that we can clearly see the reactions they provoke and the changes they cause. This was the case when Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics was translated into Latin in the middle of the thirteenth century. Within a very short time a new Aristotelianism introduced a number of new questions related to philosophical psychology. The old context of Augustinian Christianity offered only a limited amount of conceptual tools for the understanding of these new questions. A paradigm shift was, therefore, necessary in many areas related to the philosophy of mind. In spite of some conflicts the contemporary historian is for the most part surprised to find how flexible the medieval scholars were in changing their conceptual frameworks to suit the new philosophy. In the following I will highlight these developments through one exemplary case study, that is, the medieval reception of Aristotle's 'weakness of will' . Aristotle discusses akrasia, 'weakness of will', or 'incontinence', in the seventh book of his Nicomachean Ethics (EN). The weak-willed person wants to do good, but he nevertheless acts against his own better judgment. The existence of akrasia is a philosophical problem, since Socrates held that nobody acts against his own knowledge. (EN, 114Sb). On the other hand, however, weakness of will seems to be common among human beings. But if we admit the existence of this phenomenon, how is it compatible with the Socratic axiom that knowledge and better judgment can never be overcome by an inferior power? Aristotle solves this problem by saying that the akratic person ignores something at the very moment of his incontinent action. Even 85 H. Lagerlund and M. Yrjiinsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choicejrom Boethius to Descartes 85-97. © 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers.

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if he claims to know that he is doing wrong, he does not use his knowledge in a clear and distinct way. (EN, 1146b-1147b). Many twentieth-century philosophers claim that Aristotle's problem is still relevant and have presented various new solutions. But, despite this recognition of his relevance, historians of philosophy have disagreed in their interpretations of Aristotle. At least two basic readings of EN VII have been proposed. The traditional way (model 1) to explain weakness of will is to say that the incontinent person does not make full use of the minor premise of the practical syllogism which normally determines his action. He knows the general facts expressed in the ~or premise, but he does not apply them to the particular circumstances; and he does so because the minor premise, informing about the particular facts, is not properly grasped. He, therefore, fails to draw the right conclusion, which should otherwise, through the mediating choice (prohairesis), become the effective cause of his action. According to this view, the conclusion of the practical syllogism and the action itself are more or less identical. 1 An alternative reading of Aristotle (model 2) holds that the akratic person at least in some cases reaches and fully realizes the correct conclusion, but that something interferes with acting on the basis of the conclusion. In this case we have to distinguish between conclusion, choice and action. A supporter of model 2 can interpret Aristotle's view that the akratic person acts voluntarily but contrary to his own good choice (EN, 1151a5-7; 1152aI5-17) as meaning that the interference takes place between the good choice and the deviant action. 2 An adherent of modell, however, argues that the right conclusion is never even properly grasped. Although Aristotle's akrasia has been widely studied, philosophers have until recently neglected the medieval commentaries on EN VII. One reason why the medieval discussion has been neglected is the prejudice that weakness of will is uninteresting for philosophy in a Christian period. According to this prejudice, the Judeo-Christian and Augustinian notion of will makes akrasia self-evident, because the will is not bound to obey what reason commands. In keeping with this prejudice, William Charlton, for example, holds that "Western European Philosophy has little to show on the subject of weakness of will before the present century".3 Every student of medieval commentaries on EN knows that this is not true. Bonnie Kent, for example, concludes that the Franciscan literature alone on akrasia "can only be described as voluminous".4 But although the Augustinian notion of will does not preclude an interest in akrasia, the

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above-mentioned prejudice contains a grain of truth in the sense that one should acknowledge the existence of an 'Augustinian' model of interpretation in the medieval discussion on EN VII. According to this model - let us label it model 3 - , all bad actions are performed out of bad choice. This contradicts Aristotle, who holds in EN, 1151-1152, that the akratic person does act voluntarily but not by choice, whereas the wicked person does act by choice. Models 1 and 2 allow for this distinction, but model 3 does not. One cannot distinguish within model 3 between wicked and akratic action in the way Aristotle does. All intentional actions in this model, however good or bad, are due to a conscious 'choice'. Thus, there is neither a psychological nor a moral difference between the sin of the 'wicked' man and the sin ofthe 'akratic' man. This is plausible within Augustinian psychology, although one must add that after the introduction of a new voluntarism and a new modal theory by John Duns Scotus and William Ockham the models 1,2 and 3 to a great deal lose their relevance. 5 Here we cannot enter into Augustine's discussion on the psychology of morally deviant actions. We can note, however, that Augustine in spite of his non-Aristotelian notion of will recognizes that human agents sometimes seem to act contrary to their own priorities. Augustine uses the expression invitus jacere, "to do something unwillingly/reluctantly", to describe such a situation. But his analyses of these situations always stress the moral responsibility of the agent, and he, therefore, concludes that even the person who "wills unwillingly" has deliberately chosen or "consented to" the action in question. 6 In this sense his acting against his own better judgment is interpreted within the framework of model 3. In the following analyses I will employ models 1,2 and 3 to give a kind of typology of some medieval interpretations of Aristotle's akrasia. I will begin with Robert Grosseteste's translation of EN VII and the anonymous Greek commentary attached to it. After this I will comment on Albert the Great's understanding of akrasia and then conclude my presentation with some remarks concerning the late thirteenth and early fourteenth-century commentaries, especially John Buridan. 7 ROBERT GROSSETESTE AND THE GREEK COMMENTATOR Aristotle's discussion of akrasia becomes known in Western Philosophy through Robert Grosseteste' s Latin translation of EN in 1246-1247. This

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translation became widely known; and soon a revised version existed, which was used by many commentators, including Thomas Aquinas. 8 Aristotle's akrasia is always rendered into Latin as incontinentia and akrates as incontinens. Augustine understood continence as sexual abstinence, but it is surprising how little this Augustinian homonymy influences the discussion. The Augustinian tradition also permeates Grosseteste's translation through the frequent appearance of concupiscentia, which is the translation of Aristotle's epithymia (lust or passion). In addition to this and important for the later scholastic discussion, Grosseteste renders Aristotle's akribeia (precision) as certitudo and his endoksos (a reputable opinion) as probabilis. When Aristotle in EN, 1145bl-7, says that we should assume as correct the prevailing reputable opinions when we discuss akrasia, the medieval reader finds there the notion of 'probable' opinions. And when the Greek philosopher in EN, 1104al-6, holds that an account of matters of conduct can be given only in outline and not with precision, it is possible to interpret the Latin text as saying that the science of ethics does not possess the same degree of certainty as some other branches of science. The word probabilis is further significant because in Aristotle's Rhetorics it indicates a persuasive argument. Such argument or proof holds not necessarily but for the most part. (Rhet., 1356-57.) Through Grosseteste's translation, therefore, a conceptual connection emerges between rhetorical arguments and ethical reputable opinions. Grosseteste adds in his translation a number of grammatical notes and translated into Latin some medieval Greek commentaries which are employed by later scholars together with Aristotle's text. 9 Grosseteste's notes on EN VII are very few and limited to simple grammatical matters. It is more instructive to describe briefly how the Greek commentator understands Aristotle's solution in EN, I 147b9-17, to which no notes of Grosseteste are extant. The commentator gives the example of committing adultery in order to illustrate akrasia. The incontinent man who commits adultery is attacked by concupiscence which confuses his cognitive powers and knowledge. But immediately after the attack of concupiscence has ceased, the akratic man regains his intellectual capacities and recognizes that he has done wrong.lO Thus weakness of will becomes a sort of intellectual failure. After giving this description of akrasia, the commentator interprets Aristotle's "last protasis" (l147b9) as the cognition of the agent. The Latin cognitio here is an opinion which is related to perception of particular facts. During the attack of concupiscence, this cognition is either totally lacking or

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it is possessed in an insufficient way. In both cases the last term which is based on this cognition and appears in the minor premise, is not properly grasped. Moreover, the cognition cannot be knowledge in the strict sense, because knowledge has to do with universal truths, whereas this cognition and the respective action are related to particular objects. We can, therefore, say that the akratic person errs in his estimation of particulars; it would be inconvenient only to claim that somebody would err in the realm of the universals of which he has knowledge. II In sum, the commentator's understanding of EN, 1147b9-17, comes rather close to our concept of model 1. The minor premise, informing about the particular facts, is not grasped properly in the mind of the akrates; therefore, neither the good conclusion nor the respective good action emerges. More important than this is, however, the Latin terminology which determines the later medieval discussion. The introduction of 'certainty' and 'probabilities' as characteristics of ethical deliberation underline the Aristotelian idea of the close relationship between rhetorics and ethics. But they also allow for non-Aristotelian subsequent developments. The Latin notion of certitude, for instance, is an invention of the Christian church fathers 12 and as such unrelated to the Aristotelian idea of precision. ALBERT THE GREAT The first Latin commentaries on EN VII are written by Albert the Great in 1248-1252 and 1263-1267. Albert uses Grosseteste's translation with the Greek commentary. 13 He is well aware of the difference between the Augustinian and the Aristotelian understanding of continence. He discusses this difference, for example, in his De bono and in De natura bani. Albert also notices Cicero's understanding of continence as sexual abstinence. 14 Albert's treatment of akrasia, especially in his first commentary, is connected with his understanding of how 'knowledge' (scientia) should be understood in ethics. The knowledge of which Socrates is speaking in EN, 1145b21-25, is not demonstrative knowledge in the strictest sense (cf. EN, 1139b) but a cognitive certainty that something ought to be done. Even this cognition might sometimes be regarded as 'perfect knowledge' . In such case the conclusion concerning the good in a practical syllogism is always realized and, accordingly, Socrates is right in holding that knowledge determines our action in respect to the good. 15 Albert likes to compare the certainty of ethical knowledge with the certainty we possess in rhetorics. In both we

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judge according to probabilities. 16 As in Greek commentary, Albert's term 'cognition' is related to perceptual knowing, whereas demonstrative knowledge is achieved by syllogistic reasoning. Albert concludes that it is possible to act against the cognition, if the knowledge reached through it in some sense remains uncertain or imperfect. 17 The analogy to rhetorics helps him to explain why akratic behavior seems to be common: it is common because our cognition often remains uncertain, and we must rely on probabilities. But, on the other hand, Albert is very uncompromising in his emphasis that 'perfect' knowledge, although in ethics it is based on cognition, cannot be dragged about by passion. In both of his commentaries, Albert stresses that the akrates either lacks the minor premise or does not have it in actual use. Because the minor premise is not properly grasped, the conclusion does not materialize as action. 18 Albert thus adheres to model 1 which we labeled above as the traditional way of explaining akrasia. He is very Aristotelian and even Socratic in his claim that knowledge cannot be overcome by some weaker potency. But this Aristotelianism is softened by the frequent use of notions which emphasize the uncertainty and the probabilistic nature of our practical decision-making. This emphasis derives both from Grosseteste's translation and from the rhetorical tradition in which the proofs are given through probable evidence or even through weak signs. 19 Another source which Albert has employed is Robert Grosseteste's commentary to Aristotle's Posterior Analytics. In this work Grosseteste discusses the strength of opinions and knowledge in Aristotelian science. He distinguishes between knowledge broadly speaking (scientia communiter), which pertains to contingent events, knowledge strictly speaking (scientia proprie), which pertains to events that are for the most part necessary, and knowledge in the strictest sense (scientia magis proprie), pertaining to necessary objects. This last science proceeds with logical demonstration, whereas the two former ones cannot reach the strength of logical proof. Grosseteste also speaks of opinions in which the people trust (cognitio cum assensu or fides). An opinion strictly speaking means for Grosseteste an acceptance (acceptio) of something in a situation in which also the opposite choice deserves some consideration. 20 Although Grosseteste does not thematically treat moral uncertainty, this gradation of knowledge and opinion enables a differentiated treatment of judgments related to contingent matters. Grosseteste says also that it is the task of ethics to study such dynamics of

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the soul in which knowledge must be gained without logical demonstration. 21 Thus ethics essentially belongs to the philosophy of mind. THOMAS AQUINAS, WALTER BURLEY, GERALD ODONIS The late medieval commentaries to the Nicomachean Ethics are by no means uniform but give a variety of different explanations of Aristotle's akrasia. Their discussions are a good example of the phenomenon that the late medieval universities actively sponsored innovative teaching in which topics were consciously developed in different directions?2 Already Thomas Aquinas is puzzling due to the fact that he seems to give two conflicting interpretations of akrasia. In his textual commentary on EN VII he claims that the akratic person does not have the minor premise of practical syllogism in actual use. When the passion obscures the particular circumstances, the universal knowledge expressed by the major premise is insufficient to prevent the akratic action. This philosophical explanation is in keeping with our model I, since it stresses the ignorance of particular circumstances and does not consider akratic actions as chosen.23 In De malo and in ST, Thomas teaches, however, that the akratic person in some way chooses to sin. Since Aristotle teaches that akratic action proceeds contrary to good choice, Thomas here seems to give a non-Aristotelian explanation (model 3) of akrasia. In my book, I propose a reading which reconciles the two explanations. According to this reading the akratic action in Thomas proceeds in two steps. In the first step a particular temptation is presented by the passion. This causes that other relevant aspects are not considered, that is, a not-chosen ignorance occurs. But that the akratic person in fact then follows this temptation is a second step which is done 'from choice' (eligens).24 This reading has provoked some discussion in recent scholarship. While Jeffrey Hause finds it only an "educated guess", Rega Wood considers it to be a plausible explanation?5 Douglas Langston provides a new and fruitful insight when he remarks that the two steps illustrate a foundational difference between the perceptual (first step) and the deliberative (second step) aspects of prudential action. While the second step thus deals with Aristotelian eubulia, that is, good deliberation, the first step deals with synesis, that is, good judgment about the things treated by prudence. Aquinas emphasizes that the akratic person is lacking in synesis. The akratic person cannot judge particulars correctly, and this perceptual ignorance is caused by lack of train-

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ing. His untrained mind can thus be overcome by passion. In this way the akratic person can be said to be lacking in synesis. 26 The plurality of explanations is also an important feature of Walter Burley's commentary on EN VII. Rega Wood has recently shown how one can distinguish among not less than five solutions of akrasia in Burley.27 Four of them have their origin in Aquinas's commentary. They give various conditions which prevent the actualization of the premises of the practical syllogism. In addition to these Burley discusses the possibility that both premises can be fully actual but due to insufficient reasoning they are not interconnected in the mind of the akratic person in a proper way and thus prevent the action. In an original way Burley understands Aristotle's "last protasis" (ultima propositio, EN, 1147b9) to mean the propositional conclusion of the practical syllogism. All other scholastics interpret the last proposition as the minor premise of the syllogism. Burley's "insufficient reasoning" explanation thus comes close to the model 2 outlined above?8 Burley's insufficient reasoning explanation is also interesting in that it considers akrasia as a problem of syllogistic reasoning and thus in a way moves from synesis to eubulia. Whereas other scholastics primarily locate the cause of akrasia in the interaction between insufficient perception of circumstances and the dynamics of passion, Burley's insufficient reasoning explanation remains at the propositional level of the practical syllogism. This solution has a counterpart in modem research on Aristotle. Both David Charles and Norman Dahl have argued that Aristotle's "last protasis" can refer to the propositional conclusion and that model 2 is plausible in explaining Aristotle's akrasia as a logical failure. 29 The first Franciscan commentary on EN VII was written by Gerald Odonis. Like Albert, Odonis knows and employs the analogy between ethics and rhetorics, but he does not apply this topic in his explanation of akrasia. He attempts at reconciling the Augustinian psychology with Aristotle, but this attempt leads to inconsistencies in his commentary. In his commentary on EN III he says in an Augustinian manner (model 3) that the akratic person sins willingly, but in his explanation of EN VII he follows Thomas' philosophical explanation (model 1) which presupposes that the akratic person does not know the particular circumstances of his action?O

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JOHN BURIDAN AND BURIDANISM

Interestingly enough the three commentators mentioned above do not employ Albert's explanation of akrasia, although they certainly know Albert's text. However, the very influential late medieval textbook, John Buridan's Quaestiones super libros Ethicorum, develops Albert's ideas further and applies them to a Scotistic framework. Essential for Buridan's discussion is the gradation of the certainty of judgements. When the intellect is choosing between two alternatives it might (i) have no evidence for either of the alternatives, or (ii) some weak evidence for one of them while the other is not eliminated, or (iii) strong evidence for one while the other is not eliminated, or (iv) sufficient evidence for one alternative and complete elimination of the other. In cases i-iii the judgment remains weak (iudicium debile); only in the fourth case does the intellect reach a complete judgment (iudicium completum). The akratic person has a weak judgment in which neither of the alternatives are completely eliminated. 3 ! This view is parallel to Albert's theory in which the akratic person can act against ambiguous judgments and opinions but not against certain knowledge. When it is asked whether the akratic person can act against knowledge Buridan concludes that one cannot act against full knowledge (scientia completa). But if knowledge remains imperfect in some way, passion can overcome it and cause akratic behavior. Buridan further distinguishes between 'certain' and 'uncertain' judgments. The complete and certain judgment belongs to the fourth level of intellectual certainty. The free will follows certain judgment; only if the judgment remains uncertain, the will can decide not to follow it. 32 A certain judgment needs not be 'scientific' in the sense of necessary knowledge, but in it the alternatives are completely eliminated: Sixth, if someone judges that something is good for him according to a consistent good reason, so that it appears good according to all good reasons and so that nothing evil follows, then, it seems to me, if this judgment is uncertain (dubium), the will nevertheless does not necessarily accept it. [... J Seventh, if the judgment in question is totally certain (certum omnino), that is, that the person firmly and sufficient! y believes he sees all relevant circumstances and all of the different possibilities, and, after having taken everything into consideration, he firmly believes that the decision at hand will be good for him in any case and by no means bad, then I say that the will necessarily accepts

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it. And I do not consider a judgment made with certainty to be identical with true or scientific judgment; it is a judgment which is firmly believed without faintness. Therefore, a true or even a false opinion can be certain. 33 Buridan adheres to a Scotistic theory of will34 and thus his view in many ways differs from Albert and moves beyond the models I and 3 outlined above. But he follows Albert in the very idea that akratic behavior is possible because of the uncertainty of moral judgments. Buridan further thinks that the uncertain situation often gives the will an opportunity to postpone the decision: it is often prudent to postpone the act of the will in order that the alternatives can be investigated more c1osely.35 Since Buridan so massively emphasizes the foundational uncertainty and incompleteness of moral judgments, he presents ethical decision-making as an uncertain process in which akratic behavior often can take place. Recent studies of medieval philosophy have demonstrated the great impact of Buridanism in late medieval and early modem thought. 36 In the case of ethics the phenomenon of moral uncertainty becomes an important problem, as we can see, for example, in the early modem Spanish discussions on probabilism and probabiliorism.37 In German Reformation Martin Luther and his followers emphasized that certainty is necessarily for faith and criticized Catholicism for leaving believers to uncertainty. The philosophical implications of later religious developments require more study/8 but one can clearly find forerunners of these ideas in Albert's and Buridan's discussions on weakness of wilL Buridan's view of akrasia has also a modem philosophical counterpart. Donald Davidson has argued that it is possible to perform an akratic action while judging that, all things considered, it would be better not to do than to do it. This possibility is founded on a distinction between conditional and unconditional judgments. Whereas one cannot act against unconditional judgments, it is possible to act against conditional judgments which are qualified by 'prima facie' or 'all-things-considered' condition. The presence of condition weakens the force of judgment in such a way that akratic behavior becomes possible?9 Davidson's explanation has astonishing resemblance with Buridan' s, who among other things explicitly employs the expression prima facie to describe an uncertain judgment. 40 This short survey has only briefly touched many topics that are relevant for the philosophy of mind. Not only the development of moral uncertainty,

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but, for example, the problem of distinguishing between propositional and dynamic levels of practical syllogism, or the very interesting issue whether the insufficient reasoning of the akratic person can be considered voluntary, deserve further study. Furthermore, the consistency of views presented in the commentaries on Nicomachean Ethics with other scholastic works, for example, commentaries on On the Soul or theological treatises, is yet only insufficiently known. It is clear, however, that the medieval textual laboratory is at this point very innovative and capable of producing a plurality of interpretations. The prevailing Augustinian anthropology and Catholic theological doctrine at least do not hinder and perhaps even sometimes sponsor this plurality.

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[ Charles (1984), p. 117, counts "'most recent commentators" - except himself - as supporters of this view. See also Charlton (1988), pp. 46-47. 2 See Charles (1984), p. 146 and Dahl (1984), p. 218. 3 See Charlton (1988), p. 7. Charlton's book aptly illustrates the nature of this prejudice. Gosling (1990), covers more historical material. Since the publication of my monograph Saarinen (1994), and Kent (1995), the situation has improved. Recent discussion is summarized in Saarinen (1997), and Saarinen (1999). 4 See Kent (1984), p. 295. This dissertation is still a goldmine of textual information, as is also Gomes (1973). 5 For a more thorough discussion cf. Saarinen (1994) and Knuuttila (1993). 6 See, for example, Augustine's De spiritu et littera, 8.13 and 31.53 and the famous passages related to Augustine's conversion in Confessiones, VIII; Saarinen (1994), pp. 20-42. 7 In the following the basic results of Saarinen (1994) are complemented by the findings of discussion between 1995 and 2000. 8 See Aristotle, Aristoteles Latinus (Ethica NicoflUJchea), vol. 26, 3-4. For following terminological observations cf. the extensive indexes of this edition. Grosseteste's notes and the Latin translations of Greek commentaries to EN I-IV and VIIX have been edited by H.P.F. Mercken in: Robert Grosseteste, The Greek commentaries on the NicoflUJchean ethics of Aristotle, ed. H.P.F. Mercken, 1,3. to Ibid., 1,3,28,14-29,29. [[ Ibid., 29,29-49. [2 See Schrimm-Heins (1991). 13 See Albert the Great, Opera omnia, eds. B. Geyer et aI., vol. 14: Super Ethica commentum et quaestiones. (= Ethica l). Albert the Great, Alberti Opera omnia, ed. A Borgnet, Vol. VII: Ethicorum Ub. X. (= Ethica Il). I do not pay attention to Averroes' commentary here. It is, however, not totally insignificant. See, for example, Korolec (1985). 14 Sce Albert the Great, De bono, in Opera omnia, eds. B. Geyer et aI., vol. 28, pp. 130-135, esp. pp. 135,4-6 (Cicero); De natura boni, T. 2511, 32, 54-33, 13. [5 See Ethica,I, 522,43-63. See also Ethica,II, 465-466. 16 See, for example, Ethica, I, 523,48-73. 17 For example, Ethica,I, 522-523, 530; Ethica, II, 467. 18 See Ethica, I, 536, 14-31. "... in syllogismo continentis ultifIUJ sive minor propositio et opinio sive acceptio sensibilis est sub affectu sensibilium qualitatum accepta, ilia principale principium est actionum et operationum nostrarum. Omnes enim actiones nostrae circa singularia sunt. Hanc autem sensibilem acceptionem incontinens vel non habet, quamdiu est in passione concupiscentiae: vel sic non habet, quod ex tali habitu vere dicatur scire secundum rectam rationem operabilia." (Ethica II,476.) 19 See Aristotle's Rhetorics, 1357a-b. Albert uses these notions, for example, in Ethica, I, 523,61-73. Cf. also Ethica, II, 53-54. 20 See Robert Grosseteste, Commentarius in posteriorem analyticorum libras, 278, 17-22; 99,9-28.

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2i 22 23

24

25 26 27

28

29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36

37 38

39 40

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See ibid., 286, 180. See Courtenay (1987), p. 191. See Thomas Aquinas, Sententia libri Ethicorum, in Opera omnia, vol. 47, VII, \C. 2-3, pp. 385-393, esp. 393, 1()"27. See Saarinen (1994), pp. 118-130. See also Thomas Aquinas, De malo, q. 3, a. 9-12, in Opera omnia, vol. 23. ST, 2-2 q. 155 a. 3 ad 1. See Kent (1989). See Hause (1996); Wood (1999), p. 81. See Langston (2000). See Wood (1999). See Walter Burley, Expositio super decem libros Ethicorum Aristotelis, lib. VII c.3 p.2 (fol. 121va). Cf. Saarinen (1994) and (1999), p. 63. See Charles (1984); Dahl (1984). See Geraldus Odonis, Sententia et expositio cum quaestionibus super librum Ethicorum. Cf. Saarinen (1994), pp. 146-160 and Kent (1984). See John Buridan, Quaestiones super decem libros Ethicorum, fol. 143 ra-va. Saarinen (1994),pp.175-177. See Buridan, Quaestiones, fol. 143va-145va. See ibid., fol. 145 rb. This is my position which, however, continues to be debated in the research. Cf. Saarinen (1997). See Buridan, Quaestiones, fol. 42va and 143 rh. See Saarinen (1994), p. 171 and p. 177. Cf. in particular Michael (1985). Cf. Kantola (1994). Instructive, however, is Knebel (2000). See Davidson (1982), pp. 21-42. See Buridan, Quaestiones, fol. 42va. Cf. Saarinen (1993).

MIKKO YRJONSUURI

FREE WILL AND SELF-CONTROL IN PETER OLIVI

INTRODUCTION

What does it mean that our decisions are made freely? This question became hotly debated in the late thirteenth century. The philosophical psychology connected with human freedom was then as well intensively discussed. My aim in this paper is to consider Peter John Olivi's (1248-1298) reaction to the above question. Medievalists know Olivi as one of the fiercest defenders of the unlimited freedom of the human will, and he is probably the most original thinker in this discussion in the thirteenth century.1 Oiivi was famous during his life, and he wrote relatively much, but his production is poorly studied. This is largely due to the lack of printed editions, which, in tum, can be explained historically. The Franciscan spiritualist movement of the late thirteenth century took Olivi as their spiritual leader, and when the mainstream Franciscans began to view this movement as too radical, Olivi's reputation suffered? Judging from the style of his writing, he cannot have been the easiest kind of person to get along with. This must have made a difference for the leaders of church politics. His views were challenged several times, often in very different interpretations. In 1311, the church officially rejected many of Olivi's views and subsequently managed to a considerable extent to suppress the circulation of his writings. Therefore, his work was directly influential only some decades after his death, and his writings have remained unedited entries in the manuscript collections of the Vatican library and some other European libraries ever since. The collection of quodlibetal questions printed in 1505 seems to have been the only edition printed before the twentieth century, and the first comprehensive listing of his production was published only just before the tum of the third millennium? Given this situation with the texts, it is quite natural that histories of philosophy have so far almost completely ignored this 99 H. Lagerlund and M. Yrjiinsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choice/rom Hoethius to Descartes 99-128. © 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers.

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thinker - despite the now recognized fact that he was one of the most influential figures in the philosophically most active decades of the Middle Ages. My study here is mainly based on the source used by most other contemporary scholars, Olivi's questions on book II of the Sentences of Peter Lombard, published already in the 1920' s. This work includes a sequence of three long questions addressing the problem of freedom. 4 The first of them asks whether there is in human beings something by which they are capable of doing something freely. The two other ones aim at characterizing this thing, the will, more fully. Let us begin our discussion with a short look at how Olivi dealt with the basic problem of whether we are free. IS THE HUMAN WILL FREE? Olivi's answer to his first question is strongly positive. For him, human beings have a capacity to make free decisions. The whole discussion uses rather rude language against those who deny this freedom. According to Olivi, such an error undermines the whole foundation of human society and denies us the actual root of our personhood. Without a free will, we would merely be, as he puts it, "intellectual beasts".5 The starting point of Olivi's discussion is to portray it as an experiential fact deeply embedded in our conception of ourselves as human individuals that we are capable of free decisions. His resolution to the question starts with pointing out seven affections that "proclaim" (clamant) our freedom. 6 The point of this list is to show that our emotional reactions and actual practices of everyday life would not make sense if we did not take human beings as acting freely. Let us shortly consider as examples two items from Olivi's list, starting with the first one: No one properly assumes the zeal of anger - the affection of blame and punishment - against an evil performed by a beast or anything that cannot use reason freely.7

As Olivi sees it, anger (which he understands in the way Seneca treats it in his On Anger) is sensible only against free agents who have failed to act as we think that they ought to have acted. Thus, the fact that we feel the passion for punishment shows that we in fact believe in the freedom of the human will. Secondly, the phenomenon of friendship, or friendly love (amor amicitiae) makes sense only between beings of a special kind:

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A man cannot take another man as his friend without looking at him and accepting him as a being in itself (per se) that consists individually and personally of himself. We, namely, turn to a friend with friendship because of the friend himself and for his sake, since otherwise it would not be properly and perfectly a friendship. And in this manner a man senses also that he loves himself, namely accepting himself as a being in itself (per se) that is naturally suited to be loved for his own sake. 8

In friendship, we take the other person as having his own goals and, in fact, being as much a person as we ourselves are. This means also taking her as a subject capable of defining her own goals herself, and thus having a free will. (I will return in the conclusion to Olivi's definition of personhood. It is formulated with the terminology used here.) Olivi clearly thinks that in our ordinary life we assume human beings to differ radically from all other natural things. For him, the core of the difference does not lie in the capacity of intellectual understanding, but rather in our liberty. Thus, the denial of freedom equals the denial of this difference. Given this understanding of what we commonly assume humans to be, he naturally thinks that the burden of proof lies on those who deny the freedom of the will. Indeed the main part of his discussion of the question addresses putative obstacles. In what follows, I will consider not only texts best labeled as descriptive psychology, but also his responses to certain relevant earlier philosophical discussions. I will, however, skip many problems like, for example, those arising from astrological considerations. 9 Instead, I will start with certain issues related to Aristotelian natural philosophy; specifically the problems of positing a natural entity capable of turning to itself with the capability for self-motion. Then I will tum to Olivi's criticism of Thomas Aquinas' version of the Aristotelian view of human decision-making. It provides for Olivi an occasion to treat the relations between the understanding and the will or, in other words, the role of reasons in human choices. Next, I take up Anselm's model of free choice, which is the main alternative medieval theory of voluntary choice, and which provided Olivi with a model that allowed for a multiplicity of motivational backgrounds. After these discussions, I will tum to Olivi's more practical discussions of the psychological structures involved. That is, I will take up the effects of emotions in human decision-making, and look shortly at the extreme case of loss of self-control in madness. In these contexts, I do not intend to relate Olivi's views to earlier theories. That will have to wait until more work is done on those earlier

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theories. My main hope here is that these discussions shed light on Olivi's elaborate view of free will, as a second-order capacity of governing one's own will. ARE THERE NATURAL SELF-MOVERS? The most general kind of problem that Olivi takes to be necessary to address in his discussion of the freedom of the will is the possibility of a natural selfmover. That is, can there be a natural entity that is capable of changing itself in a genuinely spontaneous way without any external influence? Olivi thinks that in order to defend the freedom of the will he has to answer affirmatively. This, however, clashes with the principles of Aristotelian natural philosophy taught in the schools of his time. According to Olivi's understanding of the late thirteenth-century Aristotelian view, the universe is taken to be a causally closed system, where every change has a cause other than itself. According to one of the foremost modem commentators, Bonnie Kent, Olivi's answer to this argument is that he "simply rejects the Aristotelian formula".IO As it seems to me, this explanation is a bit too simple, though not totally misleading. In the standard formulation, the principle is "everything that moves is moved by another."ll Olivi does not in fact deny that everything that moves (or changes) is moved (or changed), but that an external cause needs to be present - in other words it is the "by another" (ab alio) that is problematic. The will acts as a self-reflexive cause of its own acts, and thus the will is not moved by anything other, when it is acting freely. Rather, it turns to itself and moves itself in a self-reflexive way. Olivi admits that the resulting free acts of the will are in a certain sense passive like all other really existing accidental properties. They are produced by an efficient cause like everything else in the universe. The crucial issue is that they are produced by the will itself and not by anything else. Though this way of drawing the causal picture is contrary to Aristotle's intentions, it is not as directly opposed to them as Kent seems to claim. Olivi does not accept that there could be any changes without causes. However, when Olivi takes refuge from the problem of causal explanation by referring to self-causation, does he not fall victim to the even worse conceptual problem of infinite regress? Indeed, Aquinas presents this as the reason why there must be a first movement of the will instigated from outside of the will. 12 Olivi is, however, clear that the act of the will is not produced by another act of the will, which would have to be produced by a third

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act of the will etc. The will produces its free acts immediately and without any instruments. 13 It seems that Olivi' s problem is not that of infinite regress, but rather the mysterious way in which the first free acts of the will appear. He is, indeed, committed to a rather strong kind of self-motion in the case of free will. For this reason I do not take Kent's description of Olivi's position to be misleading despite its exaggerations. One of the main conceptual objections considered by Olivi takes up the problem of time and causation. In its particular formulation, the problem is somewhat dependent on a certain kind of understanding of modal concepts and the Aristotelian principle that whatever the case at the present instant actually is, it is necessarily that. Because the issue has central implications in the field of modal logic, it has received considerable attention in recent scholarship.I4 Thus it seems to deserve mention also here, although its relevance for our purposes is limited. The problem is that there seems to be no room for a temporal lapse in the case of self-causation. If something is its own cause, it seems clear that the effect needs to be produced immediately. Therefore, at the instant in which the will makes its choice, the choice is already made. Thus, the opposite choice does not seem possible, since if the will would produce also it, contradictories would be true at the same instant. Olivi answers this objection by putting forward a distinction. At the instant of choice, there is a natural priority so that within the same instant of time the will is first able to produce both opposite acts, and only then produces the one intended. IS After clarifying this remark, Olivi uses several pages to argue against the earlier position of Hugh of St. Victor, which is based on the idea that the will is free in a certain instant only in respect to future instants. Olivi takes this view to undermine the whole essence of freedom and he even seems to think that logical rules are at issue here. It seems that in his contribution to the discussion Henry of Ghent determined the two staged of natural order more exactly. After him, Duns Scotus made the distinction between "instants of nature" famous. CAN THE UNDERSTANDING GUIDE THE WILL? One of the objections against freedom of the will considered by Olivi takes as its starting point the common fact that we often ask people's reasons for their choices. In Olivi's words: "Why did you make that choice?" Such a question presupposes that the choice does not come out of nothing, since we

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indeed expect an answer. Olivi's examples of the most roundabout or ultimate ones are "because it pleased me" and "because it seemed better to me".16 His treatment of these answers in effect sketches the general setting of his theory of choice in terms of ordinary parlance. As he sees it, even when we take the responsibility for our choices, we see them as influenced either by emotions or by different kinds of reasons - or both. According to Olivi, the former answer is typically used simply to refer to one's own will as the explanation of the choice. In his words, by this answer - namely "because it pleased me" - we mostly mean to say that the cause is just one's will. Sometimes, though, we want to indicate that we were induced to the choice by some preceding desire or pleasure. However, we do not so often mean this. For when we mean to give such passions as the cause, we rather say that the passion of desire, fear, or the like tempted, pushed, or seduced, or use some other equivalent words. 17

In effect, the text points out that this answer may refer to the passions, which 'induce' the will to a certain choice. This is an issue I will return to below. In its most typical use, Olivi sees the answer "because it pleased me" to lead us immediately to the end of the explanation: the will and its choice. Thus, the content of the answer is more or less that whatever emotions or reasons may be connected to the choice, one takes them not to be decisive. Thus, the choice appears simply as one's own free choice. The latter kind of answer may genuinely refer to some kind of apparent superiority of the object. Olivi puts it as follows: But when we give the latter answer - namely "because it seemed better to me" - we mean to indicate some reason based on the superiority of thc object and somehow inducing, but not necessitating, the will. For the same thing may seem superior and more appealing for one reason and for another just the oprosite; often, furthermore, there appears no superiority in the choice. I

By this explanation Olivi seems to have admitted that objects may appear 'superior' (melior) for some reason, and that may amount to a partial explanation of the choice. Even so, the text specifically claims that this superiority merely 'induces' (inducere) the will to that direction. The apparent superiority cannot necessitate the will. Thus, the reference to the superiority cannot provide a full explanation of the choice. Furthermore, the kind of superiority at issue is based on a way of evaluating the object, and the same object may

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seem less superior for another reason. Also, there are cases where none of the options seems superior in any respect. It seems that by these last remark in the above quoted text he tries to show that often we cannot say that one of the options seemed better - such a claim might simply be false. As Olivi sees it, neither of the answers considered by him implies any commitment to limiting the freedom of the will. Nevertheless, it seems that he understands the latter to reveal the gist of Aquinas' very different theory of how rational choices are made, and the reason why that theory cannot account properly for the freedom of the human will. Let us, therefore, look more closely at Olivi's treatment of Thomas Aquinas' approach. Olivi does not refer to Aquinas by name, but for anyone familiar with the late thirteenth-century discussions of the topic it is difficult to miss the target of his criticism. One crucial formulation used in OJivi's discussion is: Some people say that freedom of choice docs not concern ends, but only things related to the ends. 19 This principle is often mentioned in twentieth-century interpretations of Aquinas. It is generally thought that his view contained the Aristotelian idea that the will is naturally directed to the supreme good as its end, and cannot but want this aim. Consequently, freedom of the will is really at issue only in making choices about the means by which one strives towards the good. Olivi apparently thinks that when one explains some choice by saying, "it seemed better to me", Aquinas' reading of the answer is literal. For Aquinas, the answer refers to an apparently superior way of striving for the supreme good. Thus, for Aquinas there are genuinely no different kinds of reasons for choices: all possible reasons have to be subordinated to one and the same supreme good. In this sense, it seems quite natural from the viewpoint of Aquinas' theory, if all choices are made "because they seem better". The evaluation of this superiority is, furthermore, based on how the situation is understood, not primarily on what one likes. If this is what he has in mind, he must hold that the will is always guided by the understanding. Genuinely free choices are limited to situations where it remains uncertain or it is otherwise not decidable which one of the altemati yes is better than the others though I for one would not like to claim that such situations are rare in human life. One of the objections considered by Olivi presents us with a piece of reasoning close toW the so-called practical syllogism:

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Also, according to Aristotle, Ethics VII, Chapter 5, when the understanding says dispositionally and actually in a universal way that something should not be done - as "it is bad for a man to fornicate" or something similar - and simultaneously with this says the related particular - namely this that it is bad for me now to fornicate - [Aristotle1 says that in the will there necessarily follows an avoidance or a reprobation of that bad thing, like from two syllogistically organized premises the conclusion necessarily follows. 21

Olivi interprets Aristotle as having thought that a practical syllogism results in a decision of the will. Thus, the choice would follow deductively from the operations of the understanding apprehending the premises. In Olivi's eyes, this would mean that there would be no freedom of the will1eft. This, in fact, shows that the practical syllogism cannot come to a sufficient explanation of free action. As Olivi puts it in his reply to the objection: Howsoever much the understanding both universally and particularly considers and actually knows that to do something or not to do something is good or bad, to be avoided or pursued, still the will can do whatever. 22

This claim indeed blocks the explanatory power of any practical syllogism: "still the will can do whatever". No premises for it or, even more generally, no knowledge could in Olivi's eyes bind the will. Whatever we judge to be the better alternative, we are free to choose any other. Provided that we allow the Aristotelian practical syllogism to lead to a decision to act (to a voluntary choice) rather than to the act itself, Olivi's understanding of the mainlines of Aristotelian rationalism seem to be no different from the usual understanding today - or from Thomas Aquinas' discussions. Olivi is not interpreting Aristotelianism differently, but rejecting it. However, it is particularly important to note that although Olivi sees the will as a separate facuIty, he still attributes to the understanding the task of evaluating things as good or bad, as something to be avoided or pursued. The function of the will is not to make such evaluations, but to actually pursue or avoid things, and thus to determine action. From this viewpoint it is a quite natural step to take to understand the practical syllogism as leading into a decision to act rather than to the act itself. The will as a faculty would in any case have to be located between the reasoning process involved in the practical syllogism and the resulting external action. Olivi himself can, then, just claim that the practical syllogism serves best as providing some preliminary

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and optional work in the deliberative process. He can assign it to the role of a tool that one may use as it pleases one. Immediately after the above quoted passage we find the crucial principle that he wants to reject: But Aristotle seems to have thought both here and in Book III of On

the Soul that the will is necessarily determined into acting or not act-

ing by the understanding or by the imagination and the inferior appetite. 23

Olivi cannot accept this. He thinks that neither the understanding nor the lower sensory part of the soul can detennine the will of a normal adult human being into anything. We simply want what we want. He is ready, nevertheless, to admit that the understanding plays a crucial role when human beings make choices. He grants that the will can choose only something that the understanding presents to it as being somehow useful or desirable. 24 However, this concession does not lead him into accepting any detennination of the will, because some desirability can be found in a multiplicity of choices, and the same act can be both desirable and undesirable in different respects. Olivi's example is again fornication, which can be thought of as shameful, or as pleasurable. Both committing it and avoiding it can be represented as somehow desirable. Therefore, Olivi does not deny that the will is naturally directed towards good - though he probably would rather have said that it is always directed at a good rather than at the good. He allows only some limited detenninacy in what the will can take as good, apparently mainly that based on the natural human self-interest. The will is incapable of hating happiness (beatitudo) and cannot but find it pleasing to love oneself?5 Nevertheless, the natural directedness of the will towards the good is essentially broken with Olivi's claim that the will is capable of constituting new ends for itself. Also, it is capable of refraining from actually striving towards any of its ends: For the will constitutes and can constitute many ends for itself. It can also recede from many ends to which it earlier turned for themselves as ends - as from the love of God and from the love of justice. Also, it indeed does not actually turn to any end while it is free, if it is not moved and attached to it by itself and not by anything else. 26 These claims are in strong opposition to Aquinas' idea that the will has one natural end towards which all its actions are directed. Olivi's own view

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seems to be that often a thing seems good merely because the will has put it as its end. Furthermore, even if some choice seems genuinely better in terms of the ends the will has put for itself, this does not ultimately suffice to explain why one makes it; one can give up one's former aims whenever. Reasons do not necessitate the will, though they may give it guidance. If we look in a general way at Olivi's criticism of the Aristotelian position, it is easy to see that he is not attacking it with an idea of a blindfolded will randomly choosing different things. As he sees it, the Aristotelians of his time thought of human choices as based on striving for the predetermined supreme good in the way that appears most feasible in the particular occasion. They thought that all humans have to follow their rational preferences. This is a description of choice that does not leave genuine room for genuinely spontaneous free decisions. Olivi, too, sees the will as having an essential nature tending towards certain things and interested in its own contentment. Furthermore, he admits that the will cannot do the work of the understanding and judge what would most efficiently lead one to good results in the given respects. The will makes its choices among things already evaluated by the understanding as good in varying degrees and in relation to different given ends. Olivi wants to claim that these evaluations do not hinder the freedom of the will. They may only limit the choices available in particular situations: you are limited to the things that occur to your mind, and even among them you cannot make yourself to want whatever, but you are absolutely free to make yourself want quite a variety of things. It turns out that the freedom defended by Olivi is only secondarily that of having different alternatives open for you. The primary issue is the capacity to produce your own wants, choices and actions yourself in a reflexive way - so that you are not led into them from the outside?7 OLIVI AND ANSELM'S AFFECTIONS It may come as no surprise that the will is not free, if it is forced from the outside. However, there is an important sense in which the freedom defended by Olivi requires that your will is not forced into its choices from the inside either - and here I am not referring just to the understanding, but indeed to the will itself. The idea is that the will would not be free if its volitions were based on its own specific nature. In his contribution to this volume, Calvin Normore describes Anselm of Canterbury's influential theory of choice. Besides late thirteenth-century

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Aristotelians - whose differences from Olivi's views we just discussed Anselm's model is the second most important one in Olivi's eyes. Unlike Aquinas, Olivi refers to Anselm by name. Generally, Olivi appears to be in favor of the model presented by Anselm, but he wants to rule out a problematic interpretation and provide a central extension to the theory. The problematic interpretation rejected by Olivi runs as follows. The wilI has inherent affections (the affection for justice and the affection for happiness), which are the ultimate explanations of why the will wants what it wants. In the 28th objection to Olivi's affirmative answer to the question on the freedom of choice, Olivi writes: Also, according to Anselm's book De concordia, the will does not move itself into anything except by its dispositions (habitus). He calls them "affections" (affectiones). Therefore, its dispositions are its moving powers; ... 28

Whatever the wilI wants is, according to this interpretation of Anselm, explained by reference to one of its natural affections. Thus the reason for some particular decision is not really the will itself but the affection or affections at issue. Instead of ending with the explanation "because I wanted it", the end of the explanation lies at "my will has an inherent natural affection for happiness". Olivi takes it to be important to emphasize in the Anselmian picture that it is wrong to see these affections as anything added to the substance of the will. In his own words: Anselm says that the will does not move itself except by its dispositions (habitus) or affections (affectiones). Here, now, the word 'disposition' must be understood not only for additional (superadditos) dispositions, but also for the essence of freedom itself insofar as it is like in a dispositional way determined to some objects that are connatural to it. 29

As Olivi reads Anselm, the affection for justice and the affection for happiness are understood to be just the will itself, and nothing in any way external to it. If the will passively lets the affections move it, it is not free. But if we understand Anselm's affections as another way of speaking of the will itself, it follows that when the wilI moves in accordance with them, it moves itself - and thus it may be free. The crucial philosophical issue here is again self-motion. In Olivi's eyes, Anselm's theory appears correct if it is seen as postulating a theory of free-

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dom understood as the capability for reflexive self-determined motion that is not directed or caused by anything external. The will is not moved by the understanding but by itself through its affectionate essence. Also, Anselm's theory has, for Olivi, the advantage over its Aristotelian competitors that it allows the will to have multiple fundamentally different motivations on which to base its choices. However, Olivi thinks that Anselm's theory is misleading and destructive to the whole idea of human freedom, if it is taken merely as a theory of choice between differently appealing motivations. If the affections are taken as presenting alternative lines of action from which the will has to pick out its choice, the will would appear to be in a crucial sense passive in the face of these alternatives. If the will then could not but follow one of the alternatives, there would be no freedom left - especially since Anselm thought that after the original sin grace is needed in order for the affection for justice to function. For Olivi, free will is not primarily a faculty of picking out a choice, but the faculty from which human action originates in a variety of ways grounded on a variety of considered motivations. To clarify his point further, Olivi puts forward also an extension of the Anselmian model. Olivi asks us to consider the ways in which we can start loving or caring for some person for his or her own sake: Namely, I can begin to love with the love of friendship (amore amicitiae) my enemy or someone whom I earlier did not love. And I can do this due to the mere benevolence of my liberty - for I am here speaking of human friendship and not of the virtuous one or of that based on mercy. Thus, it cannot be said so that I am moved to this by the disposition (habitus) to justice or to charity, or by the disposition to my happiness or my benefit either, since I care for him for his sake and not only for my benefit. Nor can we point out any other preceding thing by which I would be moved to this [love], especially since by this movement I generate in myself a habitual friendship with this person rather than the other way round. JO

The example concerns the situation where I start to love or care for some person for whom I earlier did not have concern. Olivi particularly mentions that his point is not about loving someone either with the Christian love of the neighbor or with the kind of love that seeks one's own pleasure. These kinds of love can arise from the affections pointed out by Anselm. It is the common human kind of love that cares for the other person for his or her own sake that is at issue. The arising of this love cannot be explained (as

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Olivi sees it) by the natural affections explicated by Anselm. Indeed, Olivi's claim is that it has no explanation outside one's liberty, especially since the habitual friendship follows the first acts of friendly love and thus, of course, cannot explain them. Olivi's example shows clearly also that in his defense of the freedom of the will he is not speaking merely of the possibility of transcending the human self-interested nature in the face of the demands of morality. His approach is closer to descriptive psychology, and he wants to claim that as human beings we are not constrained to base our actions on calculations of our own best interests. We can and in fact do pursue other goals with equal vigor. As Olivi's discussion continues, it addresses the question whether the will can spontaneously move itself into all kinds of wants. The text allows that this is not possible: there are things one can want only with God's mercy, and there are things that one can by oneself start to want only weakly and ineffectively. The crucial point, however, is that Olivi thinks he has found an example of a case of spontaneous attachment of the will that is not explainable by Anselm's theory: the ordinary human way in which we become friends with someone and begin to care for someone for his or her own sake. Such love is not explainable by the natural attachments of the will but merely by its freedom. EFFICIENT BODILY CAUSES Our main interest here is to look at the ways in which emotions purport to drive human beings into certain lines of behavior, and how the will can control these impulses. So far we have been looking at the threats posed to free will by rational considerations and the way in which our own self-interested nature might be compulsive. The discussions have concerned the intellectual levels of deliberation. As it has turned out, at that level Olivi did not recognize any serious limitation of human freedom. Now it is time to turn to what Olivi has to say about the emotions and other bodily influences on the mind. As we will see, in this direction, Olivi does recognize things that do limit our free will. I will not, however, aim at giving a full account of Olivi's views of this topic, but simply take up a few issues. A full treatment of Olivi's discussions concerning the emotions is beyond the scope of this paper. His theory, if he ever worked it out fully, is very complex. It is not even clear to me at present what kinds of things he would have counted as an emotion in the sense in which we now use the term. As

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we already saw, he tackled many philosophical issues that would be most naturally understood as concerning emotions located in the intellectual part of our soul. Deciding Olivi's ontological stance concerning these passions is, however, no simple thing. As Knuuttila points out in his article in this volume, Duns Scotus seems to have been among the first to articulate a theory of the passions of the intellectual will. Hirvonen's article below shows that William Ockham takes it to be important to show that also the will has its own passions. Olivi was, of course, writing earlier than these authors, but he seems to point to the direction that the will can react passively to external influences, and thus have passions. We shall see this below in a bit more detail. Generally, passions were in the medieval theories usually located in the sensitive part of the human soul, and counted as bodily phenomena in a very strict sense. The will, on the other hand, is located in the incorporeal intellectual part of the soul, and thus exists on a higher level than standard passions. This picture is clearly also Olivi's basic understanding of the ontology of human emotional life. For him, the will as the ultimate faculty of choice resides at an elevated, incorporeal level above the standard passionate affections residing at level of bodily phenomena. Now, Olivi claims that bodily things cannot influence anything incorporeal with the standard physical kind of efficient causality. Is he, thus, clarning that bodily passions have no influence whatsoever on a person's decisions in his life? Is he claiming that as intellectual beings, we are free in a way that is not threatened at all by anything from the lower spheres of existence? It is clear that this is not his view. In order to see that it is not, in more detail, let us start from a slightly more general perspective. In his question 72, Whether corporeal things can affect the spirit and its apprehensive and appetitive potencies?, Olivi gives a listing of the ways in which corporeal things indeed can cause effects on our soul. The listing is included in the section discussing a specific kind of causal efficiency, namely, that based on consubstantiality. This is the only mode of efficient causality relevant to the issue. Bodily affections do not influence the soul in a way comparable to the way in which a stone can be thrown by some mover, or a piece of wood can be lit by fire. Rather, their influence can be compared to the way in which bringing burning charcoal down brings down also fire without overriding its natural movement upwards?! The listing of the ways in which corporeal things can influence the soul is revealing, though the most interesting point is the one Olivi is uncertain

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about. Even a short look at the list shows that we are dealing with philosophically important ways in which corporeal activity has effects on the soul: 1. A human being dies when the necessary structures of his body are destroyed. This causes an influence on the soul, since its mode of existence (modus existendi) changes. Also in a body of better or worse condition, the soul exists "more or less firmly" (jirmius vel infirmius), and thus deterioration of the body changes the mode of the soul's existence. 32 2. "Original and dispositional vices of desire are caused by the original and vicious disposition of the body.,,33 Olivi's discussion makes it clear that the body cannot cause actual desires, but only dispositions to such desires. Furthermore, Olivi's discussion shows that he does not only mean that bodily needs have their effects on the will (that we want food when the stomach is empty). He has in his mind also the ways in which personal tastes differ. Such differences are due to the structures of the relevant sense organs, or of the brain. 3. Your use of the powers of your mind can be influcnced in two different ways. In a particular way, the selection of possible objects of attention can be affected: "as when someone by his hand turns his or my eye to this book.,,34 In a general way, sleep (or madness) disturbs the soul's power of self-control in a way to which we will return below in greater detail. 4. Local motion: "for by the same act (eo ipso) by which someone moves my body from one place to another, the soul is moved with its body from one place to another." 35

I do not know of any text where Olivi would have discussed case (1) further - if it is distinct from the latter variation of case (3). Case (4) seems not to be relevant to our interests here. I will return to cases (2) and (3) below, but let us first consider the highly relevant case that Olivi's text puts forward as a possible addition to this list: the emotions of the lower part of the soul. What is the way in which they induce the will to particular kinds of volitions? Can it be treated on a par with the above listed kinds of bodily influences on the soul? EMOTIONAL INFLUENCES Olivi's discussion takes place in the general setting of a specific psychological theory put in terms of favoring (complacentia) and consent (consensus). First of all, we have two appetitive powers, the intellectual (a.k.a. the will)

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and the sensitive (where emotions are usually located). Cognized objects can cause in such a power a favoring (complacentia), over which the agent perhaps does not initially have control. The will is, according to Olivi, nevertheless free by conceptual necessity in relation to the final step, its consent (consensus). Nothing can be called consent unless it is freely given. It is up to the agent how he reacts to the favoring that may come to his will passively. If the reaction for some reason is not at all up to her, she cannot be said to have given her consent. Many versions of the theory distinguish between these two steps also an additional step, which is called delight (delectatio). It already involves some responsibility since it usually thought that the subject ought to be able to reject his initial favoring before it develops into delight. If the favoring is not actively rejected, it develops into a delight, which one then either assents to or dissents from. 36 The specific question concerning the problematic kind of efficient causation is put by Olivi in terms of how "a delight in the lower appetitive faculty is followed by a delight in the higher faculty".37 In terms of an example, (and ignoring some parts of the theory) we may put the problem as follows. You have fallen in love and the beloved person is present. You understand how good it would feel if something happened, and you allow yourself to ponder whether to introduce yourself. Clearly it seems psychologically possible and perhaps natural - even for a fierce defender of freedom - to admit that your absolute freedom starts no earlier than this. Up to this stage, your mind may have been passive in its reactions to the impulses. Indeed, does it make sense to claim that your question about introducing yourself is not affected at all by your emotional reactions? There are two admissible theoretical explanations, according to Olivi. In a rather explicit sense he leaves the problem open. The suggested solutions share nevertheless some common ground, namely, two principles. Firstly, the will remains always active and the emotions cannot force a volition (a consent, that is). Here Olivi may be simply following the condemnation of 1277. The prohibited proposition 168 is: "that a man acting from passion acts by compulsion." Secondly, the explanation must somehow be based on the con substantiality of the body and the soul. Some pages earlier I mentioned two kinds of causal influence, respectively exemplified by the way in which a stone is thrown, and the way in which fire is moved downwards through moving the burning charcoal. Olivi makes it clear also in this context that the way in which the emotions move the will is to be compared to the latter kind of influence, and not to the former. In his words, "the motion

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or disposition of one overflows (redundat) to the other". The explanation lies in the con substantiality, since in influencing one part of a single substance, you are influencing also the other part. 38 The difference between the two explanations is in whether the emotions are allowed to cause passions in the will. In the first alternative explanation, they are not. Thus, the body has no efficient causal influence on the mind in this case. The explanation, then, allows the emotions to influence the will only in the role of the object: "so that the superior act is caused by the inferior as by the terminating object of the superior act".39 Apparently he has in mind the way in which one's will is tempted to the fulfillment of one's lower desires simply because they are one's own desires. In this model, the will would tum to the external object only secondarily, because it is the external object that the emotions are directed to. As it seems, this interpretation would make the decision concerning action intellectual. You are in love, but if the higher part of your soul is in control, the emotions are considered as an argument for acting in a specific way. The strength of the argument as a motivation to act arises from your natural self-interest, which of course induces you to your best as an embodied being. Secondly, we may reconstruct the situation so that an emotion of the sensitive part of the soul causes efficiently a certain passion in the will. This passion, in tum, attracts the will to a particular decision. In other words, the sensitive part of your soul falling in love causes also a corresponding passion in your will. This passion of the will, then, inclines the will (without necessitating it). Olivi's text compares this situation to how the corresponding causality works in the other direction. When governing the sensitive part of the soul, the will produces 'an impulsive passion', which then makes the sensitive part of the soul act in the intended ways. You can sometimes make yourself hungry by thinking of delicious food. Here you produce a hunger by a voluntary, intellectual choice making the lower part of the soul to concentrate on certain desirable foods. Now, when the sensitive part of the soul affects the will, is the causal story similar? Does the lower part of the soul force the higher part to attend to something desirable in a favorable way? For Olivi, the will (unlike the sensitive appetite) is not really in need of such 'preliminary passions', since as a free power it can work without them. One might, however, attribute to them a role in many cases - but never the role of a full causal explanation of free action. In other words, the passions of the sensitive part of the soul could cause also the will to fall in love, so to say. Then the will would have the affection, and would have to determine

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how to deal with its own affection passively produced by the sensitive soul. According to this explanation, the bodily emotions would indeed have efficient causal power over the will, since they can produce affections in the will. In effect, this means taking the view that embodied emotions are present and influential in making rational choices, not only arguments for them. 40 As I already pointed out, Olivi is not clear about what his favored solution is. It seems, though, that the latter way of construing the situation would capture better the idea of the will as a self-deterrnining capacity independent of the understanding. In the former picture, it is possible to see the emotions as arguments carrying certain rational weights. This interpretation Olivi rejects, but it seems not clear to me that it would be the only possible one. In any case, however, the latter explanation clearly has no leaning towards such a view. As it articulates the situation, emotions are present in the will as such. In this picture, the decision has to be made in the face of a variety of forces perhaps pulling in different directions rather than in the face of different rational calculations. Choice does not amount to rational evaluation of the weights of such forces. Rather, Olivi sees it as something we as human persons are doing freely: in a situation where different motivations pull one in different directions, one freely chooses. This is not a matter of counting which is the strongest one. DISPOSITIONAL AFFECTIONS OF THE WILL Case (2) in the above list of ways in which corporeal things can affect the higher part of the soul points out another way in which the will can have likings or wants deriving from the body. The will tends to certain things or has certain dispositions because of one's bodily constitution. Naturally, such dispositions ought not to be seen as free: "as they are not free or freely produced, they come from another vicious disposition".41 Such dispositions are caused by our bodily structure in a way that is fully outside our voluntary control. Nevertheless, they genuinely make the will tend to certain things: Also, some people are disposed by the different structure of their brains and hearing to have a taste for certain kind of singing that others dislike because of a contrary structure; and the same holds for smells and visible and touchable things.42

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Since these dispositions are in the will, this remark explicitly admits things in the will that are not free. The inborn affections of the will are not limited to the two spelled out by Anselm, but include also a variety of logically less prior dispositions due to the inborn structures of the body. One's musical taste is not voluntary, but it makes the will tend to react differently when encountered with different kinds of music. Some people want to listen while others turn away. The structure of the brain gives a primary inclination to the will. If we look at other contexts, we can see that this idea is no slip of the tongue from the fiercest medieval defender of the free will. In question 58, Whether free choice, or the free will, is an active or a passive potency?, Olivi is faced with the claim that the will has passions and dispositional affections that result in actions even against the consent of the will. He cannot accept the claim (it was condemned, as I already mentioned, in 1277). He is, however, drawn into a detailed discussion of how passive affections of the will result in actions because his theory appears vulnerable to such a charge. 43 He assumes that there are three alternative ways of explaining the situation, of which he rejects the first one. He cannot admit that in such cases the will would be as passive as, say, air is in transmitting illumination. The passions or dispositional affections cannot in Olivi's eyes result in actions through so straightforward causal chains. OIivi's approach to the second alternative route is more sympathetic. It seems to be basically the approach put forward by Anselm. The will is, according to this explanation, active in the production of the volitions that result from the affections, because it is the will that lies behind the affections. They capture, in fact, the will's powers just like the potency to heat captures at least to some extent the essence of fire. Just like it would make no sense to claim that it is not fire that heats, but its capacity to heat, it would make no sense to claim that it is not the will that makes one love one's own happiness, but the affection for happiness. Thus, it is the will itself that is responsible for its affections. As a criticism against this claim, Olivi points out that in the will there are many affections that can no way be seen to be able to be caused by the will.44

The idea is that we may indeed think that some of the affections are dependent only on the power of the will, or are essential to it. But others obviously

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are not. Think, for example, about the above mentioned case of musical taste being dependent of brain structure but still working as an affection of the will. If any such affection is as such sufficient in explaining any particular action, we surely cannot say that the will has produced the action freely. Olivi's favored solution is that an active and free volition of the will is produced so that the affection does not bear any role in it. Your choice of music is in a sense only free if it is not based on your taste in music. Olivi directly admits the consequence: when there are volitions (acts of the will), which have been produced by the passions or affections of the will without the consent of the will, these volitions are not actively produced by the will or free. If you turned out to like some music so much that you could not but want to listen to it, your choice is not free. As he clarifies: One must say that although the potency of the will as a whole is free, it is not necessary for that reason that it would produce all its acts freely. Thus, it does not produce freely those acts either which it produces in dreams. 45 Olivi even continues to point out that in such cases the will is "as if necessitated" (quasi necessitata) to the want. He clearly admits acts of the will that are necessitated from the outside and not free. For now, we can thus conclude that Olivi admits that the will may sometimes be forced to certain volitions. In such cases the will is not free, nor is it appropriate to talk of 'consent' (consensus) in such a case. It would be illuminating to know more exactly what Olivi means by the affections that are not caused by the will, but unfortunately he does not tell us in any of the texts that I have looked at. It seems relatively safe to suppose, though, that he is speaking at least of the natural affections of the Anselmian kind, of the affection to justice and the affection for happiness, and also of the dispositions caused by bodily constitution that we pointed out above. It would seem relatively natural to include in this group also passions in the genuinely emotional sense, but as we saw, Olivi is unclear on the causal relations between the emotions and the affections of the will. MADNESS In the context of action resulting from the affections of the will without con-

sent, Olivi refers to dreams and madness (status phrenesis) as cases where it is self-evident that the will acts in an unfree way. Furthermore, he dedicates

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a full relatively long question 59 to asking, "whether children, sleeping people or madmen (juriosi) can exercise operations of free decision." In the beginning of his fmal solution of the question, Olivi claims that "everyone generally agrees',46 that there is occasional activity of the intellectual part of the soul in each of these cases, but that there are never any free acts of the will which would arise under full self-control. Children, dreamers and mad people want things by their will, but never freely. Olivi's question opens a wide variety of interesting problems. Since our space is limited, we can take up only a few of them. Shortly put, Olivi thinks that in these cases the will is unable to operate in a self-controlled way. Thus, its operations cannot be called free. In order to see how Olivi arrives at this solution, let us look a little closer at the case of madness. As we saw above, madness can be counted among the cases where the body exercises efficient causal power over the mind. In the above listing, it appears to be included as a case where the body has an influence over the way in which we attend to things. This does not take place in the way that Olivi calls particular. It is not that madness would make us unable to attend to certain specific objects - madmen do think about all kinds of things. Rather, there is a generic kind of change in the type of attention. 47 It can be either of two kinds: retraction of attention, as happens in sleep, or immoderate directedness to something. The latter case can be illustrated with a frenetic attachment to a certain specific object. 48 The paradigmatic kind of madness described by Olivi seems to be characterized by overtly strong attachment to something. He allows that it may be caused voluntarily by demons (a spiritu separate voluntarie operante), but the case that interests him comes "from a naturally influencing corporeal cause" (a causa corporali naturaliter immutante). The resulting derangement may be either difficult or easy to get over, and consequently it may be either short or long tenn. Perhaps the most illuminative kind of case mentioned by Olivi is the momentary frenzy that occurs in a sexual orgasm (sicut in consummatione actus coniugalis).49 As Olivi sees it, it is not that your will would not be active at all in these kinds of cases. At your insane moments, you may even want something more strongly than in your most rational moments. The bodily disturbances responsible for mental disorder do not always or even usually have such causal powers that would make the will completely inoperative. Rather, they hinder certain structures required in the will's nonnal functioning. You want

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things with your will, but not in an appropriately ordered way. Thus, your self-controlled freedom is lost even if your will may function. But now, what would the appropriately ordered way be? There are, Olivi claims, three different ways in which the will must attend to things in order to make a free decision: 1. A directedness to the object.

2. A reflexive directedness to itself as a mover to something moved.

3. A reflexive directedness to itself and the act as an object to be

willed. 50

Even in madness, the will is often capable of the first kind of directedness. The frenetic wants things by his will, according to Olivi. The mind of a frenetic is not, however, usually capable of the reflexive dimensions required for an act to be free. As Olivi explains (2), it is required for free action because no act of the will is free unless it comes from the will itself so that it can refrain from it. The efficient cause of free acts of the will has to be the will itself intentionally operating. The idea seems to be to exclude acts resulting without or against consent from passions or affections of the will in the way discussed above. This seems to be a rather natural consideration in the case of the frenetic. He wants something desperately, but this volition may well be caused by something outside his mind. It is not up to him. The requirement (3) is in fact qualified in the text. An actual volition of this second-order kind is not always required, but a potentiality for it is. When freely willing something, one does not always consider whether one wills to will that. Olivi's point, indeed, appears to be that you cannot be said to have willed something freely if you would not have chosen to make the choice, if it only had occurred to you that it really was up to you how to choose. If you regret your choice upon the very instant you make it, you are not making it freely but under some kind of compulsion. Madness excludes the capacity for such second-order acts of the will, according to Olivi. A frenetic is not able to put his particular choices under voluntary evaluation of whether he wants to make those choices or not. The general kind of change that Olivi claims madness to cause in the will's capacity to attend to objects appears, thus, to be loss of selfreflexivity. While remaining functional, the will cannot be called free when it is not functioning as a reflexive self-mover. Indeed, as Olivi points out, the similar kind of problem is also at issue if we ask why madness disturbs other human cognitive functions. According to him, in madness the understanding

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is incapable of accurate and direct reflexive activity. This makes the mind to erroneously take contents of the imagination to come from the senses, and thus to misjudge something to be real which is not. 51 In short, madness is for Olivi a loss of self-reflexive capacities resulting in loss of self-control and, hence, of freedom. Consequently, the mad person is not anymore the person he once was. WHAT IS FREEDOM, THEN? In the conclusion of his sketch of the ways in which the assumption of freedom is embedded in our everyday life, Olivi remarks that it is a very deep kind of denial to deny the freedom of the will. The whole structure of human society would collapse. And, as Olivi says, this is no wonder, since - as I would say - it denies from us what we properly are, namely our personhood, and allows us nothing more than that we would be some kind of intellectual beasts, or beasts with understanding. 52

There is, thus, not much of humanity left, if one is deprived of the freedom of the will. Some pages earlier Olivi asks whether anyone would rather choose to be reduced into a mere animal than into nothing. As he sees it, no one would choose to be an animal, since every human person sees that "any other being compared to oneself would be nothing".53 It is no accident that Olivi connects freedom of the will with personhood. We can see this clearly if we compare his understanding of the nature of free will to what he thinks personhood consists of: Personhood or a person is a per se existent that fully returns and remains in itself, or is perfectly reflected in itself. 54

Breaking with the traditional view which connects the concept of a person simply with being an individual substance of a rational kind, Olivi defines personhood in terms of subjective self-reflexivity. As for its content, the definition is astonishingly close to John Locke's much later definition based on the concept of consciousness. Olivi's terminology is Augustinian; he refers to the special way in which the human mind is present to itself, knows itself and loves itself. Shortly, to be a person is to be a self-reflexive substance.

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As we have seen, for Olivi the freedom of the will means that the will has power over itself. In order to be free, the will has to be self-reflexively capable of moving itself in the ways it wants to move itself. This provides, in effect, the core of what Olivi's definition of a person requires. That is, to be a person, one has to be free. No wonder, thus, that Olivi thinks that anyone who denies freedom of the will, denies "what we properly are" as human persons. It is of some interest to note that in Olivi' s conception of freedom the capacity of choice has almost no role. It follows from his picture that to be free the will has to have a power for opposite choices at the same instant, but this is not really what he takes freedom to consist of. For him, freedom is not about having alternatives to pick from. Rather, freedom means that one's actions - and choices - depend on and originate from oneself. Genuine spontaneity is required for freedom. However, as Olivi draws the picture, it is not sufficient. Impulsively acting on the first things that come to your mind may be spontaneous, but for Olivi that is not freedom. Rather, it is like dreaming or being childish - or mad. To be free means to make one's choices in a considered and self-controlled way as one's own choices dependent on oneself. Your will is only as free as you are capable of governing it yourself in whatever the situations and alternatives it might be that the world has to offer you. Even the fiercest of all medieval defenders of free will would not call 'freedom' mere surrendering to emotional impulses without rational self-control. We have seen that for Olivi human freedom is not something that we are given with our human nature in a complete and inseparable way. According to him, surrender to emotional affections is a real threat to one's freedom. In a stronger way, mental insanity based on bodily factors can destroy human freedom. Indeed, Olivi seems to think of freedom as something that human nature opens for us as a possibility. Whether this possibility is realized, depends on many factors which are not all up to us ourselves. But some of them are. In Olivi's picture, no one is ever free without choosing to be free. Freedom is achieved by reflexive self-control, which never happens to us in an automatic way. We always have to take that stance ourselves. Olivi claims that one's own freedom is for every person the most valuable thing. In his own words: But nothing below God is as beloved and as dear to us as freedom and the power over our own wills. For this is a thing we value infinitely,

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we value it more than all that God can make, which is infinitely much, and more than anything there is in US. 55 There is and can be nothing dearer to a person than his own freedom. But, as Olivi emphasizes, it is a thing whose possession is for any healthy adult person up to herself. We may take it, but we may also give it away. And somewhat paradoxically, as a good Franciscan Olivi advises us to do the latter: give freedom away, give up the root of human personhood, and become God's fool. The ideology of the Franciscans was that of giving up all power, and for Olivi that included the power over one's own will. In a way, Olivi appears as an exceptionally modem thinker, but in another way, he is deeply medieval and radically religious.

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NOTES Studies of Olivi's theory of the will include Kent (1995), Pasnau (1999), Simoncioli (1956) and Bettoni (1959). To begin studying Olivi's life and works, see Bourcau & Biron (1999). See Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, 91, fasc. 3-4, 1998. See Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum lib rum Sententiarum, ed. B. Jansen, vol. II, pp. 305-568. Olivi's questions on the sentences were probably composed about 12801282; see Kent (1995), p. 86.

"Exterminat etiam bonum omnis amicitiae et societatis et quantum ad homines et quantum ad Deum." (peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum, vol. II, p. 337); "Patet igitur quod hic error omne bonum humanum et etiam divinum exterminat, et si quis ad predicta attendat, advertere poterit quod omni facinori et impudicitiae et iniquitati habenas totis viribus laxat. Nec mirum, quia, ut ita dicam, id quod proprie sumus, personalitatem scilicet nostram, a nobis tollit nihilque amplius nobis dat nisi quod simus quaedam bestiae intellectuales seu intellectum habentes." (Ibid., p. 338.) Reference to ordinary experience was not original with Olivi. For example, also Aquinas refers to this classical idea in a text written about a dozen years before Olivi's text: "If there is nothing free in us, but we are moved to will necessarily, deliberation, exhortation, precept and punishment, praise and blame, in which moral philosophy consists, are swept away." (Thomas Aquinas, Selected Writings, p. 556.)

"Nemo enim proprie zelum irae seu affectum increpationis et punitionis assumit contra malum factum a bestia vel a quocunque non habente usum ration is liberum." (Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum, vol. II, p. 317.) "Non enim potest homo ferri ad alterum ut ad amicum nisi aspiciendo et accipiendo ipsum ut quoddam per se ens singulariter et personaliter in se ipso consistens; fertur enim amicitia ad amicum propter ipsummet amicum et sui gratia, aliter enim non esset proprie et peifecte amicitia. Et sic etiam sentit homo diligere semetipsum, accipiendo scilicet se ut quoddamper se ens aptum natum ditigi sui gratia." (Ibid., p. 319)

10

II 12

13

14

15

These are addressed in ibid., pp. 369-371. Olivi rejects astrology as "an infinite abyss for our understanding". See Kent (1995), p. 135. Olivi's discussion is in q. 58, Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum, vol. II, pp. 394--517, see esp. pp. 409-411. For discussions of this topic, see Normore (1994) See Thomas Aquinas, Selected Writings, p. 559. "Non enim est verum quod ad quicquid volendum voluntas se movet, quod prius voluerit se ita movere ... " (Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum !ibrum Sententiarum, vol. II, p. 434.) See, for example, Knuuttila (1993), pp. 139-140, and Dumont (1995). The crucial text is a s follows: "dum voluntas, prout est libera, operatur, ticet eius actus

sit tempore simul seu in eodem nunc cum ea: lamen ipsa est prius natura potens ipsum producere quam procucat. Et respectu eiusdem nunc et secundum illam prioritatem naturalem in ipso eodem nunc fuit prius naturaliter potens ad exeundum in actum oppositum

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seu ad cessandum ab ipso quam fuerit ponendus in actu ipse effectus." (Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in secundum lib rum Sententiarum, vol. II, p. 348.) See also q. 58, ibid., pp. 433-436; q. 42 (Whether an angel can err in the first instant of its creation?), ibid., vol. I, p.702-. "Quod autem ad huius probationem affertur quod quaerentibus 'quare hoc praeelegisti' semper respondemus 'quia mihi placuit' et aliquando 'quia mihi melius videbatur' ... " (Ibid., vol. n, p. 360.) " ... per hanc responsionem, scilicet, 'quia mihi placuit' ut plurimum intendimus dicere quod sola voluntas mea est in causa, licet aliquando per hoc significare velimus aliquam concupiscentiam vel complacentiam praecedentem ad hoc nos induxisse; quamvis non ita communiter hoc intendamus, quoniam ubi tales passiones pro causa reddere intendimus, potius dicimus quod passio concupiscentiae vel timoris et consimilium tentavit me, impulit me, seduxit me, aut aliqua verba aequivalentia." (Ibid., p. 360.) "Quando autem pro responsione damus hoc, scilicet, 'quia mihi videtur melius' significare intendimus quandam rationem ex melioritate objecti sumptam inducentem quidem voluntatem, non tamen necessitantem; quia idem secundum unam rationem potest videri melius et appetibilius, secundam aliam vero e contra rio, et praeterea frequenter nulla apparet melioritas in praeelectione." (Ibid., p. 360.) "quidam dicunt quod liberum arbitrium non est respectu finis, sed solum respectu eorum quae sunt adfinem aut aliquod ex eis... " (Ibid., p. 359.) In Olivi's more extended discussion of the practical syllogism he formulates it in the standard Aristotelian way. (Ibid., vol. 1lI, pp. 185-197; qq. 85-86). Here the particular kind of knowledge seems more like an application of the principle known universally. However, this detail of the exact structure is irrelevant to his rejection of the Aristotelian idea. "Item, secundum Aristotelem, VII Ethicorum, capitulo 5, quando intellectus dicit habitu et actu aliquid esse non agendum in universali, ut malum esse hominem fomicari et consimilia, et simul cum hoc dicit actu eius particularem, hanc scilicet, quod me nunc fornicari est malum: dicit quod necessario sequitur in voluntate fuga seu reprobatio illius mali, sicut ex duabus premissis syllogistice ordinatis necessario sequitur conclusio; ... " (Ibid., vol. II, pp. 309-310.) "Quantumcumque enim intellectus et in universali et in particulari consideret et sciat actu hoc facere vel non facere esse bonum vel malum, fugiendum vel prosequendum: adhuc voluntas potest in quodcunque." (Ibid., p. 356.) "Sed Aristoteles tam ibi quam in III De anima videtur sensisse quod voluntas necessario determinatur ad agendum vel ad non agendum ab intel/ectu aut ab imaginatione et appetitu inferiori." (Ibid., p. 356.) "Sic bene concedo quod voluntas non potest exire in actum electionis, nisi intellectus sibi ostendat vere vel aestimative aliquam utilitatem seu appetibilitatem in re eligenda." (Ibid., p. 357.) "Ad rationem tamen finis in generali vel ad a/iquos fines speciales, ut est beatitudo vel amor sui ipsius, potest dici pro tanto determinata, quia non potest in horum opposita et quia per essentiam vel per habitus sic se habet ad ista quod non potest odire ea nee potest

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facere quin sibi placeat aTrUlre ea." (Ibid., p. 359.) For discussion of how "the proper and formal object ofthe will" is good, see ibid., pp. 353-354. "Quia cum voluntas multos fines sibi de novo praestituat et praestituere possit et a multis, in quae prius ferebatur propter se sicut in finem, possit recedere, ut a caritate Dei et ab amore iustitiae, et penitus ad nullum finem actu feratur, prout est libera, nisi a se mota et applicata et non ab alia: patet quod quantum ad omnia ista non est necessitata nee determinata respectu suifinis." (Ibid., p. 359.) "Ad decimum septimum dicendum quod voluntas dicitur habere libertatem primo et per se, quia id quod operatur operatur tamquam a se et non quasi ab alia applicata et mota, sed potius ipse se ipsam applicat ad opus. Secundario vera dicitur libera, quia potest in utramque partem oppositorum; hoc autem idcirco dixi secunda rio, quia in hoc non habet libertatem nisi ex eo quod hoc sibi convenit per hoc quod operatur quasi a se et non ut ab alia applicata." (Ibid., p. 358.) "Item, secundum Anselmum, libra De concordia et libero arbitrio, voluntas non movet se ad aliquid nisi per suos habitus, quos ipse vocat affectiones; ergo habitus sui sunt eius virtutes motivae; ... " (Ibid., p. 315.) In addition to De concordia, Olivi's reply refers to De casu Diaboli. "Quando igitur dicit Anselmus quod voluntas non movet se nisi per suos habitus seu affectiones: nomine habitus oportebit intelligi non solum habitus superadditos, sed etiam ipsam essentiam libertatis, prout est ad aliqua obiecta sibi connaturalia quasi per modum habitualem determinata, ... " (Ibid., p. 376.) "Cum enim inimicum meum aut aliquem quem prius non amabam possim de novo amare amore amicitiae, et hoc possim ex solo beneplacito libertatis meae, loquor enim hie de amicitia hUTrUlna, non virtuosa nec gratuita: et ita non potest dici quod per habitum iustitiae vel caritatis ad hoc movear nee etiam per habitum beatitudinis aut commodi mei, quia {I correct from quinJ propter se diligo eum et non solum propter commodum meum. Nec est dare aliquem alium precedentem per quem ad hoc mavear, maxime cum per motum istum aggenerem in me habitualem amicitiam eius et non e contra rio. " (Ibid., p. 376.) Cf. ibid., vol. llI, p. 6--10, for the classification of kinds of influence and, pp. 15-18, for Olivi's commitment to the idea that the body can influence the soul only with this kind of influence. Fire lighting up a piece of wood is on p. 6; the example of fire falling with charcoal is on p. 7 as follows: "Item, ignis naturaliter tendens sursum, quando est imbibitus ponderosae naturae ferri vel carbonis, tendit cum eis deorsum tanquam matus a gravitate eorum propter inseparabilem colligantiam sui ad illa." See ibid., pp. 31-33. "Secundo autem modo fit quoad habitum, ut, cum originalis et habitualis vitiositas concupiscentiae causatur ex original et vitiosa dispositione corporis." (Ibid., p. 31.) " ... ut, cum aliquis manu sua girat suum vel mea oculum ad hunc librum." (Ibid., p. 32.) "Nam eo ipso quod aliquis movet corpus meum de uno loco ad alium, eo ipso movetur anima cum suo corpore de loco ad locum." (Ibid., p. 33.) "Et ut breviter expediam, quicunque actus nostrae voluntali insit, nunquam dicitur consensus, nisi sit a nobis, ita quod vo/untas tanquam ex se operetur; voco autem operari a

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se, qunndo nullius alterius agentis impulsu, sed solum ex proprio motu agens in actum se accommodat." (Ibid., vol. II, p. 329.) " ••• ad delectationem appetitus inferioris sequitur delectatio in superiori." (Ibid., vol. III, p.33.) " .•. motus vel dispositio unius redundat in alterum ... " (Ibid., p. 34.) " ... ita quod superior actus causatur ab inferiori sicut ab obiecto tenninante actum supe· riorem ... " (Ibid., p. 33.) "Poterit etiam ultra hoc dici quod actionem superioris potentiae praecedit qunedam attractiva passio causata ab actu potentiae inferioris." (Ibid., p. 34.) "Quae, si non est libera seu libere facta, exiit ab alio habitu vitioso ... " It is unclear to me why the sentence refers to "vicious" dispositions. This may, however, refer to the idea that all bodily dispositions share some viciousness due the original sin. "Quibusdam etiam secundum variam dispositionem cerebri et auditus habitualiter sapiunt quidam modi cantandi qui aliis propter contrariam dispositionem habitualiter desipiunt, et idem est de odoribus et visibilibus ettangibilibus." (Ibid., vol. III, p. 32.) See ibid., vol. II, pp. 427-430. Some modem scholars have wondered why the fiercest medieval defendant of the freedom of the will was condemned on the basis of the 1277 propositions for denying it. His theory of emotional influences may provide a solution to this problem, but it is not clear to me now whether it really is so. The text we are studying here dates from some years after the condemnation. " ... multae affectiones sun! in voluntate quae nullo modo videntur posse causari a voluntate." (Ibid., p. 428.) "Dicendum quod, licet tota potentia voluntatis sit libera, non tamen propter hoc oportet quod omnes actus libere producat, unde nec illi quos producit in somniis sunt liberi." (Ibid., p. 429.) See ibid., p. 530. This claim he draws back in his Quodlibets, where he defends the view that the intellect operates during sleep but acknowledges that there are people who deny this. (See the edition of 1505.) "/mmutatio igitur haec quae dicitur ligatio liberi arbitrii seu impedimentum usus eius non est circa habitus, quia idem habitus man ere possunt in somno et in vigilia, nec circa actus val particulares aspectus, quia actus et particulares aspectus mutantur et mutari possunt continue ipso libero arbitrio non ligato nec impedito. Est igitur haec immutatio aspectus universalis." (Ibid., p. 545.) "Aspectus enim duobus modis indebitum statum seu improportionalem respectu actuum suorum potest sortiri, scilicet, aut per immoderatam ipsius retractionem aut per immoderatam conversionem et inclinationem. Retracionem voco, sicut cum dicimus quod virtutes animales seu sensitivae in somno ad inferiora retrahuntur, in tantum quod, etiamsi oculi essent aperti et obiectum alias debito modo praesens, non fieret visio. Conversionem veTO immoderatam voco, sicut in phreneticis dicimus quod imaginativa seu cogita· tiva est immoderate inclinata seu conveTsa ad species sibi obiectas." (Ibid., pp. 549-550.) See ibid., p. 551.

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"Ad actus enim liberos necessario exigitur triplex aspectus, qui esse non possunt nlSl liberum arbitrium maneat in sublimi et potestativa et elevata consistentia super se et super suum obiectum et super inferiores potentias. Exigitur enim unus aspectus quo sit conversum ad obiectum. Et alius aspectus quo sit conversum ad se ut agens ad patiens, quia non potest se movere, nisi prius ist conversum ad se ut movens ad mobile; actus autem non est in eo liber, nisi exeat ab eo movendo se libere, sicut infra in aliis quaestionibus patebit, tunc autem apparet quod movet se libere, quando potest se ab illo motu retinere. Tertius aspectus exigitur, saltem in promptitudine ut statim ad minus haberi possit, quo videlicet sit conversum ad se ut ad obiectum vel saltem quod possit converti super se et super suum actum sicut super obiectum, pro eo quod numquam aliquid vollumus libere, nnisi cum volumus nos velle, aut saltem cum statim possumus nos velle actum illum. Uterque autem istorum aspeetuum dicitur rejlexio sui ipsius super se, potissime tamen ultimus; sieut et primus potissime dicitur consistentia ipsius liberi arbitrii in se seu super se. Istos autem duos aspeetus non habere potest, nisi prius adsit ille quo directe aspicit obiectum." (Ibid., pp. 552-553.) "Non enim potest [ratiol statum suum nee aliarum potentiarum certitudinaliter et directe apprehendere, licet indirecte et sine eertitudine aliquando aestimet seu somniet veritatem de statu earum, sicut cum homo somniat se dormire et somniare. ... Non enim potest scire de aetibus quos tunc habet, saltem omnino vere, a qua potentia exeunt, pro eo quod non potest se plenarie rejlectere super eas. Unde actus imaginativae credit esse actus sensuum partieularium et species obiectas credit esse res particulares et sensibiles exterius existentes ... " (Ibid., pp. 553-554.) "Nee mirum, quia, ut ita dieam, id quod proprie sumus, personalitatem scilicet nostram, a nobis tollit nihilque amplius nobis dat nisi quod simus quaedam bestiae intellectuales seu intellectum habentes." (Ibid., p. 338.) " ..• omne esse comparatum ad suum est quasi purum nihil." (Ibid., p. 334.) "Item, personalitas seu persona est per se existentia in se ipsam plene rediens et cons istens seu in se ipsam perfecte rejlexa." (Ibid., p. 526.) "Sed nihil sub Deo est nobis ita dilectum et carum sicut libertas et dominium voluntas nostrae. Hoc enim infinite appretiamur; appretiamur enim illud plus quam omnia quae Dues posset facere, quae sunt infin ita, et plus quam aliquid quod sit in nobis." (Lectura super Apocalipsim, quoted by Alberto Forni in Boureau and Piron (1999), p. 352.)

JOHN BOLER

REFLECTIONS ON JOHN DUNS SCOTUS ON THE WILLI

John Duns Scotus's honorific title of Doctor subtilissimae is well-earned, and no definitive account of his positions is possible without entering into the intricacies of his reasoning. But as with any highly technical theory (as in particle physics or neurophysiology), there is still something to be gained by translating its advanced results back into descriptions closer to ordinary experience. 2 What I hope to do with my disingenuous approach is to try to clarify some of the issues involved in (especially recent) debates about Scotus's moral psychology. The issues I shall take up are: whether Scotus is best classified as a libertarian or compatibilist; what the relation is between his doctrines of dual affections in the will and of the superabundant sufficiency of the will; and how his account of will affects the character of morality. In order to avoid distracting from this descriptive approach, I shall not engage in any critical evaluation of Scotus's positions? Still the project may be controversial for involving some reconstruction and introducing terminology that is not explicit in Scotus's own texts. My hope is that it may serve as a supplement to the more technical commentary that has appeared in recent years. 4 I shall divide my presentation into three parts: on freewill, on the will as a faculty and on voluntarism. FREEWILL The natural setting for talk of freewill is innocent of a commitment to a faculty of will (or intellect), and it is therapeutic to begin there before invoking faculties and their properties in the effort to explain it. s At this descriptive (and as it were pre-theoretic) level, Scotus along with everyone else recognizes an ancient and familiar practice in which we hold persons subject to moral assessment. That is, we hold them responsible for their actions (and 129 H. Lagerlund and M. YIjonsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes 129-153.

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failures to act) in a way that we do not extend to other animals. Not surprisingly, Scotus stands with the overwhelming majority of people (that is, all but strong determinists 6), in considering the practice legitimate or justifiable. That is, he accords to persons a certain autonomy over their actions or, as we say, he thinks persons 'have freewill'. Scotus offers no particularly convincing arguments for the claim, evidently concurring in the traditional (and not unimportant) idea that the whole practice of legal and moral assessment would not make sense without it.? For Scotus, I think, the interesting question is not whether persons have freewill but what makes it possible? Before trying to answer that question, however, Scotus can be seen as pushing a step further his description of the requisite autonomy of human agents in what I think are broadly libertarian terms. 8 If that is correct, he would here probably be in the minority at least among philosophical thinkers today. (Whatever the numbers, of course, it puts him in distinguished enough company both past and present.) That is, Scotus thinks it is not enough that responsible human action involve as a decisive component the agent's willing (or refraining from willing) the action and that the causal background of the action exclude any form of external or internal coercion. Rather, he thinks it must be the case that, at the time of the agent's willing A, quite independently of the (other) causal conditions internal or external to the agent, the agent retains the power to not-will A.9 As I see it, Scotus's intuition here turns on the precise matter of willing or not-willing A as something distinct from willing A or willing not-A. The latter is simply a limiting case of willing A or willing B; and in that setting it is natural to look to beliefs and desires to explain it as a choice or decision among alternatives. For example, Jones chooses to go to the hockey game rather than to the opera because he wants to be able to stand up and shout rather than having to sit quietly watching others stand up and shout. Or perhaps he loves both hockey and opera, but at this time the desire to see hockey is simply stronger. Scotus does not have to ignore the relevance of belief and desire in explaining actions; but I think for him, it is the radical phenomenon of initiating action rather than choice (as between doing A or doing B) which is the basic feature of human autonomy.lO That is, for him, the unique capacity that sets free agents, so to speak, 'outside' of the natural course of things lies in their being quasi-creators and not mere choosers. ll It is perhaps obvious but still worth pointing out that we sometimes (rightly) explain the behavior of the higher mammals by appeal to what they

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want. I open the door but this time the dog does not go out simply because she did not want to. At the same time (if we are not being anthropomorphic), we do not think that whether she wants to or not is under her control. When it comes to rational agents, Scotus is explicit that it would be a contradiction to maintain that an agent can, at the same time, both will and not-will A. But he insists they must have the capacity not to will A at the very moment in which they will A. 12 In earlier modal schemes, it was thought that the 'necessity of the present'13 was held to preclude not just the actuality of its opposite but its possibility (at that time). Scotus offers a thought experiment to illustrate his objection to that. 14 It does not seem to involve a contradiction for God to create an agent who exists only for a moment and in that moment performs a free act. But that agent's freedom cannot consist in what it could or would do at a different time, since ex hypothesis it exists at no other time. Whatever one thinks of this thought experiment, it reflects an intuition that Scotus appeals to frequently and which I shall discuss below: the way the will acts (that is, 'freely') is simply different from the way natural agents act, and it cannot 'lose' that mode of action without ceasing to be a will. That Scotus is what we would nowadays classify as a libertarian on the freewill issue has been, I think, the consensus among commentators. 15 More recently, some have emphasized a compatibilist element in his thought;16 though as I shall explain in a moment, the difference may tum in part on the use of 'compatibilist'. In any event, the texts they emphasize are important. Scotus's most general statement comes in his discussion of God's freely but necessarily loving Himself (or His goOd).17 What he says there is that the contrast of necessity and contingency and that of free and not-free (voluntary and natural) simply pick out different features when applied to actions. 18 That God is to be loved above all things is, according to Scotus, a necessary truth;19 and given the character of God's knowledge and willing, God's action in that regard is necessary. At the same time, Scotus thinks that the act of creation presupposes an agent with a will that is free. 20 In fact, 'a free will' is a pleonasm for Scotus; that is, the way the will acts is 'freely' rather than 'naturally'. It has that mode of action essentially, as it were; and so it cannot lose that mode of action even when there is a necessity about some of its acts. 21 There are two other contexts where Scotus finds necessity and freewill together. One has to do with God's providence and foreknowledge, involving as well, perhaps, His role as primary cause of everything?2 Scotus holds

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(quite traditionally) that all creaturely action falls under God's providence and argues that this imparts a kind of necessity to human action; but again Scotus thinks that need not disable the essential mode of human willing.23 Finally, there is the case of the Blessed. Aquinas held that, in possessing the Beatific Vision, their love of God would be voluntary (or in accord with their will) but not free (not a matter of choice)?4 But Scotus would find this a denial of the essential mode of action of the will. Clearly, the Blessed love God indefectibly, but he insists they still must do so freely. In the case of the Blessed, Scotus offers a special account of the compossibility of necessity and freedom. The Blessed retain the power of freewill, but God (somehow) prevents their exercising it by not-willing. 25 The pattern for that claim seems to me to match the thought experiments offered by some philosophers recently where they imagine very cunning and technologicallyadvancerl 'scientists' implanting a device that would enable them to allow an agent to freely will A but step in to block her willing to not-A. The desired conclusion, of course, is that in doing A she would be acting of her own will but it is not the case that she 'could have done otherwise'. Two comments are in order. There can be many compatibilisms, as there can be many realisms depending on the object: realism about universals, the past, a noumenal world and so on. So Scotus is a 'compatibilist', along with Augustine and Aquinas to mention only two obvious examples, about grace and freedom, providence and free action, God's primary causality and real causality by free, secondary agents. But these are, to say the least, rather special cases that seem to me to tell us more about a philosopher's view of God than of free action. In any event, Scotus does not try to explain these cases away, and they are the ground for his claim about the compossiblity of 'necessity' and free action.26 The pattern of the argument is the same in all the cases: if we can show that an act of will is involved - in God's love of Himself, and in human acts under providence or in the Beatific Vision - then the mode of action has to be free (or non-natural) no matter that some necessity is also involved. Still, it seems misleading to label him unqualifiedly as a compatibilist because of that. In the familiar usage of that classification nowadays, compatibilism is a species of determinism ('soft determinism'); and determinism derives its appeal from a (controversial) theory about scientific explanation, which it is not at all clear that Scotus would share. 27 More importantly, the necessity God's providence imparts to human action results from a direct action of God and is not a matter of God's working through physical

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or natural causal chains. The same can be said of His love of Himself and of the indefectibility of the Blessed. My second comment also raises a controversial philosophical issue and deserves more detailed support than I will give it here. One should not be too quick to assume (as their critics do) that libertarians must accept an unqualified claim that 'could do otherwise' is required for all cases of free action. Even in these special cases where necessity precludes one outcome, Scotus holds that the will retains the power not to act. 28 It is admittedly difficult to know just how to cash that in. But perhaps one can spell out his claim a bit with a distinction between mode of action and outcome. 29 Free versus natural action has to do with the way agents act; necessary or not has to do with actions as (in my terms) outcomes. If you were to ask (anachronistically) whether it is required for an action to be free that the agent 'could have done otherwise', I think that Scotus would have to distinguish. If you are talking about the mode of action, the answer is 'Yes', because a (free) will always has the power not to act. If you are talking about outcomes, however, the answer would be 'No', because of the special cases described above. In any event, given the (radical) difference in mode of operation of free and natmal agents, and especially in the ordinary cases where God and necessity are not involved, Scotus's position seems to me that of a strong libertarian. THE WILL AS A FACULTY As familiar as the talk of intellect and will is to students of medieval thought, when we move from the descriptive level to an explanation of free action in terms of the facuIties of intellect and will, some caveats are in order. Scotus, like other scholastics, will sometimes tell a story of the interaction of intellect and will which he might have concluded by saying: "And that just is the human agent making a decision (or choosing, etc.)". That is to say, some Aristotelian accounts explain the actions of human agents in terms of the operation of faculties at a different level; and in this respect they are analogous to recent explanations of the actions of bodies in terms of subatomic components or mental actions in terms of neurophysiology. Of course, faculties are powers and not parts; but powers are not directly observable, and so an appeal to them establishes something of a theoretical context. That is, acts ascribed specifically to the faculty of intellect or will are not matters of experience but part of an explanation for what persons do. 30

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Scotus, however, again like other scholastics (whatever is to be said of recent scientists or philosophers), is not a reductionist. In an Aristotelian system, it is the agent who acts through a power;3l so the person is not simply carried along in the wake of independent agencies of will or intellect (or other powers). At one point in his commentary, Richard Cross points out that he follows Scotus in talking of the will's doing this or the intellect's doing that, but with the understanding that this is only a convenient shorthand for "The agent does such and such through its intellect/will etc.".32 That is essentially correct; and I adopt the practice as well. But as I have argued elsewhere, the appeal to the interaction of faculties - as in the 'just is' format described above - does put a strain on the directness of the move from agent to power and vice versa. 33 I shall not pursue the issue here because it does not affect the essential point: for all the emphasis he puts on the unique features of the facuIty of will and its definitive role in the explanation of human action, Scotus does not see the will as a homunculus or the human person as a supervening agent. A second point to keep in mind in the appeal to faculties of intellect and will is that it is impossible to make either one an exclusive source of (fully) human action; and Scotus is hardly going to challenge that. But where Aquinas sees intellect and will as producing a unified action - the intellect 'specifies' the will which acts as an efficient cause 34 - Scotus seems to see them as operating, if not serially or sequentially, at least independently as coordinate (efficient) causes. 35 Most importantly, of course, the intellect operates as a natural agent, so it cannot account for the free action of the agent. The will alone, according to Scotus, fits Aristotle's description of a 'rational power' .36 A rational power is a power for opposites. As Scotus explains, the sun can both harden (mud) and liquefy (ice); but it does this by heating and the variation is due to the different patients and not to its own agency. Heat produces heating in a way that allows us to identify that power as decisive in explanations of heating. The notion of a power for opposites, as I understand it, arises when we consider, say, a doctor's skill as an explanation for a patient's being cured. That same skill can be used for, and so figure in the explanation of, a doctor's murdering his patient. With such skills or powers, then, another factor must be introduced to account for how it can be used one way rather than the other. For Scotus, that other factor is the will; and it alone should be called the rational power or a power for opposites. 37

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What accounts for thi c unique property, according to Scotus, is not what is presented to the will by the intellect (or by anything else, such as the passions) much less something about the character of the alternate outcomes (as with the sun's hardening and melting); it is simply the sort of thing the will is. 38 And he describes that special property as the 'superabundant sufficiency' of the will. 39 It is not that a free agent can do anything he or she wants, but such an agent must (in appropriate circumstances) be capable of an act of willing or of not so willing. That is, for an agent to have the autonomy we ascribe to persons, Scotus thinks the agent's will must be independently sufficient, given the presentation of an object by the intellect, to account both for the agent's willing A and not so willing. This basic or radical freedom of action has to do with whether an agent is responsible at all and so is relevant to both moral and immoral action. As I suggested in the previous section, the radical character of creaturely freedom for Scotus lies in the specific case of the will's acting or not. And despite his emphasis on choice (electio), Aquinas has a similar intuition. 40 But the two thinkers differ importantly in their description of this. The eyecatching part of the disagreement has to do with the creature's response when presented with an object it recognizes as representing perfect happiness. Aquinas thinks the will's positive response is determined by that recognition. 41 Scotus thinks that a free will has essentially the power to not-act, so it cannot lack this ability and still be a (free) will no matter the object. 42 I have alluded earlier to the 'compatibilist' account he proposes in order to handle the indefectibility of those enjoying the Beatific Vision. In a less theologically motivated context, Scotus says that humans have a natural, intellectual appetite for fulfillment such that we cannot will misery or nill happiness. As he correctly notes, however, that does not mean that presented with perfect happiness or 'perfect' misery, the will's action is necessary or determined. 43 Not-willing A, no matter what A is, is accomplished by the agent directly and not by willing something else. There are two issues at work here, I think. The one which I shall spend more time on has to do with Scotus's rejection of eudaemonism in psychology and morality. The other has to do with the proper analysis of selfmotion; and despite its intrinsic importance, I am going to pass it over in a cursory way.44 Briefly then, Aquinas subscribes to the principle that whatever is moved is moved by another. And he takes this to mean that for an agent to move itself, it must be in one respect in potency and in another in act. He is even

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willing to describe self-motion as one part moving another.45 For the will to be able to move itself (that is, to act), then, Aquinas thinks it must in some way already be in act. For him, the will's being in act by being determined to happiness is what enables it to act or not with respect to lesser goods; but it also makes its action necessary if presented with perfect happiness. 46 Scotus holds that the will as a self-mover is not an exception to self-motion generally. In fact, he thinks the 'must be moved by another' principle itself is dubious. 47 In short, this dispute between the two thinkers about the will's action seems to me to have more to do with their metaphysical intuitions about selfmotion than it does with their psychological or moral intuitions. In any event, the special character of Scotus's moral psychology is easier to see in his rejection of eudaimonism. 48 At the base of this is his insistence that the will cannot be an intellectual appetite. It is not that Scotus denies that we have appetites or an intellectual appetite in particular. 49 Nor is the latter trivial: because of it, as we have seen, we cannot will misery or nill happiness. But the intellectual appetite, as Scotus sees it, operates in a 'natural' mode, and the will (as the only "rational power") has a 'voluntary' or free mode of action. 50 He acknowledges a tradition of talk of a 'natural will', but he says it is not in fact a will; natural will has no elicited act but is just an inclination which he identifies as the (natural) inclination to self-fulfillment of an intellectual nature. 51 As intellectual creatures we have an inclination or appetite to fulfill our natural capacities; and that provides a motivation for actions that suit our intellectual nature. But if that were all we had by way of 'will' , Scotus thinks, we would not be capable of free action. 52 In fact, for Scotus, morality is precisely a matter of getting beyond matters of self-fulfillment53 so as to do the right or 'just' thing for its own sake. That is, Scotus sees this transcending of the natural as the mark of human autonomy. 54 Scotus holds, therefore, that there is a twofold orientation in the structure of our willing. And he adopts Anselm's terminology of two affections of the will: an affectio commodi and an affectio justitiae. 55 One appeal of the theory of dual affections of the will is that it provides a straightforward way of identifying a rational motivation in immoral action. It is a common charge that the eudaemonist, such as Aristotle or Aquinas, risks making immoral action out to be an intellectual error or mistake in knowledge. For if all human action must be directed to happiness, immoral action would seem to be no more than a mistake in calculating what would achieve happiness. And it is true at least that the intellectualists need a more complex account of immoral action, something reflected, I think, in the effort they put

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into an analysis of akrasia. For Scotus, on the other hand, akrasia is simply one moral problem among many but not the crux of wrong-doing. On his account, while the sinner - that is, the person acting immorally - fails to act according to justice he or she nevertheless can be seen to act for a perceived advantage that is independent of questions of justice. This way of supporting the theory of dual affections, it seems to me now,56 can be something of a two-edged sword (excuse the pun). The sin, after all, is not in following affectio commodi itself since it is not inherently evil. The sin consists in failing to take account of justice; and in order to explain that, one is faced with the same sort of problem as the eudaemonist. That is, while one can identify a 'rational' motive in the sinner's action, one still has to show why it is not an intellectual error to ignore the issue of justice. If it just happens that the agent operates at the moment on the affectio commodi rather than affectio justitiae, it is not clear why that should count as a moral failing. Moreover, having (so to speak) two independent scales on which to measure actions would not fully explain the unfortunate action, if only because it offers no way of seeing it as a determination of some kind that is under the control of the agent. To prefer working on one scale rather than the other would require some common scale on which to compare the alternatives. Actually, there is a better argument for the two affections that starts simply with the fact that we have those two motivations and they seem to be basic. That appeal to the appearances can then be buttressed by what I think is Scotus's basic approach to the problem. He begins with the (Aristotelian) idea that any agent acts to fulfill its nature. As intelligent agents, therefore, we have a natural appetite or inclination to fulftll our intellectual nature, to flourish in that way. That is not a weakness; it has to do with the well-being of an intellectual creature. In fact, there are times when one can and ought to respect that appetite. 57 Scotus then identifies that natural, intellectual appetite as 'natural will' which is the affectio commodi. 58 As a natural inclination, affectio commodi forms a background for fully human action but Scotus thinks it cannot itself be a basis for free action. Given that the will does act freely (that is, as a voluntary and not a natural agent), it follows that there must be another aspect to the will that accounts for that. That is to say, it is not the interaction of the two affections - or the fact that there are two - that accounts for the non-natural character of the will (and hence the freedom of action of the agent). As Scotus says, the af-

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fectio justitiae itself is the "innate liberty of the will" and source of human autonomy.59 The relation of affectio justitiae or the dual-affected will to its superabundant sufficiency needs to be stated carefully.60 While Scotus describes both with reference to freedom, they do such different jobs in his account that it seems to me they need to be treated as importantly distinct features of will. For example, superabundant sufficiency is a feature of any (fully human) action, moral or immoral,61 and as such it is relevant to the distinction of free and non-free action whether in separating human action from that of the brutes or distinguishing among human acts those that are, so to speak, on the moral board. Moreover, that capacity belongs essentially to the will and so is a precondition of its action in accord with either affection. After all, it is crucial to Scotus's account that morally correct action requires being able not to act in accord with affectio commodi in cases of conflict with affectio justitiae; and moral failure involves not acting in accord with affectio justitiae. What affectio justitiae introduces, I think, is a rational agent's ability to transcend its natural inclination as intellectual appetite; and while that represents a kind of autonomy, it seems to me a more specialized feature of human action than the basic power of freewill. The point can, I think, fairly be put in a more radical way: what affectio justitiae accounts for is our having a will (at all): that is, having a will, for Scotus, is not simply having another (even higher level) inclination plus the freedom to act or not act in accord with it. Of course, he also thinks freedom of action (in the sense of superabundant sufficiency) is essential to the will and a necessary condition for morality. But I think identifying affectio justitiae with that can be a distraction. That is, it may lead one to ignore other features in Scotus's account of what makes the moral order different in kind from the natural order. I shall try to develop this idea at the end of the following section. VOLUNTARISM

Voluntarism, like other 'isms', is a blunt instrument for classification. But if one does not expect too much of it (or claim too much for it), it can be useful enough in calling attention to a position that accords some special priority or superiority to the will in accounting for phenomena. Like realism - about universals, the past, the possible, a noumenal world and so on - it can appear in such varied contexts as to lose most of its usefulness when applied

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across the board. The usual sub-species include metaphysical and epistemological forms as well as the probably more familiar psychological and ethical voluntarisms. 62 Scotus has a special appeal to will in God's creative activity,63 and he traces all contingency to the action of some will. 64 But it would be a stretch, I think, to link him with a paradigm 'metaphysical voluntarist' such as Schopenhauer. Epistemological voluntarism, if I understand it, seems an even less likely label for Scotus's position. It is psychological or ethical voluntarism that usually lies behind the question of whether or in what way Scotus is a voluntarist; and to the extent it can be made a distinct inquiry, I am going to focus on voluntarism in his moral psychology. The standard alternative in any of these cases is 'intellectualism' .65 It would be bizarre, of course, to picture the Most Subtle Doctor as no friend of intellect! Still, there are many places where, at the very least in emphasis, he attributes to the will and its operations a certain pride of place. The operation of the intellect can be prior temporally; and in that case it acts more or less automatically (that is, naturally), recording what it confronts in a way analogous to sight recording color. The will then comes into play, perhaps even directing the intellect to try again or to consider a different aspect. 66 But in any event, it is the will and not the intellect that ultimately accounts for the agent's taking one action rather than another (or any action at all). In short, Scotus's claim, discussed above, that the will alone is a 'rational power' and that the intellect has only a 'natural' mode of operation assigns the will a superior or definitive role in the outcome of fully human action. 67 And that is probably enough to justify a broad, non-pejorative68 label of voluntarism for Scotus's moral psychology. But it is necessary, especially in Scotus's case, to press the issue further. After all, the freedom involved in his claim of a superabundant sufficiency in the action of the will is only a necessary condition for moral (or immoral) action. The more interesting question, as I think becomes clear in the debate about his moral theory, is whether the role Scotus assigns to will somehow affects the character of his moral theory: not about which actions are good and which bad, but about what sort of thing morality is. It is this stronger sense of voluntarism I shall focus on in what follows. To begin with the obvious, since both intellect and will are involved in fully human action, it does not amount to voluntarism to assign an essential role to the will in analyzing moral matters. Mutatis mutandis it does not constitute intellectualism simply to grant an important place to reason and rea-

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soning in the moral area. After al1, it takes reason to deal with what is just; the brutes do not engage in that sort of thing. Nor would there be anything unusual (or especially voluntaristic) in Scotus's recognizing that it is possible to know what the moral thing to do is and yet not do it. Anyone who appeals to will at all in explaining human action endorses that claim. Finally, it is not especially voluntaristic for a theory to hold that the goal of moral activity is not itself an intellectual activity. Some eudaemonist theories do make a special case for 'contemplation'; and al1 emphasize the importance of 'knowing what one is doing'. But their intel1ectualism (in the moral context) has to do with a claim about reasoning and the connection of natural and moral facts. 69 Utilitarianism, to give another example, takes human happiness (or in some forms, the absence of pain) to be basic. But what makes the action or agent morally good, on that theory, lies in promoting or seeking (roughly) the greatest happiness for the greatest number: "Let us calculate!" Now it has been claimed that Scotus is obviously a voluntarist - and so much the worse for that - because he holds a divine command theory in ethics. Anthony Quinton, in his contribution on British philosophy for The Encyclopedia of Philosophy, says that for Scotus "[t]hings are good because God wills them and not vice versa, so moral truth is not accessible to natural reason. ,,70 It is at least a place to start. In the introduction to Duns Scotus on the Will and Morality, Allan Wolter says he compiled the texts and wrote the commentary in part but explicitly to counter a mistaken impression that Scotus is ultimately committed to the sort of view Quinton ascribes to him.7' Wolter had earlier written extensively on the preeminence of the will in Scotus's thought,72 and many relevant texts are included in this compilation. But there is a special emphasis in this work on Scotus's commitment to a definitive role for right reason in morality. Thomas Williams has argued that Wolter has gone too far in trying to defend Scotus's appeal to right reason and that, in his selection and interpretations of the texts, Wolter has given a picture of Scotus that is deceptively moderate (or intel1ectualist).73 Williams thinks that Scotus does indeed hold a divine command theory of morality;74 as does John Hare. 75 Their analyses are importantly different, but they each provide arguments to counter the charge of irrationalism in Quinton's assessment. What interests me here is not the dispute about divine command ethics as such but the way it raises a more general consideration of the place Scotus means to assign to will and

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reason (and reasoning) in moral matters. The possibility I want to explore is that a voluntarism (in the stronger sense) is already involved in the notion of affectio justitiae independently of whether Scotus holds a divine command theory or not. 76 Wolter rests his case on those texts where Scotus describes moral goodness in terms of right reason. 77 To summarize: moral goodness (or badness) is acting (or failing to act) according to right reason: doing the right thing for the right purpose in the right circumstances. And the moral goodness of an act, Scotus says, "lies in its suitability judged according to the agent's right reason." Moreover, as with any case of suitability, the intellect takes account of "the nature of the agent, the power by which he acts, and the essential notion (ratio) of the act." And "if these three notions are given, no other knowledge is needed to judge whether or not this particular act is suited to this agent and this faculty.,,78 These are clearly important and relevant texts, so it is necessary to say why they do not completely settle the matter. 79 Everyone recognizes that reason must playa major role in moral matters, but the question is whether for Scotus that is a primary or derived one. Let me try to explain that. Consider an analogy with the status of 'institutional facts' .80 It is an objective fact, say, that Jones bought a piece of property from Smith; and reasoning and intellect are clearly relevant for recognizing or determining such a fact. But what makes the (relatively) brute or natural fact of Smith's signing his name on a form count as a case of selling a piece of property is a human convention. Once reason takes that convention into account, it operates on these as on other facts, for example, determining that a certain transaction has taken place or that it has or lacks the requisite features. In this respect, reason's role is (what I am calling) 'derivative' .81 It is a different matter to ask about reason's contribution in establishing the convention in the first place. Institutional conventions are not natural kinds; and while they may be needed, they do not follow necessarily from the conditions that give rise to them. 82 So reason may make a significant and non-derivative contribution in the original consideration of a convention and in justifying it once established. One might want to argue, for example, that the convention about private property and exchange is reasonable and not arbitrary. Even so, reason may not be the decisive factor in there being such a convention. To return to Scotus's moral theory, we can begin where reason is clearly a primary factor: Scotus tells us that "God is to be loved above all else" is a

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per se nota truth, and he describes it as a first principle of praxis and of natural law in its strict sense. 83 One should take the latter description seriously. That is, we can assume that Scotus means by a first principle of natural law what his contemporaries do: namely, something that sets the context for practical reason and hence rational action. For Scotus then, the ultimate principle behind morality as a species of rational action is not a matter of flourishing or of seeking the good of others or even achieving union with God. It is acting for the sake of the goodness of God, the same (sole and ultimate) motive, so to speak, that God has. There is, however, one crucial addition. Reason also tells us that nothing done to or by any creature bears a necessary relation to the goodness of God. 84 Wolter's gloss on this is that Scotus holds only one act (love of God for His own sake) to be good for being the kind of act that it is. 85 All other moral precepts belong to natural law only in an extended sense. 86 What Wolter seems to imply, however, is that one can take up the slack in determining the morality of an action by factoring in the end or purpose of the action and its circumstances. The problem, I think, is more radical than that; for no (non-question-begging) purposes or circumstances, or combination of them, will be any more directly connected to God's good than the objects of an action are. 87 Of course, right88 reason directs that a good moral agent will take account of the object, end and circumstances of an action. But - and this is the point of the analogy with institutional facts - this does not tells us whether reason is acting in a derivative way or not: that is, whether in what makes for the moral order - analogously, in establishing the moral 'convention' - reason's contribution is the decisive one. If one cannot establish the moral character of an action directly through its connection with a first principle of practical reason or natural law, one must ask what puts action into the moral order?89 The answer, I think, is the will with affectio justitiae. 90 And the key for understanding that is the contrast with affectio commodi or, as Scotus sees it, with "flourishing" which remains in the natural order of things. 91 Simple sense desires respond to properties which things have independently of those desires (for example, sweetness). At a 'higher' level, intellectual desires respond to properties that the senses cannot accommodate but which also exist independently (for example, being food or wealth or a horse). The affectiones introduce a complication because they respond to what the intellect presents as something goal-directed. But for Scotus, I think, even here the intellect in its primary or non-derivative function pre-

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sents only 'natural facts'. Natural facts may include certain normative facts and so ground judgments of suitability: horses are quadrupeds, so an individual horse should have four legs whether it does or not. Human flourishing is, as Scotus sees it, such a normative but still natural fact; and it is what satisfies affectio commodi.92 As I understand it, we do not move from affectio commodi to affectio justitiae as we can from sense to intellectual desires, as if affectio justitiae were just at a higher level where it is able to respond to situations which affectio commodi cannot 'recognize' .93 The will with affectio justitiae does respond to something presented by the intellect; but the intellect in its primary and non-derivative role presents only 'natural' facts and not some sort of higher order (moral) fact. 94 So it seems there is a significant gap between the kind of data affectio justitiae responds to and the kind of outcome or assessment it produces. Of course, when we recognize that, we can objectively describe the relevant natural facts as 'what affectio justitiae would respond to'; but that is not itself a natural property. That is to say, it is an objective fact that an act A is morally good just because affectio justitiae would respond positively to it; but when reason judges that suitability, I think, it is acting in a derivative mode. The important interpretive problem, however, is whether affectio justitiae would respond positively to A because, somehow independently considered or 'before the fact' , reason judges or grounds the judgment that A is morally good? Suppose that for Scotus moral facts are (broadly) like institutional facts where the character of affectio justitiae reflects the 'convention' that grounds morality. If that is right, it is the task of a fully developed account of Scotus's ethics to explain and defend the institution of morality, including its reasonableness. In their interpretation of Scotus, divine command theorists, as I understand them, ground their claim for the institution in the idea that we humans were created with a will having an affectio justitiae, and what it responds to is the obligation with respect to the content of God's establishing the moral order. Those sympathetic with Wolter's emphasis on the role of reason may have a more complex job, showing (in the terms of my distinction) how reason plays a primary role in establishing the moral order. I do not find it obvious that either side is in clear conflict with Scotus's texts; and my purpose here has not been to decide between them, but only to try to better focus the character of the debate. 95

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CONCLUSION What I have been trying to do is provide a descriptive account that will give the reader a feel for Scotus's two-affectioned, superabundantly sufficient will and a sense of the (in my mind still unresolved) complexity of the notion of 'right reason' in his moral theory. I have finessed many important details and alluded only briefly to a number of intriguing, important and difficult matters that one must get straight before a definitive interpretation can be claimed: for example, natural law, practical reason, the lessons Scotus draws from the Old Testament about the Decalogue, and so on. In general, my focus has been on moral psychology rather than moral theory. But the two are not easy to disentangle. Let me try to summarize my remarks by taking up that issue with respect to the three topics I listed at the beginning. The freewill issue seems the easiest to detach, but even here one must be aware of the Augustinian!Anselmian ideas that doing evil is a failing and not a parallel to doing good, and that only the virtuous person is truly free. And then there is Scotus's claim that affectio justitiae represents its own form of autonomy. At the same time, the implications for his moral psychology in the claim (controversial in itself, of course) of freedom of action in the sense of superabundant sufficiency in the will seem to me clear enough. When we move to the two affections, the moral issues become more prominent. I have tried to distinguish the claims behind a 'superabundant sufficiency' of the will and the 'innate liberty of the will' located in affectio justitiae. Human autonomy in the latter context consists in 'transcending' our natural appetite as intellectual agents, which Scotus thinks is the limited arena of eudaemonism. That seems to me crucial both to Scotus's moral theory and his moral psychology. In the last (and most tentative) section, I have suggested a schema where we see moral facts, for Scotus, as analogous to institutional facts. This does not preclude the sort of reason-based interpretation favored by Fr. Wolter, but I have complicated its defense with the distinction of primary and derivative roles for reason; for it must be shown how reason plays a primary role in the establishment or grounding of 'the moral convention' and not just a derivative role in judging suitability. This way of putting it may be controversial in its commitment to a 'moral gap', though if that is taken in a minimal way, I do not think it would be rejected either by Wolter or by divine command interpreters such as Williams and Hare.

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It is agreed all around, I think, that one's reading of affectio Justitiae reflects, if it does not establish, one's interpretation of Scorns's moral theory; and terminological differences aside, there is only a little less unanimity that the role of affectio justitiae represents a kind of voluntarism in Scotus's moral theory as well as his moral psychology. What is controversial, I suspect, is my effort to isolate a voluntarism in Scorns's account of affectio Justitiae that is in some significant sense prior to or neutral with respect to a divine command interpretation as well as the 'reason-based' alternative. It is risky at least for presuming that the debate is not over. 96

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NOTES

4

Where possible, I have given references to critical editions of Scotus: John Duns Scotus, Opera Omnia (abbreviated as "Vat." followed by volume/page) or John Duns Scotus, Opera Philosophica, eds. R. Andrews et aI., vols. 3 & 4, (abbreviated as "Op. Phil." followed by volume/page). Where not, reference is made to: John Duns Scotus, Opera Omnia, ed. L. Wadding. (abbreviated by "Wad." followed by volume/page). Wolter (1987), a LatinEnglish collection of texts, often has improvements even on the critical edition; I cite it whenever possible because it is also generally available and accessible (abbreviated as "W&M"). I have also referenced Wolter (1962) an earlier Latin-English collection he edited. I have also used the translation Alluntis & Wolter (1975) (ahbreviated as "G&C"). I have used standard abbreviations for Scotus's works: "Lect." for Lectura, "Ord." for Ordinalio, "Rep." for Reportata examinata, "Quod!." for Quodlibeta, "Q. in Metaph.," for Quaestiones Super Libros Melaphysicorum Arislolelis. And I have used initial letters to indicate: distinction. part, question and note. This is not always a simple matter: see notes 8, 21 and 30, below. In particular, onc has to be careful about the change of context. As Whitehead (I think it was) pointed out in a different setting, while the development of corpuscular theory did provide a more sophisticated understanding of solidity (for example, about radio waves and walls), it should not be taken to distort ordinary meanings of 'solidity' so as to create uncertainty about whether the tea tray might slip through the tea table. I will admit to a certain cowardice in that; but I think it important initially to focus on descriptive clarity in Scotus's claims. A good bit of work has been done in this country and in Europe. But one would get a reasonable cross section by reading Richard Cross, various articles by Thomas Williams and the rclevant writings of Allan Wolter, to which I refer in the notes below. An overview of European scholars' approach to the disputed issues about Scotus's moral psychology can be gathered from papers of Wolfgang Kluxen, Eef Dekker, Joke Spruyt, Rudi de Velde and H. Paul F. Mercken from a H,cent conference held in Leiden and Utrecht, collected in Bos (1998). To reinforce the point, I shall adopt the solecism of taking 'freewill' as one word: the 'will' thus being like the 'cat' in catapult. See note 30, below. I am using these labels in a way that should be familiar from recent discussions of 'the free will' debate. The (strong) determinist denies freewill. The compatibilist thinks a form of determinism can cocxist with free action. And the libcrtarian denies determinism, at least in the case of actions characterized by freewill. Cross (1999), p.86, lists some of the arguments, including the claim that we can know when our actions are free, recognizing that we did not have to so act: Leet., I, d. 39, q. 1-5, n. 40 (Vat. 17/491). And see Q. in Melaph., IX, q. 15, n. 5 Cap. phil. 4,682-83 and references there: W&M 153). Cross finds the latter claim question-begging (ibid.). One might weaken it to a claim about voluntariness, but Scotus surely had something more in mind. I speak to the propriety of calling him a libertarian below. Note also that Scotus regularly talks in terms of faculties (for example, about what the will can do), which was the com-

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mon practice of the day. But it is not a distortion to translate a good bit of what he says into non-theoretical descriptions of what an agent does. See notes 21, 30, 32 & 33, below. Until I take it up in Section 3, I want to stay away from the language of whether an agent 'could do otherwise'; it has assumed a role in recent discussions of free action which could be ntisleading to apply without qualification to Scotus. Also, nothing in Scotus's theory prevents him from allowing for degrees of responsibility in our actions, or including actions that would not count as fully human actions. As I discuss below, the eudaemonist and/or intellectualist tends to make choice the central feature of creaturely free action. On the other hand, none of the scholastics is likely to see moral choice as a matter of deciding between doing A or doing B. Augustine, I think, is the decisive influence here for emphasizing the crucial disanalogy in 'choosing good or choosing evil': choosing or doing evil is failing to act well. Sylwanowicz (1996), pp. 198ff., rightly emphasizes that no creature can be a total cause of its action. It is ntisleading, however, to describe Scotus's position in this respect as a denial of free choice in creatures (ibid.). For Aquinas on the role of choice: De Veritate, q. 22, a. 15, ad 3 (second series). On the contradiction: Reportata examinata, I, dd. 38-40 (Vat. VI, Appendix A, pp. 40144), quoted in Wolter (1987), pp. 9-10. On retaining the power not to will A: Q. in Metaph., Bk. IX, q. 15, a. 1, n. 2 (Op. phi!. IV/677-78; W&M 147); Ord., IV, d. 49, q. 6, n. 11 (Wad. 10/455). Scotus's account of modality is distinctive for the notion of synchronic possibility, that is, separating possibility from temporal reference: see Knuuttila (1993) and Dumont (1995). But the dominant intuition here, I think, has more to do with Scotus's idea of freedom than modality. See MacDonald (1995). Cf., the oft-quoted remark of Aristotle: It is not necessary that Socrates sit; but when he sits, he sits necessarily. See Ord., I, d. 38, p. 3 (Vat VI, App. A #16, p. 468); and see d. 39, q. 1-5. It is something on which Thomas Williams and Allan Wolter agree. See Williams (I998a) and Wolter (1987), p. 10 and passim. See Langston (1986). Sylwanowicz (1996), although chiding Langston about his appeal to certain texts (p. 203), emphasizes what he calls a 'new compatibilism' in Scotus (pp. 204ff.) Cross (1999), following Langston, says that "Scotus's basic account of freedom is compatibilist" (p. 150) though he had earlier said that Scotus is "a genuine indeterminist with regard to human freedom" (p. 86, n. 15). I think Cross ntight agree with my distinction about 'compatibilisms' below. See Quodl., 16, a. 1, n. 2 (Wad. XIII446; G&C p. 370). Actually, there is a third case: the procession of the Holy Spirit. Unlike the procession of the Verbum, this is, as it were, a matter of will rather than intellect. Since the processions within the Trinity are (in a sense) "natural" and not just necessary, Scotus has to give a special account of what might look to be a contradiction, given his contrast between voluntary and natural action (ibid.). See Quod!., 16, a. 1, n. 7 and a. 3, n. 15 (Wad. XJI/451 & 457;G&C pp. 376-77; 384); but see the whole of Question 16. See also, Ord., I, d 1, P 2, q 3, #80 (Vat JI/59ff).

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See Ord., III, d. 37, q. unica, n. 6 (Wad. VIII898; W&M 277); IV, d. 46, q. 1, n.3 (Wad. X1238; W&M 277). Creation and God's free will: Ord., I, d. 39, q. unica, n. 22 (Vat. VII315). On contingency and the will: Ord., I, d. 38, p 2, nn. 39, 41-45 (Vat. IV, App. A pp. 401-2.) See Quodl., 16, a. 3, n.15 (Wad. XIII457;G&C 384-85). Ord., I, 2,2, #\31-2,175 (Vat III 88, 115). I discuss this further in the next section. To stay in my descriptive mode, I should translate this talk of the mode of action of the will into a mode of action of which a free agent acting through the will is capable. I trust the reader will appreciate that it is only awkwardness that is at stake here. But see note 33, below. See Quodl., 16, a. 3, n. 17 (Wad. XIII450;G&C 386). On God as primary cause: see the discussion in Cross (1999), p. 56ff. See o rd. , I, d. I, p. 2, q. 2, n.175 (Vat. IIII15). That humans necessarily love happiness or the final end: ST, I-II, q. 10, a. 2, ad 3. That the Blessed are voluntary but not free in their love of God in the Beatific Vision: ibid., I, q. 80, a.l &ad3. See Ord. IV, d. 49, q. 6, n 11 (Wad. X1455). Cross (1999) says that God removes "the opportunity" (p. 150). But that seems to me to suggest something indirect. The passage he quotes from Scotus says simply that a superior power can prevent an inferior power from acting: "A secondary power cannot, if prevented by a higher cause, go to the opposite." Ord. IV, d. 49, q. 6, n 11 (Wad. X1455). See also Ord. I, d.l, p. 2, q. 2, n 81 (Vat. II/61). This is the topic of Quod!., 16 (Wad XII/445-459; G&C 369-87). "Whatever occurs in a great many instances by a cause that is not free is the natural effect of that cause." Emphasis mine. See Wolter (1967), p. 109. See note 12, above. The distinction between 'mode of action' and 'outcome' serves my descriptive purpose, but I am aware that it does not itself provide an analysis or explanation of the compossiblity. This does not contradict Scotus's claim that we can know when our action is free (see note 6, above). In explaining why Aristotle does not appeal to a faculty of will, Scotus says that it is not as easy to recognize a faculty of will as it is a faculty of intellect: Q. in Metaph., IX, q. 15 (Op .. phil., IV/691-92. I take this to support my distinction between descriptions in ordinary experience and the appeal to faculties to explain that. See Ord., II, 16, unica, n. 8 (Wad VII767). Sec also Aquinas, ST, I, q. 75, a. 2. ad 2. Cross (1999), p. 84. Boler (1998), pp. 20-22. See Aquinas, ST, I-II, q. 9, a. I (& ad 3). On intellect and will as co-causes: LeCl., II, d. 25. q. unica. #69-70 (Vat., XIX/253). Aristotle, Metaphysics Bk. IX, c. 2, I 046b 1-4. For what follows, see the extended discussion in Q. in Melaph.IX, q. 15 (Op. phil., IV/675-98; W&M pp. 145-172). 'Rational' is an equivocal term. A rational animal, for example, is one with both intellect and will.

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See Q. in Metaph., IX, q. 15, n. 4 (Op. phil., IV/681; W&M p. 151). This is a typical move of Scotus: see Ord. I, d 8, p2, n2 (Vat IV/324f).; Ord., 1,2,2, #136-140,149 (Vat II, 91-5; 100). See Q. in Metaph., IX, q. 15, n .. 5 (Op. phil., IV/683;W&M p. 152) See Aquinas, ST, I-II, q. 9, a. 3; q. 10, a 2. See the discussion in Lonergan (1971), pp. 94ff. See Aquinas, ST, I-II, q. 9, a. 3. See note 19, above. See Ord., IV, d. 49, q. 9-10, n. 8 (Wad. XlS13-14; W&M 193. See the discussion in Williams (1995), p. 430 .. Also: "Not all will to be happy but all will the ultimate end in which happiness consists" Ord., I, d 1, p.2, q.2, #152 (Vat. II/103-104). See Effler (1962), and King (1994). See Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, I, ch. 13, #5. See note 23, above. Effler (1962), pp. 95 & 188. I discuss this at greater length in Boler (1993). And see Williams (1997). See Ord., IV, d. 49, q. 9, nn. 2-3 (Wad. XlS05-506; W&M 183-87, esp. 18S). See Quodl., 16, a.3, n 13 (Wad. XIII456; G&C 382). See Ord., II, d. 6, q. 2, n.lO (Wad. VI/S40). Scotus pretty clearly identifies natural will with the affectio commodi: see Williams (1997), pp. 427, 428 & 431. Scotus does not seem troubled by the proliferation of terminologies that may have been introduced by different sources. See Ord., IV, d. 49, q. 9-10, nn. 2-3 (Wad. X/50S-506; W&M 183-87); II, d. 6, q. 2, n.8 (Wad. VI/539-40; W&M 469-71). See Williams (1997) p. 426 & note 2. Williams is right, I think, that Scotus is not objecting to an orientation to self in theories such as Aquinas's and replacing it with an other-directed scheme. Scotus thinks that eudaemonism at its best simply does not yet get you on the moral board: Williams (1997), p. 431f. Self-fulfillment has to do with human nature and not self-interest, a notion Aristotelian commentators nowadays try to express by talk of 'flourishing'. See the articles mentioned in note 48, above. See Anselm, De concordentia, III, II ff., and De casu diaboli, chs. 13ff, in Opera omnia. In the latter, Anselm speaks of two 'wills' (or basic wants to which our actions can be traced) and Scotus sometimes follows him. The common terminology does not mean the two theories are in all respects alike. For example, Anselm probably does mean by 'commodus' something like self-interest; Scotus is contrasting affectio justitiae with the whole eudaemonist moral theory: see note 53, above. Scotus may have stayed with 'commodus' out of respect for Anselm or even as a sort of put down of the eudaemonists. I spend time on this because I tended to think that way myself. Actually, Scotus holds that the two affections are ideally satisfied together, something that is clear from his treatment of the good angels: they want happiness so they can love God more. Ord., II, d. 6, q. 2, n. 12 (Wad. VI/541; W&M 477). See note 51, above.

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See Ord., II, d 6, q 2, n 8 (Wad. VII539; W&M 469) Cross (1999) holds that Scotus needs the two affections for the will to be free (p. 189, n. 27), but I think that may be misleading. If the account I have just given is correct, Scotus only needs the two because he holds one of them is not free - and that humans have that affection for reasons independent of free action. It is one thing to claim that one needs two affections to account for freedom in the will. That is the position of Anselm who says that an intelligent being with only one affection (whether for benefit or for justice) would not be capable of free action: see De casu diaboli, cc. ]3·14. It is quite another to claim that, since one of the affections does not account for freedom one needs a second. The latter, I think, is Scotus's position. In these paragraphs I am trying to tidy up an account I gave in Boler (1993) by which Richard Cross, doubtless along with many others, was not persuaded: Cross (1999), p.189, n. 27. As is evident, I am still inclined to see the role of superabundant sufticiency and that of affectio Justitiae as derived from different intuitions. Anselm defines freedom of the will as the ability to preserve a good will (De libertate arbitrii, c. 1) perhaps reflecting the idea in Augustine that the moral person is like a frec citizen ('liber') and the sinner like a slave. And there is something of the same notion in Scotus's emphasis on morality as getting beyond the natural and unfree. Still, it seems clear enough that Scotus also thinks that immoral action is ascribable to an agent precisely because of the will's capacity for free action. Edwards (1967), vol. 8, pp. 270-72; Handrich (1995), pp. 902-3. Williams calls attention to his own use of 'voluntarism' as a label for divine command theories in morality: Williams (1998), p. 162. Cross seems to follow that usage: Cross (1999), p. 191, n. 50. See the controversy about 'possibles' in the articles by Simo Knuullila, Steven Marrone and Calvin Normore in Honnefelder (1996). See note 20, above. As with most 'isms', the exactness of the classification is further compromised when the alleged complement is not, for example, 'non-voluntarism'. See Ord., I, d. I, p. 2, q.2, #123 (Vat. 1II59ff); ibid., q. I, #48 (Vat. II149-51). It may be worth recalling that in Classical times, it was important to see that Reason could (to put it crudely) 'duke it out' with Desire. Hume's claim that Reason is really the servant of the passions in a way pays tribute to that picture of things while reversing the traditional roles. The case with Scotus is quite different. In restricting the role of intellect as 'recorder' (so to speak), Scotus is not using 'intellect' as a synonym for 'Reason' in that sense. We can say, I think, that he is giving an account of how Reason (in the Classical sense) acts, and doing this in terms of the operations (at a different level) of intellect and will. It does not make for clarity in the use of 'isms' that the terms are often invented to be hurled at a position by its opponents. The point is made in Hare (20oo) Section III. Hare is not alone in contrasting (with critical implications) Scotus's theory with a 'deductivist' natural law theory (p. 25); but I think that may be a distraction. It does not seem to me that necessity versus contingency is the

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issue so much as a concern about the whole role of reason and reasoning. See note 87, below. See Edwards (1965), vol. 1, p. 373. Wolter provides an extensive bibliography for the long history of this debate: Wolter (1987), pp. 3-5. See Wolter (1987), pp. ix-x, for the references. See Williams (1998b). See also Williams (1997); and see the articles cited in notes 15,43 & 62, above. John Hare argues that Scotus's theory bears affinities to modem-day prescriptivist theories where moral goodness or badness "supervenes" on natural facts: Hare (2000), Section III. Such moral assessments can be objective even though the role of reason and reasoning will be complex. I am not arguing against a divine command interpretation of Scotus. If Scotus holds a divine command theory, then it is obvious that he assigns will a constituitive role in his moral theory beyond its being a necessary condition of free/moral action. I am trying to isolate a prior stage of analysis where affectio justitiae is itself understood to introduce such a role for will. Especially Quodl., q. 18, art. I, nn. 3-9 (Wad. XIII475-481; W&M pp. 211-225. But see the whole of W&M Part III (206-237). The quotations are from W&M 213: that is, Quod/., q. 18, a. 1, nn. 4-5 (G&C 402). The question is whether Scotus thinks the action gets its moral character precisely from this exercise of reason on the part of the agent. Everyone recognizes that Scotus gives some sort of special role to the will in his moral theory. Frederick Copleston proposed a distinction between the content of moral precepts and 'the obligation of the moral law, its moral force': Copleston (1950), vol. 2, p. 547. Wolter is sympathetic to that, identifying a general "is-ought" distinction in Scotus: Wolter (1987), p. 21. The problem, frankly, is that this (especially in Copleston's case) gives the picture of an intellectualist theory such as Aquinas's with an added dose of obligation to nudge it out of its eudaemonist setting. Williams and Hare both locate a voluntarist aspect in the content of morality: the former saying that morality for Scotus has to do not with what is good but what is right (Williams (1997), p. 442) and that affectio justitiae deals with things under the description of forbidden or commanded (p. 439); the latter proposing that morality 'supervenes' on natural goodness (Hare (2000), p. 32 n. 43). As I noted above (note 62, above), Williams at one point defines (ethical) "voluntarism" as a divine command theory. I am trying to wedge out a space for a kind of voluntarism that is prior to a full-fledged divine command interpretation. I take the term from Anscombe (1958), pp. 69-72. Allowing for the problem of simplicity and timelessness in God, Scotus offers a picture of the interaction of intellect and will in God's act of creation that distinguishes the intellect's initial, limited contribution and, after an act of will, its fuller but derivative assessment of 'creatables'. See the discussion in Cross (1999), ch. 4.

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This provides a parallel to Scotus's claim that the precepts of natural law in an extended sense are contingent. Note also that conventions can be established without an explicit, self-conscious decision on the part of individuals or the community. See Ord., IV, d. 46, q. I, n 3 (cf., n. 7) (Wad. Xl238; W&M 241); Ord., III, d. 37 n. 6 (Wad. VlIJ898; W&M 277). See Ord., III, d. 37, q. unica, n. 4 (Wad. VlIJ879; W&M 275. And Leet., I, d. 39, q. 1-5, . #43-44 (Vat. XVlIJ492-93). This comes up in Scotus's discussion of the two tables of the Old Law and the various exceptions ordered by God. See the discussion in Prentice (1967). But it does not take Scripture's tough cases to make the point; at least they should not surprise us if we accept Scotus's account of God's freedom or non-obligation with respect to creatures. Wolter (1987), p. 21ff. Sec Ord., III, d. 37, q. unica, n. 2 (Wad. III/980; W&M 279); N, d. 17, q. unica, n. 3 (Wad. IXl297; W&M 263). The issue cannot be just a difference between deduction and contingency (see note 70). Aquinas recognizes considerable contingency in natural law: see Boler (1999). What makes reason 'right', of course, is not just correctness. In this case, taking account of circumstances etc., is the right thing to do. But does getting that explicit tell us why the action is moral or not - rather than why the agent's reason is right? The step from the natural to the moral order is not from something like 'this is to be done or this is right' to 'I am obliged to do this'. It is the substantive step from 'This is inflicting pain for fun' to 'This is morally wrong'. See Hare (2000), pp. 22-23. Wolter at one point says: "[Scotusl sees the moral law as grounded rather in the will's affection for justice ... " (Wolter (I987) p. 23.) But he may not mean by that what I would. Let me emphasize, however, that I find the interpretive problem here a difficult one. I offer what follows as an hypothesis. Where, I repeat, the issue is not the freedom of action that goes with superabundant sufficiency. Acting in accord with ajfeetio eommodi is not something that functions totally outside the moral order; an agent acting (through its will) in accord with ajfeetio eommodi, is acting freely and so is morally responsible. My point here concerns only what 'satisfies' the inclination which is affectio eommodi. I am inclined to say that affectio justitiae is not an appetite at all, if only to deflect the misunderstanding that would make it a 'rational appetite' one step higher but of roughly the same character as an intellectual appetite. The following text is about the divine will, but I think the point is expandable: "[Tlhe intellect grasps or knows of some possible action before the will can will it, but it does not apprehend it as something definite that must be done, as if "to apprehend" meant "to dictate." Indeed it is offered to the [divine] will as something neutral; after the will makes a definite decision that this is to be done, the intellect consequently grasps as true that this is to be done ... " ([/lntellectus apprehendit agibile, antequam voluntas illud vetit, sed non apprehendit detemzinate hoc esse agendum, quod apprehendere dicitur dictare; immo, ut

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neutrum, offert voluntati divinae, qua determinate per volitionem suam istud esse agendum, intellectus consequenter apprehendit tanquam verum istud agendum.) (Ord., IV, d. 46 n. 10. W&M 250-51, based on a revision of Wadding in Codex A.) Historical counterfactuals, especially of a radical sort, are rightly suspect for giving an illusion that they are revealing or provide a context for which there is a 'correct' response. Still it is tempting to ask what Scotus would have said about morality if per impossibile he had become convinced that God did not exist. The possibilities range, I suppose, from 'everything is permitted' to 'there would be no change in content'. What would not change, as I reconstruct it, is that we find ourselves with an affectio justitiae that is not satisfied with matters of human flourishing. But r am uncertain about how to describe the 'something more' that the affectio justitiae would then require. The puzzle (for me) is not that there would be no primal command to ground a sufficiently strong sense of obligation but that I am not sure what would substitute for Scotus's per se nota first principle of naturallaw (or practical reasoning): see note 82, above. r benefited from discussions with and/or comments from Scott MacDonald, Laurence Roberts, Rega Wood and the editors.

VESA HIRVONEN

A NOMINALIST ONTOLOGY OF THE PASSIONS

OCKHAM'S DISCUSSION OF THE PASSIONS Ockham uses the term 'passion' (passio) in several ways. Some of them refer to the phenomena in human beings and animals which he calls appetitive and which he distinguishes from cognitive phenomena.! Terms like 'desire' (desiderium), 'love' (amor) and 'delight' (delectatio) refer to particular passions. Therefore, passions in this sense are more or less what are nowadays called 'emotions' or 'affections'. Ockham's most extensive treatments of the passions are in (I) the Exposition of Aristotle's Categories (Expositio in librum Praedicamentorum Aristotelis), c. 14, (2) the Exposition of Aristotle's Physics (Expositio in libros Physicorum Aristotelis), VII, c. 4, (3) the Commentary on the Third Book of the Sentences (Quaestiones in lib rum tertium Sententiarum, Reportatio, III), q. 12, (4) the Quodlibetal Questions (Quodlibeta septem), II, q. 15, and (5) the Quodlibetal Questions, II, q. 17.2 My purpose is to give a presentation of those treatments, and, based on them, try to decide what Ockham understands by passions, where they are located in humans, and which passions or passion types there are. I pay special attention to the passions of the will since they have been almost totally neglected in research. In fact, the whole theme of passions in Ockham's works has been very little discussed. The only systematic presentation published on that theme is Girard J. Etzkorn's article in 1990, "Ockham's view of the Human Passions in the Light of his Philosophical Anthropology"? Besides this article, some aspects of the passions in Ockham's works have been discussed in various books, such as Oswald Fuchs's study on Ockham's conception of habits in 1952,4 Gordon Lefrs monograph on Ockham in 1975,S and Taina Holopainen's 1991 study on Ockham's ethics. 6 Ockham's main interest in passions, that is, when he deals with them in various contexts in his works, 155 H. Lagerlund and M. Yrjiinsuuri (eds.), Emotions and Choice from Boethius to Descartes 155-171. © 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers.

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seems more ontological than subjective-psychological, although he also makes remarks on passions from the point of view of their subject. (1) Let us begin with the Exposition of Aristotle's Categories, chapter 14, §6-§8, in which Ockham comments on Aristotle's discussion of the third species of quality in the Categories, chapter 8. The elements in the third species of quality are called passions and passible qualities, no matter whether they are corporeal qualities or the qualities of the soul. The difference between the passions and passible qualities is that the former ones are easily changeable and the latter ones only with difficulty. The text contains two considerations of the passions of the soul. The first occurs when Ockham discusses the corporeal pas sible qualities, such as those colors, hotnesses and coldnesses that are changeable only with difficulty. It turns out that the corporeal pas sible qualities either cause or are caused by the passions of the soul. What are those passions? According to Ockharn, the word 'passion' has several uses in the case of the soul. Some of them refer to the appetitive phenomena of the soul, like the one according to which passion is an act (actus) of an appetitive potency that is followed by delight or sadness. In this way Aristotle, according to Ockham, uses the word 'passion' in book 2 of the Nicomachean Ethics, where he gives the following list of passions: concupiscence, rage, fear, courage, envy, joy, friendship, hatred, desire, zeal and pity. Ockham then continues by saying that sometimes the term 'passion' is used for delight or sadness, and sometimes for all the acts of the appetite that follow cognition. 7 According to Ockham, a human being has two appetitive potencies, the sensory appetite (which also the brute animals have) and the intellectual appetite, the will. It seems that 'appetitive potency' here refers both to the sensory appetite and the will, since Ockham says that the question of whether delight can be distinguished from an act of the intellectual or the sensory appetite is not discussed in logic. 8 What, then, is meant by the passions of the soul in the context of the corporeal passible qualities? After having mentioned the above uses, Ockham says that in that context 'passion' is used for delight or sadness which follow sensory apprehension. 9 A little later he notes that in this place Aristotle uses the term 'passion' for delight or sadness or fear and things like those that are in the sensory part, and follow a cognition and do not remain in the absence of a cognition. IO The second discussion of the passions of the soul in the text considered is a comparison between pas sible qualities and passions of the soul. Aristotle

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says, according to Ockham, that those qualities of the soul that are caused by not easily changeable passions or by whatever cause and are permanent and changeable with difficulty are called passible qualities. Because of them, someone, for instance, is said to be mad (demens) or hostile (iracundus).ll Correspondingly, those qualities of the soul that are caused by easily changeable passions and are not permanent or with difficulty changeable are called passions. Because of them, someone, for instance, is said to be angry (iratus), which does not mean being so permanently.12 This text in the Exposition of Aristotle's Categories, c. 14 is the only one in which Ockham talks about pas sible qualities of the soul. Ockham usually considers the things in the soul in accordance with an analysis based on the division of the things of the soul presented in the Nicomachean Ethics and that division does not involve passible qualities. (2) In the Exposition of Aristotle's Physics, VII, c. 4, § 9, Ockham deals with virtues and states that there are two opinions I3 of the passions. According to the first one, passion is not a thing distinct from corporeal qualities and other dispositions but a corporeal quality which is sensed by its subject. For instance, pain (dolor) is just an inconvenient heat. The same can be said about joy (gaudium), hope (spes) and other such things. 14 According to the second opinion, passions are qualities proper to the animated beings, that is, to the beings that have souls, and they are distinct from all the qualities which nonanimated beings can have. For instance, anger (ira) is not only an ascension of blood around the heart, but it is a quality which is caused by the blood, and such a quality cannot be found in a non-animated being. 15 Ockham is here speaking about two views about passions with respect to physiological changes. According to the first one, pain, for instance, is a bodily state which is perceived, and according to the second one, something in the soul which is caused by a bodily state. The details of the theories are not explicated and Ockham does not discuss them. It is enough for him to state that no matter which opinion is right, there are no virtues or vices without passions, such as joy (gaudium), anger (ira), and sadness (tristitia).16 (3) In the Commentary on the Third Book of the Sentences, q. 12, Ockham discusses passions, locating them in the sensory appetite. The topic of passions comes up when Ockham deals with the question of whether all the virtuous habits are generated from acts. How could habits be generated in the sensory appetite, since there seem to be only passions there, and they do not

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generate habits?17 Ockham's answer is that the habits in question are generated by acts, since passions are reduced to acts. However, this is a suspect claim and Ockham takes great pains to prove it. As a matter of fact, he tries to show that in Aristotle passions are acts. The first argument runs as follows: In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle says that there are only three things in the soul, namely passions, potencies and habits. But there are acts in the soul. So, Aristotle takes a passion to be an act. IS The second argument is based on the examples of the passions that Aristotle gives. The list of passions that Ockham refers to is the same as occurred in text (I) discussed above, except that the last passion is not pity (as it is in Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics), but justice: concupiscence, rage, fear, courage, envy, joy, friendship, hatred, desire, zeal and justice. All the things that Aristotle calls passions are, according to Ockham, acts of an appetitive potency.19 The third argument deals with delight and sadness: Every passion is either delight or sadness or precedes them. It is neither delight nor sadness, since according to Aristotle those two follow passions, and, hence, cannot be passions. So every passion precedes delight or sadness. But they are not preceded except by acts. Therefore a passion, properly taken, is an act. 20 In this connection, Ockham, once again, presents an explanation of the various ways to take 'passion' (in the meaning of an appetitive phenomenon). Taken properly, 'passion' is used for an act elicited in the sensory appetitive potency that is effectively caused partially by intuitive or abstractive sensory cognition and partially by appetitive potency. Taking it properly and broadly, it is used for all the acts concerned, but taking it properly and strictly, it is used for intense and vehement acts, that is, acts which vehemently impel to exterior acts. Taken improperly, 'passion' is used for delight and sadness. They follow the phenomena that are passions when the term 'passion' is used properly.21 A little later in the same text Ockham gives additional proofs for the claim that passions are acts. In the first of them he takes up some Aristotelian examples of passions and claims that they cannot be distinguished from the acts of the sensory appetite. For example, anger (ira) is taken as passion, and to get angry (irasci) as an act of the sensory appetite, and it does not seem that those two can be distinguished in anyone. So passions are acts. 22 The second argument deals with movements. According to Aristotle (in On the Soul), the movements of the appetitive potencies are passions. However, the movements in question are acts. So, passions are acts. 23 The last proof

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deals with potencies. According to Aristotle, we call potencies those things through which we receive passions. But something is called a potency with respect to elicited acts. Therefore, passions are acts?4 In this text Ockham discusses passions, locating them in the sensory appetite. However, after Ockham has presented his view that at least some passions are acts of an appetitive potency, there is an objection that this stand means that passions can also be posited in the will, since there are acts in the will, and the will is an appetitive potency.25 Ockham does not, however, respond to that in this text. (4) ill the Quodlibetal Questions, II, q. 15, Ockham discusses the passions in the sensory appetite. He defends the position according to which passion and act do not differ in the sensory appetite by proofs that resemble some of the proofs in the Commentary on the Sentences discussed in text (3) above. The first proof runs as follows: According to Aristotle, there is nothing but potency (potencies), habits and passions in the soul. Passions are neither potencies nor habits. So, they are acts. 26 The second proof is based on examples of passions. It runs as follows: joy, pain, hope, fear and love are counted as passions. Love is an act, and so is fear. Therefore, those things that are counted as passions are acts?? The third proof is also based on examples of passions: by passions, Aristotle means concupiscence, anger, fear, daring, envy, joy, friendship, hatred, desire, zeal and justice. These are all acts of the appetite. Therefore, by passions, Aristotle means acts of the appetite,z8 The fourth proof is based on habits. It runs as follows: the passions can be curbed by virtuous habits. It is sufficient to curb acts. Therefore, passions are acts?9 ill this text, Ockham claims that the passions of the sensory appetite are acts, even, as it seems, all of them. That delight and sadness or rather pain in the sensory appetite are also acts is even more clearly said in the Quodlibetal Questions, III, q. 17.30 Also in the Quodlibetal Questions, II, q. 15, the objection comes up according to which Ockham's view of identifying (at least most of) the passions with acts of an appetitive potency means that passions can also be posited in the will?l Ockham's response to this is in question 17.

(5) ill the Quodlibetal Questions II, q. 17, Ockham first states that by the term 'passion' he means every form that exists in an appetitive potency, which naturally can be regulated by right reason, and that requires an actual cognition in order to exist. 32 Then he continues by saying that "briefly said",

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passion is a fonn (jonna aliqua) that is distinct from a cognition, which exists in an appetitive potency, and that requires an actual cognition in order to exist. 33 Such a fonn is, of course, an accidental fonn of the soul, and a quality, ontologically speaking. After this he remarks that the conditions exclude some candidates. The non-appetitive qualities in the souls are excluded by the first and the second conditions, and the appetitive qualities that are habits by the third. 34 Then Ockham ponders what different things pass the conditions, that is, for which various things can the tenn 'passion' be used on the grounds of what was said. In fact, a great number of things pass the conditions and appear to be passions. The result is that acts of the sensory appetite, but also acts of the will, and delight and sadness that are in the will are passions. 35 The question of whether there are passions in the will seems to be answered. After this statement, Ockham still finds it necessary to give a proof that deals with examples of passions. It runs: love, hope, fear and joy are in the will, and they are commonly taken as passions. Delight and sadness are also in the will, and they also are passions. Therefore, there are passions in the will. 36 What then should be concluded on the grounds of the texts considered above? As it turns out, in the Exposition of Aristotle's Categories, c. 14, the Exposition of Aristotle's Physics VII, c. 4, the Commentary on the Third Book of the Sentences, q. 12, and in the Quodlibetal Questions, IT, q. 15, Ockham explains various uses of the tenn 'passion' in psychological contexts. In the Quodlibetal Questions, II, q. 17, he states what he takes a passion of the soul to be: A fonn that exists in an appetitive potency, which naturally can be regulated by right reason, and that requires an actual cognition in order to exist, or, in other words, a fonn that is distinct from a cognition, which exists in an appetitive potency, and which requires an actual cognition in order to exist. What are such accidental fonns or qualities of the soul? The result is that almost all the passions are identified with the acts of the sensory appetite and the will. It still has to be noticed that Ockham's explanations of passions are not meant to be exhaustive characterizations of passions. For instance, the role of the bodily qualities (such as heat and coldness) in the genesis of passions is not to a great extent explained in them. If the passions were considered from the point of view of a good life and morality, the virtuous and vicious bodily qualities should certainly be discussed. 37

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PASSIONS OF THE SENSORY APPETITE Despite admitting that the phenomena of the will can be called 'passions', Ockham most often in his texts uses the term 'passion' for the phenomena of the sensory appetite. The Quodlibetal Questions, III, q. 18, is an illustrating example of this. Ockham there asks whether the moral virtues have the passions as their matter and there he means by passions only the phenomena of the sensory appetite. 38 In the Commentary on the Second Book of the Sentences, q. 17, he (in passing) even remarks that the passions exist only in the sensory appetite. 39 As a matter of fact, this was the traditional view of the passions. Since Augustine, it was commonly thought that there were passions only in the sensory part of the human being, since the passions were thought to be essentially connected with bodily changes, and the phenomena of the will were not thought to be such. Ockham does not, however, use this criterion of passions. Which passions or passion-types are there in the sensory appetite? On the grounds of Ockham's most extensive treatments of passions, it would seem that all the passions in the Aristotelian list are taken to be passions of the sensory appetite.40 In addition, Ockham, in various contexts, explicitly speaks of some of the passions in the lists (such as anger and hatred,41 fear42 and courage 43) as passions of the sensory appetite. On the other hand, in those texts in which Ockham discusses the acts in the sensory appetite without calling them 'passions', he clearly states that there are only four acts in the sensory appetite. In the Various Questions (Quaestiones variae), q. 6, a. 9, and in the Quodlibetal Questions, III, q. 17, he states that the acts in the sensory appetite are desire (desiderium) and avoidance (juga), and in addition to them, there can be delight (delectatio) and pain (dolor)44 in the sensory appetite. Which of those four phenomena occurs depends on the cognition that causes it. With respect to the objects that are cognized as absent and not possessed there can only be desire or avoidance. Correspondingly, with respect to the objects that are cognized as present and possessed, there can only be delight or pain. In the sensory appetite, delight and pain cannot be distinguished from acts towards present objects, since they are those acts. 45 So, is this four-fold division of acts in the sensory appetite in disharmony with what Ockham says about passions in the sensory appetite in his most extensive treatments of passions? Not necessarily. Ockham's main point is to say that in the sensory appetite there is no love and hatred distinct from delight and sadness as there is in the will. On the grounds of this, it could per-

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haps be said that to illustrate the classification of the phenomena in the sensory appetite Ockham seems to accept the simple Stoic model which involves desire, joy, fear, and sorrow. That model was commonly known in the Middle Ages. PASSIONS OF THE WILL In the Middle Ages, the term 'passion' was traditionally used for the phe-

nomena of the will only in a loose sense or in another sense than for the forms in the sensory appetite, since the phenomena of the will were not thought to be essentially connected with bodily changes. For instance, Thomas Aquinas thought that by taking the term 'passion' analogically, one could posit passions in the will.46 In the end of the thirteenth century, the Franciscans seem to have began to re-estimate this solution. Before Ockham, at least Duns Scotus posited passions in the will without emphasizing that it was a question of passions in the loose sense of the term. 47 Ockham sees the identifying element of the passions of the soul in their being acts or certain other forms of an appetitive potency, and consequently he does not see any problem in speaking about love, fear, etc. in the will as passions. Which passions or passion-types are there in the will? Ockham seems to think that the same Aristotelian terms that are used for the passions of the sensory appetite can be used for the passions of the will. As argued before, in the Quodlibetal Questions, II, q. 17, Ockham gives examples of some passions of the will: love, hope, fear, joy, delight, and sadness. To find out more about Ockham's view of the phenomena of the will, one has to tum to Ockham's earlier works where he does not call the acts of the will 'passions'. The principal text in which Ockham discusses the classifying of the phenomena of the will is his consideration of fruition in the Commentary on the First Book of the Sentences, the first distinction (questions 1--6). Especially important is question 3 where Ockham discusses the subject of whether fruition is a quality that is really distinct from delight. This text is most central, not only in order to understand fruition, which belongs to love-acts, but also in order to understand generally the acts and other things in the will. Ockham presents there his view of the phenomena of the will in a discussion with Peter Aureol. He thinks that Peter Aureol, at least in some cases, identified love and delight, and hatred and sadness. Against such a view, Ockham maintains that, unlike in the sensory appetite, there is in the will love (dilectio, complacentia, amor amicitiae, fruitio) and hatred (odium, di.lplicentia)

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really distinct from delight (delectatio) and sadness (tristitia). In his argumentation, Ockham uses both theological and experiential proofs, partly coming from Scotus. The theological proofs refer mostly to the cases of the damned in hell or the blessed in heaven. The damned will or love something that is present, but they do not feel delight from it, and the blessed willagainst or hate something present, but they do not feel sadness from it. As an experiential proof, Ockham refers to a furious person's love that cannot be delight. So, according to Ockham, there is love and hatred, desire (desiderium) and avoidance (fuga), as well as delight and sadness in the will. Desire/sadness and lovelhatred are acts of the will. The former ones can only be caused when the object is realized as absent, but the latter ones can be caused no matter whether the object is realized as absent or present. Delight/sadness are not acts but passions caused by lovelhatred when the object is realized as present. 48 By emphasizing the role of the acts of the will in the genesis of delight/sadness, Ockham defends the freedom of the will with respect to them, although the freedom is indirect. The theme that mostly interests Ockham in the case of the passions of the will is this distinction between delight/sadness and lovelhatred. In the traditional view of passions, it was often thought that passions were 'passions' also in the sense that they were passive reactions to cognitions, not free acts of their subject. In speaking about the passions of the will, Ockham cannot employ this criterion. The conception of the will as a free self-mover was among the basic tenets of Franciscan voluntarism. However, as seen above, there are at least two basic phenomena in the will that are not directly caused by the will, namely delight and sadness. They are passions of the will also in the sense that they are not its free acts. It is worth noting that even in the places where Ockham does not call the acts of the will 'passions', he calls delight and sadness 'passions' .49 The idea that delight and sadness are not among the free acts of the will but rather caused states in it was put forward by Scotus. Ockham follows him. Such an idea involves an interesting psychological insight about the nature of psychic feelings. According to it, even though delight usually follows when a desire is fulfilled, it cannot be directly caused by the will. It is still not directly caused by a cognition of a fulfillment of the desire, unlike in the sensory appetite. It is caused by a free act of the will towards the present state of affairs, and is indirectly free. The difference between willing or loving the fulfillment of the desire and taking delight in it is illustrated by the example of the damned and the blessed. Even though, for example, the devil

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wills or loves something it has desired and what has happened, it does not take delight in it. So, Ockham thinks that delight and sadness exist in the will as qualities which cannot be induced by simply willing them. On the whole, Ockham's division of the basic phenomena of the will much resembles the Thomistic classification of 'concupiscible' passions in the sensory appetite. According to Aquinas, the 'concupiscible' passions are lovelhatred, desire/aversion, and joy/sorrow. Ockham is, however, by no means as detailed as Aquinas in his discussion of these passions. To see the similarity compare the table below with Aquinas's famous taxonomy: Desire (desUlerium) Love (delectatw) Delight (delectatio) Avoidance (juga) Hate (odium) Sadness (tristitia)

Good X X X

Evil

X X X

Absent X X X X

Present X X X X

In some texts, Ockham also posits some other phenomena of the will, namely some of them which Aquinas calls the 'irascible' ones. In Aquinas's list, these are hope/despair, fear/courage, and anger.50 The contents of the elements may still be understood in different ways in Thomas and in Ockham. Of Aquinas 'irascible' acts, Ockham posits at least hope (spes), despair (desperatio) and fear (timor) in the will. An act of hope presupposes two acts whose consequence it is: (1) an act of desiring something (this act is in the will), and (2) an act of believing that the desired thing will happen or is possible to happen (this act is in the intellect).51 Despair is an act that is naturally caused when there are conjointly (I) an act of desiring something, and (2) an act of believing that the desired thing will not happen or is impossible. 52 Fear is naturally caused when there are conjointly (1) an act of avoiding something (this act is in the will), and (2) an act of believing or suspecting that the avoided thing cannot be avoided but will happen (this act is in the intellect).53 Courage (audacia) occurs in Ockham in the Aristotelian lists of passions, but as far as I know, he does not deal with it in connection with the will. If he has posited it in the will, it would probably be the positive counterpart of fear, and caused when there are conjointly (1) an act of avoiding something, and (2) an act of believing that the avoided thing can be avoided. Like courage, anger (ira) occurs in Ockham in the Aristotelian lists of passions, but as far as I know, it is not discussed in connection with the

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will either. If Ockham has posited it in the will, it might be caused when there are conjointly 1) an act of hatred towards something (this act is in the will), and 2) an act of believing that the hated thing is happening (present) (this act is in the intellect). If I am right, we see yet again that this resembles Aquinas. Compare this table with Aquinas taxonomy of the irascible passIOns: Object absent Good, desired Hope (spes) Despair (desperatio) Courage (audacia) ? Fear (timor)

X X

Evil, avoided Fulfillment possible X

Fulfillment not possible

X X

X

X

X

Object present

An er (ira)?

CONCLUSIONS As a summary of the main points of Ockham' s view of the passions, one can say the following: every accidental form (quality) is a passion which exists in an appetitive potency, which naturally can be regulated by right reason, and which requires an actual cognition in order to exist. Such traditional criteria of passions as being connected with bodily changes and passivity are not used by Ockham. On the grounds of Ockham's criteria, the following things are taken to be passions: acts in the sensory appetite, acts in the will, and in addition to them, certain phenomena in the will that are not acts. Principally, the traditional passion term can be applied to both the passions of the sensory appetite and the will. In the sensory appetite, the basic passions are desire/avoidance and delight/pain. They are acts caused by a cognition. The former ones can only be caused when the object is realized as absent, and the latter ones when it is realized as present. In the will, the fourfold division of passions is not valid. In contrast to Peter Aureol's view, Ockham claims that as basic passions, in addition to desire/avoidance and delight/sadness, there is lovelhatred in the will. Desire/sadness and love/hatred are acts of the will. The former ones can only be caused when the object is realized as absent, but the latter ones can be caused whether the

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object is realized as absent or present. Delight/sadness are not acts but passions caused by lovelhatred, especially when the object is realized as present. By emphasizing the role of the acts of the will in the genesis of delight/sadness, Ockham defends the freedom of the will with respect to them, although the freedom is indirect.

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NOTES

10

11 12

13

14

15

16

Ockham himself explains various meanings of the term 'passion' in Exp. praed. Arist., c. 14; (OP, 11,277-278: 21-43). See also Etzkorn (1990), pp. 269-270. Ockham's works to which I refer in this article belong to this series of editions: William Ockham, Opera philosophica (OP, I-VlI) et theologica (OT, I-X), eds. P. Boehner et al. See footnote 1. See Fuchs (1952). See Leff (1975). See Holopainen (1991). "Alio modo dicitur passio actus potentiae appetitivae quem sequitur delectatio vel tristitia; et isto modo aecipitur II Ethicorum, ubi dicit Philosophus sic: 'Dico autem passiones quidem concupiscentiam, iram, timorem, audaciam, invidiam, gaudium, amicitiam, odium, desiderium, zelum, misericordiam, et universaliter quibus sequitur delectatio vel tristitia '. - Aliquando autem accipitur passio pro delectatione vel tristitia. - Aliquando accipitur pro omni actu appetitus consequentis cognitionem." (Ockham, Exp. Praed. Arist., c. 14; OP, II, 278: 36-43.) "Utrum autem delectatio distinguatur ab actu appetitus sive intellectivi sive sensitivi vel non, non est logici considerare." (Ibid., 278: 44-45.) "Sed dieD quod in proposito accipitur passio pro deleetatione vel tristitia eonsequente apprehensionem sensitivam... " (Ibid., 278: 45-47.) " .. .in parte praecedenti aceipit {PhilosophusJ passionem pro deleetatione vel tristitia vel timore et huiusmodi, quae sunt in parte sensitiva, et sequuntur cognitionem, et non manent in absentia cognitionis... " (Ibid., 280: 17-20.) See ibid., 282: 3-7. See ibid., 282: 7-10. The editors of the ~xposition of Aristotle's Physics say that they do not know the origin of these opinions. See Ockham, Exp. Ph),s. Arist., VII, c. 4; OP,. V, 656: footnote 2. "Verumtamen de passionibus duae sunt opiniones. Una est quod passio non est aliqua res distineta a qualitatibus et aliis dispositionibus corporalibus, sed est ipsa qualitas sensibilis, sed nonnisi quando homo sentit. Et sicut dolor quando dolet homo de nimia calefactione, ille dolor non est nisi calor disconveniens causatus in membro praehabente debitas dispositiones quando homo est actu sentiens, ita quod non est aliqua qualitas intermedia causata a calore tali. Et sicut ponit de dolore, ita proportionaliter ponit de gaudio, spe et huiusmodi." (Ibid., 656: 39-46.) "Alia opinio ponit quod passiones sunt quaedam qualitates propriae animatis, distinctae ab omni qualitate cuius similis potest inanimato competere. Ita quod ira non est tantum ascensus sanguinis circa cor, sed est quaedam qualitas a sanguine tunc causata, qualis qualitas in nullo inanimato poterit repetiri." (Ibid., 656: 47-51.) "Sed sive sic sive sic, semper habetur intentum principale quod quando virtus et vitium generantur per consuetudinem actuum tatium qualium sunt generatim, non fiunt sine alteratione sicut nec fiunt sine passione. Unde gaudium, iram, tristitiam et huiusmodi vocat hic Aristoteles passiones." (Ibid., 656: 51-55.)

168

17

IS

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

VESA HIRVONEN

" ... est dijJicultas magna de parte sensitiva: ex quibus actibus generantur habitus in parte sensitiva? Quia in appetitu sensitivo non videtur esse nisi passio, sed passio non videtur generare habitum... " (Ockham, Rep., III, q. 12; OT, VI, 398: 12-15.) " ... Philosophus dicit quod in anima sunt tantum tria, scilicet passiones, potentiae et habitus. Sed constat quod in anima est actus. Igitur per passionem intelligit actum." (Ibid., 399: 19-400: 3.) " ... quod [Philosophus] per 'passiones' inteliigit actum patet per exemp/a sua. Ait enim: 'Dico autem passiones quidem concupiscentiam, iram, timorem, audaciam, invidiam, gaudium, amicitiam, odium, desiderium, zelum, iustitiam '. Et omnes isti sunt actus potentiae appetitivae.lgituretc." (Ibid., 400: 11-15.) omnis passio vel est deleetalio vel tristitia vel aliquid praevium alteri eo rum. Sed non est delectalio nec tristilia. Nam secundum Philosophum, deleelatio et tristitia consequuntur passionem; igitur non sunt ipsa passio. Igitur est aliquid praevium delectationi et tristitiae. Sed nihil est praevium istis nisi actus. Igitur passio proprie est actus, et sic intelligit Philosophus. Nec est differentia aliqua inter actum et passionem proprie loquendo de passione." (Ibid., 400: 20-401: 7.) "Sciendum tamen quod passio tripliciter accipitur. Uno modo proprie, et sic accipitur pro ipso actu elicito a potentia appetitiva sensitiva, qui actus causatur effective ab apprehensione sive cognitione sensitiva, intuitiva vel abstractiva, sicut a causa partiali una, et a potentia appetitiva sicut ab alia causa partiali... Alio modo aecipitur passio improprie pro delectatione vel tristitia consequente passionem primo modo dictam. Sed sic accipere est improprie accipere. Primo modo accipiendo passionem potest adhuc accipi large, et sic accipitur pro omni actu appetitus sensitivi. Alio modo stricte, et sic accipitur pro actu intenso et vehemente, vehementer impellente ad actum exteriorem." (Ibid., 401: 8-12, 20402: 4.) "Quod autem istae passiones sunt actus eliciti patet per exempla et rationes. Per exempla: ira enim ponitur passio et irasci actus appetitus sensitivi. Et non videtur quod ira et irasci in aliquo distinguuntur. Similiter, secundum Philosophum, odium est passio partis sensitivae, et lamen ibi non est ponere duplex odium, unum passionem et aliud actum. Et similiter est de coneupiscentia quod non est ibi duplex concupiscentia, una passio et alia actus." (Ibid., 409: 1-8.) " ... Philosophus, II De anima dicit quod motus potentiae appetitivae est cum phantasia boni vel mali secundum passiones. Et dicit quod illi motus sunt passiones. Sed illi motus sunt actus. Igitur passiones sunt actus." (Ibid., 409: 9-12.) "Item, [Philosophus,] II Ethicorum dicit: potentias dicimus secundum quas passibiles sumus, id est, secundum quas receptivi sumus passionum. Sed potentia receptivi sumus passionum. Sed potentia dicitur respectu actus eliciti. Igitur etc." (Ibid., 409: 12-15.) " ... si sic, tunc possent poni passiones in voluntate sicut in parte sensitiva, quia actus bani et mali moraliter ponuntur in voluntate; et iliae sunt passiones per te; conclusio falsa et contra omnes qui ponunl passiones solum in parte sensitiva." (Ibid., 406: 1-4.) " ... in appetitu sensitivo passio et actus non differunt. Quod probatur, quia secundum Philosophum, II Ethicorum, in anima non sunt nisi potentia, habitus et passiones; sed pasH •••

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27 28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

169

siones non sunt potentiae nec habitus; igitur sunt actus." (Qckham, Quodl., II, q. 15; QT, IX, 178-179: 9-13.) (The inference does not seem to be in order.) "/tem istae ponuntur passiones: gaudium, dolor, spes, timor et amor; sed amor est actus, et timor; igitur etc." (Ibid., 179: 13-14.) "Item Philosophus, ubi prius, dicit sic: 'Dico autem passiones quemadmodum concupiscentiam, iram, timorem, audaciam, invidiam, gaudium, amicitiam, odium, desiderium, zelum, iustitiam'; et omnes isti suntactus appetitus; igituretc." (Ibid., 179: 15-18.) "Item passiones sunt refrenandae per habitus virtuosos; sed sufficit refrenare actus; igitur etc." (Ibid., 179: 18-20.) "Hic primo videndum est an dolor et delectatio appetitus sensitivi distinguantur ab actu... Circa primum dico quod quamvis voluntas simul, dum habet tristitiam vel delectationem, habeat actum volendi vel nolendi distinctum ab istis passionibus, tamen appetitus sensitivus non habet simul actus distinctos a