Robert Kilwardby (Great Medieval Thinkers) 9780190674755, 9780190674762, 9780190674779, 9780197510889, 019067475X

Table of contents :
cover
Half title
Series
Robert Kilwardby
Copyright
Contents
Series Foreword
Preface
List of Abbreviations
Introduction
1 Living: The Life and Works of Robert Kilwardby
The Life
The Works
2 Being
The Metaphysics of Plurality
Matter
Form
The Letter to Peter of Conflans
Animal Generation
Active Potencies
The Human Soul
Is the Soul (the) One?
The Unity of Form(s)
At Oxford in 1277
Excursus: The Human Soul in the Sentences
Motion
A Questionnaire
Celestial Motion
Time
3 Being Logical
Words, Thoughts, and Things
Interpretation
The Category of Relation
4 Knowing
Perception
On the Reception of Sensible Species
Attention and Activity
Cognition
Thinking
Representing and Instantiating
Universality
Scientific Knowledge
Knowledge
Demonstration
Preexisting Knowledge
First Principles
Principles
Conditions for Predication
Signs of Affections
What Can Be Demonstrated?
Definitions
Disciplining the Disciplines
Subalternation
5 Behaving
Ethics: The Science of Happiness
The Good
The Cause of Happiness
The Virtues
Voluntary Action
6 Believing
Theology
The Divine Trinity
Where From? Creation as a Kind of Change
Angels
Creator and Creatures
Which One? The Free Choice of the Will
By Heaven’s Grace
Gratis: Sin and Evil
On Sacraments
Faith
7 Incarnating
I Assume
I Know
I Suffer
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Robert Kilwardby

GREAT MEDIEVAL THINKERS Series Editor Brian Davies Fordham University

BOETHIUS John Marenbon

PETER LOMBARD Philipp W. Rosemann

ABELARD AND HELOISE Constant J. Mews BONAVENTURE Christopher M. Cullen

AL-​KINDĪ Peter Adamson

ANSELM Sandra Visser and Thomas Williams

HUGH OF SAINT VICTOR Paul Rorem JOHN WYCLIF Stephen E. Lahey

JOHN BURIDAN Gyula Klima AVICENNA Jon McGinnis

ROBERT HOLCOT John T. Slotemaker and Jeffrey C. Witt

ROBERT KILWARDBY José Filipe Silva

•

Robert Kilwardby José Filipe Silva

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2020 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Silva, José Filipe, author. Title: Robert Kilwardby / José Filipe Silva. Description: New York : Oxford University Press, 2020. | Series: Great medieval thinkers | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019048939 (print) | LCCN 2019048940 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190674755 (hardback) | ISBN 9780190674762 (paperback) | ISBN 9780190674779 (epub) | ISBN 9780197510889 Subjects: LCSH: Kilwardby, Robert, –1279. | Philosophy, Medieval. | Logic, Medieval. | Theology—History—Middle ages, 600–1500. | Philosophers, Medieval—Biography. | Theologians—England—Biography. Classification: LCC B765. K54 S54 2020 (print) | LCC B765. K54 (ebook) | DDC 189/. 4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019048939 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019048940 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Paperback printed by Marquis, Canada Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America

Contents

Series Foreword  ix Preface  xiii List of Abbreviations  xv

Introduction  1 1. Living: The Life and Works of Robert Kilwardby  5 The Life  5 The Works  11 2. Being  16 The Metaphysics of Plurality  16 Matter  16 Form  26

The Letter to Peter of Conflans  28

Animal Generation  29 Active Potencies  31 The Human Soul  34 Is the Soul (the) One?  37 The Unity of Form(s)  41 At Oxford in 1277  47 Excursus: The Human Soul in the Sentences  52

v

vi  Contents Motion  56

A Questionnaire  56 Celestial Motion  57 Time  62

3.

Being Logical  75 Words, Thoughts, and Things  75 Interpretation  80 The Category of Relation  85 4 . Knowing  94 Perception 94

On the Reception of Sensible Species  95 Attention and Activity  105

Cognition  112

Thinking  113 Representing and Instantiating  118 Universality  120

Scientific Knowledge  125

Knowledge  126 Demonstration  128 Preexisting Knowledge  131 First Principles  135 Principles  137 Conditions for Predication  139 Signs of Affections  140 What Can Be Demonstrated?  142 Definitions  145 Disciplining the Disciplines  149 Subalternation  154

5.

Behaving  171 Ethics: The Science of Happiness  172 The Good  180 The Cause of Happiness  185 The Virtues  188 Voluntary Action  193

6. Believing  204 Theology  205 The Divine Trinity  209 Where From? Creation as a Kind of Change  210

Contents  vii Angels  215 Creator and Creatures  218 Which One? The Free Choice of the Will  219 By Heaven’s Grace  225 Gratis: Sin and Evil  229 On Sacraments  235 Faith  240

7.

Incarnating  253 I Assume  254 I Know  264 I Suffer  268

Bibliography  279 Index  295

Series Foreword

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

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

Series Foreword   xi in medieval philosophy and theology are by no means so fortunate when it comes to reliable and accessible volumes. The Great Medieval Thinkers series aspires to remedy that deficiency by concentrating on medieval philosophers and theologians, and by offering solid overviews of their lives and thought coupled with contemporary reflection on what they had to say. Taken individually, volumes in the series provide valuable treatments of single thinkers, many of whom are not currently covered by any comparable volumes. Taken together, they will constitute a rich and distinguished history and discussion of medieval philosophy and theology considered as a whole. With an eye on college and university students, and with an eye on the general reader, authors of volumes in the series strive to write in a clear and accessible manner so that those who have no previous knowledge about each of the thinkers they write about can learn about them. But each contributor to the series also intends to inform, engage, and generally entertain even those with specialist knowledge in the area of medieval thinking. So, as well as surveying and introducing, volumes in the series seek to advance the state of medieval studies at both the historical and the speculative levels. The subject of this volume has been studied much less than some of his contemporaries with intellectual interests similar to his. Robert Kilwardby was born around 1215 and died in 1279. So he overlapped with, for example, St. Albert the Great (d. 1280), St. Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274), and St. Bonaventure (d. 1274). He had personal dealings with Albert and Aquinas, and it is possible that he was one of Bonaventure’s teachers, though he is currently nothing like as well-​known as these three thinkers. Yet his intellectual legacy is considerable and distinguished, as José Filipe Silva admirably explains. Silva is one of the world’s experts on Kilwardby, and readers of this book will see how strong a case can be made for Kilwardby’s significance when it comes to the history of medieval thought. Kilwardby worked for much of his life as a teacher. Well-​acquainted with the philosophy of Aristotle, he taught philosophy in Paris and theology in Oxford. His writings include discussions of logic, philosophical grammar, and ethics. His lectures on these topics come down to us as the most complete collection of surviving works from the Faculty of Arts in Paris in the first half of the thirteenth century. Once he was settled in Oxford he began to focus on explicitly theological matters without abandoning his philosophical interests. In texts derived from his later years he displays a

xii  Series Foreword concern to harmonize traditional Augustinian theology with Aristotelian philosophy. Kilwardby’s life, however, was not just that of an academic. He was for a while a very active provincial of the English Province of the Dominican Order, which he joined following his teaching period in Paris. From 1273 to 1278 he was also archbishop of Canterbury. So he is a medieval figure of note quite apart from his contribution to scholarship. Yet it is this contribution on which Silva enthusiastically focuses in this book. More concerned with Kilwardby’s philosophy and theology than his biography, it presents a fine account of him that nobody with serious interests in medieval thinking can afford to ignore. Brian Davies Series Editor

Preface

I started writing this book on a gray and wet afternoon, just like one that Kilwardby certainly lived through in rainy Canterbury. This is something the reader should keep in mind: even if Kilwardby’s world was very different from ours in many ways, there is a sense in which his everyday life experiences were quite similar:  as human beings, we either hope for or dread the rain. How we feel about it—​whether we are made happy by its beauty, irritated by wet clothes, or annoyed by ruined picnic plans—​ can vary more between us, you the reader and me, than between you and Kilwardby, despite living in different centuries. Differences or similarities are not just about the weather. They can be about almost anything. Did Kilwardby really mean it when he wrote: “love does not originate from love but from knowledge”? To be honest, even though I have spent many years reading Kilwardby (and about him), I don’t know what he really meant. What matters here is that I offer an interpretation of it. To present such an interpretation is the purpose of this book, to read carefully what Kilwardby wrote more than eight centuries ago and to try to make sense of what he said—​as well as how and why he said it. During the years it took me to write this book, I have been inspired (and assisted) by many scholars. My indebtedness to them is noted throughout the book in the notes and bibliography. I am obliged to most of the authors who

xiii

xiv  Preface have written on Kilwardby—​in the end, we are a very small group—​but in particular to the pioneering work on Kilwardby done by the late Patrick Osmund Lewry. In addition, I am particularly grateful for the generosity of Alessandro Conti and Anthony Celano, who kindly made their forthcoming editions of Kilwardby’s works available to me. Then, there are also those who taught me how to do this job of writing about people in a very distant past, who believed they had something to contribute on (sometimes) very interesting, (frequently) odd, and (too often) boring topics. It takes time and skill to teach one how to do this properly. Simo Knuuttila has been a generous mentor from the very start and continues to be a demanding interlocutor. In addition to being taught how to do things properly, we learn by practice, often by sharing space (in both figurative and literal senses) with other academics. I  have been very fortunate with my colleagues in Theoretical Philosophy at the University of Helsinki. I have also been fortunate enough to acquire enough funding to complete my research without interruption, especially from the European Research Council for my project “Rationality in Perception:  Transformations of Mind and Cognition 1250–​1550.” Acknowledgment goes to Brian Davies, editor of the Great Medieval Thinkers series, and Cynthia Read, at Oxford University Press, for their resolute patience; I submitted this book so late, I am pretty sure that they almost gave up on me, and I am happy they didn’t. Brian Davies was especially helpful in the numerous suggestions he offered to improve the readability of the book, and for that I also owe him thanks. My final words go to my family, Sofia and Tomás, whom I adore. But this book is dedicated to my godmother, Maria de Lurdes, who died during the time it was written. She never learned to read or write but taught me everything that matters and proved Kilwardby wrong when he said: amor non ex amore procedit, sed ex notitia (QLIS 36, 97.164–​165).

Abbreviations

D43Q DNR DOS DSF DT E ET I IDAM LDB LPA LSP LT NLPA NLPost NLPri NSLP NSLPery NSLPor QLIS

Responsio de XLIII questionibus De natura relationis De ortu scientiarum De spiritu fantastico De tempore Epistola Roberti Kilwardby ad Petrum de Confleto Super Ethicorum The Injunctions of Archbishop Kilwardby In Donati artem maiorem III Commentary on the Liber Divisionum Boethii Egidii Romani in libros Priorum analeticorum Aristotelis Commentary on the Liber Sex Principiorum In libri topycorum Notulae libri Prisciani De accentibus Notule Libri Posteriorum Notule Libri Priorum Notulae Super Librum Praedicamentorum Notule super librum Peryermenias Notulae super librum Porphyrii Quaestiones in Librum Primum Sententiarum

xv

xvi  Abbreviations QLIIS QLIII1S QLIII2S QLIVS SDP

Quaestiones in Librum Secundum Sententiarum Quaestiones in Librum Tertium Sententiarum, pt. 1: Christologie Quaestiones in Librum Tertium Sententiarum, pt. 2: Tugendlehre Quaestiones in Librum Quartum Sententiarum Sermo in dominica in Passione

•  Introduction

When I  told a well-​known scholar that I  was writing a book on Robert Kilwardby for the series Great Medieval Thinkers, he commented with humor that “Robert Kilwardby” and “Great Medieval Thinker” didn’t quite fit together. Humor aside, I guess many would be tempted to agree with him. Kilwardby has often been considered a secondary figure, remaining in the shadow of other major thinkers of the thirteenth century—​and there were many. However, it all depends on how one defines “greatness.” Is the basis for greatness influence or prestige, originality or relevance? The problem is that both originality and relevance are not simple concepts to define. If the subject of study is a particular author, rather than a mere strand of thought or idea, what constitutes originality? Is it about being the first to say something or saying it for the first time in a systematic and comprehensive way? And how much comprehensiveness counts for that purpose? Applying these methodological principles to Kilwardby means recognizing that, by some measures, he had one of the most innovative minds of his time and that, as such, he deserves a dedicated volume in the collection of Great Medieval Thinkers. By different standards, he may not. Kilwardby is no Aquinas, in the sense that they are incomparable in terms of their philosophical-​theological production and intellectual impact. At the same time, it is important to note that there Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

2  Robert Kilwardby would be no Aquinas without his teacher, Albert the Great, and thus, to some extent, no Aquinas without Kilwardby. Aquinas and Albert were writing in the context of arguments Kilwardby was making, and even responding to them. Accordingly, claims of the dependency of Albert on Kilwardby, at least in regard to some logical matters, are largely undisputed. Kilwardby’s greatness thus derives from the way some of his ideas imprinted a pattern of thought that was later further developed, rather than from the fact that he himself fully developed those ideas. In a sense, then, his contribution is as an explorer of ideas, not as an accomplished philosopher, as Aquinas or Scotus would be after him. I take the significance of Kilwardby’s thought to reside precisely in how he looked at both old and new material with fresh eyes, trying to make sense of it in a way that was neither properly Augustinian nor properly Aristotelian. In that regard, he was posttraditions. One thing the reader will certainly notice about my approach is that I have no interest in Kilwardby the man, his order, or his climbing of the Catholic hierarchy. Very little about those is discussed in this book. For that kind of information, the reader is most welcome to read the definitive account of his life written by Ellen Sommer-​Seckendorff in 1937. My focus on Kilwardby is of a philosophical kind: I seek to know which of his claims are philosophically significant and how to best read such claims in a systematic way. This book also aims at providing to the field of studies on Kilwardby a substantial and novel contribution concerning his theological thought. I feel at ease in developing these topics in a book for this series, which includes, but is not limited to, medieval authors as philosophers. A major difficulty in writing this kind of book is the sheer scale of the undertaking, which can—​and does—​feel overwhelming at times. This is not a book about Kilwardby’s theory of cognition or his natural philosophy or even his theology. It is about all these aspects, and more. The difficulty is not in knowing what he had to say about each of those areas of thought but in discerning how to weave together a coherent and engaging narrative that does not fail to account for any significant aspect while simultaneously avoiding repetition and lengthy elaborations of minor points. At the same time, to enter into the minutiae of an argument is often an important thing to do, because Kilwardby is not a household name, even for most medievalists. In what follows, I do my best to walk that thin line and to do justice to the textual evidence while avoiding excessive proselytism.

Introduction  3 The original plan for writing this book included setting Kilwardby’s thought in its historical context, namely by presenting his major findings in contrast with those of some of his contemporaries. But the aim of providing an overview of his thought in its major aspects while remaining within the word limit for a volume in this series made this task unattainable. So the reader will find in this book a presentation of Kilwardby’s thought as found in the whole of his corpus in a way that (hopefully) instructs and appeals to a nonspecialist audience, while keeping the expert reader interested. If pressed to describe the philosophical-​theological project of Robert Kilwardby, I would say that it could be situated around two axes: being and knowing, following the precept he himself suggested that “love comes from knowledge, not love”: in the context of a vision of the world in which the Creator creates by infusing intelligibility into the world and the capacity for intelligence to some of his creatures, the process of knowing is the opposite of the process of being. The closer we come to the principles of reality, the further we are—​upstream, I mean—​from the starting point of the cognitive process: we start with the world, in the form of sense perceptions of accidental features, like other animals, and move on painstakingly (but admirably correctly most of the time) to the cognition of the true intelligible aspects of things. It is not my aim in this book to be exhaustive vis-​à-​vis references to Kilwardby’s corpus. The same is true with respect to the secondary literature, which I  have kept to a minimum. In the bibliography I  list all the relevant sources, and at the beginning of each chapter I  indicate the most important secondary sources, but I  have not attempted to indicate at each turn the exact scholarly work where that passage, idea, or text is discussed or an interpretation is offered on it. I  have done this in order to avoid transforming an introductory book into a voluminous tome filled with references. As to my own work, some sections of the book rely on published material (see especially Silva 2007; 2013a; 2016; 2017; 2018). As for Kilwardby’s work, whenever printed editions (critical or not) of the primary sources are easily available, I cite only the reference in the notes (by chapter or lectio, page or paragraph). When the source exists only in manuscript form, I include the Latin text in the note when that is important in order to better understand the argument or to make a specific point. In the case of Kilwardby’s works on the Old Logic and his commentary to the Ethics, I  have used the transcriptions graciously made available to

4  Robert Kilwardby me by Professor Alessandro Conti and Professor Anthony Celano (respectively), to whom I am greatly indebted; these are based on P. O. Lewry’s transcriptions. The MSS for the editions are indicated with the following sigla: M = Madrid, Biblioteca Universitaria 73; P = Cambridge, Peterhouse 206; V = Venice, Biblioteca Marciana L.VI.66; Pr = Prague, Czech State University III.F.10. I  have handled the reading of the manuscripts by means of digital photographs and on site. In all other cases, I have relied on the editions of the texts and made use of existing translations, almost always with changes. These editions and translations are indicated in the bibliography. In all other cases, the translations are my own.

• 1

Living The Life and Works of Robert Kilwardby

The Life Not much is known with certainty about Robert Kilwardby’s life, apart from his official appointments in the Catholic Church.1 Robertus de Kylwardeby (or de Culverddebi) was probably born in England, more specifically in the counties of either Yorkshire or Leicestershire, around 1215. It is very likely that he first studied in England, but with certainty we can only say that his first academic degree was from the University of Paris, where he became master of arts. If he was indeed born in 1215, he could have received his degree in 1236, as the statutory minimum was age twenty-​one for such a position. But as the same statutes required six years of study and Kilwardby probably only ingressed in the Faculty of Arts after the Great Dispersion (1229–​1231), he probably received his degree in 1237. The number of commentaries he produced indicates that he lectured for a long period, most likely between 1237 and 1245. On the other hand this would seem to argue against the suggestion that he was born around 1200, in which case he would have started his teaching career around 1221. That date seems too early, as it would entail that he had been around for forty years before proceeding back to England to study theology. In that case, he would also have been over fifty before becoming regent master of Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

6  Robert Kilwardby theology at Blackfriars. One argument in favor of this suggestion is that he seems to have been well acquainted with the works of two scholars working in Paris in the first decades of the thirteenth century: John Blund (c. 1200–​1205) and William of Auvergne (active around 1230). Blund is the likely source for Kilwardby’s original view on the cause of celestial motion, whereas William is most likely the target of Kilwardby’s criticism on the simplicity of the human soul. However, how much this knowledge required Kilwardby to be contemporaneous with their teaching is difficult to ascertain. Sommer-​Seckendorff considers a return to England in the early thirties of the thirteenth century to be the most likely option,2 but I think that suggestion should be rejected on the basis of what we know from recent editions of Kilwardby’s works, which have been published later than her study. The difficulty in supporting her view stems from the numerous commentaries on Aristotle that Kilwardby produced, which seem to indicate a lengthy tenure as a master of arts. Sommer-​Seckendorff suggests that he may have started as a master of arts at Oxford before moving on to study theology, so that some of these commentaries “may have been composed” then and there. Although that remains a possibility, there are no references to Kilwardby having had that role in Oxford, and thus it is probably safer to leave it until such evidence can be found. I  should emphasize, however, that my reasons for dismissing Sommer-​ Seckendorff’s suggestion are conjectural only and should therefore be taken with caution. In any case, during his period in Paris Kilwardby lectured on logic, as evidenced from his commentaries on the logical treatises of Aristotle. Contrary to earlier scholars’ hypotheses, Kilwardby did not produce any commentaries on Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy. While he does show in many of his works a deep understanding of many of the ideas present in these texts, certainly beyond what can be found in florilegia (i.e., collections of statements by Aristotle), the fact remains that no surviving commentaries on that subject have been found. This is unfortunate, since a commentary on the De anima, the Metaphysics, or the Physics would certainly bring much clarity to Kilwardby’s understanding of many of the key topics about which he produced an opinion. One of the striking and important issues to keep in mind is the way Kilwardby used some of the translations of the Aristotelian works, often using earlier rather than later translations, although one can but assume that the latter were already available at the time. An example of this is the

Living  7 fact that he comments only on the first three books of the Ethics—​known as the translatio vetus—​although a translation of the whole work was already available. It would be interesting to investigate why he did not have access to it or, if he did, why he decided not to make use of it. At the same time, his commentary work on the logical works of Aristotle is outstanding by all standards. He is one of the first to comment on the entirety of the course on the Old Logic, and his is the only comprehensive such lecture course that has reached us. In that sense, the study of Kilwardby’s early works offers a clear window onto the early reception of Aristotle in the context of the Faculty of Arts of the thirteenth century. But it is not simply the fact that Kilwardby commented on a set of texts; it is more that he did this with enthusiasm, always trying to make Aristotle’s philosophy consistent and coherent, even when threatened by an accusation of contradiction. Such rigor and enthusiasm help to explain why his commentaries were so well received by his contemporaries and continued to be copied and read—​and plagiarized—​throughout most of the Middle Ages. As noted, sometime around 1245, Kilwardby seems to have decided to leave Paris and return to England. Around the same period, while still in France or just upon his arrival in England, he became a Dominican and devoted himself to the study of theology. The statutes required a minimum of thirty-​five years of age and eight years of study to earn a theological doctorate. So if 1215 is correct as his date of birth and he moved to England in 1245 at the age of thirty, he could have become master of theology around 1253, aged thirty-​eight. This roughly agrees with Rega Wood’s suggestion—​on the basis of other contemporaneous commentaries, among them works by Richard Rufus of Cornwall—​that Kilwardby’s Sentences may be dated to about 1255.3 Russell Friedman (2002, 48) claims the text to be from after 1256, following the proposal of Johannes Schneider, an editor of the text (1986).4 If anything, this shows that the later dates for Kilwardby’s birth, inception at the Faculty of Arts in Paris, and move to Oxford are to be preferred. Furthermore, scholars tend to agree that his Sentences is dependent on Bonaventure’s commentary on this text, which is commonly dated from 1252 to 1254, rather than the other way around.5 During this period, he wrote two works, very distinct in nature, that have proved important and influential. The first is a commentary on the Sentences, the theological textbook par excellence on which bachelors and masters were supposed to produce a commentary during their academic

8  Robert Kilwardby careers. Kilwardby’s commentary on the Sentences has two particularities worth noting. First, it is simultaneously close to the works of two Franciscans, Richard Rufus and Bonaventure, the former in Oxford and the latter in Paris. This may be no surprise, as the two universities were in close contact, and texts as well as masters and students circulated between them. At the same time, sources indicate that Kilwardby may have been taught at Oxford by Robert Bacon and Richard Fishacre, the latter being one of the first English Dominicans to produce a commentary on the Sentences.6 The second particularity concerns the nature of the work and its influence on later authors. In most cases, the influence tended to be indirect, because the paucity of extant manuscripts indicates that it was not a widely copied text. On the other hand it is worth pointing out that Fishacre’s and Kilwardby’s commentaries are the only two produced at Oxford before 1280 that have survived and whose attribution is certain.7 Kilwardby was certainly part of the early Oxford theological school, and he wrote important and influential theses: namely, the recognition of the similarity between statements of faith for (the science of) theology and the first principles of demonstration for any scientific endeavor; or the attribution of ontological being to prime matter independently of form, which was to qualifiedly become a centerpiece for Franciscan thought.8 As to the nature of the work, it is now well established that commentaries on the Sentences written at the time were structured on the basis of the standard divisions of Lombard’s text, called distinctions. Progressively, however, scholars abandoned the strictures of this model and, especially from the fourteenth century onward, started commenting freely on the text. It is thus striking to find such an early adoption of this “loose approach” toward the Sentences evidenced in Kilwardby’s commentary.9 The second work is a heavily Aristotelian-​influenced treatise on the origin and nature of the sciences, which followed on the model of Hugh of St. Victor’s Didascalicon, albeit directed at a more sophisticated audience, university-​educated and versed in Aristotelian thought. Here I speak of the treatise De ortu scientiarum, which is commonly referred to as the most significant expression of the “classifications of science” genre produced in the medieval period. That Kilwardby was asked to write such a book reveals the prominence of his learning among the Dominican brethren, while the fact that he successfully executed it shows the deep understanding of Aristotelian philosophy—​and philosophy in general—​the young man had

Living  9 already acquired at his age. According to Lewry, Kilwardby composed this work while a theology student at Blackfriars, around 1250.10 It is unclear what the exact purpose of this introduction to the arts actually was, but one is led to believe that it would have been used as an overview of knowledge in low-​level schools. Of course, there were other such introductions to philosophy, including the aforementioned Didascalicon by Hugh of St. Victor. But the differences between the two works are significant. What is particularly original in Kilwardby’s work is the way he integrates the old classificatory schemes of the whole range of Aristotelian philosophy, from the principles of classification of areas of scientific inquiry to scientific methodology and to an interpretation of which works should be used for the different fields. The reach of the work is extraordinary, especially if one keeps in mind that it was written prior to the official establishment of an Aristotelian-​based curriculum at the Faculty of Arts in Paris (1255). At the same time, one finds in several parts of the work extensive and substantial discussions about particular subjects, such as the nature of matter. Being among the first authors to comment on the Aristotelian corpus—​principally the works on logic but also demonstrating a detailed firsthand acquaintance with other subjects (De anima, Metaphysics, Physics, etc.)11—​Kilwardby offered the first true general introduction to Aristotelian philosophy in the context of a primer on scientific knowledge. The wide circulation of manuscripts of the De ortu scientiarum (DOS) shows how it was perceived as useful by the many newcomers to the academic world as it was broadly conceived. It is interesting to note that of Kilwardby’s numerous works, only two have enjoyed wide circulation:  the DOS and the Notule Libri Priorum (NLPri). That is not to say that other works were not influential, but in most cases, as noted, this influence was indirect; for instance, some of his ideas were taken over by other scholars. An example of his overall influence is seen in how many of his interpretations on logical issues were adopted by Albert the Great and passed on to subsequent generations (as Albert’s own innovations).12 But the circulation of Kilwardby’s corpus probably suffered as the result of his involvement in the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions, especially insofar as his role was perceived as directed at a fellow Dominican—​no less than Thomas Aquinas! Kilwardby’s works likely tended to be put aside, with other Dominicans refraining from copying them. On the other hand Franciscans would have had little

10  Robert Kilwardby interest in studying the works of a Dominican, especially after the hostility between the two orders reached the level of their separation into distinct “corporate identities.”13 Contrary to other authors who were subjected to similar kinds of implicit censorship—​if that was the case here—​ Kilwardby was never overtly condemned by any institution, but the lack of clarity as to his motivations behind the Prohibitions and the Dominican defense of Aquinas against Franciscan attacks certainly contributed to a lack of enthusiasm in promoting his work. Another possible explanation, of course, is that perhaps his works did not warrant special enthusiasm, and were simply supplanted by more challenging and original works by other Dominicans—​Albert and Thomas, for instance. An example of this may be seen in Kilwardby’s commentary on the Ethics, which, limited as it was to the first three books, was immediately superseded by Aquinas’s commentaries on the whole work. Kilwardby’s ecclesiastical career was particularly successful. He was elected provincial of the English Dominican Province in 1261 and appointed archbishop of Canterbury in October 1272, being enthroned in September 1273.14 Finally, in 1278, he was appointed cardinal of Porto (Portus, the harbor of the city of Rome). He was only the seventh English cardinal, following Robert Pullen (1144), Nicholas Breakspear (pre-​1150), Stephen Langton (1205), Robert Curzon (1216), Robert Somercote (1239), and John of Toledo (1244). This appointment to the cardinalate explains his departure from English soil and return to continental Europe, to the Papal Court of Viterbo. His stay there was short, however, as he died on September 10, 1279. His remains were buried in the convent of the Dominican Order in Viterbo from 1280. Examples of the exercise of these ecclesiastical roles can be found in Sommer-​Seckendorff’s seminal work, but because they are of little consequence for informing readers about Kilwardby’s outlook as a thinker, I will not repeat them here. It suffices to say that he was a respected member of the Dominican Order and perceived by his fellow Dominicans as a thinker of the highest academic standing. An example of the Dominicans’ respect for him is the fact that he was asked to participate, together with Thomas Aquinas and Latino Malabranca, as an investigator appointed by the order to examine the conduct of Barthelemy of Tours.15 Another is the choice of the Dominican master general to seek consultation from him (along with Thomas Aquinas and Albert the Great) on matters of theological orthodoxy in 1271; I discuss this in detail in c­ hapter 2.

Living  11

The Works More important than bibliographical details are his works. The following table shows the works listed in three medieval catalogs and two modern ones. Regarding these, a brief explanation is required. The so-​called Stams Tabula is the earliest catalog of medieval Dominican bachelors and masters, as well as their works. Written around 1323, it receives its name from the Dominican convent in Tirol (Austria) in which the manuscript was found. This catalog was then expanded by the Dominican L. Pignon (1368–​1449) and later on (1936) edited as part of the Monumenta Ordine Predicatorum Historica. J.  Quétif and J.  Échard published in 1719 a list of works attributed to Kilwardby in their Scriptores Ordinis Praedicatorum Recensiti. C. Lohr published a modern catalog of the medieval commentaries on the works of Aristotle. R. Sharpe published a contemporary handlist of medieval Latin writers of Great Britain and Ireland. In this table are listed all works by or attributed to Kilwardby. The aim of the table is to provide an overview both of the works that in the Middle Ages were already attributed to Kilwardby and of others that have only later received that attribution. On the basis of the most recent decades of scholarship on Kilwardby, it is safe to state that it is now established with a high degree of probability that works 1–​5, 7–​8, 12–​13, 16–​19, 21, 26, 31–​40 on this table are authentic works by Kilwardby. It seems very likely that works 6 and 9 are by Kilwardby, although this attribution can only be properly confirmed upon the critical edition of these works. Finally, it is possible that works 14 and 30 are not by Kilwardby; although Lewry (1988) supported this attribution, Kneepkens (2013, 19, n. 9) remains uncommitted. It is also almost certain that Kilwardby did not write works 10–​11, 15, 20, 22–​25, 27, and 29, as well as the Commentary to Priscian Major, which at some point was attributed to him (Lewry 1975). Work 28 is probably article 7 in Epistola Roberti Kilwardby ad Petrum de Confleto (E), which may have circulated on its own. In addition, it is of course possible that Kilwardby wrote other works that did not survive. For a couple of the titles on this table, we know that there was such a work on the basis of testimonial evidence:  that is the case, for example, with 34, which survives only in John Pecham’s response titled Tractatus contra Fratrem Robertum Kilwardby. Others are clear misattributions, like 10 and 11, which are works by Geoffrey of Aspall.16

12  Robert Kilwardby One way to organize these works—​other than according to the periods of Kilwardby’s life, first in Paris and then in Oxford, which I did in Silva (2012)—​is according to the subject matter of the work. In this way, we can divide the attributed works as follows: 1 . 2. 3. 4.

Natural philosophy, including epistemology: 4, 16, 18–​19, 26, 35, 40 Logic and grammar: 1–​3, 5–​9, 13 Theology: 17, 31, 33–​34,  36–​40 Ethics: 12,  32

1

Notulae super Porphyrium

2

Notulae super Praedicamenta Notulae super Perihermeneias Notulae super VI Principia

3 4 5

Notulae super divisionem et topica Boethii

6

Topicorum Aristotelis

7

Notulae libri Priorum

8

Notulae libri Posteriorum

9 10

Scriptum super librum Elenchorum Super Metaphysicam

11

Super libros Physicorum

12

Comm. Ethica Vetus et Nova In Priscianum minorem

13

Stams

Pignon

Quétif/​ Échard

Lohr

Sharpe

p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6

p. 22

p. 376, no. 3 p. 376, no. 4 p. 376, no. 6 p. 377, no. 10 p. 377, no. 11

—​

p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 —​

p. 22

—​

p. 377, no. 8 p. 376, no. 7 p. 376, no. 7 p. 377, no. 9 p. 377, no. 13 p. 377, no. 12 —​

p. 110, no. 1 p. 110, no. 2 p. 110, no. 3 p. 110, no. 4 p. 111, no. 5 et no. 6 pp. 112–​ 113, no. 9 p. 111, no. 7 p. 112, no. 8 p. 113, no. 10 p. 113, no. 11 p. 113, no. 12 —​

p. 57, no. 6

p. 22

—​

—​

p. 561

p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22

p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22

—​ p. 564 —​ —​

p. 561 p. 560 p. 560 p. 561 p. 560 p. 560 p. 560

Living  13

14 15

Pseudo-​Priscianus De accentibus Sophismata grammaticalia

16

De ortu scientiarum

17

Questiones in libri sententiarum De spiritu fantastico De tempore Sophisma Omnis fenix est XLIII errores condemnat De coelo et mundo

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

De generatione et corruptione Super libros metheorum

25

De anima

26

De natura relationis

27

Super libros naturales

28

De unitate formarum

29

De rebus praedicamentalibus Barbarismus Donati = In Donati artem maiorem III De confessione De conscientia et syderesi De necessitate Incarnationis Epistola ad novicios Epistola ad Petrum de Confleto Sermones

30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Stams

Pignon

Quétif/​ Échard

Lohr

Sharpe

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 561

p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 —​ —​ —​ —​ p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 p. 57, no. 6 —​

p. 22

—​

—​

—​

p. 22

p. 376, no. 1 —​

—​

p. 563

—​

p. 563

—​ —​ —​ —​ p. 113, no. 13 p. 113, no. 14 p. 113, no. 15 p. 113, no. 16 —​

p. 563 p. 563 p. 564 p. 563 —​

p. 113, no. 17 —​

p. 560

p. 22

—​ —​ —​ —​ p. 377, no. 12 p. 377, no. 12 p. 377, no. 12 p. 377, no. 12 p. 376, no. 5 p. 377, no. 12 p. 377, no. 15 —​

—​

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 561

—​ —​ —​ —​ —​

—​ —​ —​ —​ —​

—​ —​ —​ —​ —​

—​ —​ —​ —​ —​

p. 562 p. 562 p. 562 p. 563 p. 563

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 563

p. 22 —​ —​ —​ —​ p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22 p. 22

—​ —​ —​ p. 562

—​

14  Robert Kilwardby

37 38 39 40

Stams

Pignon

Quétif/​ Échard

Lohr

Sharpe

Arbor consanguinitatis et affinitatis Tabula de concordantiis librorum Sententiarum Tabula super originalia patrum

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 560

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 562

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 564

Responsio de XLIII quaestionibus

—​

—​

—​

—​

p. 563

Among these works, it is important to recall that Kilwardby is among the first authors whose commentaries on the works of the ars vetus and the ars nova can be safely attributed. I have mentioned the importance of the set of his commentaries on the logica vetus, in particular to the Categories and On Interpretation. But Kilwardby is also among the first to have commented on the Analytics, both Prior and Posterior. Sten Ebbesen (1997) has shown that only the Anonymous Aurelianensis III precedes Kilwardby’s commentary on the Prior Analytics, an opinion shared and reinforced by Christina Thomsen Thörnqvist (2010; 2013). As for the Posterior Analytics, Ebbesen places Kilwardby’s commentary after that of Robert Grosseteste (see also Corbini 2013). Kilwardby is also the author of the oldest surviving commentaries on grammar (item 13 in the table) of certain attribution (Kneepkens 2013). This originality is a testament to Kilwardby’s pivotal role in the development of medieval thought, which stands even if different works had varying degrees of diffusion: for instance, while the Prior Analytics was extensively copied (Thom 2013b), the Posterior Analytics was largely ignored by other commentators, with the exception of Albert the Great (Corbini 2013). To conclude this section on Kilwardby’s writings, it is worth noting that much work still remains to be done to make them accessible to the wider public. This is particularly the case with the commentaries on the Old Logic, but also needed is a detailed examination of his works on grammar, which remain unedited and of uncertain attribution.

Living  15

Notes 1.  The best study of Kilwardby’s life is still Sommer-​Seckendorff (1937). 2.  Sommer-​Seckendorff (1937), 14. 3.  Wood (2002). 4.  J. Schneider in the Introduction to his edition of Kilwardby’s QLIS, 22*. 5.  See Wood (2002). 6.  Quétif and Échard (1719), 374; Sommer-​Seckendorff (1937), 21. 7.  Wood (2002), 289. Wood adds a third commentary, by the Franciscan Richard Rufus of Cornwall, but the attribution of works to Rufus has been highly contested. What matters for my purposes here is that Kilwardby was one of the first commentators in the Oxford theological milieu, as he was previously in the Parisian logical milieu. 8.  On these two theses, see Wood (2002). 9. On the odd nature of Kilwardby’s Quaestiones in Quattuor Libros Sententiarum, see Friedman (2002), 47–​48, n. 10. On the issues related to the organization of the text and the problems with numbering the questions by the modern editors, see Leibold (2010). 10.  Lewry (1984), 412. 11.  For contrasting views on this issue, see Long (1996) and Brown (1996). See also Silva (2017). 12.  On this issue, see Ebbesen (1981). According to Ebbesen, Albert’s dependence on Kilwardby is stronger in the Analytics and On Interpretation and weaker in the commentary to the Isagoge and to the Categories (1981), 92–​93. See also Steel (2009). 13.  On this issue, see Friedman (2013), 37–​38. 14. According to Williams (1868), 348, Kilwardby was consecrated on February 26, 1273. 15.  Monumenta Ordinis Fratrum Praedicatorum Historica (1898), bk. 3, 155. See Sommer-​Seckendorff (1937), 36. 16.  This work has been recently edited by Silvia Donati and Cecilia Trifogli, in Geoffrey of Aspall (2017).

• 2

Being

In the beginning there was nothing and then there was something. For the medieval mind, that something, which exists, must be either matter or form or a composite of both. Kilwardby ranked among those authors who thought that all things other than God were constituted by a material and a formal principle—​a view often called “universal hylemorphism.” It is better to say “material and formal principles” rather than simply say “matter and form,” because a material principle is like matter in some respects—​ for instance, receptivity—​ without necessarily being material proper, in the stuff-​like conception of matter. To tell the story of what there is, we must start from the bottom up, and that is why this book starts precisely with Kilwardby’s account of matter.

The Metaphysics of Plurality Matter The nature of matter is an essential element of the study of natural philosophy, because matter is key for understanding the notions of constitution, individuation, receptivity, and change.1 Kilwardby followed the dominant tradition in his time that admitted matter or a matter-​like principle Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

Being  17 as a constituent of all created things, including spiritual substances. Like angelic intelligences, the human soul is thus constituted by a material principle that is the underlying substrate of form(s). In more specific terminology, he says that these are constituted by two principles, the quod est and the quo est: “commonly, matter is that which is called the quod est in every composite, just as form is the quo est, so that everything—​except God—​ that is said to subsist by itself is constituted by form [quo est] and matter [quod est], which is that which subsists and bears form.”2 The quod est is simply defined as what underlies form, whereas the quo est is that by means of which something is (such and so).3 When something is constituted by these two principles, it is a hoc aliquid, that is, an individual in the genus of substance that is capable of existing by itself. But there are different kinds of substance, so one must ask whether there are different kinds of matter corresponding to these kinds of substance. On the other hand if there are different kinds of matter in different kinds of substances, one can also ask whether there is a matter that is common to these different kinds of matter. This is the problem of the unity of matter that preoccupied the minds of thirteenth-​century philosophers. Kilwardby develops answers to these questions in different parts of his corpus, but the three most important ones are Quaestiones in Librum Secundum Sententiarum (QLIIS) 14–​16, DOS 29–​31, and E 2. Among these, DOS 31 occupies a special place because, as the modern editor of the work Albert Judy has argued, this chapter is probably the result of a public disputation, either by Kilwardby or by someone else on whom Kilwardby is reporting. This disputation shows a split between the defenders of universal hylemorphism about the unity of matter, a divide that ran along partisan lines between the Dominicans and Franciscans. In consequence, the report not only provides great insight into the developments in the treatment of this topic by key thinkers, such as Roger Bacon, Albert the Great, and Bonaventure, but also places Kilwardby in their midst. The starting point is to investigate whether there is a common substrate—​ prime matter (materia prima)—​ in the constitution of all substances. If so, the question is, what is the source of unity of what is supposed to be characterized by the lack of what can give unity (that is, form)? In other words, if there is such an underlying matter, how can it be numerically one in all things? The way to answer this question, according to Kilwardby, is to distinguish between two ways of considering (prime)

18  Robert Kilwardby matter: (A) together with form (i.e., according to being), and (B) without form (i.e., according to essence).4 From the point of view of (A), existing together (concreta) with form, matter is one or many according to its being informed by one or a plurality of forms. At the level of the individual, matter is both one in what concerns its concretion with form in this individual and many in what concerns the plurality of actual existing individual beings; the same applies to the form of the species in concretion.5 Substance, as a composite of matter and form, is made particular, and that individuation is not of form only but of the aggregate of matter and form, so that it is no longer “humanity” but “this human being.”6 Matter cannot be one in all things, because the maximum degree of commonness is restricted to a kind. Matter is one at the level of the most general form (forma generalissima) in the category of substance, because it is the same in all individuals and species subsumed under this general genus.7 This “most common matter” comes into being sub forma generali before being distinguished into the different species by the creative action of God.8 Kilwardby says that this view of matter, as being one and the same in all things, corporeal and spiritual alike, is accepted by all. This view, he says, is originally found in Averroes.9 The other way to consider matter is (B), according to its essence, that is, considered in itself and independent from form.10 This can be understood in two very different ways, however. The first (B.1) is by abstracting from any actual informing, so as to reach the simple essence of matter, which is nothing more than the potentiality to any form whatsoever. As such, matter has an essential unity (unitas essentiae) that is prior to its being diversified by receiving form. I will call this the essential-​unity view. Formal diversification (i.e., the informing of matter by form) is done with regard to existence in the actual constitution of individual things, but not with regard to the essence of matter.11 Thus, this essence can be considered as remaining simple and one, because it lacks the distinction that arises from being united with form. Matter remains essentially one and the same in different things and in different parts of the same thing. In the early Notulae Super Librum Praedicamentorum (NSLP), Kilwardby attributes this view of the numerical unity of matter to Aristotle,12 but it also seems to be Thomas Aquinas’s view.13 The problem Kilwardby identifies with this view is that the reception of specific forms requires the existence in matter of a certain formal disposition that prepares it for this reception, which begs the question. Otherwise, “this [property] of matter being at the same time and

Being  19 everywhere wholly in essence is not [a sign of] nobility but rather ignobility and weakness, because it is maximally potential and [thus] close to nothingness.”14 In order to avoid this problem and to explain how a part of matter can be receptive of certain specific forms, Kilwardby claims that matter must somehow be disposed to so receive them and, accordingly, that receptivity to some forms rather than others needs to be explained. To give just one example, one and the same matter cannot be indifferently receptive of both corporeal and spiritual forms. Moreover, the essential-​unity view faces the objection that if matter is numerically one in all things and whole in its essence in all singular things, then it is an individual (hoc aliquid, or “this something,” in medieval parlance) and every form that is received in it is also a particular.15 The answer is to claim that except for God, to be one in all things can be said of what is in potency, not what is in actuality. Thus, since absolute prime matter and the most general form in the category of substance are in potentiality for all things to come into actuality, matter is wholly in all of them in the same way that a genus is.16 A second way to consider matter according to its essence (B.2) is the view that the kind of unity one can find among material things is unity by analogy. I  will refer to this as the analogical-​unity view. Contrary to B.1, here there is an essential diversity in matter:  matter is different in different things and in different parts of one and the same thing. Defenders of this position further argued that things were diverse even at the level of common or general forms, such as a genus, thus denying that the same genus could be one and the same for all individuals. According to them, matter has parts that are substantially different from each other, and this is explained by different parts of matter having, in a latent state, the forms of what that part of matter is going to become part of in actuality, provided that nothing hinders its actualization.17 For Kilwardby, matter (almost) always has the power of the potency to a certain form, which in DOS 284 he designates as “something of the active potency,” and this is what explains how matter in different things is essentially diverse. This diversity remains even when all forms constituting an individual of any one of the kinds of being—​spiritual, corporeal, or natural—​are removed in thought.18 Even then, “the matter that remains in the said three mattered [things: corporeal, spiritual, and celestial] is essentially diverse, not only with respect to forms, but considered by itself in its naked and absolute essence.”19 According to this second view on the essential unity of matter, prime matter has substantially different parts, sharing an essence that is one by analogy only.

20  Robert Kilwardby The question is, how can there be an essential difference between kinds of matter when abstracting from form if form is the principle of differentiation?20 The answer is to argue that although there is not a formal difference between kinds of matter at that stage, it does not entail that these kinds are the same. On the contrary, proponents of the analogical-​unity view argue, different matters differ in terms of degree of lacking individual and formal distinctions.21 An essence of matter is disposed, according to its degree of purity, to the receptivity to forms of a given kind, rather than a neutral receptivity to any form whatsoever or, better said, to forms of any kind whatsoever.22 For instance, the matter of generable and corruptible things is receptive to the forms of the elements, one contrary at a time, because each form of a contrary is naturally inclined to change into its contrary, and this matter can be said to be one;23 the matter of corporeal things, however, is not one with the matter of celestial and spiritual substances, except by analogy. The matter constituting spiritual things is subtler and purer than the matter that constitutes corporeal things.24 Kilwardby prefers in DOS not to take sides and to simply state: “now it is not the time to inquire about which of these opinions is truer.”25 But he does seem to struggle to defend the essential-​unity view because he thinks that in order to accept the indifference of matter to receive any form whatsoever, one needs to take matter as a completely passive and inert entity, or, to be more precise, to be no entity on its own at all. Yet, for Kilwardby, matter is one actuality level up from pure nothing, which means that it is something of its own. Matter is characterized by being ad aliquid in its own right and being inclined to receive certain kinds of forms, even in the state of absolutely naked prime matter.26 This inclination has nothing to do with an active formal disposition, at least not at the generic level.27 It would be trivial to say that, once informed by the form of genus, there is a formal disposition to receive certain forms of species; but that is not the issue at stake here. Probably this is the reason why Kilwardby seems inclined, later on in QLIIS 15, to subscribe to the analogical-​unity view. In E 2, Kilwardby approaches the question in slightly different terms, which can be explained by the fact that his motivation in that work is different: whereas in DOS (and QLIIS) the discussion of the nature of matter is conducted in the context of justifying the distinction between corporeal and spiritual things, in E he discusses the nature of matter in the context of explaining change. There are, he argues, three kinds of prime matter that correspond to three stages of increased determination. The first is absolute

Being  21 prime matter, which is characterized by having no form whatsoever and by underlying all forms it receives. In the order of nature (i.e., in the order of becoming), absolute prime matter receives first the form of the most general genus,28 which is that of substance, and at this stage remains common to spiritual and corporeal things. Even in this “radical” state of potentiality, matter is not nothing simpliciter in the sense of completely lacking being but is nothing in actuality.29 It receives then the form of the species, by means of which it divides into corporeal substance and spiritual substance. Spiritual things have metaphysical matter (materia metaphysica), which is defined as potential being and is the subject of the spiritual form.30 Matter in this sense explains change (like learning)31 and individuation.32 Were it not for the existence of metaphysical matter as a constituent of spiritual entities, these could not be individuals. On the other prong of the division, substance receives the form of corporeity (forma corporalis or corporeitatis), by means of which it becomes a corporeal substance endowed with dimensions and magnitude.33 In other words, absolute prime matter develops into bodily prime matter, which is common to all bodies, both celestial and terrestrial. Bodily prime matter is three-​dimensional matter.34 Finally, the matter of corporeal substances receives the specific differences of bodies, together with their passive and active qualities,35 which explain the kinds of change that generable and corruptible things are the subject of. This is natural prime matter, the kind of matter that is common to all simple and mixed bodies in the sublunary sphere: “it must be understood, therefore, that natural prime matter is not something close to nothing, having no form and lacking all actuality and composition, but [rather] it is something that has corporeal dimensions and is impregnated with original reasons or potencies, from which all the specific bodies, both simple or mixed, are made actual by means of the operations of nature.”36 Whenever a body loses a substantial form, the underlying substrate is this matter, as is the case when a dead body is reduced to its state of being a mere aggregate of components in a mixture.37 In corporeal things, all kinds of motion—​alteration, coming into being, and ceasing to be—​are explained as being caused by the active and passive qualities that constitute them. Those qualities belong to the third species of quality and are defined by their contradictory pairs: hot, cold, dry, and wet. All change is explained by their interaction because “if there were not these qualities, the bodies mutually acting and being acted upon would not change into one another.”38 The changes observed at the macro level are thus explained by the interaction

22  Robert Kilwardby of those qualities constituting the bodies that are visible to us. Kilwardby remarks that the elements are prior in nature to the mixed bodies in which they come to exist, because there would be no mixture if there were no elements having passive and active qualities, whose mutual action explains the constitution of the resulting mixture.39 A more general point, still at the ontological level that Kilwardby wants to stress, is that in a sense one can say that some effects act in the production of things that are higher in the ontological hierarchy. Any intensification or remission in substance is due to the intension and remission of the dispositions existing in the matter that constitutes that substance.40 However, this action must be understood as instrumental with respect to the real cause that underlies its action. So, in the case of the qualities, one can say that they act in the production of effects, such as other substances, but in fact the real cause of those effects is the substance in which the qualities inhere and flow from it. Substances are the true causes of change. Kilwardby illustrates this with the example of the tongue, which speaks and thus seems to be the cause of speaking; in fact, the tongue is simply the instrument used by the rational soul for the production of speech. In a strict sense, one should say that the soul speaks by means of the tongue rather than saying that the tongue itself speaks.41 The point is that whatever effect is produced by the flowing of qualities from a substance has that substance as its proper cause, rather than by those instrumental qualities. Likewise, in vision, the species of color that issues from a colored thing is an instrument of the action of the object to bring about an effect in the sense organ; thus, it is conducive to visual perception. I have just shown how Kilwardby hints at a certain interpretation of the notion of potentiality. According to traditional Aristotelian philosophy of nature, the constitutive principles of things are matter and form, but to explain change one still needs a third principle, which is privation. Kilwardby adds a twist to this traditional scheme by emphasizing that privation “is not pure nothing” or simply the pure absence of form but is rather the state of “actively” lacking that something imperfect is in with respect to fulfillment. Privation thus refers to a state of potentiality of a form that does not have the perfection (naturally) owed to it. But what exactly does this “owed perfection” mean? Appealing to the authority of Averroes’s commentary on the Physics, Kilwardby equates both substantial and qualitative change as motion toward perfection. In that sense, then, privation falls under the categories

Being  23 of action and passion: action in the sense of active potency (that is to say, of being ordained to actuality and of being something of a form) and passion in the sense of not having the perfection due to it (as something born to be made into actuality).42 Only in this way can privation be understood as a principle of change.43 Repeating and emphasizing the identification of privation and active potency in natural matter, Kilwardby concludes: “privation is the third natural principle, and that it is not pure nothing but something imperfect cocreated with matter and tending to actuality when aided by an external agent.”44This passage makes clear that privation is not simply the being in potency that is identified with matter; rather, it is “something of a form” that exists in natural prime matter, its inclination to actuality, and “from which form is educed.”45 For now, it is interesting to note that even in his Notule Libri Posteriorum (NLPost), Kilwardby remarks on the nature of this halfway potentiality between matter and form by saying: “a cause is either the principle of being of a thing or the [principle] of making it. If it is the principle of being, either it is being in potentiality and as such is matter or [being] in actuality and as such is form. If it is the principle of making, either it is that inchoate [thing] from which it is made, and as such it is the efficient [cause], or it is that in which it terminates, and as such it is the final [cause]” (emphasis added).46 Kilwardby suggests that whatever exists in an inchoate state already constitutes the efficient cause of what it is to become. This is so because it is already on the way to complete being. The key assumption here is that what is complete is nothing new in relation to the inchoate form but is a different state of its actuality. Privation is the starting point for the acquisition of a state of perfection of an already existing form.47 This idea finds its way into the discussion of the nature of matter because Kilwardby argues that natural prime matter—​the kind of matter that is the substrate of natural change—​is naturally endowed or pregnant with active potencies to act; once set in motion by the action of an external agent, these cooperate in their own change and become fully actual.48 Kilwardby insists that as the substrate of change and prior to the reception of any form in actuality whatsoever, matter displays a certain degree of activity or inclination for receiving a certain kind of actualization. Matter strives for form precisely because it possesses, in a nonactualized state, something of the form, the active potency: “called potency because it is ordained to actuality and active because it is something of a form.”49 In this model, potentiality is taken not as passive receptivity of form but as an active appetite for form, that is, for form in (full) actuality. An

24  Robert Kilwardby active potency is a form in an incomplete state because it is “born to make itself in actuality” (nata est facere se in actu).50 While nature can only make matter subsist through a complete form, God in an almost miraculous way and due to his maximal power is able to sustain a form in an incomplete state.51 As matter here is considered not on its own but insofar as it is endowed with these active potencies as inchoate active principles of change, matter has an active role in the process, and thus it cannot be understood as pure potentiality. This potentiality is not for any one thing whatsoever but for things of a certain kind, the kind being determined by internal and inchoate principles of change prior to their changing into actuality. The following example is illustrative:  “earth, in order to be transformable into other elements, must have in itself possible matter and the forms of the other elements, which exist in earth, qua material active potencies to the forms of the other three elements, under the actual form of earth.”52 The basic idea is that one cannot explain change from one thing to another unless the form of the thing to become already exists, in a latent state, in the matter of the thing that is changed.53 Otherwise, the question of where that generated form comes from arises. The argument is that that form cannot come from outside (for instance, from another thing) because in that case that other thing would lose its form and cease to be. If it cannot come from the outside, it must already be in the thing itself, namely, in its matter. Having argued previously for natural things to be constituted by natural prime matter, which is necessarily endowed with active potencies, Kilwardby can now appeal to that constitution to explain the origin of the new form; the new form, which makes this thing be what it is, is found already in that thing in a latent state as active potency.54 Kilwardby uses the notion of active potency as a form existing in an inchoate state of actuality to avoid the problem of the simultaneous actual presence of contraries in one and the same subject. A different but related issue is how the forms of the elements remain in a mixture. The issue is no longer how the qualities of one element replace the qualities of the other, but how the qualities of different elements remain when their form (as fully actual) no longer exists. If I  make a cocktail—​for instance, an Old Fashioned consisting of bourbon whiskey and lemon juice—​I can taste the different ingredients, even though the resulting substance is no longer merely any of the contributing contents. In Aristotelian terms, a substantial change took place from bourbon to the concoction itself; this needs to be

Being  25 accounted for by the reception and loss of a substantial form. Kilwardby’s solution is to argue that the forms of all four elements are present in any part of this matter, three in a state of potentiality and only one at a given time in a state of complete actuality.55 In virtue of their active and passive qualities, the elements transmute into one another.56 For x to change into y, a substrate is needed that underlies the change and the forms of x, which is replaced, and the form of y, which comes to inform the new composite. Also needed are active and passive qualities that allow for the continuity of change by being contraries: the form from which something changes and the form into which something changes. At the level of the elements, this means that water does not change into fire, but it can change into earth because water shares wetness with earth. The underlying substrate is natural prime matter, the corporeal substance. Kilwardby further explains the creation of natural prime matter with its active potencies by appealing to Augustine’s notion of administration (opera administracionis).57 Nature administers what God created:  all natural things are created at the instant of creation but are not made then and there, because making is a continuous process of coming into being, not from nothing, as in creation, but from an original state of incompleteness that is actualized over the centuries: “in the above-​mentioned underlying substrate [natural prime matter] are [found] the original reasons of all bodies to be made and that these, which I call active potencies, are produced into act[uality] by the action of the generating thing.”58 God created the corporeal matter out of which he produced the first light, as well as the first individuals of each species.59 When he created these first individuals, he inserted in them seminal reasons,60 which are the cause, together with the auxiliary action of a natural generative power, of the generation of individuals throughout time.61 This continuous generation of individuals of all species is explained by the unfolding from that something which exists in a latent state of being. Kilwardby seems to have had in mind the sort of metaphysics according to which that from which something is generated and that into which it is corrupted are defined by what exists as original/​ seminal reasons in natural prime matter. That is why he ends E 1 by noting that the core of the problem is what the end point—​the terminus—​is of form’s ceasing to be: the end point is either the original reason (originalis racio) or pure nothing (pure nichil). For Kilwardby, only the former works because, in a way, something cannot become what it was not (yet), except in the sense of becoming that thing in actuality.

26  Robert Kilwardby

Form Kilwardby talks about form in general terms in his Commentary on the Liber Sex Principiorum (LSP) and his Notulae super librum Porphyrii (NSLPor), whereas in E he examines the issue of form in a more specific setting. Before going into more detailed analysis, it is better to start with the generic approach to the subject. Form is studied by the logician and the natural philosopher in different ways: the former considers it from the point of view of cognition, the latter from the viewpoint of being. Form is synonymous with intelligibility, in that everything that is intelligible is so in virtue of its form. As such, form is characterized by being in many (instantiations) and by being what is said of many (individual things).62 But there are different kinds of forms, accidental and substantial, with their subdivisions, so I consider these next. There are two kinds of forms that constitute the essence of a thing: the genus, which is the material or determinable part, and the specific difference, which is the formal or determinating part. In a sense, as Aristotle notes in his Metaphysics, the genus is matter in the sense of being in potency to the actuality of the specific difference, which as the last completing species determines the thing it informs. Form stands for matter as specific difference stands for genus in that the former is the determination of the latter. The species is thus more primary in an ontological sense than the genus in that it is closer in being to the primary substance.63 A primary substance is an individual of the genus substance, often referred to as a hoc aliquid: a composite of form and matter that subsists by itself, here and now (hic et nunc).64 The contraction of the general forms (or intentions)65 takes place in matter, as matter is the principle of the individuation of form—​at least for the early Kilwardby (of the Aristotelian commentaries).66 Matter is what makes form be here and now and thus individualized.67 So “substance is made particular by something that is part of its essence (i.e., matter),”68 whereas it is made to be what it is by the formal part. Humanity (humanitas) is exemplified and instantiated in each individual human being. Once the individual is constituted, it becomes the subject of accidental forms. The individual substance is ontologically prior to accidents, because accidents can only exist in individual substances and are never unique to those substances: there is not only one thing that is red, for instance. Accidents are that which cannot exist separate from the substances in which they inhere.69

Being  27 These include accidents per se, in which case they are propria, meaning that they are found in all individuals of that species but do not enter in the definition of the species: like the ability to laugh in humans; or a normal “accident,” which is contingent on the thing in question (i.e., the thing can lose or gain them without ceasing to be what it is): like a tan after the summer. To these kinds of form just described correspond the five universal predicables that are the subject matter of Porphyry’s Isagoge: the genus, the species, the proprium, the definition, and the accident.70 With respect to all these aspects, Kilwardby is close to traditional Aristotelianism. Differences arise, however, in what concerns the ontological status of form apart from matter, the nature of the composite itself (namely, whether there can be only one form for any given composite substance), and finally the metaphysical status of the form in a non–​fully actual state—​and especially how that form exists in matter in an inchoate state, which in turn makes matter an entity of its own, apart from form in the full-​fledged sense. Kilwardby’s way of considering form engages the full metaphysical spectrum: that is to say, from the nature of what exists only in potentiality and inchoately in matter (i.e., as active potency) to what is fully actual as a separated substance in a disembodied state. A key feature in Kilwardby’s philosophy of nature that results from his account of active potencies is that it entails the coexistence of multiple substantial forms in one and the same composite. That applies not to what makes a thing to be the individual it is (Filipe, say) but rather to what makes a thing an instance of this kind (e.g., an animal or human species). In other words, to any essential determination in the genus and species structure of being corresponds a substantial form. Kilwardby presents an example of this ordering of essential determinations or predicates in the definition of the human being (homo) as a corporeal substance, living, capable of sensation, and rational.71 Each of these determinations, hierarchically ordained in terms of the next, is identified with a different substantial form. This understanding of coinstantiation of substantial predicates stands in complete opposition to what one finds in more traditional Aristotelian presentations, like that of Thomas Aquinas, in which only one substantial form can be found in any given composite; for something to be unqualifiedly one (i.e., simpliciter, rather than having the unity of an aggregate), it must have one substantial form only. But Kilwardby is not interested in describing form on a very general level; rather, he seeks to understand the role it plays in a more fine-​grained metaphysical picture of the world, especially vis-​à-​vis the

28  Robert Kilwardby constitution of a human being. He is keen to understand how this plurality of forms applies to the human soul and what the philosophical and theological implications are in conceiving of the soul in this way. Historically this matters, because Kilwardby seems to be the first unambiguous defender of the plurality of forms in the human soul.72 The articles concerning the human soul that were prohibited at Oxford in 1277 were, at least partially, a consequence of this understanding and must be interpreted in light of his philosophical stance on this issue. The best place to start investigating Kilwardby’s view on the matter is the letter he wrote to Peter of Conflans, a known follower of Aquinas, just after the Oxford Prohibitions of 1277.73 Peter was a Dominican, like Aquinas and Kilwardby, and the archbishop of Corinth; in this position he preceded William of Moerbeke, the renowned translator and longtime secretary of Aquinas. Peter’s letter has not survived, but it is easy to read from Kilwardby’s reply the tone in which it was written: a clear complaint by a Dominican Thomist about what he perceived to be an attack on his mentor. In E, Kilwardby answers in detail the concerns raised by Peter, namely on the topic of form.

The Letter to Peter of Conflans Kilwardby’s Epistola is divided into seven articles: 1 . 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

About the Corruption of Form About the Active Potency of Matter Whether Privation is Nothing About Reversing Animal Generation About the Principle of Life in the Embryo About the Simplicity of the Principle of Life in Man About the Unity of Forms

Having no idea how long or detailed Peter’s original letter was, one can only speculate whether Kilwardby simply selects the questions he wants to answer or faithfully responds to all the questions Peter has asked. Of these, the most important is article 7, dealing with a view Kilwardby calls “the unity of forms,” which he states not to know. He first examines the implications of the idea that form can be corrupted into nothing for an account of (article 1). This leads him to say that the starting point of change

Being  29 must then be the active potency of matter (article 2), which he identifies with privation, the third principle of change in addition to matter and form (article 3). Having proved that form in full actuality starts as aptitude for form, he applies this to the process of generation, especially human generation (article 5). Human generation is a very particular case because the human soul has two different sources: some of its potentiae are the result of a process of natural generation, whereas the intellective potentia is created by God. The question is then how these two processes come together and whether the soul that results from them is simple (article 6) and/​or a unity—​and, if the latter, of what kind (article 7). Understood in this way, the concatenation of articles (except for article 4) forms an overarching argument. There is a way to make sense of even article 4, however, and that is what I attempt to do next.

Animal Generation Peter asks Kilwardby whether the prohibition of saying that the generation of animals can be reversed should be understood as entailing the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. Peter takes the reversion of animal generation to simply mean that if animals eat other animals and semen is constituted by a superfluity of food, then there is indeed a kind of conversiva generacio animalium. Kilwardby uses his reply to show a number of misunderstandings by his interlocutor with respect to basic facts about substances and natural change and explains his own conception of the generation of life, in particular human life. This lays the groundwork for the remaining discussion about the process of the development and composition of the human soul. First, he corrects Peter for holding that generation is achieved completely from a superfluity of food (that is to say, the part of food not taken by the organism that goes into the constitution of the male seed). If that were the case, Kilwardby goes on to say, there would be no relation whatsoever between the father and the son but rather one between the son and the food eaten by the father.74 That is absurd, of course, as superfluity of food only accounts for the quantitative aspect (the stuff) of the semen.75 Moreover, Kilwardby takes this, if it were true, to be disruptive of societal rules: there would then be no incentive to report or be concerned with adultery, because no children arising from that relationship would bear any connection with

30  Robert Kilwardby the father in any case. He also takes it as being against “the philosophy of medicine.”76 As the basis for generation cannot be limited to the superfluity of food, there must be something additional involved in the process of generation, something that connects the father and his descendant. Kilwardby calls this something “the first subject of life, that primarily and by itself receives the action of the soul.”77 He continues: “that which is the first subject of life first was in potency in the parents, after which was made semen in actuality by the act of generation, after which by means of food and continuous natural action developed into a fetus. And the original reasons in the semen of all human beings were in the first parents, which are explained by the continuous generation over the centuries.”78 This first subject of life originates from the parents and develops into an embryo with the support of the superfluity of food and food itself.79 Kilwardby is ambiguous about what exactly the relation is between this “principle of life” and the soul itself, which develops in this being from human parents. More important, however, is the way he explicitly connects the origin of this first principle of life from the parents and the transmission of the seminal reasons (here called raciones originales seminum) from the first parents throughout time, thus explaining generation as a natural process with historical continuity. It is worth noting that Kilwardby conceives of generation as a succession of changes in the material and formal dispositions of the generated being; these explain and prepare the reception of the completing form, the intellective soul, which is of divine origin.80 But how this issue relates to the question of whether the reversion of generation in the case of animals is similar to that of the elements, Kilwardby remarks: “teach it who can, I don’t understand it.”81 One way to read this is to conclude that Peter did not understand what was being prohibited and wanted to commit Kilwardby to some clearly heretical views, like the erroneous Platonic doctrine of the transmigration of souls. It seems Kilwardby took Peter’s objection to mean that this could entail that the process of generation of the potentially existing soul could be reversed, but he makes it clear that in Plato’s theory it is the same soul that takes on new bodies rather than the animal reverting to a previous stage. Another option is that Peter thought Kilwardby’s potentiality of matter entailed that the direction of the generative process could easily be reversed. Such criticism forces Kilwardby to explain his view on matter, which is grounded on the idea that generation depends on the contribution of certain inchoate forms existing in the underlying material substrate, with the

Being  31 form of the generated thing being educed from its potency. Now, “educing” has a very clear meaning in this framework:  the full actualization of an incomplete form existing in a state of latency. Kilwardby’s answer is thus to insist that the direction of the motion is from what exists in a potential state in the generating being to existing in actuality in the generated thing. But that means one direction only, from generator to generated being: the propagation of the species continues for centuries to come and cannot be reversed. Peter on the other hand takes issue with article 1 of the Prohibitions, which said that “form is corrupted into pure nothing,” saying:  “I don’t see this entailing as something dangerous.”82 Kilwardby replies to this by showing how nefarious the consequences of such a view are. If form is corrupted into nothing—​and likewise comes from nothing—​then generation is creation and corruption is annihilation. And if that is the case, the power required to bring something into existence from nothing is infinite, which means that either God creates all the things at all times—​thus leaving no role for natural processes—​or nature is capable of creating on its own, which is theologically problematic. The dilemma, as Kilwardby sees it, is that either form does not come from another thing, which means that the forms must be created from nothing—​which would make all instances of generation instances of creation—​or the new form comes from another thing (for example, the Avicennian “giver of forms”). Kilwardby’s answer is to say that generation is not from nothing but from something, the “original reasons” or active potencies that exist in natural prime matter, the substrate of substantial change.83

Active Potencies I now need to explain the way Kilwardby understands natural change in corporeal things comes about, be they simple or composite.84 The main condition for change to be natural, rather than violent, is for it to have a principle of change that is internal to the thing changed.85 For Aristotle, a motion is violent whenever the cause of motion is an external agent that acts on the moved thing in a way that is contrary to its normal state. Here it is necessary to ask two things: first, what is the ontological status of that internal principle? Second, is this internal principle capable of moving itself? Kilwardby argues that the existence of matter endowed with forms in an inchoate state is necessary to distinguish generation from creation, as

32  Robert Kilwardby well as to assure that generation is a natural change: “when the active potency of matter is touched by the moving power penetrating well inside the moved thing, it is strengthened and once moved it moves, once disposed it disposes, once promoted it promotes. And in this way generations are made and by means of them as their consequence [also] corruption.”86 So the notion of active potency as a cooperating internal principle is essential to explain why this change is natural rather than violent.87 Kilwardby conciliates the need for an external agent initiating motion and the natural appetite or inclination that matter has toward form as the internal cooperating principle, “in the same way a female desires a male and the bad [desires] the good.”88 Kilwardby takes this inclination toward form to be so strong or intense that it qualifies as an activity, an internal active principle of change. This principle is applied to the sequence of determinations that go from the most universal to the particular in the constitution of the individual thing. What this means is that the form of the species educes the form of the genus to the form of the individual, with the resulting individuation of the composite. The result is that “the individual is constituted by matter and a plurality of forms.”89 A good example that Kilwardby gives of this is fire, which is constituted by the form of substance, the form of corporeity, and the form of fire-​hood (igneitatis):90 the first form received in matter is the form of substance, then the form of corporeity, and finally the specific difference of that kind of thing, which makes it an instance of fire. Essential to this argument is the claim that the presence of several latent forms in matter does not mean that one and the same thing have multiple forms in full actuality at the same time. Rather, only one form can be fully actual and the perfection of that thing at any given moment. It also does not mean that any form can erupt into actuality at any given moment: a latent form or active potency does not come into being until, and only if, the conditions proper for it being educed into full actuality are realized, namely, by the presence of an external moving cause.91 Under the influence of that external agent, the active potency of matter changes into full actuality. Kilwardby emphasizes that this is a motion resulting from a cooperation of internal and external elements, noting that “once moved, [it] moves” (mota movet).92 The “internal moving force” of the active potency is best defined as a kind of desire: “as to desire something is some [kind of] activity and activity is universally of form, it follows that matter has something of form, by means of which it desires it. And this is the active potency.”93 The external agent does not impress the thing with its form but

Being  33 contributes to educe an inchoate form, which exists in an incomplete state of actuality. Another way to explain the concept of active potencies is by referring to the notion of aptitude (aptitudo), that is to say, to the natural inclination matter has for form. So the starting point of any instance of generation is this aptitude or active potency that, once the right conditions are met, develops into full actuality. Generation does not start, as others have suggested, from absolute nothingness. The starting point for change is the state of privation, defined as the “principle of the thing being made as it is made” (i.e., the lack of form in the state of actuality that is proper to it).94 In De natura relationis (DNR), he defines privation as the mode of being ordered to what it is not yet (i.e., as the lack of what should be).95 In other words, privation is an aptitude in natural matter to be in a state of actuality, which, “if you consider deeply, is what I previously called active potency: it is called “potency” because it is ordained to actuality and “active” because it is something of form.”96 In short, privation is aptitude and aptitude is active potency. What is particularly important to keep in mind is that there is not an essential difference between active potency and form in full actuality but rather a difference in degree of actuality. Form and active potency are one and the same thing: one in a state of complete actuality, the other in a state of incompleteness.97 This is an essential point to make because what Kilwardby is saying is, in a sense, quite radical as a natural explanation:  what something is in actuality comes from what that same thing already is in potentiality, which constitutes the principle of its own actualization assisted by an internal agent. The main metaphysical claim is that substantial forms have two states of being: latent in natural matter as active potencies, (co)existing under an actual form that determines what that substance is at that moment, and fully actual, as the form determining what that substance is. The key metaphysical aspect of this theory is about the notion of potentiality. In this theory, for something to be in a state of potentiality is not for it to simply be receptive of an externally originating form; rather, to be in a state of potentiality can mean having in itself, in a state of incompleteness, the form of that which is to come. Thus, change is not explained by the passive potentiality of matter but instead by form, which, being already present in the matter that is the substrate of change, is educed into full actuality by an external agent. It is important to keep in mind that the (meta)physical justification for the copresence of many substantial forms in one and the same subject, even if in different states of actuality, is what will allow Kilwardby

34  Robert Kilwardby later on to argue for the simultaneous presence of several potentiae in the human soul. This is the main thesis of his doctrine on the plurality of substantial forms, which is clearly expressed and defended in articles 5–​7 in E.

The Human Soul There is a clear order to articles 5–​7. Kilwardby proceeds by showing that (1)  there are three forms (potentiae) in the human soul—​vegetative, sensitive, and intellective—​as a result of the process of generation (article 5); that (2)  these three forms can coexist and thus constitute a unified human soul (article 6); and that (3) this unity of the human soul entails composition rather than simplicity (article 7). He tries to show that the distinct nature of the origin and operations of these three potentiae entails that they can be unified but not eliminated in the actual constitution of the human soul. It is this thesis about the composite nature of the human soul that motivates his criticism of the “simplicity of the soul” theories and informs his 1277 Oxford Prohibitions. The gist of the argument is clear: if the human soul were to be simple (simplex) from the outset, this would mean that a new human being would have to be rational from the first moment of existence in the mother’s womb. But this cannot be the case, because that soul would have the power to perform a wide range of operations, like sensing and understanding, without having the material dispositions necessary to carry out those operations.98 Kilwardby thus advances certain theses concerning the coming into being of the individual human soul: 1. The human soul is the result of a process of development, which is natural for what concerns the lower vegetative and sensitive potentiae and supernatural for what concerns the intellective.99 2. The process of development is sequential and cumulative (i.e., first there must be the vegetative potentia, then the sensitive, and finally the intellective). 3. To each stage of development of psychological functions must correspond the development of certain material dispositions, of the kind that make the body of that being be such that it can perform those operations: for instance, for the sensitive potentia to be in actuality, the animal must have sense organs (in addition, there are certain dispositions required for the functioning of the different powers of the soul, like the material dispositions of the eyes that are required in order for the animal to see).100

Being  35 These theses were not contested by most medieval thinkers around the time Kilwardby wrote his works. For instance, it was clear that the rational soul had to be created by God at the later stages of fetal development, because to argue otherwise would mean that the human intellect came into being from matter or was transmitted from the parents. Both of these solutions were unappealing for a number of theological (if not philosophical) reasons.101 The vegetative and sensitive forms on the other hand were understood to be the result of a natural process of development.102 Things get messier when one starts adding further qualifications to theses 1–​3, especially thesis 2. Kilwardby adds two: 2.1. The stages achieved in the process of development represent real specific determinations of being that do not cease to be when a higher stage is achieved: that is, the vegetative potentia continues to be and operate as an entity even when the sensitive stage is achieved. 2.2. Each potentia is responsible for a set number of functions, performed by powers (or potentiae partiales),103 defined by their objects.104 These functions continue to belong to that potentia even when a higher potentia is added to the individual subject. For instance, seeing is a function of the sensitive potentia even in the case of a human being, which possesses a rational potentia.

Kilwardby’s reasons for adding these qualifications are twofold. First, each stage is the result of a previous stage, and as such it is constitutive of the process. But if a subsequent stage were to corrupt what has been achieved by the process, that previous part of the process would be useless. Nature does nothing in vain, however, as medieval thinkers were fond of repeating. What is essential to the constitution of some thing must remain as its constituent even after that thing is further determined by other essential constituents. Second, Kilwardby’s definition of potentiality means that, for him, forms can have different degrees of actuality. The aim of form is either to dispose or to perfect: low-​level forms dispose the composite they inform, while allowing for a higher-​level perfection. That includes the incomplete forms of the homogenous (e.g., blood, bone) and heterogeneous (e.g., hand, leg) parts that enter into the constitution of the body.105 Higher-​level forms perfect the composite when informing it. In the case of human beings, the intellective soul is the perfection of the whole composite by being the last completive actuality.

36  Robert Kilwardby The only theory of the human soul that is acceptable for Kilwardby is one positing that the end of the process of generation culminates with the creation and infusion by God of the individual intellective potentia into the composite of the body informed by the vegetative and sensitive potentiae. As the form that determines the species, that intellective potentia is described as the “last completive form”; it is the completion and perfection of the whole human composite and of the potentiae that preceded it, disposing the body to this perfection. But what does this mean from the point of view of the composition of the soul? Kilwardby takes it to mean that “the rational soul in man is one substance, which is not however simple, but made out of parts. The vegetative, sensitive, and intellective are [those] essentially different [constituting] parts, according to both the Philosopher [i.e., Aristotle] and Augustine.”106 Together these “parts” or potentiae constitute one soul, just as a pentagon (to use Aristotle’s own geometrical example) is constituted by a triangle and a square, which in turn is constituted by two triangles.107 But the constitution of a new species of geometrical figure (the pentagon) does not mean that the constituting triangles and square cease to exist. Instead, these remain essentially (per essenciam) distinct from one another, as three differentiae constituting one definition.108 Kilwardby had already used this same principle in his earlier QLIIS: “in the same way that many differentiae constitute one species, almost like an aggregate, also the soul is constituted by matter on which supervene the vegetative, sensitive, and intellective differentiae. These [three] differ essentially from one another just like the parts of one definition.”109 And just as in one definition, as he notes, one of the differentiae plays the important role of determining the thing defined in its proper species. In the case of the human soul, that role of last difference (ultima differentia) belongs to the intellective potentia, which is completive of the (human) species.110 The core argument as to why the result has to be a composition, rather than a simple unity, is twofold. First, the variegated origin of the two kinds of soul requires that this cannot be a simple unity. The vegetative and sensitive are naturally generated, whereas the intellective is created by God. Second, the variegated nature of the operations performed by those kinds of soul is such that they cannot be reduced to the other: whereas the vegetative and sensitive souls perform their operations in the body, the intellective soul receives information by means of the body, but the operations that are proper to the intellective soul are not restricted to and not even properly performed in the body. This principle can be presented as follows:

Being  37 P1 Operations that are different in nature must be rooted in different potentiae. P2 Each potentia is responsible for a cluster of specific functions. P3 Human beings are naturally endowed with the ability to perform vegetative, sensitive, and intellective (clusters of) functions.

The conclusion is that the human soul must perform these three clusters of functions, with each cluster—​vegetative, sensitive, and intellective—​ corresponding to a potentia and irreducible to any of the others.111 The result is a soul constituted by three potentiae that are united by a differentia completiua ultima constitutiua. In other works, most notably the Responsio de XLIII questionibus (D43Q), Kilwardby likewise argues that in things that are generable and corruptible, there is only one form, which is the thing’s perfection, even though many other forms can be found in a latent state of being.112 Later on, in the same text but in a different question, he argues for a hierarchy of forms in which each is the perfection of the existing composite: the sensitive of the vegetative and the intellective of the sensitive.113 Among these, the intellective has the highest standing because, from a logical point of view, it is the form/​differentia that not only divides but also constitutes the being of the individual human it informs and thus is the essence in actuality of that individual.114 This clearly shows that Kilwardby originally intended to prohibit the philosophical view according to which the soul is a simple unity rather than a composite one, not a particular account of that simplicity—​namely, the Thomist one—​as it has often been argued.

Is the Soul (the) One? A central issue related to the development of theories of the soul and theories of cognition is the need to explain what kind of entity the soul is, namely, whether it is a form or a substance and whether it is simple or composite. But once a particular thinker has figured out where she stands on these issues, she must also answer a closely related question about how the different parts of the soul are organized, so as to form a unity. Basically, one could say that the debate is focused on a reconciliation of the Aristotelian idea of the composite nature of the soul—​with its three clusters of functions: the vegetative, sensitive, and intellective—​ and the Augustinian principle of unity of the soul. Both sides were using these freely, according to their own interests. The pluralists interpreted

38  Robert Kilwardby the Augustinian unity as not implying simplicity, and the partisans of the unity thesis interpreted the Aristotelian compound nature of the soul as a hierarchical or successive composition. In the previous section, I showed that for Kilwardby, the unity of the human soul is the result of the actuality of the last completing form and the way the other forms are ordered to that last completing one. This raises two fundamental questions: on the one hand is this composition of the human soul compatible with its unity? and on the other what kind of unity results from the composition of essentially distinct potentiae? This issue is often described under the designation of the debate concerning the unity versus the plurality of substantial forms, but this designation is largely misleading because the question (as Kilwardby understands it, at least) is not about the unity of the soul but rather its simplicity or composite nature. Never does he say that there are many souls in one human being; instead, the soul, being a unity, is a composite. Kilwardby answers the first question in the remaining part of article 5 and article 6, and the second question in article 7. I shall proceed in this order. The first reply is immediate and precise: if someone would object that from two [things] in actuality no one [thing] in actuality can be made, just as from the sensitive body, which is in actuality, and the intellective [soul], which is created a being in actuality, and [from these two] one cannot be made naturally, it must be replied that neither of these is complete in [its] actuality because the human body, despite being sensitive in actuality as the result of generation, does not complete matter in a perfect way, but is disposed to the intellective. The intellective on the other hand, even though it is created as an individual substance, it is not created so as to exist on its own but to be the actuality of the human body. And on account of their mutual, naturally inherent inclinations that concern the other, one is naturally made.115

On the basis of the argument about generation and the definition of natural prime matter as endowed with active potencies, Kilwardby was now able to provide the metaphysical justification for the human soul’s unity. Composition of a sensitive body and the divinely created intellective soul does not prevent, but rather justifies, a strong metaphysical unity, because the human body informed by the sensitive soul is not complete in its being but properly disposed to the intellective soul, which completes it in the sense of making it belong to its proper species. At the same time, God creates the

Being  39 intellective soul not so that it exists alone as a complete individual but so that it informs and thus completes the human body. That means that these three substantial forms together constitute one complete human soul because they are ordained one to the other (ad invicem ordinatas).116 Kilwardby is not being original here, and one does find authors before him thinking along similar terms of dispositional and perfective forms and the soul as a composite unity. A good example of this model is Philip the Chancellor (1227–​1236), who holds with a plurality of degrees of the numerically same soul (that is, each form is a dispositive principle for the following form, as a material disposition for the next form). The soul is a composite of three substances: the vegetative and sensitive are ex traduce, the intellective created.117 While the human soul is one substance, it is a composite one. In article 6 of E, Kilwardby focuses on the multiple ways the soul can be considered to be composite (or simple); the points he makes are fourfold. First, the soul can be considered from the point of view of its substance, that is to say, from the point of view of its essence. Second, the soul can be considered from the point of view of its powers (i.e., its faculties). Third, the soul can be considered from the point of view of concretion, that is, as existing in a particular thing. Finally, the soul can be considered from the point of view of magnitude or extension. In what follows, I analyze these in detail, as Kilwardby does in article 6, because it is on this basis that he will be able to build a strong argument for the compositional unity of the human soul. Kilwardby quickly dismisses composition in terms of concretion and extension because these clearly do not apply to the human soul: the human soul has the simplicity of a spiritual entity.118 All considered, there are only two ways the human soul can be composite:  (1) in substance, and (2)  in power. The soul is composite in substance because it is made out of three different potentiae, which are the subject of their own set of faculties or clusters of functions. The soul is also composite in power because the different powers or capacities of the soul perform diverse operations directed at different kinds of objects:119 sight (power) sees (operation) color (object), whereas will (power) desires (operation) the good (object). In neither case does plurality affect or endanger the unity of the soul. But Peter, as reported by Kilwardby, still has one further objection about these potentiae. Peter presents a view (that he takes to be Kilwardby’s) holding that these different parts of the soul, the potentiae, are in the soul as accidents in a

40  Robert Kilwardby substance and that somehow they constitute one thing. Kilwardby takes this criticism to entail that Peter’s own view holds that the soul is a simple essence and that if one adds any form to this essence, it will be an accident of that essence. Kilwardby finds this to be an error of casting in the sense that instead of saying that the soul is an essence to which other potentiae are then added, it is better to say that the soul is essentially constituted by three potentiae and that these are in turn the subjects of the powers or faculties of the soul. These are two very different conceptions of the human soul, because they are grounded on radically different conceptions of substantial composition and, in particular, different models of simplicity and unity. For Kilwardby, to talk about life is to talk about the functions a human being is able to perform. These are explained by the faculties that inhere in clusters of functions, so that together they constitute and explain the kind of life a being has. In the case of human beings, that includes three such clusters. For Kilwardby, these two aspects—​being a form that is simple and being constituted of three clusters of functions—​are not problematic. As a result, he strongly criticizes Peter about the correctness of his reasoning: “if the rational soul is one substance and that substance is a form, it is one form; therefore, it is simple. This I understand. But from this it does not follow: if it is one form, therefore it is simple. All composite things have unity, even though not [all] have simplicity.”120 Kilwardby takes Peter to reason that the rational soul is one substance, [and] that substance is a form; therefore, that substance is one form (i.e., it is simple).

Peter’s problem, Kilwardby argues, is in concluding the simplicity of the soul from its unity; in order to be able to hold that, Peter needs to prove the necessity of the consequence, which he does not do. Kilwardby further challenges Peter’s argument for the simplicity of the soul from its effects. The soul, as even Augustine granted, is present as a whole (tota) in any part of the body (in qualibet parte corporis) and is present in all the parts of the body as a whole.121 The assumption is that the soul must be simple in order to be wholly present in any part of the body. But the problem in this claim, as Kilwardby understands it, is that it considers the soul in the same physicalist terms used to talk about the body. Contrary to what Peter holds, the soul is wholly in any part of the body not because it is simple but because it has a spiritual—​thus, immaterial—​nature and therefore is not subject to

Being  41 the same restrictions that apply to a material entity. In Kilwardby’s words, “because spirit [i.e., soul] is of a superior [type of] being, it is free from some of those conditions that apply to a corporeal nature, namely, that nothing corporeal can be simultaneously in [different] distant places.”122 It is thus not from the fact that the soul is simple that one can conclude that it is present in different parts of a body. Kilwardby, interestingly, takes it to be the case that the simplicity of the soul is neither the cause of the soul being wholly in each part of the body nor the effect of the soul being wholly in each part. What explains the soul being capable of being wholly in each part of the body is the soul’s spirituality, which is adapted to constitute the principle of being and the ruler of the body: “it is not due to simplicity but to spirituality with the power being proportionate to the body joined to it that the soul can be simultaneously whole in any part of the body joined to it, be that by union or by assumption.”123 Spirituality, not simplicity, is what explains the soul’s way of being wholly present in the body, just as it explains the soul’s indivisibility, despite having “spiritual” or “functional” parts. This is an important idea, because it separates the issue of simplicity from the issue of the soul’s being and at the same time connects the unity of the soul with the function it performs with respect to the body. In the last part of the passage, Kilwardby points to “assumption,” because he previously argued that the same mode of existence could be found in the case of an angel who would assume a (human) body. In any case, the main point is that to be one is not dependent on being simple. This is something essential for Kilwardby’s project. Unity does not follow from the mode of being in the body either, which means that one can propose that the soul has a kind of being that is unified (one and whole) without being simple. Kilwardby advances a strong argument for this unity, which I explore in detail in the Excursus to Chapter  2. Before continuing on to Kilwardby’s arguments, however, I first need to explain the view of the human soul that Kilwardby objects to.

The Unity of Form(s) Having argued for the composite unity of the human soul and the irreducibility of the operations belonging to any one potentia, Kilwardby moves on to address the most problematic issue in Peter’s letter and the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions: the posicio de unitate formarum (i.e., the theory of the

42  Robert Kilwardby unity of forms). That is the view his contemporaries identify as belonging to Thomas Aquinas. It is worth noting that this last part (article 7) is the only one in the modern edition of E that does not start with Kilwardby presenting Peter’s text. In all the other articles (1–​6), the edition, following the manuscript, starts with Peter’s text objecting to a certain article of the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions. Uniquely, article 7 starts with Kilwardby briefly reformulating Peter’s view, remarking that no theory of “the unity of forms” was prohibited at Oxford. Among the list of prohibited articles on natural philosophy, the closest to the one found in Peter is article 12, “that the vegetative, sensitive, and intellective [potentiae] are one simple form [forma simplex].” But the difference between what is prohibited and the view that Peter presents (and that Kilwardby quotes) is substantial: “that the unity of the forms is absolute, as required for the exercise of the different species of operations and the diverse species of objects.”124 Kilwardby complains that he does not understand how exactly such a theory is justified, but he offers in any case some suggestions on how such a view could be understood and proceeds to refute it. He points out that he fails to recognize it among the prohibited articles. I think this is due to the fact that Kilwardby himself defends the unity of the soul, just in different terms. The difference is that he takes this unity to be composite of three different substantial forms, as expressed in the following passage: “I know that there are many corporeal and spiritual forms, which do not have mutual unity; I also know that some of these have unity but not in an absolute way; and I  know that from a diversity of forms arises a diversity of operations. [I know this] because, by means of the diversity of objects, one comes to know the diversity of operations and from these one proceeds to know the diversity of potentiae and forms.”125 However, the view he opposes, as he later comes to recognize, is not one about the unity of the soul but about the unity of forms, which argues “that the last supervening form, which is perfective of the composite, corrupts all those that preceded it, and that this last supervening one performs, by itself, all their actions.”126 According to this theory, the last form that arrives at the “human” composite—​the intellective potentia—​corrupts the existing potentiae it supervenes and takes over all their functions. From Kilwardby’s point of view this makes little sense, because it both overreaches what the perfective form is capable of doing and downplays the role of the preceding forms. The main issue he has with any such theory is the fact that it equates being one with being completely

Being  43 simple, which has serious consequences for both theological and philosophical reasons. I shall start with the latter. If it were the case that the last form corrupts that which it is supposed to perfect, then the intellective soul would end up informing (naked) prime matter directly, without the existence of mediating dispositions.127 This touches on one of the articles (article 16) prohibited in 1277 (see below).128 Moreover, taking over the functions previously belonging to other forms would entail that the intellective soul is the power by means of which a human being not only understands but also perceives and hears and sees, despite clear statements from Aristotle that the intellect does not operate via bodily organs—​which those functions require. Similarly, the intellect would also be responsible for functions like taking nourishment and growth. It seems clear that Kilwardby exploits an ambiguity between the intellective soul as a potentia and the intellect as a power of the soul in order to argue against the unity view. However, Kilwardby proceeds one step further and argues that, in fact, if one and the same form, which is the intellective one, operates all such basic operations on its own (like taking nourishment, reproducing, and perceiving), then the same form could be found in other beings (for instance in animals and plants).129 This argument is an odd one. My suggestion then is not to take Kilwardby at face value when he claims that no other form is necessary if the intellective form performs all the functions found in other animals and plants. Instead, one should understand him as saying that forms should be defined on the basis of the functions they are able to perform and that these functions—​which are determined by their objects—​are proprietary to those forms. If one takes different forms to be able to perform the same functions, then there is no longer any criterion to distinguish between them. One could argue, in response, that some forms have everything that characterizes other forms, as well as something else in addition. So the case of the intellective form includes the power of understanding in addition to nutrition, reproduction, and so on. The problem with that seems to be that in any being, there is nothing that is not constitutive of the species. I think that is why Kilwardby targeted article 11: “that when [that which is] incomplete is completed, [the forms] diversify the essence; but when the incomplete is under the complete, [they do] not.”130 The idea seems to be that when a form completes the other by replacing it, one has the determination of a species, but when the completed thing remains

44  Robert Kilwardby in the composite with some degree of actuality, the authors defending article 11 would claim that this does not lead to the determination of a species. From the theological point of view, things are not much better, because both the doctrine of the Incarnation and the doctrine of Transubstantiation entail Christ’s assumption of a human body. But if the intellective soul corrupts the existing human body, informed by the sensitive form—​as well as the innumerable forms of the bodily parts that constitute it—​thus informing prime matter directly, then there would be no incarnating.131 One of the central theses of Christian doctrine is the Incarnation, that is, the fact that Christ, the son of God, assumed a human nature and died for the salvation of humankind. But that entails that the son of God did assume a human body, which cannot be the case if all there is of the human in the human body is the intellective form. According to the view Kilwardby criticizes, it would be false to say “the Word is made flesh,” because there is no flesh independently from there being the intellective soul. This is an interesting argument, because Kilwardby is thereby turning the tables on Peter, who seems to assume that the Prohibitions are outlandish in nature. Instead, Kilwardby is noting that those defending the view that Peter criticizes Kilwardby for should be able to provide a justification for their views that is aligned with Christian faith and Church doctrine. But there is also a philosophical aspect to it, in the sense that “if a human being consists of rational soul and flesh, flesh is part of the substance of human being and by flesh is understood everything that falls under it.”132 One cannot have it both ways, meaning that it is not possible to take the body (or flesh, in the passage) and soul as included in the human essence and then provide an account that seems to exclude one of them as a real and distinct constitutive element. If there is no form of the flesh, there is no flesh. The intellect cannot be the form of the flesh because flesh is naturally produced from the mixture of elements, whereas the intellect is created directly by God. So if the intellect were created and infused in matter completely lacking forms, then it would not be the case that the son of God would assume human flesh, as there would be no flesh to be assumed.133 It is likewise in the case of Transubstantiation. According to this doctrine, the body of Christ (his flesh and blood) must really be present in the Host (altar bread). But if there is no form that constitutes the flesh, then what is present in the Host is the intellective form of Christ. The argument is presented in full force: “in the Eucharist, we believe that after the transubstantiation there is the true body of Christ and [his] true blood

Being  45 with [his] soul and divinity. But if the presence of the intellect in the body removes the [other] forms, which were there before in nature, even though not in time, [this is so] because the transubstantiation is in flesh and blood and not only in spirit. [From this] it follows, as noted before, that it would not be here the true flesh and the true blood of Christ or of God.”134 The doctrine of faith concerning the Eucharist would then be false, as no bread would stand for the body of Christ. Kilwardby thus concludes that such a theory, being philosophically wrong and morally pernicious, endangers some of the most important Catholic beliefs; accordingly, its errors must be disapproved.135 What Kilwardby thus suggests is that instead of conceiving of form as eliminative, one should take it as divided into two types: forms can be understood as that which perfects and that which is perfected. When a given form comes to be in a composite of matter and form, it perfects the previous form. But that does not mean that it cannot itself be further perfected. Probably inspired by Avicennian metaphysics, Kilwardby takes the basic definition of potentia or form to be that of perfection. But a perfection is that which allows for something to develop rather than that which curtails a thing’s development.136 Instead of taking one form to explain all the substantial determinations of the thing it informs, corrupting all previous forms, one should take the lower forms to be dispositional and preparatory for the subsequent forms, and any one thing to be constituted by a plurality of forms, each of which explains a set of determinations. Importantly, if there were forms in the process of generation that explain this body having bones and nose and ears and feet and nerves, when these forms are corrupted by the supervening intellective one, would this not mean that these determinations cease to be? What explains their continuing to exist and determining the matter of this particular substance? Moreover, if the souls of animals are the only principle of determination, what does one eat when one eats their meat? Does one eat their animal souls?137 Of course, this is not a proper characterization of the view Kilwardby is opposing, in the sense that it is conceivable that a certain determination could determine more than one level down, so to speak, or that when one talks of flesh, for example, one also subsumes under it all the other dispositional determinations that one can find, like those of the elements and such. I take it that Kilwardby wants to make a very strong point here and actually argue that, in a sense, all determination is local, so that the elements are determined at the elemental level, the flesh at the

46  Robert Kilwardby level of flesh, and so on. But at the same time, the determination at that level is compatible and even necessary for the determination at the higher level: for instance, only beings that are constituted by flesh and blood can move and perceive. That determination must be thought of as completive in the same way that the lower-​level determination must be thought of as dispositional, contrary to the “replace it all” doctrine of the unity theory: “moreover, if the intellect supervening to perfect the human being corrupts all other forms that preceded it in matter, the same would happen in the case of the animal body, where the sensitive [form] supervening would corrupt all preceding forms and in this way there would be no flesh, no bone, no nerves, no foot, no eye, no ear, because nothing would exist here except for the sensitive soul and matter, elevating the forms of the individual limbs which preceded it and the individual parts.”138 Kilwardby dismisses this account because, in order to argue for the absolute simplicity of the soul, it is required that the same kind of determination have different determining principles that replace each other in the order of nature, namely, in an account of generation. In other words, whatever essential “carvings” in the nature of things there are, these would need to be explained by one and the same form. For Kilwardby, however, such a view is “intolerable and impossible.”139 It is therefore preferable to understand the unity of forms in the way Kilwardby advocates, whereby the three forms constituting the human soul constitute a unity that does not entail simplicity and all the problems associated with it. Thus, “I know that one human being has one form, not a simple one but composite of many [forms] that have naturally an order in relation to each other, without which that human being could not be perfect. The last one of these forms, which completes and perfects the whole aggregate, is the intellect[ive].”140 Like all composite things, the last form perfects the composite, but the resulting unity is the unity of aggregation, not an absolute (simplex) unity. For Kilwardby, form is not what makes that aggregate one, and unity does not depend on simplicity: unity is the result of an inherent order, which directs any of the constituting forms to the others, so that together they constitute one thing. It is constituted by a plurality of substantial principles ordained and subordinated to the perfective intellective form, which is the perfection of the human composite. As a result, the soul is a composite of different parts, which are essentially distinct; nevertheless, as a spiritual principle, it is one soul, and together these parts operate as one. The soul is una forma viventis.141

Being  47

At Oxford in 1277 In this section, I  explore some of the issues surrounding the 1277 Prohibitions at Oxford. Kilwardby is often accused of being motivated by opposition to Aristotelian philosophy and by orthodox theological considerations. The accusation would be fair if his actions were motivated by theological concerns and if he had no theoretical philosophical justification for his views. It is worth pointing out the almost complete absence of theological theses among those that were prohibited, as well as the clear (certainly purposeful) avoidance of accusations of heresy and theological consequences for those censured. All consequences announced in the text of the Prohibitions and in E are of an academic nature: loss of teaching license, a prohibition to teach and attend lectures, and so on. That is not to say that there were not theological implications of some theses; for instance, article 13 concerns the nature of the dead body, which was central to the debates concerning the Triduum, the resurrection, the cult of relics, and Transubstantiation. But there is a clear lack of focus, especially in contrast with Tempier’s and Pecham’s theologically motivated Condemnations of 1277 and 1284, respectively. The most important misunderstanding in the modern interpretation of the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions is that they constituted a reaction by neo-​Augustinians against Aristotle, especially Aquinas’s interpretation of Aristotle.142 What the prohibited articles instead show is a disagreement about how to best interpret Aristotelian philosophy, rather than objecting in a principled way to Aristotelian philosophy, which was essential for Kilwardby’s intellectual upbringing. Even if later in his career, when made to choose between Augustine and Aristotle, he would tend to side with the former, that does not mean that he completely abandoned Aristotelian philosophy. It seems clear that a general anti-​Aristotelian frame does not explain the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions. Yet this does not mean that there was no serious opposition to the teaching of Aquinas at Oxford, even among Dominicans. Evidence suggests that this was not only possible but very likely. The traditional procedure involving a condemnation or prohibition was initiated by public opposition to a given doctrine or thesis expressed by a given scholar alone or in the context of a school (of thought). The institutional backing for this opposition usually came at a later stage, which means that it is unlikely that Kilwardby was the instigator of the Prohibitions. He was not

48  Robert Kilwardby teaching at the University of Oxford then, but he decided (or was forced, compulit ad hoc) to act in response to such public opposition.143 He acted as the head of the Full Congregation of all the masters from the four Faculties of the University of Oxford, which “was the supreme governing body of the University.”144 He had this authority as the archbishop of Canterbury, the ecclesiastical province that included the diocese of Lincoln, to which Oxford in turn belonged. The second fact that allows one to conclude that such an opposition existed within the Dominican Order is the dispatch, by the order in 1278, of two representatives—​Raymond of Meuillon and John Vigouroux—​to investigate reported criticisms of Aquinas in England: we appoint the distinct Brothers Raymond and John the Vigorous, lectors in Montpellier, that they go to England to diligently inquire about the fact that some brothers, to the scandal of the Order, criticized the writings of the venerable Father and Brother Thomas of Aquinas. We hereby give them full authority upon the hierarchy, once the culprits have been identified, to punish them and expel them from their province and remove them from any office. They have penitentiary powers, and if one of them is impeded in his action by some legitimate reason, the other should not be prevented in any way.145

These agents were allowed to act, and even expel the culprits, if a serious case could be proved. Initial suggestions that Kilwardby was the target of this initiative by his own order have been shown to be without merit, because Kilwardby, as the archbishop of Canterbury, was outside the Dominican hierarchy and thus outside the sphere of the influence of such envoys to punish him.146 The remaining option is the existence of other figures who were critical of Aquinas, for whom the jurisdiction of these Dominican representatives would have applied. One can only speculate who these persons may have been—​probably Robert Bacon, Richard Fishacre, and Roland of Cremona rank among them—​and how strong their movement was, but the fact that it led to such an action by the Dominican Order and the consequence that it led Kilwardby to issue the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions indicate that it was sizable.147 The two Dominican agents were supposed to have presented a report about these events in the following year, but no evidence of this has been found. The disrespect toward Aquinas’s work by other Dominicans was mentioned again at the Chapter of Paris in 1279, as well as once more at

Being  49 the Chapter of Paris in 1286. These cases prove that this issue was still being considered at the institutional level almost a decade after the Prohibitions of 1277.148 On the other hand the fact that only one scholar (Richard Knapwell) was accused in connection with the prohibited theses indicates that the supporters of Aquinas were equally quite strong in their institutional standing. In fact, the most devoted early supporters of Aquinas seem to have been located in England, such as the same Richard Knapwell (who went from opposing Aquinas to supporting him),149 Robert Orford, and Thomas Sutton. But little evidence suggests that these individuals were in the majority, and only when the General Chapter of 1286 established the obligation of Dominicans to teach and defend the thought of Thomas Aquinas did the internal Dominican resistance to Aquinas subside. The question remains as to who or what theory was the main target of the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions.150 The late P.  O. Lewry made several proposals about the target of the logical and grammatical propositions, but the main assumption with respect to the theses on natural philosophy is that the target was Aquinas.151 Whoever the real target was, it seems clear that the Prohibitions targeted a specific theory of the human soul (articles 6–​7, 10, 12, 16), form (articles 2–​4, 11, 14–​15), matter (articles 3–​5, 13–​14), and the nature of their composition (articles 1, 5, 8, 11, 16). In what follows, I  consider some of the prohibited articles and reverse-​engineer them in order to understand what is being defended. These are some of the prohibited articles:152 2 . Form can be corrupted into absolutely nothing. 3. No active potency is in matter. 4. Privation is a pure nothing and exists in celestial bodies and those inferior to them. 5. There is a reverse generation of animals, as there is of the elements. 6. The vegetative, sensitive, and intellective [potentiae] come to be in the embryo at the same time. 7. Once introduced from outside, the intellective [potentia] corrupts the sensitive and vegetative [potentiae]. 8. A primary substance is neither composite nor simple. 10. Aristotle does not defend that the intellective [potentia] remains [in existence] when separated [from the body]. 11. When what is incomplete is completed [in its kind], there is essential change, but when an incomplete [thing] remains

50  Robert Kilwardby [subdued] under the perfection, there is no such change [in the essence of the thing]. 12. The vegetative, sensitive, and intellective [potentiae] are one simple form. 1 3. The living and dead body are a body only equivocally. 16. The intellective [potentia] is united with prime matter [in such a direct and unmediated way] that it corrupts everything preceding it [in that thing] down to prime matter.

Combining all these different propositions leads one to the conclusion that what is being prohibited is a view holding the following (with brief comments in italics): 1. The human soul is an absolutely simple form that is intellective in nature, meaning that there is no composition of the human soul of matter and form, and no plurality of forms. This goes against what seems to have been the dominant view at the time, but different aspects of this article are found in the works of several authors of the period (that is, authors who did not accept the plurality of forms in the soul and those who did not accept the composition of matter and form). 2. The reception of this intellective soul corrupts all the preceding souls and material dispositions. This view belongs to Aquinas, but it is unclear whether it is only his. The basic idea here is that there can only be one substantial form per being; as the author of the “Correctorium Corruptorii Thomae” will later say, “the substantial form is that by which the thing is in an absolute sense.”153 Zavalloni has shown that Aquinas is the only known author to have defended this view prior to the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions, making it his most significant original contribution on the topic.154 Thus, it seems that although Aquinas was not the target as concerns the simplicity of the soul, he does seem to have been singled out regarding his view on the nature of the material principle that receives the informing soul. 3. The intellective soul comes to be in the embryo at the same time as the vegetative and sensitive souls. This clearly contradicts the previous thesis (see below). 4 . Matter has no active potencies. 5. Privation is a pure and absolute lacking, which should not be understood as active in any way.

Being  51 These two theses are contested by most Augustinian authors and Franciscans, who agree on matter having on its own a certain degree of actuality and being naturally endowed with active potencies. 6. A primary substance is neither simple nor composite, and form is corrupted into nothing. It is unclear who, if anyone, would defend this. In fact, it is unclear what such a view would look like. No Aristotelian or Augustinian would accept this.

Defended: 1 . There are active potencies in matter. 2. Privation is an active lacking, that is, an aptitude for form that qualifies it as a principle of change. 3. There is an ordered sequence of informing of the embryo, rather than simultaneity of all soul-​kinds/​life-​principles. 4. The intellective soul does not corrupt the vegetative and sensitive souls that precede it in the developing being, and the same is true with respect to the material dispositions. 5. The completion of an existing imperfect thing that entails the continued existence of its determining principles (which make it a thing, although imperfect) is nevertheless a change in the essence of the thing (i.e., an animal is made into a human animal). 6. A living body that ceases to be alive continues to be a body, which means that what makes it a body is different from what makes it alive.

The point worth making when comparing the prohibited views and the defended ones listed here is that they understand matter and the soul in very different ways:  in the prohibited views, matter is pure potentiality, whereas in the defended views, it is endowed with some degree of actuality on its own; in the prohibited views, the soul is absolutely simple, while in the defended views it is composite. Beyond that, it seems clear that there is not just one view that is being prohibited but what looks like a range of views, which may or may not share essential features. Evidence for this can be found in the apparent contradiction between article 6 on the one hand and articles 7, 12, and 16 on the other. If the three soul-​kinds come to be at the same time in the embryo (6), the intellective soul cannot corrupt the other two (7) down to prime matter (16), thus being

52  Robert Kilwardby absolutely simple, as (12) requires. It thus seems reasonable to conclude that Aquinas’s view—​which is represented by articles 7, 12, and 16—​is not the only target of the Prohibitions. In fact, it is interesting to look back at what Kilwardby says in E 5, where he presents three views about the human soul, precisely as a reaction to Peter’s inquiry about article 6. It is worth noting that Kilwardby reports on Peter’s formulation in his letter as follows: “that article—​“the vegetative, sensitive, and intellective are at the same time in the embryo, as in man there is a substance, the rational soul, which has powers, and that without the existence of that substance these cannot necessarily be at the same time”—​does not contain any falsity, as far as I understand, because one soul [that is a] substance, and not many, is always found in man and in the human embryo.” Kilwardby replies to Peter here that there are three views of the human soul. According to the first—​which Kilwardby takes to be Peter’s own view, expressed in his question—​the human soul is a rational substance that is simple, that is, it lacks any form of composition. Then he adds: “in this way, these powers do not add anything to its substance but are just different modes.”155 This cannot be a description of Aquinas’s view because for Aquinas, the powers of the soul are not one with its essence but proper accidents that “flow” from the essence. In fact, this description fits perfectly with a different view, that of William of Auvergne. I am not arguing that Peter of Conflans was defending William’s theory of the human soul but that Kilwardby, who clearly knew William’s view, did not see any difference between that and Aquinas’s. In fact, evidence suggests that Kilwardby seems to have understood the simplicity of the soul in terms that may include but are not exhausted by Aquinas’s view.156

Excursus: The Human Soul in the Sentences After discussing the last articles of E, which deal with the topic of the human soul, it is important to present an argument that Kilwardby develops in QLIIS 8 about the human soul. This question is aimed at explaining how the different potentiae constitutive of the human soul are related to one another and to the body. Kilwardby takes the soul of an individual human being to be a composite substance. It is a substance because it is subsistent by itself (i.e., it continues

Being  53 to exist when separated from the body). And it is composite because it is an aggregate of a plurality of forms, three potentiae, and spiritual matter. The main problem Kilwardby has to deal with in his account of the human soul is, how can the intellective potentia desire its perfection, which is to understand and which is done better separated from the body than united with it, while at the same time it has the following needs? 1 . To be perfected by sensible knowledge that it acquires via the body 2. To be distinguishable from angelic intelligences due to this unitability 3. To perfect the human sensitive body

All these three questions seem to indicate a clear tension between taking the soul to be the perfection of the sensitive human body (i.e., a body generated by human parents and informed by the sensitive soul), motivated by an inherent desire to know everything, if it is accidentally connected with that body. The problem is a conflict between three theses: T1 The human intellective soul has an essential inclination to be united with the sensitive body, which distinguishes it from angelic intellects. T2 The sensitive human body is essentially disposed to be perfected by the intellective soul. T3 The human intellective soul is accidentally related to the sensitive human body, just as a pilot is related to his ship.

The motivation for the intellective soul’s inbuilt inclination to be united with the sensitive human body is that the perfection of the intellective soul is to know everything. This includes knowledge about external material things, which can only happen by means of the power of the senses and their bodily organs. The sensitive body to be perfected by the intellective soul is human in the sense of being generated by human parents and thus consisting of a higher level of organization than is found in other sensitive bodies.157 From this point of view, the human body (including the human sensitive soul) is distinct from other animals. In other words: The intellective soul has a natural desire for knowledge. Knowledge of corporeal things cannot be had without the use of the bodily senses. Therefore, the intellective soul has a natural desire to be united with the body.158

54  Robert Kilwardby The intellective soul is thus united with the sensitive body, which it uses as an instrument for knowing corporeal things. But the sensitive soul also needs to be united with the body it informs in order to move and perceive, and in turn it needs the body to be a living one that performs all the basic functions of life (i.e., it needs to be endowed with a vegetative soul). The result is then that one cannot take these three clusters of functions apart when considering the union of the soul with the body. Accordingly, one must conclude that “the whole rational soul, with all its potentiae, essentially desires to be united with the body, and this [occurs in order to secure] its natural perfection, as this rational soul is born to know all things.”159 What Kilwardby does here is transfer the characteristic unitability (unibilitas) of the intellective soul with the whole soul, now including the two other potentiae, to explain why there is a functional or operative unity of the soul in its connection and informing of the body that is appropriate to be so informed. That should not, however, lead one to assume that the soul is one and the same in essence, as is found in the book The Spirit and the Soul (­chapter 10) attributed to Augustine: “some say that the rational soul is one simple essence that differs only according to its operations, so that when it understands it is called intellective, when it senses it is called sensitive, when it vegetates it is called vegetative. It is the same in essence, however.”160 This passage does indeed seem to take the unity of the human soul to a great extent, and it has often been used to claim that Augustine supported a view akin to that of the unicity of the substantial form. Furthermore, according to this view, the existence of conflicts within the soul—​that parts of the soul block the actions of other parts—​provides additional arguments for unity. Kilwardby is not convinced. On the contrary, he goes on to say, this is not true, because I do not see how diverse operations do not proceed from diverse powers rooted in diverse essences. Neither was this Augustine’s intention. He himself distinguishes parts in the soul, as in the De Genesi ad litteram, book XII, where he says that the spirit is a certain inferior power of the mind, “where the images of corporeal things are expressed.” I do not see how these parts are the same in essence. . . . That which gives the images, we have in common with brutes. By this [he] means that if we have the sensitive in common with brutes, and it is accepted that our intellective differs from the sensitive of brutes, [the sensitive of brutes] differs from our sensitive. And this is Augustine’s intention, I believe. Neither one should be based on the authority of The Spirit and the Soul, because that book is not by Augustine, I believe.161

Being  55 In this way, Kilwardby tries to claim that unitability explains the unity of the soul because it is the soul as a unity that has a natural inclination to be united with the body, while remaining partisan toward a plurality of potentiae. He does so, he says, because “I do not see in what way the different operations would not proceed from different potentiae rooted in different essences.”162 There are different parts of the soul, as many as necessary to account for the different kinds of operations the soul is able to perform, which correspond to the kind of being it is. Otherwise, Kilwardby would have ended up having to justify principles of union that do not conform within the soul: for instance, that the intellective soul is accidentally united with the sensitive body but the sensitive soul, which informs the human body, essentially desires to be united with and perfected by the intellective soul. In other words, the inclination to be united with the body is constitutive of all parts, whereas the implementation of this inclination is (in most cases) mediated. At the top of the hierarchy, we have the intellective soul. Kilwardby defines his principle of the soul-​body union this way: “the intellective [potentia] desires to be united with the sensitive [potentia] and the sensitive [potentia] with the vegetative [potentia] and the vegetative [potentia] with the body. And in this way, in the whole soul there is a natural desire and inclination to be united with the body because it follows its natural perfection, which is the cognition of sensible things. [This cognition] cannot be done without the body.”163 Of these, only the vegetative is directly (i.e., without mediation) united with the body, whereas the others are united via the mediation of the potentia immediately below that potentia in the soul’s hierarchy. But this mediated way of union does not mean a lack of connection to the body. In fact, there is such a strong connection to the body, due to this natural inclination, that the human soul struggles when separated from it. Kilwardby vividly remarks that the human soul “abhors the separation from the body and desires the conjunction.”164 It could be argued that this explanation is not enough to avoid the tension between holding that the intellective soul is accidentally united with the body as its perfection and that it is essential for the intellective soul to be united with the body. (The latter makes it a different species from the angelic intellect.)165 I think there is a sense in which Kilwardby is successful in his claim: the intellect has an essential inclination for this union with the body, but it is accidentally united with the operations of the body. Let me try to explain this with an example. Imagine I have a natural inclination to go

56  Robert Kilwardby back to Portugal every year. The natural inclination is satisfied whenever I get to Portugal every year, independently of what means of transportation I use to get there. But imagine also that I can only satisfy this inclination if I travel by road. I could still be said to realize my natural inclination when I travel by road, independently of using this car or that bus. The car or bus is accidentally related to my natural inclination, despite the fact that I cannot realize that inclination without one or the other. Kilwardby could equally say that the intellective soul has a natural inclination to be united with the body, despite not being essentially united with any bodily operations. It is only accidentally united with the body from a functional point of view.

Motion A Questionnaire In 1271, John of Vercelli, the master general of the Dominican Order, sent out a questionnaire to three of the most important members of the Dominican Order: Thomas Aquinas, Albert the Great, and Robert Kilwardby.166 The questionnaire consisted of forty-​three questions to be answered in accordance with a template (forma taxata) based on the authority of the Church Fathers and in agreement with the doctrine of faith.167 The expected theological outlook of the replies strongly suggests that the questionnaire was related to the public condemnation that was issued the year before (1270) by the bishop of Paris, E. Tempier, which targeted thirteen theses on a variety of topics considered to be against the Christian faith.168 The full list of this condemnation includes the following articles: 1 . 2. 3. 4. 5 . 6. 7. 8.

The intellect of every human being is one and the same in number. The following is false and improper: man understands. The will of a human being wills and chooses of necessity. Everything that happens here in this [terrestrial] world is of necessity subordinate to the celestial bodies. The world is eternal. There never was a first human being. The soul, which is the form of a human being insofar as it is a human being, is corrupted with the corruption of the body. The soul separated from the body at death is not affected by the bodily fire.

Being  57 9. The free choice of the will is a passive, and not active, power; and it is moved of necessity from what is desirable. 10. God does not know singulars. 11. God does not know others than Himself. 12. Human acts are not regulated by God’s providence. 13. God cannot make something corruptible or mortal incorruptible or immortal.169

The reach of these articles is quite broad. Vercelli’s questionnaire on the other hand is even broader in scope. Apart from containing some vacuous curiosities empty of any particular theological or philosophical significance, the questionnaire includes questions about aspects of Aristotelian natural philosophy that present difficult theological problems, namely, questions about the cause of motion of heavenly bodies, the unity/​plurality of substantial forms, and the influence of celestial motion on inferior (terrestrial) bodies, which seem to overlap with condemned articles 4 and 8 here. The latter topic is by far the most important, as twenty-​five questions in Vercelli’s questionnaire deal directly and indirectly with it. It does seem fair to speculate that his aim was to establish strict orthodox interpretations of issues such as this one by the most famous masters of his order. The replies by the three Dominicans to Vercelli’s questionnaire provide a window onto the events that followed Tempier’s 1270 Paris condemnation, which did not cause a huge impact but signaled a changing tendency in the way Aristotle was being received. This is made clear by the fact that two of the respondents, Aquinas and Kilwardby, would later be directly involved in the 1277 Paris condemnation and the Oxford Prohibitions of 1277.170

Celestial Motion The questions in the questionnaire can be organized around three sets: (1) whether angels are the cause of motion of celestial bodies,171 (2) whether celestial motion impacts natural processes,172 and (3) whether angelic agency should be counted among the causes of natural action.173 At face value, these questions entail a very problematic premise, namely, that angels, despite being created substances and thus having finite powers, would play the role of governors of the world. If this picture of the world were true, God would

58  Robert Kilwardby be a passive observer of the action that angels exert on the natural—​celestial and terrestrial—​order. Kilwardby starts by dismissing the possibility that God can be the direct cause of the motion of celestial bodies.174 (Celestial bodies are subject only to change of place, whereas sublunary things are subject to any of the Aristotelian kinds of change.)175 God cannot be directly responsible for these movements,176 Kilwardby claims, because God would move these bodies either in a natural way or by violence, where violence stands for any motion that has as its cause an agent external to the thing moved. But celestial bodies do not move violently; they move naturally. If on the other hand God were to move celestial bodies by natural motion, God would simultaneously be the motor and the actuality (i.e., the form) of the body. In order to be so, God would have to be a constitutive part of that composite substance that is the celestial body, which is absurd.177 On the other hand God could impart motion in a celestial body immediately, that is to say, by means of an infinite power (virtus). But that is also absurd, because circular motion effected by an infinite power would mean that once moved, the body would return instantaneously to the point whence it departed, which means that it would not be perceived as moving.178 In LSP, Kilwardby presents the same argument; there it is not applied to God but to Aristotle’s first mover, such that “if that first [mover] were to move the heavens, it would move it instantaneously; therefore it would not move.”179 Instantaneous motion would be contrary to the definition of local motion, which must take place over time and in successive stages. The conclusion is pretty straightforward, then: as there can be no such thing as instantaneous local motion, God cannot be the mover of celestial bodies. But there is another reason, which Kilwardby identifies as the commonly held opinion of philosophers, according to which the mover always attains some kind of perfection through the action of moving; but it is impossible to say that God could attain a perfection that God did not previously possess.180 From this it seems clear that God does not move the heavens or any celestial body by means of a continuous, everlasting local movement.181 That being the case, one needs to ask what that cause is. One alternative is to consider angelic intelligences as being such a cause. In particular, these questions focus on whether everything that moves naturally is moved through the action of angels moving the celestial bodies. Kilwardby argues that this question can be considered from three separate points of view:

Being  59 1 . What does it mean to be “naturally moved”? 2. Does the movement of the celestial bodies influence all the things that move naturally? 3. Are angels the cause of the movement of the celestial bodies?

According to Kilwardby, following Aristotle in the Physics, a motion is natural if the principle or cause of the motion is internal to the thing moved; if on the other hand the cause is external, the motion is not natural but violent.182 There are two kinds of natural motion: one concerns self-​moving things, as in the case of animals; the other concerns things that have an exterior cause of motion but this external cause contributes to the thing’s own natural inclination either by removing an impediment to that thing’s motion toward its natural place or by bringing that thing from a state of potentiality to a state of actuality. Kilwardby takes Aristotle to claim that celestial bodies move in a natural way.183 As for the second question, Kilwardby promptly dismisses the possible influence of the motion of celestial bodies on the motions of things in the sublunary world,184 including influence on the volitional acts of the rational soul. These acts of volition must proceed from deliberation (ex deliberatione) rather than being determined by external causes.185 Kilwardby was certainly aware of the danger that such a thesis poses to human freedom as showed by the fact that it lies among the theses condemned in 1270,186 namely articles 3 and 4; and that these would be condemned again in 1277 in the form of “all that happens here below is subject to the necessity of the heavenly bodies.” 187 It is easy to find justification for its condemnation, if it were the case that celestial motions—​or motions of any sort—​could determine the way human beings use their judgment on how to act. But then human beings could not be held responsible for their actions. Responsibility is a basic principle of divine justice and human moral standing. In order to avoid any of the worries just raised, Kilwardby unequivocally denies that the motions of celestial bodies influence the movements of the rational soul,188 but he leaves the door open for what concerns the influence of these celestial motions on the motions of material things, which are subject to generation and corruption.189 Finally, concerning the third point on the cause of the movement of the celestial bodies, Kilwardby identifies three possible answers.190 The first is the answer given by Aristotle and others, according to whom celestial bodies are animate beings constituted by an intellective soul and a body. According to these authors (philosophantes), they move by the power of

60  Robert Kilwardby will,191 in the same way that human bodies are moved by their spirit.192 Although Kilwardby denies the veracity of such a view in his reply to John of Vercelli, he did subscribe to this position thirty years earlier in his LSP.193 Later on also, he seems to subscribe to this view in DOS (IV.20), saying that the motion of the heavens is explained by the existence of a moving spirit, just as in the case of animals. In the earlier work (the LSP), Kilwardby presents this view in the context of considering whether the human soul is a form. In order to establish this claim, he analyzes its relation to the body, contrasting those operations that are proper to the soul alone and those that are proper to the soul-​body composite. According to Aristotle, he says, celestial bodies are alive and move themselves by means of an appetitive or volitional power. In other words, celestial bodies move by desiring certain things. In addition, they also have a rational soul, and in them the volitional and the intellectual parts are not distinct. Despite the fact that soul or intelligence constitutes the internal principle of motion of the celestial bodies, Aristotle posits, in addition, an external principle of motion, the first cause and first mover. This external principle moves by being the object of desire—​as the ultimate perfection—​of the soul of the celestial bodies. Kilwardby proposes that the reason why Aristotle posited two principles of motion, one internal and the other external, was that he thought that, as created things, the celestial intelligences have a limited power, and they must thereby be unable to explain on their own their perpetual (sempiterno) and continuous motion. In D43Q, he remains silent about his earlier view. Kilwardby’s second answer responds to question 3, taking celestial bodies to be moved by angels.194 Now, insofar as the motions of celestial bodies are of a natural rather than violent kind, for angels to be the cause of these motions, they would have to be naturally united with the celestial bodies (as their souls). But that seems not to be the case,195 despite there being a number of important authors defending this view, namely, Thomas Aquinas.196 Kilwardby claims repeatedly that this view is impossible to prove,197 but he never rejects it, preferring to say in a noncommittal way: “because I ignore, I do not wish to assert” (quia nescio, asserere nolo).198 Instead, he presents a third possibility. According to some, he says, the cause of the motion of celestial bodies is their own weight and inclination,199 in the same way that heavy and light bodies are moved by their own weight and inclination.200 The difference between sublunary and celestial bodies concerns the nature of the movement (i.e., rectilinear and discrete

Being  61 in the case of sublunary bodies and circular and continuous in the case of celestial ones).201 In the continuation of the text, Kilwardby explains the mechanics of celestial motion by using the principle that the heavenly bodies move by the “instinct of their own weight.”202 A central question here is what is meant by “instinct.” In a sense, it is merely equivalent to “inclination,” but I take his preferred use of “instinct” not to be a slip of the pen. Instead, I interpret it as a way to recognize that the same type of natural causation exists in the celestial as in the terrestrial sphere, while insisting on God’s influence in this process. If celestial bodies move due to “instinct,” this instinct must be caused in them by some other entity, which cannot be but God. This instinct then guarantees God’s influence on the heavenly spheres, since God has given this instinct to each thing, in order to give it certain characteristics, including circular motion.203 It also means that God does not have to act as the agent of each instantiation of motion in all movable things. It is important to keep in mind, however, as other scholars have noted, that Kilwardby’s theory of celestial motion is not original; it is found already in the early thirteenth century in John Blund’s De anima. In this work, Blund argues that the heavens are moved by nature, not by the soul or celestial spiritual beings.204 Kilwardby’s position is further consistent with that of Blund when he argues that this motion is necessary for the preservation of inferior things. Kilwardby’s support for this position as a theological authority had the potential to soften the Aristotelian distinction between sublunar and lunar physics. Even if historically this potential was not fulfilled, it is original in the face of both Aquinas’s and Albert’s conservative solutions. What the answers to these first questions allow one to conclude is that Kilwardby, while recognizing the theological importance of angels as rectors (rectores) and governors (gubernatores) of both the superior and inferior parts of the world,205 does not take them as the cause of celestial motion.206 They can, however, following God’s will, be the cause of certain celestial events,207 but that is not the matter under consideration. At a metalevel, it is important to note that Kilwardby seems to have had a certain principled attitude in trying to explain the phenomena he is being asked about in a pretty straightforward way, rather than getting involved in polemics that do not serve the purpose of answering the questionnaire. An interesting example of this general attitude is the way he addresses the question about whether angels could have the power to move the Earth out

62  Robert Kilwardby of its place in the universe (for instance, bringing it closer to the Moon). He reads the question as being about what causes celestial motion, rather than whether angels have the kind of power that allows them to move such an object. He replies: “whether any angel has such a power as to move a body, such that [it] could move from its place the whole Earth [and] transport it until the orbit of the Moon, I do not know, and I say nothing about this.”208 Thus, his answer focuses on the limited power of angels as creatures, and he opts not to take any stand on whether angelic power is of such intensity that it can move the Earth. He makes it clear that he takes this question to be a matter that is irrelevant for theological or philosophical purposes. In order to answer it, one should be able to ascertain how much power an angel is able to produce and then how much power would be necessary to move the Earth. In principle, the power to do so must be finite, because the Earth is a finite material body and angels have great but limited powers. Whether these powers correspond, so that they would be able to cause this motion, is not a matter for investigations of the kind Kilwardby is prepared to focus on.

Time Kilwardby writes one of the first treatises exclusively dedicated to the question of time, the De tempore. Often this topic is addressed in the context of commentaries on the Physics of Aristotle, namely, the discussion of motion in books III–​VIII (in particular, in c­ hapters  10-​14 of book IV).209 In this work, divided into twenty-​three questions, Kilwardby puts forward three main theses that assert the following: 1 . The distinction between determinate time and undetermined time 2. Time as the number of motion 3. The existence of the unity of time

These theses are developed in an attempt to bring together all the main authorities on the subject (i.e., Aristotle, Augustine, and Averroes).210 What is particularly interesting in this attempt is the way Kilwardby picks and chooses the best ideas from each of these authorities in relation to the different aspects required to examine the notion of time. His aim is not to be Aristotelian or Averroist or Augustinian but to present a coherent and systematic account of the nature of time. “the first question concerns whether time exists inside or outside the soul. Answering this question functions to

Being  63 contrast two authorities. Augustine seems to understand time as an internal and subjective affair: “time is in itself a certain distention, not of something existing outside the soul but of an affection of the soul present to it and remaining from those transient things.”211 Aristotle on the other hand defines time with respect to motion, and thus as something external and objective because it is independent of being perceived by a subject. However, Kilwardby argues, this opposition is merely apparent because for Aristotle, time is a measure between two instants, one before and one after, and that measure—​or that measuring, to be more precise—​is found only in the soul. Augustine seems to be right on this point. Yet the version of the model Kilwardby appeals to is actually found in Averroes, who distinguishes between a material and a formal conception of motion. According to the formal conception, motion is the path toward the end of the motion. According to the material conception, motion is the progressive acquisition of different stages during the motion until its terminus.212 Instead of arguing for a conflict of the different views in dispute, Kilwardby suggests talking of two different kinds of time: a time that is determined, insofar as it depends on a determining mind, and a time that is undetermined, insofar as it is independent of the mind. The former kind of time is the perception by a subject of a first instant and a second instant, so that one senses the before and after that properly constitute time.213 The second kind of time is undetermined, because it is a property of motion.214 There are different kinds of motion, but the privileged one for discussing time is that of local motion,215 and among these the standard measure is that of the celestial bodies.216 In local motion, one and the same thing occupies different places at different times, which may increase if the velocity of the thing slows down or decrease if it speeds up. What matters, however, is that the motion is continuous, so that time can be defined not as quantity of motion but as the measure of motion. It is important to note that in the background, there is a distinction between the two species of quantity, continuous and discrete; this distinction was found already in the Categories. Among the species of discrete quantity is number.217 Kilwardby defines “discrete” as “every quantity the parts of which are not connected by a common end-​term.” What is called “continuous quantity” on the other hand is quantity “the parts of which are conjoined by a common end-​term,” the way parts in a line are joined at a point,218 so that there is no gap between them.219 Time’s being results from the order between its parts, some prior and some posterior: the past and the

64  Robert Kilwardby present and the future. It has a successive being (i.e., its being is in being made [qua process] rather than having been made).220 Thus, time measures what is in motion—​or the motion of something—​and not its magnitude, because time, which is essentially successive, cannot measure what is essentially permanent. But motion has successive being, just like time;221 therefore, according to the Aristotelian definition, time is the “measure of motion according to before and after.”222 For Kilwardby, then, time is not a quantity but the measure of a quantity.223 This is an important point that he makes elsewhere: what matters from the point of view of discrete quantity is not the thing that is measured (res numerata) but the measuring number (numero numerante).224 Time is thus the measure expressing the (discrete) numerical quantity of the succession of two instants, one before and one after, that are continuous.225 Time measures the motion of celestial bodies just as it measures the length of a spoken syllable or a sentence. To the different kinds of motion there can be different partial measures, but the name that is given to the general measure simpliciter that measures all the quantities of motion is precisely “time.”226 This measure has a numerical expression. Time is a numbering number—​rather than a numbered number. What Kilwardby means by that is not simply that time is the “quantity of motion” but that the measure, expressible in numerical terms, of that quantity of motion: time is the “the number of motion” because number is the name of that measure.227 Therefore, “for things to be in time is just for their existence to be measured and counted by time.”228 But the fact that time is the measuring number of any motion leads Kilwardby to partially problematize Averroes’s taking of the motion of the first heaven as the first subject of time,229 as if that motion were in time’s definition. Kilwardby insists, rather, that time is the measure simpliciter of any motion, not one in particular.230 Celestial motion is simply the reference, known to all, of this measure; it is not the subject, as such, of time.231 There is a difference between setting the standard, as suggested by Aristotle in the Physics,232 by being uniform in its velocity, and being the privileged subject of measuring.233 The motion of the first heaven is a measure in the same way as any other motion. When first determining the number of motion, astronomers took this first motion as their standard, and by dividing it in a certain way, by imposition, they had the basic measure that then applies uniformly to any sort of motion and not this specific motion in any privileged way. What Kilwardby has in mind here is to avoid tying the definition of time

Being  65 as number of motion to the properties of this particular motion, so that whatever is true of this motion would be said of time simpliciter. Instead, time is the name for the measure of motion simpliciter and different fixed measures that are applicable to measure parts of motion.234 The former is indeterminate, whereas the latter are determinate. Motion taken formally as the way to completion is one, just as time is essentially unspecified to any particular measure; as such, motion is a cause of time by being its subject.235 Being one here means lacking any distinctions that arise from particularization.

Notes 1.  Some parts in this section on matter are adapted from Silva (2016). 2.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 14, 52. See also DOS 256; 265; 268; QLIS 35, 90; and QLIS 60, 171. References to Kilwardby’s works are given in the following way: abbreviated name of the work, number of the question or lectio or paragraph, page number (if necessary). 3.  Kilwardby, DOS 265; QLIIS 14, 52. See Silva (2012), 33–​35 on this. See also Lottin (1932, 1957); and Martin (1920a; 1920b). 4. On this distinction, see also Silva (2012), 44–​45, and Donati (2013), 250–​256. 5.  Kilwardby, DOS 277. 6.  Kilwardby, NSLP 8, M 20rb–​va. 7.  Kilwardby, DOS 277. 8.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 62, 178. 9. See Averroes, Metaphysica XII.14, in Aristotelis Opera cum Averroes Commentariis (1562–​74). 10.  Kilwardby, DOS 272. 11.  “Unde secundum essentiam nihil accrescit, sed solum secundum esse”; Kilwardby, DOS 279. 12.  “Materia autem est numero una, ut dicit Aristoteles”; Kilwardby, NSLP 1, M 12rb. 13.  See Thomas Aquinas, De principiis naturae 2, 97. On this, see Brower (2017), 116. 14.  Kilwardby, DOS 158. 15.  Kilwardby, DOS 298. 16.  Kilwardby, DOS 305. 17.  Kilwardby, DOS 280.

66  Robert Kilwardby 18. “Per intellectum resolutis usque ad materiam omnino nudam”; Kilwardby, DOS 285. 19.  Kilwardby, DOS 285. 20.  On form as the principle of distinction, see also Kilwardby, QLIIS 16, 60; DOS 208, 406. 21.  Kilwardby, DOS 293. 22.  Kilwardby, DOS 294. 23.  Kilwardby, DOS 295. 24.  Kilwardby, DOS 285. 25.  Kilwardby, DOS 317. 26.  Kilwardby, DNR 23, 52. 27.  Kilwardby, DOS 294. 28.  Kilwardby, DOS 246, 92. See also Kilwardby, E 2, 23. See Avencebrolis (Ibn Gebirol) (1995), II.11, 42, 21; V.10, 275, 15. On Averroes, see Di Giovanni (2004). 29.  QLIS 79, 254; see also DNR 23, 51–​52. 30.  Kilwardby, DOS 265; QLIIS 14; QLIIS 82. 31.  Kilwardby, DOS 320. 32.  Kilwardby, DOS 266–​269. 33.  Kilwardby, DOS 245; QLIIS 62, 178. 34.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 61, 173; DOS 340; NSLP 8, 55. 35.  Kilwardby, DOS 248. See also E 2, 24. 36.  Kilwardby, E 2, 28. 37.  Kilwardby, E 5, 40; DOS 244. 38.  Kilwardby, DOS 18. 39.  Kilwardby, DOS 24. 40.  “Tota ergo intensio et remissio in substantiis debetur dispositionibus quae fiunt circa substantiam, non autem essentiae ipsius substantiae”; Kilwardby, NSLP 7, P 48va. 41.  Kilwardby, DOS 25. 42.  Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 43.  Kilwardby, E 3, 30–​31. 44.  Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 45.  Kilwardby, E 2, 27. 46.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.13, 430. 47.  Kilwardby, E 3, 29. 48.  Kilwardby, DOS 248; see also E 2, 24–​25, and D43Q 26, 28–​29. 49.  Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 50.  Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 51.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 61, 173–​174. 52.  Kilwardby, E 2, 24.

Being  67 53.  Kilwardby, E 2, 25. 54.  Kilwardby, E 2, 27. 55.  “Pono ergo unum elementum in actu et tria alia in potencia materie”; Kilwardby, E 2, 26. 56.  Kilwardby, DOS 249; QLIIS 62, 178. 57.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 61, 174. 58.  Kilwardby, E 2, 27. 59.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 11; QLIIS 85, 240. 60.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 63, 179; D43Q 15, 21; 26, 29; QLIIS 61, 176. For Augustine on this issue, see Brady (1964); for other medieval approaches to the topic, see Nardi (1979). 61.  Kilwardby, E 4, 32; E 1, 22; 5, 39–​40; D43Q 26, 31. 62. “Forma enim quelibet de se nata est esse in multis et de multis”; Kilwardby, NSLPor 6, P 37rb. 63.  Kilwardby, NSLP 6, M 15ra. 64.  Kilwardby, NSLP 7, M 17ra. 65.  Kilwardby, LSP 398. 66.  On this, see Silva (2012). 67.  “Sola numerositate forme in materia, quae materia facit formam esse hic and nunc, et sic ipsam individuat”; Kilwardby, NSLPor 5, M 5ra. See also Kilwardby, NSLP 7, M 18rb: “si loquamor de individuo quantum ad hoc quod materia est principium individuans quae facit formam esse hic et nunc.” 68.  “Substantia autem fit particularis per aliquid quod est de sua essentia, scilicet per materiam”; Kilwardby, NSLP 8, M 20rb. 69.  “Igitur materia est causa individuationis, facit enim formam esse hic et nunc, et sic ipsam individuat. Si loquamur igitur de individuatione secundum quod aggregatio formae cum materia facit individuum et hoc aliquid et primam substantiam”; Kilwardby, NSLPor 6, P 37rb. 70.  NSLPor, prooemium, P 33va. 71.  Kilwardby, NSLP 13. On this, see McAleer (1999). 72.  On this, see Silva (2012). 73.  It is perhaps relevant to note that Kilwardby and Peter had met at the General Chapter of Montpellier in 1271; Monumenta Ordinis Fratrum Predicatorum Historica (1898), III.156; Sommer-​Seckendorff (1937), 37–​38. 74.  Kilwardby, E 4, 30. 75.  Kilwardby, E 4, 33. On this topic, see Reynolds (1999). 76.  Kilwardby, E 5, 31. 77.  Kilwardby, E 4, 32. 78.  Kilwardby, E 5, 32. 79.  Kilwardby, E 4, 32. 80.  Kilwardby, NSLP 20, M 42 vb.

68  Robert Kilwardby 81.  Kilwardby, E 5, 33. 82.  Kilwardby, E1, 20. 83.  Kilwardby, E 1, 21. For an overview of this issue in the thirteenth century, see Donati (2002). 84.  Kilwardby, E 2, 23. 85.  Kilwardby, E 2, 24. 86.  Kilwardby, E 2, 25. 87.  Kilwardby, E 2, 25. 88.  Kilwardby, E 2, 25. See Aristotle, Physics, I.9, 192a18–​25. 89.  “Plures formae sunt in una materia in constitutione unius individui”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 65. 90.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 65–​66. 91.  “Quando iuvatur ab exterior agente”; Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 92.  Kilwardby, E 2, 25. 93.  “Cum ergo appatere sit aliqua accio, et accio universaliter est forme, sequitur quod materia habeat aliquid forme, per quod appetit eam. Et hec est potencia activa”; Kilwardby, E 2, 25. 94.  Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 95.  “Privatio est carentia rei quae infuit aut inesse deberet”; Kilwardby, DNR 15.11. In what follows, I use Hanagan’s edition of this work (see Bibliography). 96. “Et istud, si intime consideretis, est, quod prius vocavi potenciam activam, que ideo dicitur potencia, quia ordinatur ad actum, ideo activa, quia aliquid forme est”; Kilwardby, E 3, 30. 97.  Kilwardby, E 2, 27. 98.  Kilwardby, E 5, 36. 99.  If these were all created, they would all be corrupted, which is theologically inadmissible. See Kilwardby E 5, 38. 100.  Kilwardby, QLIS 59, 168. See Silva (2012), 78, for references. 101. “Ex traduce, quod est contra posicionem catholicorum et fidem eorum”; Kilwardby, E 5, 38. 102.  Kilwardby, E 5, 40. On this issue, see Bazán (2002); Callus (1943); Cruz Pontes (1964); and Dales (1995). 103.  Kilwardby, E 5, 43; QLIS 61, 171; and especially QLIIS 139, 375–​376. 104.  “Obiecta enim sunt univoca et acciones univoce sunt, ergo potencie sunt univoce”; Kilwardby, E 5, 35. 105. Kilwardby, E 7, 50. On the soul as the completive actuality, see QLIII2S 63, 269. 106. “Intelligere debetis, quod una est anime racionalis substancia in homine, non tamen simplex, sed ex partibus composita. Vegetativa enim, sensitiva et intelectiva partes sunt essencialite[r]‌diferentes, et secundum Philosophum, et secundum Augustinum”; Kilwardby, E 5, 42.

Being  69 107.  Kilwardby, E 5, 42. 108.  “Et sicut differencie tres se habent in una diffinicione, sic iste tres potencie vegetative, sensitive, intellective in una anime humane substancia”; Kilwardby, E 5, 43. 109. “Dicendum ergo forte quod sicut multae differentiae constituunt unam speciem quasi quoddam aggregatum, sic forte anima habet materiam super quam adiciuntur differentiae vegetabilis et sensibilis et intelligibilis quae ab invicem differunt essentialiter sicut partes unius definitionis”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 30. 110.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.23, 460. See also NSLP 13, M 32rb. 111.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 29. 112.  Kilwardby, D43Q 26, 29. 113.  Kilwardby, D43Q 34, 38–​39. 114.  Kilwardby, NSLPor 8, P 38vb. 115.  “Si quis autem obiciat, quod ex duobus in actu non fit unum in actu, et ideo ex corpore sensato, quod iam est in actu, et intellectu, qui creatur ens actu, non potest fieri naturaliter unum, respondendum est, quod neutrum est complete in actu, quia corpus hominis, licet sit actu sensitivum, tamen illud sensitivum est talis generacionis, quod non complet materiam perfecte, sed disponit ad intellectivam. Intellectus quoque, licet creetur ut hoc aliquid, non tamen creatur, ut sic maneat per se, sed ut sit corporis humani sensitivi actus. Et propter istas mutuas inclinaciones naturaliter sibi inditas, quibus sese respicunt, fit ex hiis unum naturaliter”; Kilwardby, E 5, 41. 116.  Kilwardby, E 5, 44. 117.  Philip the Chancellor (1937). On the issue of the plurality of forms, see Zavalloni (1951); and Mazarella (1978). 118.  Kilwardby, E 6, 46. 119.  Kilwardby, E 6, 45. 120.  “Si anima racionalis est una substantia et illa substantia est forma, ergo est una forma; ergo simplex. Aliud non intelligo de verbis istis. Sed non sequitur: si una forma, ergo simplex. Omnia enim composita habent unitatem, non tamen simplicitatem”; Kilwardby, E 6, 46–​47. 121.  Kilwardby, E 6, 47. 122.  Kilwardby, E 6, 48. 123.  Kilwardby, E 6, 48. 124.  Kilwardby, E 7, 48. 125.  Kilwardby, E 7, 49. 126.  “Ultima forma adveniente, que est perfectiva compositi, omnes alie que precesserunt citra materiam corrumpuntur, et ultima adveniens per se ipsam agit omnium acciones”; Kilwardby, E 7, 50. 127.  Kilwardby, E 7, 50.

70  Robert Kilwardby 128.  “16. Item quod intellectiva unitur materie prime ita quod corrumpitur illud quod precessit usque ad materiam primam,” Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis (1889–​97) (hereafter CUP), I.559. 129.  Kilwardby, E 7, 51. 130.  Whoever this “they” actually stands for. This is an important detail: in no other thesis prohibited at Oxford does Kilwardby hint at a specific target—​ beyond the thesis itself. But in this case, he does mention a “they.” I understand this to mean a distinction among the prohibited theses, between those that are general enough that they apply indiscriminately to some philosophical views and this thesis, which seems to have a particular target. One easy way to respond to this speculation would be to say, as traditional scholarship has done, that this is directed at Thomas or his disciples. I have no opinion on this beyond what I generally take to be Kilwardby’s default position: it is impossible to justify philosophical positions. 131.  Kilwardby, E 7, 53. 132.  Kilwardby, E 7, 51. 133.  Kilwardby, E 7, 52. 134.  Kilwardby, E 7, 52. 135.  Kilwardby, E 7, 54. 136.  “Perfeccio enim suum perfectibile non corrumpit, sed provehit, fovet et continet”; Kilwardby, E 7, 50. 137.  Kilwardby, E 7, 53. 138.  Kilwardby, E 7, 53. 139.  Kilwardby, E 7, 50. 140.  “Scio tamen, quod unus homo unam habet formam, que non est una simplex, sed ex multis composita, ordinem ad invicem habentibus naturalem, et sine quarum nulla perfectus homo esse potest, quarum ultima, completiva et perfectiva tocius aggregati, est intellectus”; Kilwardby, E 7, 53. 141.  Kilwardby, E 7, 53. 142.  This view was dominant during most of the twentieth century but has recently been challenged in a number of ways. It can still be found in recent works, often occasioned by a clear misunderstanding of the philosophical theories underlying the list of prohibited articles. A good example of this is Larsen (2011), which includes statements like this one: “the Thomist position alarmed the Neo-​Augustinians for a number of reasons. It seemed to them that Aquinas was deviating radically from traditional Christian teaching, although in actuality the question was hardly new in the 1260s and the Plurality of Forms was not the established position of all previous scholars.” The reference is to Callus, who was certainly wrong about the dominance of the unicity view. It is worth noting however that Larsen’s work is otherwise an interesting book, which provides a trove of historical information concerning the medieval condemnations at Oxford.

Being  71 143.  Larsen (2011), 35; Courtenay (1987), 179. 144.  Rashdall (1936), 65. 145. “Iniungimus districte fratri Raymundo et fratri Iohanni Vigorosi lectori Montipessulani. quod cum festinacione vadant in Angliam inquisituri diligenter super facto fratrum. qui in scandalum ordinis detraxerunt de scriptis venerabilis patris fratris Thome de Aquino. quibus ex nunc plenam damus auctoritatem in capite et in membris, qui quos culpabiles invenerint in predictis. puniendi. extra provinciam emittendi. et omni officio privandi. plenam habeant potestatem. Quod si unus eorum. casu aliquot legittimo fuerit impeditus. alter eorum nichilominus exequatur. Quibus priores de sociis competentibus. quos ipsi ad hoc officium exequendum ydoneos iudicaverint. teneantur quandocumque requisiti fuerint providere”; Monumenta Ordinis Fratrum Predicatorum Historica (1898), 199. 146.  On this, see Wilshire (1964) and (1997). 147.  Douais (1884), 90–​92, says that scholars have attempted to downplay the resistance to Aquinas’s thought within the Dominican Order but this resistance, though small, was strong. His point is that otherwise the number of books produced during this debate (which he locates as taking place between 1278 and 1342) would be unintelligible. 148.  See Douais (1884), 204 and 235, respectively. 149.  Glorieux (1927b), 206. 150. On the reasons for using the term “prohibitions” as opposed to “condemnations” and on the absence of evidence of a connection between the events in Oxford and those in Paris eleven days earlier, see Silva (2012). 151. On the nature of these events surrounding the 1277 Oxford Prohibitions, see Silva (2012). 152.  CUP, I.559, no. 474. 153.  “Forma substantialis est illud quo res est simpliciter”; William de la Mare, Correctorium fratris Thomae, in Glorieux (1927b), 116. 154.  Zavalloni 1951. 155.  Kilwardby, E 5, 35. 156.  On this, see Silva (2012). For Auvergne’s view, see Marrone (1983); and Moody (1975). 157.  Kilwardby, DOS 53. 158.  “Intellectiva nata est appetere scientiam . . . Sed corporalia non potest cognoscere nisi per sensus corporis.  .  .  . Ergo potentia intellectiva quoad aspectum naturaliter appetit uniri corpori”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 28–​29. 159.  “Tota anima rationalis in omnibus potentiis essentialiter appetit uniri cum corpore, et hoc ad naturalem sui perfectionem, quia ista anima rationalis nata est cognoscere omnia”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 32. 160.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 28. 161.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 29–​30.

72  Robert Kilwardby 162.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 29. 163.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 32. 164.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 34. 165.  “Unibilitas animae rationalis cum corpore est differentia essentialis angeli et animae ex parte ipsius animae”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 33. 166.  For a detailed analysis of this questionnaire, see Silva (2007). See also Suarez-​Nani (2002). Kilwardby’s text has been partially edited in Chenu (1930) and, more recently, completely edited in Dondaine (1977). Aquinas’s text was edited as Responsio ad magistrum Ioannem de Vercellis de 43 articulis. Finally, Albert the Great’s text was edited as the Problemata Determinata. On this, see Weisheipl (1961). 167.  Thomas Aquinas, Responsio, 327. 168.  CUP, I.432, 486–​487. See Grant (1979), and also Wippel (1977). 169.  CUP, I.486–​487, n. 432. 170.  Hissette (1977). 171.  “Tertia questio est an angeli sint motores corporum celestium.” 172. “Secunda questio est an omnia mouentur naturaliter moueantur ministerio angelorum mouente corpora celestia.” 173.  “Sexta questio est an omnia inferiora naturaliter in esse deducta per uiam motus regantur per angelos mediantibus ‘motibus’ corporum celestium.” 174. “Prima questio est an Deus moueat aliquod corpus immediate”; Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 10. 175.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 10. 176.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 10. 177.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 10. 178.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 10. 179.  Kilwardby, LSP 403. 180.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 11. 181.  Kilwardby, D43Q 1, 11. 182.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 12. This same idea is found in E 2, 24–​25. 183.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 12. 184.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 12. 185.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 12. 186. “Quia omnia, que hic inferioribus aguntur, subsunt necessitati corporum celestium,” in CUP, I.432, 486, translated by Wippel (1977), 179. 187.  “Quod intelligentia motrix caeli influit in animam rationalem, sicut corpus caeli influit in corpus humanum,” in CUP, I.473, 547, and 551. 188.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 12–​13. 189.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 13. 190.  Kilwardby already discussed the following three answers concerning the motor of the celestial bodies early in his LSP, written around 1237. See Kilwardby, LSP 401–​403.

Being  73 191. Aristotle, De caelo II.2, 285a29–​ 30; but Metaphysics XII, 7–​ 8, 1072a1074b. This view is condemned in 1277: “quod corpora caelestia moventur a principio intrinseco, quod est anima; et quod moventur per animam et per virtutem appetitivam, sicut animal. Sicut enim animal appetens movetur, ita et celum,” in CUP, I.548. 192.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 14. 193.  See Lewry (1978), 324–​25. See also Kilwardby, DOS 20, 17. 194.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 14. 195.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 14. 196.  Litt (1963). 197.  “Simpliciter tamen et absolute non est hoc infallibiliter probatum”; Kilwardby, D43Q 4, 16; and “Ergo autem in neutra positione curro cum eis; unde michi in nullo probatum est angelos esse celestium corporum motores”; Kilwardby, D43Q 5, 16; and D43Q 4, 15. 198.  Kilwardby, D43Q 10, 19; and D43Q 15, 21. 199.  Kilwardby, D43Q 3. 200.  “Tertii ponunt quod, sicut corpora grauia et leuia mouentur a propriis inclinationibus et ponderibus ad loca ubi quiescant, sic corpora celestia sibi naturalibus inclinationibus quasi ponderum moveantur in loco circulariter ad conseruationem corruptibilium ne cito pereant et deficient”; Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 14. In the earlier DOS (35, 22), he offered a different account: “principium motivum caelestis corporis est motor primus.” 201.  Kilwardby, DOS 248–​249. 202.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 14. 203.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 14. See also Kilwardby, QLIIS 70, 198–​199, and DOS 169. 204.  John Blund (1970). See Dales (1980), 538. 205.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 15. 206.  Kilwardby, D43Q 18, 25. 207.  Kilwardby, D43Q 2, 15. 208. “Vtrum autem aliquis angelus habeat potestatem tantam mouendi corpus quod posset totam terram de loco mouere aut transportare usque ad orbem lune, quia nescio, nichil in hoc asserendo dico”; Kilwardby, D43Q 17, 24. 209.  See Trifogli (2000), and Porro (1996), who discusses Kilwardby in several places. See also Dondaine (1936b). Kilwardby’s account of time is examined in detail in Trifogli (2013). 210.  Kilwardby, DT 10; DT 71. 211.  Kilwardby, DT 4. 212.  Kilwardby, DSF 166. 213.  Kilwardby, DT 77. On the role of the instant in the medieval conception of time, including Kilwardby, see Fox (2006). 214.  Kilwardby, DT 75.

74  Robert Kilwardby 215.  Kilwardby, DT16, 10. 216.  Kilwardby, DT 35. 217.  Kilwardby, NSLP 8, M 19va. 218.  “Omnis quantitas cuius partes non copulantur ad aliquam communem terminum est discreta quantitas”; and “cuius partes copulantur ad communem terminum, hoc est continua quantitas”; Kilwardby, NSLP 8, M 19vb. 219.  Kilwardby, DT 11, 9. 220.  Kilwardby, NSLP 8, P 51rb. 221.  Kilwardby, NSLP 8, P 51rb. See also Kilwardby, DT 7. 222.  “tempus [est] mensura motus secundum prius et posterius”; Kilwardby, NSLP 8, P 51rb. 223.  Kilwardby, DT 21–​23. 224.  Kilwardby, NSLP 8, M 21rb. 225.  Kilwardby, DT 97. 226.  Kilwardby, DT 24. See also NSLP 8, M 21va:  “tempus est mensura motus.” 227.  Kilwardby, DT 20, 11. Trifogli (2013), 217, agrees with this but puts it in slightly different terms. 228.  Kilwardby, DT 86, 49. 229.  Kilwardby, DT 35; DT 43. 230.  Kilwardby, DT 24, 13; DT 42; DT 114. 231.  Kilwardby, DT 51. 232. Aristotle, Physics IV.14, 223b21–​23. 233.  Kilwardby, DT 49. 234.  Kilwardby, DT 51. 235. Kilwardby, DT 62. This distinction into formal and material considerations of motion is one of Kilwardby’s original contributions to the debate, as suggested by Trifogli (2013), 219–​223. The other is the plurality of times corresponding to the plurality of motions.

• 3

Being Logical

During the period 1237–​1245, Kilwardby wrote the earliest surviving complete course on what was called the Old Logic (logica vetus) to which we can associate a name. That course includes commentaries to Aristotle’s Categories and On Interpretation, the anonymous Book of Six Principles, Porphyry’s Isagoge, and Boethius’s Book of Divisions.1 In addition, Kilwardby also wrote commentaries to the Prior Analytics and Posterior Analytics, as well as other logical and grammatical treatises of disputed attribution, which remain unedited. Together these works provide an overview of the reception of Aristotle in the Latin West and his views on the nature of language, thought, and, importantly, the relationship between language, thought, and reality.

Words, Thoughts, and Things Kilwardby’s logical commentary on Aristotle’s Categories is divided into lectures, wherein the main points of the original Aristotelian text are explained or simply paraphrased. Like other early commentators on Aristotle, Kilwardby understood each of the Aristotelian treatises as “creating” a specific area of scientific study. In that context, there is a science of the categories, which is about how significative words express Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

76  Robert Kilwardby the multiplicity of ways in which things in the world can be:  things can be substances or accidents, and qua accidents, things can be qualities, quantities, relations, and so on. Kilwardby takes the ten categories, like substance, quality, and so on, as words (voces) that signify the highest kinds of being.2 In doing so, he follows Boethius’s linguistic approach, but he does not, of course, mean with this that the categories are simply a matter of linguistic classification, namely, that the categories correspond simply to the different ways a word can be declined. Instead, Kilwardby argues that the categories express a relationship between language and being, and thus he defines the subject matter of the Categories as the “simple significative word that consists of a composition from sound and thing.”3 To consider the categories in this way means accepting the view that the multiplicity of kinds of being can be expressed by a limited number of linguistic terms, and on the other hand that language is imminently significative, so that speculation about language is also a speculation about being. Two sciences—​ metaphysics and logic—​take the categories as their subject matter, but in different ways.4 Metaphysics approaches them from the point of view of being simpliciter, whereas logic approaches them from the point of view of predication. Kilwardby often repeats that the basic mode of operating of any science consists of the speculation concerning the properties that can be proved of its subject matter and its parts. When this method is applied to the “science of the categories,” one of the first questions that arises is whether there can be a science about the first kinds. The question arises because what defines a science is precisely the fact that it is about a kind (genus) of things. But the problem is that the science of the Categories is about the highest kinds of being, and for the definition to apply it would seem to require the existence of a kind under which all these ten highest kinds of being fall.5 Kilwardby responds by arguing that the unified subject matter of the science of the categories is the genus of the “simple significant word.” The ten words that signify the ten categories are considered as standing for the subject of predication or for that which is predicated of that subject. Predication implies something in language, in thought, and in things, because words signify thoughts, which in turn signify things. In fact, the relationship between words and things is not direct but is mediated by thoughts. So the study of categories cannot be done in isolation from a triangle of associations between words, thoughts, and things, ordered from speech to thought and from thought to thing.6 In other words, words or

Being Logical   77 statements are signs of affections in the soul (passiones animi, or thoughts), and affections in the soul are signs of (extramental) things.7 According to Kilwardby, a significant utterance (uox significatiua) can signify naturally, like those produced by animals, or conventionally (ad placitum), like those produced by human beings, which are the result of an original act of imposition. Sounds have many ways of signifying, but only human sounds are properly meaningful. At a lower level, one finds the sounds of nonrational animals and, below that, the sounds of unanimated things, like musical instruments. Still, according to Priscian, and contrary to Boethius,8 an inarticulate sound is not meaningful. The reason for this is that to be meaningful, a sound needs to have two elements: on the one hand a material component (the air, in the case of a spoken word) and on the other a formal or efficient component, which is the rational soul willingly producing a certain modulation of sound.9 Adopting a formulation from Priscian, Kilwardby remarks that an articulated sound, like that of the human spoken word, is produced in association with a mental sense (sensus mentis) of the one producing it, and this “mental sense” must be understood as the “intellect” (intellectus), that is, a significate. The significate is imposed on a word, qua a sign, on a certain account (ratio) that gives it signification. Signification can be taken here as either the act of imposing a significate onto the word or the significate itself that the word is conventionally the sign of, or even that relation established between the thing signified and the sign, mediated by thoughts. Signification in human language is the result of both a causal act of bringing together significates and the intention of the individual speaker in producing a speech act. Any study of these issues must concentrate on two main aspects: first, whether and how to accurately communicate one’s thoughts, and second, how language succeeds in representing the world. This qualification based on Priscian allows Kilwardby to elaborate on an important distinction in what concerns this articulated sound between the “mark” (nota) and “sign” (signum) of Boethian and Augustinian origin, respectively: qua “mark,” it refers to its being emitted by the speaker (ore proferentis), whereas “sign” refers to being heard by the receiver (aure audientis).10 As what is signified by these marks are the intelligible species in the soul of the speaker, and as species exist in the soul as passiones (affections, literally), they are better said to be marks or traces (note) than signs. In his NLPri Kilwardby remarks that these affections do not mean that the soul is affected in its substance; rather, the body is affected and the soul “stands

78  Robert Kilwardby according to the body dispositions.”11 This seems to suggest that the soul is affected accidentally following the affection of the body, so that the composite is affected in this way. To the extent that they refer to the external things, however, these marks or affections should be called likenesses or similitudes (similitudines). In the mind of the receiver of this speech act, the significate is called intellectus, which is a likeness of a thing as understood. Here “intellect” stands for the intention of the speaker, which is caused to be apprehended in the mind of the hearer. This reference has a universal nature, in the sense that passiones and things themselves are the same to all humans, whereas words, due to their conventional nature, are not.12 What is essential in this account—​a point that has been justly noted by scholars—​is the emphasis Kilwardby places, probably for the first time in the Latin West, on the distinction between the sensible performative action of the vox—​the modulated sound, as affecting the sense of the hearer insofar as it has a material existence and not qua meaningful—​and the vox as moving the intellect insofar as it is meaningful (thus, in its formal aspect).13 There is a difference between the linguistic expression as a sign that can, as such, be sensed by affecting the hearer’s sense organ and the intelligible aspect of the linguistic expression when it is understood. The vox is, therefore, the object of both hearing and the intellect because it affects both qua different things. About this last aspect, there are many ways in which this relationship between language and things can hold; words can be equivocal or univocal with respect to what they stand for. Insofar as the science of the categories is about words as significant, it makes sense to start with an investigation into these ways. That is what Kilwardby does. He considers that equivocal names are those that apply to things of different kinds: for instance, “man” can signify both a real, existing man and a drawing of a man. Univocal are words that apply to things of the same kind but different species: “animal” can be used for both human beings and cows. This raises the issue of whether one and the same genus can actually be found in things of different (and contrary) species. Kilwardby’s solution is to say that the genus does not exist in its subordinated species in actuality but simply in potency. Denominative words are an even more particular case, whereby the case of the word, due to declination, gives a meaning that is derivative with respect to the nominative case, the way “justice” (iustitia) is derived from “just” (iusto). But that case is accidental to the original account on which the name was imposed.

Being Logical   79 Kilwardby’s application of the principles of predication to the categories allows him to organize the categories in the following fourfold schema: (1) those things that are said of but do not exist in another; (2) those things that exist in but are not said of another; (3) those things that both are said of and exist in another; and (4) those things that neither are said of nor exist in another.14 A cruder distinction is that between what does not exist in another, the substance, and what exists in another, the accidents. Division into the category of substance and accidents (the remaining nine other categories) is central to the work and Kilwardby’s ontology. Substance is that which exists by itself, whereas accidents have the properties of being dependent on substance for their existence. It follows from this that accidents have three main features: they cannot migrate from one substance to another; the numerically same accident cannot be found in different substances; and no accident can exist separated from a substance, as it must always inhere in one. As substance is that in which accidents inhere, any account of accidents must include a reference to the substance in which these accidents inhere. The way of inhering and the way of the substance in which it inheres allow for a more fine-​grained classification of the categories:  (1) some are internal to substance; (2)  some are external to substance; and (3)  some are halfway between external and internal. The first of these (1) can be further divided into what inheres in matter (i.e., quantity, what inheres in form; quality, what inheres in the composite; and relation). Dividing the second (2)  further on the other hand comes down to what is external to matter (i.e., where, to form; when, to the composite; and disposition). Finally, one arrives at (3) what is of matter, which is affection; of form, which is action; and of the composite, which is position.15 In this classification, dispositions are accidents external to the composite substance; powers on the other hand, as qualities, are accidents that belong (are internal) to the form that constitutes the substance (i.e., the soul). Returning to the original point about the relation between signification and the categories, it is important to stress that the categories correspond to words that signify one of the ten highest kinds of being, which means, in terms of predication, that one kind of thing is that of which something is said, whereas all the others are what is said of that thing, the substance. To be said of is not to have a truth value, however, which means that the categories are not about truth and falsity. True and false are properties of composites of words, the statement,16 and that is the object of study of

80  Robert Kilwardby another work, which is part of the group of commentaries on the Old Logic: the commentary on the De interpretatione.

Interpretation Whereas the focus of the Categories was single words and other noncomplex expressions, the subject matter of On Interpretation is the “sayable ordered with another sayable in a statement.”17 The study of the latter presupposes the study of the former. Kilwardby makes this connection between these two works clear in DOS: because true reasoning is the inquiry into the reason from going from one term to another by means of a middle [term], so that one is affirmed or denied of the other . . . it is necessary to have the skill to affirm and deny terms. And because affirmations and negations are species of propositions or statements, Aristotle found it necessary to think about statements and their species, and to this [end], he wrote the [book] On Interpretation. Moreover, because the affirmations and negations produced by the intellect must respect [respicere] the being and nonbeing of things outside the intellect, it is hence necessary that statements take the true and false into consideration. The reasoning that is founded upon them must inquire about their truth and falsity if unknown. Statements are not true and false except with respect to the being or nonbeing of things outside the intellect. It matters therefore that the logician has a certain [degree of] knowledge of [extramental] things and knows their nature insofar as it concerns affirming and denying them. And Aristotle had this in mind when he wrote the Categories.18

The context of this passage is the need to account for words and their combination into statements in such a way that discursive reasoning (i.e., a structured sequence of statements) can be produced efficiently. Kilwardby argues that there is no overlap in considering those basic constituents, like terms and propositions, in different works—​as in the Analytics on the one hand and the Categories and On Interpretation on the other—​because in the latter, terms and propositions are considered in terms of themselves, whereas in the former they are considered as part of a process of reasoning that aims at something other than themselves: namely, to show in the conclusion of a demonstration that a predicate inheres in the subject.19 What is clear is that there is a progression in the study of logic, even though the

Being Logical   81 focus of these works is different. It is also clear that the aim of logic as such is to better understand and develop a theory of science and knowledge that is grounded on the notion of demonstration. The structure and nature of demonstration are examined later on; for now, I consider the nature of the statement in Notule super librum Peryermenias (NSLPery), which is the statement-​making sentence (statement, for short). The parts of the statement are the subject and the predicate,20 and these parts correspond to two kinds of linguistic expressions, the name and the verb. The name and verb share three basic features: they are meaningful, simple, and conventional.21 They differ, however, in that time applies to the verb but not to the name. The name is defined by Kilwardby, following Priscian, as substance (i.e., that which is the bearer of a quality and the source of the action expressed by the verb) together with a (determined) quality (i.e., a property or form).22 That is to say, a name signifies a thing of a certain sort or, to simplify, a definite thing. The verb on the other hand signifies time along with action. Whereas the name that signifies substance without quality is incomplete, like an infinite noun (“not-​man”), a verb missing tense and mood is incapable of properly performing its function (person is less essential to that function).23 A name does not acquire its role by the place it occupies in the statement but rather by an act of signification; by being significant, a name becomes a sign of something other than itself.24 A change in what the name signifies entails a change in the sign, because it affects the account (ratio) on the basis of which the name (qua sign) is imposed on something.25 As a result, a name can acquire new significates and can thus change from being univocal to equivocal.26 But a change in the thing signified by the word does not entail a change in the word qua sign, because there is no natural relationship between the sign and the thing signified;27 the relationship between them is contingent on human imposition, even though once imposed it is no longer contingent (or arbitrary). The idea Kilwardby emphasizes is that a name has one signification but its meaning can include many significates, and thus the name is equivocal. He illustrates this with “man” (homine), which can signify a real, existing human being (de homine vero) or a picture of a human being (de homine picto). Kilwardby remarks that there are two different approaches to conceptualizing the name: that of the grammarian and that of the logician. Whereas the grammarian starts by considering the name as a sound and proceeds to consider it as meaningful,28 the logician

82  Robert Kilwardby starts with the signification (or how it is understood by the intellect) and proceeds to the way it is expressed in a vocal sound.29 This difference in approach is also true about the way these two approaches consider complex expressions:  whereas the logician considers a statement from the (semantical) point of view of its truth and falsity with respect to the things signified that determine its truth value, the grammarian considers it from the (syntactical) point of view of congruity (or well-​formedness) or incongruity, which is caused by the connection and order between constituting elements.30 The reason for this is that if the aim of language is the successful transmission of a certain message from the one producing it to the one receiving it (as noted), the core task of the grammarian is to examine the conditions that need to be fulfilled in order to facilitate that success. As Irène Rosier aptly notes, the study of language, according to Kilwardby, is focused on the “intention to signify” by the producer of a speech act.31 That is why in Quaestiones in Librum Primum Sententiarum (QLIS) 90, Kilwardby proposes the following definition of a statement: “an artificial sequence of signs aimed at being understood by means of being perceived.”32 What is particularly interesting in this definition is that it places equal emphasis on the intention to signify and the sensible aspect of the linguistic expression. At the same time, it is clear that for Kilwardby, signification is not necessarily dependent on semantical congruency. An imperfectly constructed sentence can still be meaningful if the receiver is able to understand the meaning intended by the producer of the linguistic expression. Kilwardby insists that these two aspects should be taken partially separately, because a linguistic expression can signify successfully even when it fails in some grammatical requirement—​like missing a syllable, having the wrong case or person, and so on. (This is only true to a certain degree, for if an expression is completely incongruent, it may be impossible to understand the intended signification.) Name and verb must agree in person, case, and number for the statement to be congruous from a grammatical point of view, but meaning is compatible with incongruity: for instance, in the Latin “Ego currit” (“I run”), the verb currere is in the second person singular, instead of the first, and does not agree with the person of the personal pronoun (ego).33 In order to understand the nature of the flaw, it is necessary to first understand the standard against which it is measured:  “speech is the congruent ordering of sayables.”34 Failure in one of the constituting

Being Logical   83 simple expressions that are part of the speech to be thus congruently ordered results in incongruence or grammatical imperfection. There are two main kinds of such flaws: barbarism (barbarismo) is failure with respect to the nonsignificative parts of speech—​failure to properly order letters to letters or syllables to syllables, whilst solecism (soloecismo) is failure with respect to the significative parts—​failure to order words within a sentence for a significant result.35 There are numerous ways one can fail to signify and, correspondingly, fail to understand what is being said: for instance, when we do not say a whole sentence but a part of it, or we signify something by a simple word, or even when we signify one thing under many different aspects (that is to say, the same thing can be understood together with many of its properties with these properties being designated by the linguistic expression).36 At the same time, in some cases the failure to be grammatically congruent has a clear—​albeit extragrammatical—​justification. In the case of figurative expressions, there is the grammatical permissibility of having a singular but collective name, like “crowd” (turba), with the verb in the plural: turba runt (literally, “the crowd rush”). The reason for this is that the meaning of crowd is of a plurality of individuals, so that the singular verb would create a problem of interpretation.37 The meaning intended by the speaker is better realized in the grammatically improper construction than in the proper one; it is better realized because it facilitates the conveying of meaning to the hearer and makes this meaning easier to grasp.38 Even if a name and a verb can constitute a congruent grammatical expression (oratio perfecta),39 they are not sufficient to constitute a statement (enuntiatio) because a statement must be either true or false. A complex utterance is true if it combines (or divides) the subject term and the predicate term in a way that corresponds to the way the thing represented by the subject term and that which is signified by the predicate term are combined (or divided) in reality. In order to be so, the utterance must have the form of a declarative sentence (or assertion, enuntiatiua).40 The two terms can instead constitute a proposition (propositio), in which case they are called subject term and predicate term,41 with the copula “to be” considered as being part of the predicate “and not just a tie between predicate and subject.”42 The allusion here is to the original Aristotelian distinction between statement-​ making sentences and other sentences that do not say what is true or false.43 In a very basic sense, both the statement and the proposition are defined as

84  Robert Kilwardby expressions that take something to be the case or not to be the case.44 But there are important differences between the two. A proposition is a speech (oratio) that affirms or denies (predicates) something of something else,45 but to signify things is not a necessary disposition for the terms constituting a proposition.46 This is justified by the fact that the truth of a syllogism is “formal truth”; that is, it depends on the order of its terms, so that for the simple purpose of scientific reasoning, the terms constituting propositions can be completely abstracted from the things themselves—​and even transcendent terms only, namely, terms that do not signify things of any kind and thus can be represented by logical symbols (A, B, C).47 A statement on the other hand “exists only in meaningful terms,”48 and thus the truth of a statement is from composition (i.e., that things signified by subject and predicate term are in reality as the composition of subject term and predicate term state that they are).49 Statements come in two modes:  affirmative, which is the composition of the predicate with the subject, and negative, which is the separation of the predicate from the subject. Affirmation and negation are opposite statements because they indicate in one case that the predicate is said about the subject and in another that it is not said about the subject. Affirmative and negative statements cannot be simultaneously true; rather, one must be true and the other false, according to the principle of noncontradiction.50 I have noted earlier that Kilwardby uses the expression “modes of things” in logical contexts. This expression, which he uses in other works (in particular, in the DOS under the designation modi or rationes rerum), means things as conceptualized (or thought of) in a certain way.51 The idea is that things as conceptualized can be related in thought to other things equally thus conceptualized. The expression appears in the context of the definition of a science of reasoning. Here, Kilwardby notes that the matter of reasoning is constituted by things, which belong to any one of the categories, and their modes or accounts.52 It is the existence of these modi rerum in things that makes them the subject of reasoning.53 In QLIS 90, Kilwardby talks about these “things of reason” as being reducible to the categories of being: “moreover, these are all in categorical kinds by reduction insofar as they have a foundation in natural things. Every act and operation of reason and art is grounded on a natural thing. And the acts and works of reason and art are some kinds of dispositions or accidental conditions of the natural things. Therefore, whereas things of nature primarily and on their own belong to the categorical kinds, things of reason and art also belong to them in a secondary

Being Logical   85 sense by means of natural things that constitute their subjects.”54 By saying that they are reduced to the things that constitute their subjects, Kilwardby means the objects that are signified by those things of reason: those things to which the subject and predicate of a proposition, for example, signify. A subject or predicate has natural being as an external thing signified by the mental term, whereas in the mind it has being of reason only and is therefore a second intention. Subject and predicate are names of second intentions, whereas things themselves outside the mind are first intentions. To take Kilwardby’s example, consider the case of geometry. Geometry uses terms such as “line,” “continuum,” “divisible,” and so on. These things belong to the category of quantity, but it is because being divisible can be universally said of “line” that these terms can be part of a demonstration constituted by universal affirmative propositions, leading to scientific knowledge. It is important to note that Kilwardby understands this distinction (between propositions and statements) as part of an investigation into the procedures of scientific knowledge, namely, whether there is a science of terms signifying things of any of the ten categories that is different from a science about nonsignificative terms—​the “transcendent terms,” as he calls them. This is important in both procedural and substantive ways: procedural because it is about finding a structure of reasoning and investigation that can be uniformly applied to any subject matter of the special sciences. On the other hand this investigation is about substantial matters in the case of the special sciences. These sciences are about not simply “the way of reasoning” but reasoning about certain subjects, like lines or motion. Indeed, what terms signify matters when it comes to accepting those terms as part of the premises of a demonstration, as well as what follows from their ordering in those premises. Kilwardby makes this clear when he points out that statements must be made of “significative terms” precisely because statements cannot be considered in isolation from the remote dispositions of syllogisms, like truth and falsity.55

The Category of Relation Having discussed the main issue related to the Categories in an earlier section, it is worth paying special attention to one category in particular, relation, because of the role it plays in philosophical and theological debates. Kilwardby investigates the nature of relation in his DNR, a work from the

86  Robert Kilwardby period 1256–​1261,56 which its editor has called a small independent treatise reporting on a lengthy, disputed question.57 The difficulty with relation (ad aliquid) is understanding its ontological status: is there something in the real world that corresponds to relation or is it merely something in one’s mind? Take one example, that of “similarity”: is similarity between two items, like two white things, something in the things that are related in that way, or is it something above and beyond those things so related? Kilwardby understands these two possibilities as expressing the difference between the foundation of the relation (i.e., the things that ground the relation, also called the “relatives”) and the respect in which a thing is related to another thing.58 That accords with the way he defines relation in the NSLP, that is, as the way something is standing or being toward another thing.59 The expressions “standing toward” and “being in a certain respect” do not seem to be the kind of thing that can be said of something on its own. Kilwardby tries to show that there is a double aspect to relation: first, relation considered from the point of view of that in which it is grounded and, second, relation as an accident inhering in that thing.60 According to Kilwardby, things themselves are what stands in that respect.61 That is the foundation of the relation and is commonly called the “relative” of the categorical relation: “I call relatives those things of one kind upon which the name is imposed insofar as they stand toward things of another kind.”62 Relation is a category of being that does not exist except in the relatives.63 An illustrative example is that of identity, which is the relation of convenience between two substances or, even better, “the relation founded upon a substance by which it agrees with another substance.”64 The foundation of the relation (i.e., the relative) and the relation itself are identical in reality, which means that for Kilwardby, all relations are real, and they are real because the things themselves do stand toward other things.65 To be a “father” is a relation grounded in the active potency of a rational animal, by means of which it makes (qua cause) another that is similar to itself in species.66 This aspect of Kilwardby’s doctrine has been stressed by DNR’s editor, John Hanagan, who claims that Kilwardby is probably the first thinker to have formulated the notion of transcendental relation; by this he means that something stands in relation to something else not by something being added to it but by simply being what it is. So any relation is grounded on its foundation, that which is related to something else, which is called a relative; the other relative of any relation is that thing (or aspect) to which the other relative is related. The category of

Being Logical   87 relation thus must be described in such a way as to actually include both the standing toward and that which stands toward. But there is something unclear about the foundation of relation: is relation something that supervenes on other categories, like quantity or quality, or something that inheres in its subject directly? Kilwardby argues against the latter view, saying that if relation so inheres, it does so with respect to the substance in which it inheres by a relation of inherence; thus, relation would inhere in the relation of inherence, and so on. This would be an infinite regress, which is to be avoided at all costs: relation cannot supervene on relation. Instead, Kilwardby argues that relation is not something existing on its own as a subject but standing in respectu to any thing of one of the other categories of substance, quality, quantity, action, and passion.67 He illustrates this with the following example: the relative “father” is related to its correlative “son” by means of its relation of “paternity” (paternitas), but the thing that is a father belongs, as such, to another category (substance).68 Kilwardby insists that the substance qua relative and relation qua accident are one and the same in the thing, and they differ only in account: between inhering (inesse) and being toward something else (ad aliquid esse). Take another example, that of quantity.69 The argument is that whatever exists must be part of a whole and, as such, fall under the category of relation, because any given quantitative part holds a relation toward the whole of which it is a part. From this statement it seems to follow that relation is a proprium of quantity, because no quantity in nature can be considered without being related to other quantities, which means it stands in a relation of equality or inequality (by exceeding or lacking with respect to the other). The same goes for quality, like color: there are a species of white and a species of black. The two are connected by the relation of similitude (or of dissimilarity, qua white and black). Now, this means that relation inheres in the quality itself.70 There is not anything added to quality that makes it stand in a certain relation to (e.g., similarity to) another quality; its being a quality makes it so relate. In that sense, the best way to describe relation is not as a simple accident distinct from the thing in which it inheres but rather as an aggregate of accident and subject—​where relation stands for the accident and the thing (i.e., substance or a thing in any other category) stands for the subject or its foundation.71 However, relation is primary with respect to the relative,72 even though there can be no relation without its foundation.73

88  Robert Kilwardby This raises the issue of the numerical distinction of accidents: If a and b are related, there must be in a the standing toward b and in b the standing toward a. Consider the example of similarity once again:  there are two things that are related to one another in a certain respect (say, their color). The relation of similarity is thus grounded in the accident of quality. So does one and the same accident exist in two similar things, or do numerically distinct accidents exist in each of the two similar things? As an accident (relation of similarity) inhering in another accident (quality), like whiteness, the question is whether one should count there being one accident (the relation of similarity) inhering in both the correlatives (the two white things) or two accidents, each inhering in one of them (similarity in the first white thing and similarity in the second white thing).74 If the latter, the question to be asked is whether they are similar by virtue of a third thing, which entails that either they would not be directly related or that what relates them is not similarity but something different. In other words, is one to consider relation in terms of the being toward something else that inheres in both related things, thus being two, or from the point of view of the standing toward that relates the two things, as it were, as one relation above and beyond both of them. Kilwardby responds to this by insisting that there are two numerically distinct accidents inhering in the two relative similar things.75 The claim is that these two accidents have an essential agreement in whiteness but are numerically distinct: they are two accidents in two distinct things having accidental features that constitute foundations for the accidental relation of similarity. The basic idea is that “in the case of the similitude of two similar things, there is a unity according to species and not according to number.”76 For Kilwardby, a relation is not one accident inhering in several things but rather is in multiple subjects, as it needs one subject in which it inheres and another toward which it stands.77 It can be said to be one in species.78 At the same time, there is the important issue of the foundation of relation being one of the categorical accidents.79 But it seems that in some cases it can be more than one. An example of this is knowledge: it belongs to the category of quality as a disposition of the soul, but insofar as it is knowledge of something else, it belongs also to the category of relation.80 Kilwardby denies that this is the case by introducing a threefold way of considering an accident: an accident can be considered (1) in itself, without reference to its inhering or to the subject in which it inheres; (2) in itself, with reference to its inhering but without reference to the subject in which it inheres;

Being Logical   89 and (3) in itself, with reference to its inhering and the subject in which it inheres.81 A disposition corresponds to type 2, insofar as it is not specified as being about x or y; relation on the other hand falls under type 3. There is, however, the important issue of the dependency relations between correlatives (i.e., whether they stand toward one another in an essential way or an accidental one). Essential dependency means that one of the correlatives needs the other in order to exist, whereas accidental dependency means that one can exist without the other. Kilwardby argues that the relation need not hold exactly in the same way in both correlatives (i.e., that there is no requirement for the relation to be symmetrical). He illustrates this with the relation between sense and a sensible thing. As sense is actualized or perfected by the action of the sensible thing, there is no sense without the sensible thing. But the same seems not to be true with respect to the sensible thing:  the thing that is sensed exists even if there is no sense. The destruction of sensing does not entail the destruction of the sensible thing. So it seems that it would better to say that whereas the sensible thing is accidentally a relative, sense is essentially a relative.82 It is therefore correct to say that the sense is related essentially to the sensible thing, whereas the sensible thing is related to the sense only accidentally.83 The same is valid in the case of knowledge, which is dependent on the existence of something that is known. The known thing is related only accidentally (or occasionally)84 to the knower and her knowledge.85 But Kilwardby strongly argues for the simultaneity of the two relatives. The idea is that both are constituted, insofar as the relation between the two is constituted; they only exist insofar as the relation itself exists. So the sensing constitutes the sensible thing qua sensed, and, likewise, the knowable thing’s potentiality for ad aliquid is realized when it is actually being known.

Notes 1.  Two clear introductions to this course can be found in Lewry (1978) and Conti (2013b), with Lewry paying close attention to the manuscript tradition. Conti provides a helpful description of the works contained in this lecture course. 2.  “Est igitur, ut dicit Boethius, scientia Praedicamentorum de X vocibus X prima genera significantibus”; Kilwardby, NSLP, prooemium. See Conti

90  Robert Kilwardby (2013b), 68; see also Silva (2018). On medieval commentaries to the Categories, see Andrews (1988) and (2001). 3. “Sermo simplex significatiuus cuius composicio est ex uoce et re”; Kilwardby, LSP 390. 4.  “Modus scientiae consistit in speculation passionum et proprietatum de subiecto et partibus subiecti”; Kilwardby, NSLP, prooemium, M 11rb–​P 42va. 5.  Kilwardby, NSLP, prooemium, P 42rb. 6.  “Et ideo recte procedit a sermone ad intellectum, et ab intellectu ad rem”; Kilwardby, NSLP 1, P 42vb. 7. “Oraciones sunt note passionum, et passiones sunt note rerum”; Kilwardby, LSP 396. 8.  Rosier (2003), 178. 9.  Kilwardby, NSLPery I.2, V 3v. 10.  Kilwardby, NSLPery I.2, V 3v; see also QLIVS 42, 225–​226. 11.  Kilwardby, NLPri II.27. 12. “Passiones autem et res heedem sunt apud omnes”; Kilwardby, NSLPery 1.2, M 46ra. 13.  “Et dicendum quod differunt nota et signum, quia nota est in quantum est in ore proferentis, set signum est in quantum est in aure audientis: quod patet per hoc quod signum est quod se affert sensui, aliud derelinquens intellectui. Quia igitur species intelligibilis in anima in quantum significanda est alteri dicitur ‘passio’ in anima eius qui loquitur, melius dicit, sunt note quam ‘signa’ ”; Kilwardby, NSLPery I.2, V 3r–​P 67va. See in particular Rosier (1994), 11–​24. Rosier calls this perspective of Kilwardby and Roger Bacon “intentionalism.” 14.  On these distinctions and FOR an overview of early commentaries to the Categories, see Hansen (2012), 53–​143; see also Conti (2013b). 15.  NSLP 5, M 14ra. On this classification, see Conti (2013b), 80. 16. “Singula incomplexa dicuntur sine vero et sine falso”; Kilwardby, NSLP 5, M 14rb. 17.  “Dicibili ordinato cum dicibili in interpretatione enuntiatiua”; Kilwardby, NSLPery, prooemium, M 44rb; See also Kilwardby, NSLP, prooemium, P 42va. 18. Kilwardby, DOS 517–​ 518. On the signification of nonbeing, see Braakhuis (1985) and Silva (2018). 19.  Kilwardby, NLPri 77, 1582. 20.  A very helpful introduction to the kind of issues discussed in connection with the De interpretatione is Mora-​Márquez (2015). See also van der Lecq (2008). 21. “Nomen et uerbum, que sunt principia materialia enuntiationis”; Kilwardby, NSLPery I.2, M 45va. Kilwardby argues that there are two kinds of utterances: nonsignificative and significative. Significative utterances are further divided into those that signify naturally and those that signify conventionally;

Being Logical   91 finally, among those that signify conventionally, some are simple (noncomplex), whereas others are complex. Statements are of this latter kind. 22.  Kilwardby, NSLPery I.3, M 47ra. See Priscian, Institutiones grammaticae, II.IV.18, 55. 23.  On this see Lewry (1981a), 258, n. 31. 24.  Kilwardby, NSLPery II.1, P 76rb. These issues are examined in detail in Kneepkens (2013). 25.  Kilwardby, NSLP 1, P 43rb. 26.  Kilwardby argues that signification applies to (1) the signifying act or form, (2) the significate, and (3) the relation between sign and significate. There is only one signifying act or form per name, but there can be several significates, which make a name equivocal. See Kilwardby, NSLP 1, P 43ra. 27.  “Quia ergo oracio est significans de significato, de re scilicet, non a natura set secundum placitum, ideo non necesse est transmutacionem rei consequi transmutacionem oracionis”; Kilwardby, LSP 405. 28.  Kneepkens (2013), 32. 29. “Differenter determinat dialecticus de nomine et gramaticus. Gramaticus enim secundum quod determinat de nomine considerat ipsum secundum quod incoat a uoce litterata et procedit ad intellectum; dialecticus uero considerat ipsum prout inchoat ab intellectu et terminatur in uocem”; Kilwardby, NSLPery I.1, P 66vb. 30. Kilwardby, NSLPery I.5, M 50ra. On Kilwardby on congruity, see Kneepkens (1985; 2013). 31.  Rosier (1994), 8. 32.  “Quaedam artificialis ordinatio characterum ad notitiam aliquam . . . percipiendam facta”; Kilwardby, QLIS 90, 287. 33.  On this, see Lewry (1981a). 34.  “oratio est congrua dictionum ordinatio”; Kilwardby(?), IDAM 17–​18. 35.  Kilwardby(?), IDAM 38. 36.  Kilwardby(?), IDAM 43. 37.  Kilwardby(?), IDAM 60. 38.  Kilwardby(?), IDAM 60–​61. For a clear explanation of Kilwardby’s reasoning, see Sirridge (1988), 176–​178. 39.  Kilwardby, NSLPery I.2, M 46vb. 40.  Kilwardby, NSLPery I.2, M 46vb. 41.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.3, 72. 42.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.3, 75. 43. Aristotle, De interpretatione 17a2–​7. On this, see, e.g., Kilwardby, NLPri I.98. See Thom (2007; 2013b). 44.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.2.

92  Robert Kilwardby 45.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.2, 54. See also NLPost I.8, 43: “propositio est altera pars enunciationis, scilicet pars uera singnificans unum de uno”; Kilwardby’s reference to “altera pars enunciationis” is due to the medieval understanding of a statement as having two parts, affirmation and negation: an individual proposition is one of these. 46.  Kilwardby, NSLPery, prooemium, P 66va. 47.  Kilwardby, DOS 451. See also Kilwardby, NLPri, prologue, 36, and Kilwardby, NLPri I.1, 50. 48.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.1, 50. 49.  Kilwardby, NSLPery 5, V 8r; and Kilwardby, NLPri I.2, 62. 50.  Kilwardby, NSLPery I.8, M 52va; see Aristotle, Categories 13b27–​33. 51.  Kilwardby, DOS 454–​ssg. 52.  Kilwardby, DOS 448. 53.  “Isti igitur modi rerum sive rationes concrete cum rebus faciunt res rationalibles”; Kilwardby, DOS 450. 54.  “Item ista omnia sunt in praedicamentis secundario tamquam ea quae fundantur super res naturae. Operatio enim et omnino actio rationis et artis habet sibi subiectam materiam res naturae. Et acta vel opera rationis et artis sunt quaedam habitudines vel condiciones accidentales rerum naturae. Et ideo res naturae primo et per se constituunt praedicamenta, res autem rationis et artis sunt secundario in eisdem per res naturae eis subiectas”; Kilwardby, QLIS 90, 286–​287. 55.  Kilwardby, NSLPery, P 66va. 56.  Hanagan (1973), 25. The best introduction to medieval theories of relation continues to be Henninger (1989). 57.  Hanagan (1973), 23. 58.  Kilwardby, NSLP 10, 76: M 26ra. 59.  Kilwardby, NSLP 12, M 29rb. 60.  Kilwardby, DNR 21, 49–​50. 61. “Respectus super res in se absolutas radicantur”; Kilwardby, DNR 1.01. 62.  Kilwardby, DNR 1.02. 63.  “Per concretum cui inest”; Kilwardby, DNR 1.06. See also DNR 1.03; 1.06. In this sense, “relation” is the abstract term, whereas “relative” is the concrete term (DNR 1.03; 2.01). 64.  Kilwardby, DNR 5.01. 65.  On this, see Hanagan (1973), chap. 5. 66.  “Similiter, quid pater? Relativum super potentiam activam animalis rationalis fundatum, qua sibi similis in specie fit causa”; Kilwardby, DNR 5.04. 67.  Kilwardby, DNR 4.01. 68.  Kilwardby, DNR 5.04.

Being Logical   93 69.  Kilwardby, NSLP 10, 73, M 25va. 70. “Similitudo est relatio fundata super qualitatem”; Kilwardby, DNR 10.04. 71.  Kilwardby, DNR 6.01. 72.  Kilwardby, DNR 2.01. 73.  “Unde non repugnant hii duo sermones: relatio verius est in hoc genere quam relativum, et relatio non est relativa nisi per relativum”; Kilwardby, DNR 1.06. 74.  Kilwardby, DNR 10.01. 75.  “Relinquitur igitur quod in duobus similibus duae sunt similitudines numero diferentes”; Kilwardby, DNR 10.06. 76.  Kilwardby, DNR 10.07. 77.  Kilwardby, DNR 10.10. 78.  Kilwardby, DNR 10.16. 79.  Kilwardby, DNR 12.09. 80.  Kilwardby, DNR 12.04; and DNR 14.05. 81.  Kilwardby, DNR 12.06. 82.  Kilwardby, DNR 11.02. 83.  Kilwardby, DNR 11.04. 84.  Kilwardby, DNR 10.10. 85.  Kilwardby, DNR 14.05.

• 4

Knowing

Perception Kilwardby’s most detailed examination of how we come to know objects in the external world is found in an earlier treatise called On the Fantastic Spirit or on the Reception of the Species (De spiritu fantastico seu de receptione specierum). The manuscript evidence supports the view that the phrase “on the reception of the species” should have been present in the modern title because it notes a tension between two key features of Kilwardby’s perceptual theory. The first is the role played by the species, here taken as representations or likenesses of external things impinging on the senses; species are produced by the forms of the sensible things and radiated from them in straight lines, as advocated by Alhacen’s popular model of geometrical optics.1 The second is the role played by the imaginative or fantastic part of the soul in the cognitive process. Kilwardby uses “spirit” to refer to the part of the soul responsible for perception and loosely includes the psychological faculties that allow people to receive, process, and retain the sensory information that is made available via the sense modalities. This use of spirit betrays the Augustinian influences of this treatise, as well as those of the medical tradition; this is particularly the case with respect to the location of the organ of the common sense. I noted earlier that there is a tension Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

Knowing  95 between these two aspects because there is a conflict between the two modes of explaining the causal nature of the process. These roughly correspond to taking on the one hand the thing (via the species) as the cause of the perceptual act or taking the soul itself as that cause: do I see because I see or because the thing seen makes itself available to me in a way that I cannot but see? In a loose sense, these two models or accounts can be described as the Augustinian and the Aristotelian, respectively. The relationship between these two models is relevant to understanding Kilwardby’s thought because he indicates in several places that one of his main aims is precisely to bring together these two traditions in such a way that they are as integrated as possible, rather than being taken in isolation from each other.

On the Reception of Sensible Species According to Kilwardby, the cognitive part of the soul is divided into two: the sensitive and the intellective. The sensitive part includes the so-​ called external senses, the five sense modalities of sight, taste, and the like, as well as the so-​called internal senses:  common sense, memory, and the fantastic or imaginative power. As the soul, as a whole, is called “spirit,” also its parts are also called “spirit” (spiritus), namely, that part in which the likenesses of external things are found.2 Early on in the treatise, Kilwardby remarks that the difference between sensitive and imaginative or fantastic parts of the sensitive soul is not a real distinction but rather a distinction of operation: whereas the sensitive operates when an external thing is present, the imaginative operates in the absence of an external thing.3 As the capacity to know material things, the sensitive soul operates by means of the material sense organs. Kilwardby clearly spells out the nature of this relationship: the soul is the ruler (rector), and the body (as the shorthand for all the sense organs) is its instrument. A basic ontological and epistemological hierarchy is established: “the body does not know sensible things except by means of the soul, but the sense organ knows them by itself but not primarily, and the sensitive soul knows by itself and primarily.”4 Kilwardby wants to make it clear, from the very beginning of the treatise, that soul and body—​in their interactions as power and organ—​are partners in operation but are not at the same level:  one is the owner, as it were, while the other is the manager. Together they perform a function, but the function is not described in the same way for both: the soul knows on its own and is the agent of the knowing, whereas the body knows by means of the soul, of which it is the instrument of action. This instrumental view is even

96  Robert Kilwardby more complex because Kilwardby, late in the treatise, expands this notion of the organ of sense to include not only the sense organs, like the eyes and ears, but the nerves that connect these to the ventricles in the brain. (Ventricles are brain cavities where the psychological functions are purportedly located, despite the fact that the soul is an immaterial substance.) The sensory psychological functions of common sense, imagination, and memory are located in these ventricles, assisted by the corporeal spirit. This corporeal spirit is a version of the ancient pneuma, which on the one hand transmits the sensible information from the external senses to the internal senses and on the other distributes the directives of the common sense to the peripheral organs, like those required for vitalizing and moving the body.5 This is the basic constitutive structure of the cognitive subject. In what concerns the object, this can be known either directly or by means of a similitude or likeness of itself, which is made present to the knower. Kilwardby, as a good Aristotelian, dismisses the possibility that things can make themselves present to the perceiver. Instead, he argues they must be made present by means of their likenesses (similitudines).6 Things themselves cannot be in direct contact with the organ of sense; if that were the case, they could not be perceived: a medium is already required.7 Yet this position is also what a good Augustinian would hold, because both Augustine and Aristotle accepted the existence of these likenesses. Such likenesses are called by a variety of names: images, species, simulacra, or phantasms.8 But then again, it does not so much matter how they are called but rather what they do, and it is to this that Kilwardby next turns. Kilwardby wants to demonstrate what he has up to now taken for granted: that these species are made present to the senses rather than already existing, hidden (inditas) somehow, in the perceiving subject.9 It is important to note that this applies only to the images of corporeal or sensible things, because Kilwardby wants to leave this option open for what concerns intelligible objects. Later on, he makes clear that the soul has the capacity to cognize directly (i.e., without any assistance) this kind of object. But for that, they may be present in us from birth; in other words, they are innate.10 The objects of perceptual acts on the other hand are individual things that are composite of matter and substantial form. Human beings do not know the substantial forms or essences of things in the world directly but rather via the accidents that inhere in them. Elsewhere Kilwardby makes this claim explicitly, saying that a particular thing “falls unto cognition” in virtue of these accidents.11 Species play the role of making sensible

Knowing  97 information of an object available by (re)presenting to a perceiver that sensible feature. Kilwardby starts by asking what would happen if it were the case that people have images or likenesses of external things prior to encountering those things? If so, he notes, one would be able to imagine things one has never seen; but it seems absurd to imagine what one has never seen.12 According to some, however, such images are there, although not actually “seen.” Once excited (excitatur) by something external, one comes to “see” them because they are brought to one’s attention.13 If that were the case, Kilwardby’s objection goes, one would be able to “see” images of anything whenever someone might tell one about it, even if one had no prior (conscious) acquaintance with that thing or person. For instance, I  would be able to have present to myself the image of Rome or Caesar if you were to tell me about Rome or Caesar. Your words would “excite” my soul to reveal to itself the images of those things it already possessed, despite me not being aware of them prior to this “excitation.” But this does not seem to be true.14 If one were able to have images of things prior to experiences in which those things figure as objects, and then be excited to become aware of them, one would end up with a duplication of images: those that one acquires via the senses (being able to excite hidden ones) and the hidden (innate) ones.15 Kilwardby explicitly identifies the origin of this view with Boethius: “it is here clearly seen that Boethius thinks that the species of all sensible things are inside the soul, and that the soul is excited, by the affection of the senses, to contemplate what it has within itself and that it mixes the species coming from the outside via the senses with those which it has in itself, and therefore it has double species of the same things (i.e., [some] innate and [others] acquired).”16 As a historian of philosophy, Kilwardby gets some things wrong about Boethius, but only the thrust of the argument matters here.17 The obvious problem is that if the former kind of images explain the latter ones in terms of triggering actual perception and the latter explain the former images in terms of content for actual perception, would it not be simpler to have only the former (i.e., the received) species and reject the innate ones? In fact, if this explanation were true, the innate images would be useless, as they would always require the existence of the exciting images.18 Kilwardby presents a number of further arguments to defend this view, focusing on the potential nature of the power of imagination, meaning that if anything it should resemble the power of the intellect in having the capacity (potentia) for knowing

98  Robert Kilwardby all things but being at the outset a blank slate (tabula nuda).19 There is no doubling of images of corporeal things, because there are only those images that are acquired via the exercising of the sense powers.20 What perceivers are born with are the powers that allow them to receive, produce, retain, and combine images of things previously received in the senses from the things themselves,21 in the same way that they have powers to abstract sensory information for intellectual consideration.22 The foregoing passage quoted from Boethius on excitation should be read as describing the nature of the intellectual operation concerning intelligible objects, rather than a sensory operation.23 Having shown that the species of material things are acquired via the use of the senses rather than existing in the soul prior to any particular experience, Kilwardby moves on to answer another question:  in what way are these species acquired and received in the power of imagination? First, he rejects the view that they originate from the intellect. If these species were to be received from above, they should be so via the cogitative power (cogitativa), which is described as a “mirror” of intelligence that assists the soul in judging what is perceived in accordance with ideal standards. These standards, which are absolutely objective and immutable, cannot be based on sense experience; they allow one to judge the incoming sense data: this is this kind of triangle, and so on.24 But to explain standards and their epistemic use is not to explain the origin of the sensory information those standards are used to judge. The original question was: in what way (i.e., how) does the soul acquire images of external things (sensible and corporeal)? The answer is unequivocal: by means of the senses. Kilwardby arrives in this way at the central question of the De spiritu fantastico (DSF): how do the senses receive species of external things? This is a question about the cause of perception. In other words, does the sensitive soul receive the species of sensible things in that they are impressed on the senses or rather that the soul is the efficient principle of these species? Kilwardby considers several options:  if these species are impressed by something else, this impressing principle could be the intellect, the imagination, or the body, which could mean either an external sensible thing or the organ of sense informed by the sensible thing.25 The first two are quickly dismissed because, however this is explained, the same account must be able to be applied to both rational and nonrational animals; as the latter lack intellect, the species cannot be received from the intellect. On the other hand the species also could not receive them from imagination,

Knowing  99 as shown earlier. It must, therefore, receive them from the body. This immediately raises an important issue, however: “if the action of bodies were to impress the images of [those] bodies in the sensitive soul, then the body would be acting on the soul, and the soul would suffer the action of the body qua matter subjected to it.”26 The gist of the objection is the thesis that the soul is more dignified (dignior) than the body and therefore cannot be acted on by it. But if nothing in the soul can be efficaciously caused by the body, this certainly precludes the possibility of the body impressing in the soul the image of the sensible thing.27 The following passage is intended to lay out what is to follow: “moreover, in 6 De musica, ­chapter 14, where [Augustine] explains in what way the soul is not acted upon by the body but, on the contrary, makes [something] in it and from it with more or less difficulty, [he] shows his intention especially with respect to sensing, teaching in what way the soul, when it senses, does not receive anything from the body but makes [something] in it. That is why he says in the same place that to sense in the body is not to be affected by something from the body, but to act more attentively on its affections” (emphasis added).28 The passage just quoted not only shows Kilwardby’s accurate understanding of Augustine’s theory of perception but also that he is well acquainted with the exact passages where the theory is advocated (De musica 6 and De Genesi ad litteram 12). More important, Kilwardby repeats this thesis over and over: there can be no impression of the images of sensible things on the soul without that making the soul the patient, and the object the agent, in this relationship.29 Causality between material things is common and accepted if they respect the basic hierarchy of nature: for instance, whereas celestial bodies can influence terrestrial ones, a celestial body cannot be subject to the action of terrestrial bodies. Therefore, “much more is the case that the sensitive soul, which presides over the sensory organ, cannot be acted upon by it [the organ] but rather flows its action into it. And if it is not acted upon by it, much less can it be affected by a distant external sensible thing, because this [thing] has no arrangement to the sensitive soul except by means of the organ which the soul animates.”30 This passage is important, because it emphasizes the natural order in which nonmaterial things and bodies as external things of different kinds and sense organs are structured. In this ontological scheme, things are ranked according to their nobility, so to constitute what I call the great ontological principle: “a nature of inferior being is ruled and acted upon by a thing of a nature of superior being and it [the former] does not act upon it [the latter].”31 This principle is applied across

100  Robert Kilwardby the board and has clear epistemological implications. In this model, it is not the case that sensible forms can act on other things by having different modes of being depending on what they inform, like the form of color existing in the table, existing in the air between the table and the perceiver, and existing in the eye of the perceiver. In that account, which is found in the work of some Aristotelians, by assuming a different mode of being—​ namely, intentional—​the form or species of color is able to act on the power of sight so that its presence in the sense brings about the actualization of sight:  as a result of receiving the species of red in my senses, I  come to see red. The external thing has causal efficacy in the power because the power and the bodily sense organ are one in the kind of unity that is proper to hylemorphism.32 “Perhaps,” Kilwardby notes, “Aristotelians would say this, for to judge from those of his writings which have reached us he does not seem to have thought differently.”33 In contrast, Kilwardby appeals to Augustine and to a conception of the bodily sense organ and sense power that is not that of hylemorphism. It is not the case, as with the Aristotelians, that the composite of body (organ) and soul (power) is what perceives. Instead, as the quoted passage indicates, it is the soul that perceives, and the body, if anything, can be said to perceive only because the soul that informs it perceives. The cane in my hand does not perceive the solid surface, but I perceive it by using the cane as the instrument of my action. Kilwardby has no qualms as to the causal interaction between material things and bodily sense organs, because as material entities these stand at the same ontological level. But this is on a wholly different level from the interaction between a material external object and the spiritual sensitive soul.34 Aristotelians certainly downplay the great ontological principle by downgrading the nature of the power: the power informs matter so that the composite, rather than the power alone, is the subject of sensation. At the same time, Aristotelians upgrade the nature of the species: the species has an intentional, rather than natural, mode of being. Kilwardby is too much of an Augustinian to do this, however. Instead, he maintains a focus on the clear separation between the affections of the body (passiones corporis)—​ shorthand for the reception of the species in the sense organs—​and the soul’s awareness of its own operations in acting on those bodily affections when it senses.35 This last passage is very interesting, in fact, because here Kilwardby reinforces the conception that the soul is somehow aware of itself as performing its operations: he says, quoting Augustine, that the soul

Knowing  101 exhibits (to itself) those operations, but it does not receive them—​which I read as meaning that they are not caused by another, but by the soul itself. This aspect is particularly important because Kilwardby still needs to consider—​and he will—​the objection according to which the species act directly on the sense organ and incidentally on the sense power. Were that the case, the sense organ, informed by the species, would be responsible for causing the perceptual act. Kilwardby denies this because it would entail the kind of bottom-​up causality that the great ontological principle is intended to refute. Rephrasing the core idea behind Augustine’s theory of perception, Kilwardby points to the basic difference between the affection that the body can be subjected to and the motion countering those bodily affections that have the object as their cause. He points out that the “the [soul] does not receive something from the body when it senses but acts upon the body.”36 Later on, what that acting on the body means will become clear, but for now it is important to concentrate on the hierarchy on which Kilwardby builds his theory of cognition. At the lower level, there is the body; then the sense organ, and then the soul, which vivifies that organ: “the body has a lower existence than the mind has, and the sense organ has a lower existence than has the soul, which vivifies that organ.”37 But it would be even worse were someone to take the species, rather than the object, to play the role of the efficient cause of perception, because species are accidents and therefore even lower on the ontological scale than both the bodily sense organ, in which they are received, and the external thing from which they radiated.38 This is the case even though in DSF 152 Kilwardby describes the sensible species produced by and radiated from the object as “spiritual lights” (lumina spiritualia). My suggestion is to take this as an attempt to clarify how the species radiate from objects in a natural way, just as light radiates from self-​luminous bodies, rather than as a remark about their ontological status (as spiritual entities). What Kilwardby wants to refute is the argument from the Aristotelians—​ in this case, by Aristotle himself—​according to which perception being the result of a change in the senses is thus refuted,39 as there can be neither of the types of changes suggested: there is no qualitative alteration because there is no replacement of one sensible property (say, the transparency in the eye) for another (say, red); but there is also no alteration in the sense of perfection of an existing disposition, because this would entail that the disposition to be perfected is the soul, being brought into a state of operation by something less noble, such as the species. How could it be the case that

102  Robert Kilwardby a perfection of the soul is efficiently caused by an accident? The soul, as a spiritual entity, cannot be subjugated to the action of an accident in this way—​or in any way, for that matter. Therefore, any model of perception that takes perceptual acts to be caused by sensible species must be denied. Instead, as soon as an external object is present to the senses, its image begins to be in the soul, remaining there even after the object disappears from one’s perceptual field. “As soon as” or with “miraculous swiftness” is the way Kilwardby expresses the prompt capacity of the soul to produce the image of the external thing. In Quaestiones in Librum Tertium Sententiarum, part 1, Christologie (QLIII1S) 44 (189), he calls this manner of explaining perception the “Augustinian way” (modum Augustini): “the soul makes in and of itself an image of the external thing by imitating the image [of that thing] received in the sense [organ].”40 This is expressible as what I call the self-​productive principle: “the sensitive soul itself forms in itself the image [of the external thing].”41 This principle is the result of applying the great ontological principle to the particular case of perception after, as Kilwardby has done earlier, the other three possible candidates as sources of the images of external things:  intellect, imagination, and body. The self-​productive principle is very important, both for placing Kilwardby in the context of Augustinian philosophy of perception and for understanding the reception of Augustinian ideas on perception in the late Middle Ages. Kilwardby explicitly takes his interpretation to be aligned with what Augustine says in De Genesi ad litteram 12 (among other places): “the soul makes images of bodies in and from itself.”42 The result is a model of philosophy of perception that takes the perception of an external thing to depend on the production and existence of an internal “mental” image following the reception of the species of an external thing in the sense organs. Kilwardby’s emphasis is on the fact that no image is caused in the soul by the action of the external thing on the body; instead, the internal image is of the soul’s own making, which means that it is based on its own causal power. The soul is the kind of entity capable of producing sensory imagery corresponding to external things affecting the sense organs. In an important clarification of the ontological status of such images, Kilwardby notes that formally they are considered from the point of the view of the action of the soul running counter to the motion of the body (the being affected), as a way to a terminus, whereas materially they are considered from the point of view of the result, as that which is produced by means of the motion: the

Knowing  103 likenesses of the external things that have been received in the sense organs, and thus as likenesses of the sensible species.43 Objections abound, and Kilwardby does not shy away from the many and significant difficulties for his and Augustine’s theory. I will leave aside arguments from authority, ultimately derived from both Augustine and Aristotle, and will concentrate instead on those objections of a philosophical nature. The first is that it is proven that defective senses lead to defective intellectual knowledge; however, if that is the case, the cause must be in the information received rather than in the information produced. Therefore, perception must be caused by the external thing.44 Second, if the soul were able to produce images of external things, it would be able to do so at will; therefore, there would be no way to discriminate between veridical and nonveridical perceptions. Third, if the soul were to produce images of external things, when the species of these things were present to the senses (so that the resulting image was of the external thing), then either the soul would be aware of itself as producing the internal image or would not. If the former, then how could it sense itself without producing another image, which would require another image, and so on, if to sense it is to produce an image? If not, then it would not be aware of the image and therefore could not know the thing it produced the image of. In addition, it would know whether it had formed an accurate (recte) image or not.45 It is also worth noting that Kilwardby discusses the ontological status of the image—​that is, what kind of being it has, or, in other words, to which of the ten categories it belongs—​and how it relates to the producing soul. In such discussions, his main claim is that the image, as a product of the soul’s power, belongs to the category of substance by reduction. That is to say that it belongs derivatively to the category of the producing substance. That is why he is confident in repeating Augustine’s notion that the soul makes in and of itself (de semetipsa) that internal image. With respect to the external thing it represents, however, the image must be thought of in relational terms (i.e., as belonging to the category of accident). A major objection for Kilwardby is the issue of what part of the soul or power is responsible for producing that image:  it is either the part of the soul that humans have in common with other animals, in which case it may not be aware of making the image, as noted earlier; or it is a part of the mind, which cannot but be aware of whatever it makes. However, this would require providing separate and different accounts for human

104  Robert Kilwardby and animal perception, as the mind is the part of the soul that humans do not have in common with nonrational animals.46 Another major objection concerns the nature of the species, namely, whether these are accidents—​ either in the category of relation, as being about something else, or in the category of quality, as habitus science47—​or if they share the substantial nature of the soul that produces them. The answer is to focus on the particular and special relationship the sensitive soul has with the body and its sensitive organs: it should be noted that the sensitive soul, which is a form, continuously operates and flows by acting on the body that is matter for it, and this by containing, unifying, safeguarding, and ordering it [the body] according to the power it was given to it [the soul]. And because [the soul] is a form that is sensitive life, [the soul] exercises its influence as vital inspiration, life-​giving, sense-​giving, conserving, and giving well-​being and natural order to what was given to it [i.e. the body]. And in the same way that [the soul] continuously operates by flowing into the body, also it operates differently according to the affections and passions of the body.48

In this long passage, which I have transcribed in full due to its importance, Kilwardby appeals to some key elements in Augustine’s account that he takes as his own, namely: 1 . The sensitive soul continuously operates on the body. 2. The sensitive soul has different modes of operation in the body according to the ways the body is affected. 3. The sensitive soul is the principle of life and the cause of sensation. 4. The aim of the soul’s action is to protect and promote the well-​being of the body it vivifies.

By tying the soul to the principle of life and the principle of operations related to perception, Kilwardby is able to explain away the concerns raised previously. As the soul covers a range of operations, it needs to adapt to each of them differently: for instance, it operates differently when awake and when asleep, or in the presence of a bright light and a dim one.49 More important, the soul acts on its bodily instruments in different ways, as required by the way the body is affected by external things. But it is important to note that he is not saying that the soul is caused in this action by the way the body is affected; rather, his claim is that in its continuous action the soul adapts its mode of acting in accordance with the inbound motion (of the world to the subject). The image or species in the organ or the

Knowing  105 organ informed by the species is the causa sine qua non, but not the efficient cause of perception.50 (I shall return to this point in the next section.) These inbound species produce effects in the body but not in the soul, as shown earlier. Contrary to this inbound motion, there is a counter and outbound motion, which proceeds from the soul to the affection caused in the sense organ.51 That motion is perception proper.

Attention and Activity What grounds the soul’s acting counterwise to the bodily affections is a sort of natural attention and appetite to protect and care for the body, for by safeguarding the body the soul protects itself.52 It is interesting how Kilwardby equates these two aspects, the attention (attencio) and solicitude (sollicitudo) to the body, because this shows that they cannot be caused by the way the body is affected, but rather that they explain the way this affection is integrated into the (cognitive) life of a perceiver. Can this grounding be explained in naturalistic terms? Likely not, and Kilwardby is clear in his statement that this is the result of a certain “natural providence,”53 meaning probably that this attentive path of the soul, being in the body, has its origin in divine institution. Kilwardby has provided the basic justification for why the soul is the way it is with respect to the body, an explanation that has, as I have shown, equally clear implications for his account of perception. In what follows, he explains the details of the process. When the instruments for sensing (i.e., the bodily sense organs) are affected by the external thing, the soul runs counter to this affection—​or, this being affected—​which means that the attention of the soul is concentrated on that affection and increases or decreases in proportion to its intensity.54 Attention has a twofold aspect to it: on the one hand, it is constitutive of the way that the soul being in the body is aimed at protecting the body; on the other hand, it is relative to the nature and intensity of the affection of the body by a particular thing at a particular moment. But, what exactly does it mean that the soul increases its attention to match the intensity of the bodily affection, and how does this not qualify as a form of causation? The next passage should make this clear: “therefore, when this more attentive operation of the soul, by which it meets the affection of the body, does not go unnoticed by the soul, this is to sense, according to Augustine. In this, as stated before, the body is acted upon by another body, but it does not act upon the soul; rather, the agent

106  Robert Kilwardby soul moves counter to the affection [of the body]. Thus, in sensing, the body is acted upon and the soul or spirit acts, but in the natural order the affection precedes and the action follows.”55 As the passage notes, to perceive is not to be affected but rather for the soul to act on the affections of the body (sense organ) caused by another body (the external thing). Kilwardby has yet to explain what this action of the soul consists of. It is important to note, however, that having adopted the great ontological principle, Kilwardby conceives of each ontological level as somewhat enclosed in itself, or at least that is the case with the lower physical level when he says: “the action of the sensible thing or its image does not go beyond the limits of the corporeal nature.”56 The soul on the other hand seems to be able to transcend its realm and extends its action to the body. But it is also worth noting the possible misleading nature of the last sentence in the passage just quoted, which seems to indicate the kind of order—​affection first and action following—​ one should avoid if one wishes to avoid admitting a bottom-​up (i.e., body-​ to-​soul) causal relation. Kilwardby has something to say about these two things. In the central paragraph 103 of DSF, Kilwardby remarks that the account just offered is compatible with both Augustine’s as well as Aristotle’s accounts and goes on to explain how. Here he makes it clear that there are two aspects to perception postreception of the species in the sense organ: the first is the attentive operation of the soul, running counter to the affection of the body, and the second is the perception (percepcio) of that operation.57 Again, repeating Augustine’s definition of perception, Kilwardby says: “sensing is nothing but a more attentive motion of the soul directed toward the passivities of the body, a motion that is not concealed from it.”58 By means of its attentive operation, the soul produces in and of itself an image of the external thing. In other words, by reacting to the presence of the species in the sense organ, the soul makes an image of the external thing by assimilating itself to the species of the external thing present in the sense organ. The internal, soul-​produced image is nothing but a similitude or likeness of the species in the organ, which is nothing but a similitude or likeness of the external thing.59 The species is generated by the object, the internal image of which is produced by the soul. Both are accurate (recte) likenesses of the external thing perceived. I have already presented this view earlier in the chapter. But what Kilwardby now notes is that this simply accounts for the first part of the process, whereby the soul assimilates itself to the affection of the sense organs, which involves nothing but for the organ

Knowing  107 to receive the sensible species of the external sensible thing. Assimilation can be described in terms of its constitutive psychological mechanisms, which are in normal conditions subpersonal and automated (i.e., do not require voluntary control). The second part of the process—​“a motion which is not concealed from it,” where “it” stands for the soul—​is perception proper: the awareness of something external present to the senses. This requires the soul—​the “eye of the soul” (acies animi),60 as Kilwardby puts it—​to turn itself to the image just made in itself and to see it. Now, two important things about this. First, what he is saying is that the soul is first attentive to the affections of the body and when it turns to these affections it makes the image of the affecting thing. In normal conditions, the soul is not aware of its counter and formative motion but only perceives when it turns to the image it has made in itself. Second, this leaves open an ambiguity about what the object of perception is, despite early statements to the effect that perception is directed at things in the world that the image represents, rather than internal mental images. If perception is a psychological process consisting of both the making of the image of an external thing and the soul’s turning upon itself and taking the image as its object, it seems that all one perceives is that image. The internal representation is, at least primarily, the object of perception; in fact, Kilwardby does say that in this conversion the soul senses the image (in qua sentitur ymago).61 This is made worse by the fact that he also admits that in making the image in itself, the soul must be somewhat aware of the species impressed in the organ, as only in this way is the soul able to form the corresponding internal image by means of which it perceives (ymago sensibilis per quam sentitur).62 Taking this statement at face value, it means that the soul is aware of not one but two images (!) mediating between itself and the object: the image in the organ and the internal soul-​made image, both of which are likenesses of an external thing. Kilwardby’s solution is not to try to deny that there are two such representations and to tie the perception of the internal image to the simultaneity of its making. He suggests that the soul perceives the image while it is making it, such that there is not a moment in time when the soul has the image without perceiving it.63 Yet that leads to the conclusion that the external thing is seen on the basis of the internal image or at the same time as that internal image. In his words, “the one [image] which is formed in the sense organ is seen or sensed by means of the one that is formed in the soul, though they are sensed simultaneously.”64 Kilwardby does very little

108  Robert Kilwardby to dispel the ambiguities that surround this sentence. Instead, he pushes on and claims that due to the spiritual nature of the soul, which entails that it is not restricted to what material things can do, the soul does not distinguish between the two, that is, the species in the organ and the image the soul has in itself. In fact, he says that only reason can, by means of a reflexive act, take either of the two (image and species) as its objects.65 In other words, it seems that the soul is aware of one image, whatever that is. The problem is that this hardly addresses the difficulty as to how the external thing is perceived, and passages like the one quoted seem to endanger any hope of getting a direct realist account of perception. At the same time, Kilwardby is adamant that the soul “perceives the external sensible [thing] by means of the image that has formed in itself.”66 With this, Kilwardby finds himself walking a fine line between committing himself to some sort of representationalism and subscribing to a version of direct realism, to which he seems naturally inclined. What the quoted passage indicates is that phenomenologically speaking, humans as perceivers are not aware of either the species in the organ or the internal image; instead, we are simply aware of the external thing (that the species and the internal image represent). This “aware of the external thing” is presupposed rather than argued, strictly speaking, but Kilwardby does get there. It is not the case that he merely believes that this is the road one should take. He argues that Augustine must be interpreted in this way; otherwise, he says, Augustine would be committed to holding that there are two stages in the psychological process of seeing: the first constituted by the external thing—​sight informed by the species—​and the intention of the soul directed to it, with the second taking the first as its object. This will not do. Instead, one must take Augustine to mean simply that all humans need for seeing is (1) the presence of the external thing via the species in the sense organ, (2) the soul making the image of this species, and (3) the “eye of the soul” looking at the image, by means of which it sees the external thing. There is something clever in this:  it makes no sense to object to the realist interpretation by saying that the existence of the internal image would block the access to the external thing, because nobody objects to the perception of the external thing by means of the reception of the species in the sense. Nobody objects because everybody takes the presence of the species as being necessary for having access to the external thing. What the Augustinian account also does, however, is to include the internal

Knowing  109 soul-​made image in the process; but this inclusion does not obstruct the view of the external world, just as the species in the sense organ does not. One way to illustrate this is to say that my picture of your picture (similitudo de similitudine) of the Pantheon does not change (the nature of) what is represented in your picture and what I  see when looking at my picture, which is the Pantheon. I can, of course, bring into sharp focus your picture (or even my picture, for that matter),67 but in that case, one could object to this characterization by saying that my seeing would no longer be about the Pantheon, as the original device of the species is supposed to be, but about the (my/​your) picture itself, and thus the analogy fails. Kilwardby appears to make this suggestion in the following objection and counter-​objection: But now you say: if the sentient soul first turns its eye upon itself and afterward to its organ, why does it not sense itself and the organ? Reply: because it does not turn the eye upon itself except insofar as it is informed by the sensible thing, and neither does it stop at the eye but continues to the sensible [thing]; it terminates its sensory intention neither in itself nor in its action but in the sensible [thing] that is the external end [of its intention].68 (emphasis added) The soul can stop at the image or the species, but in normal perceptual situations it does not, because perception as a function of animal life is hardwired to look out for objects in the world, not internal representations of them. The process of seeing this or that external thing does require many stages, each with its own representation, but the stages are neither the end product nor the aim of the perceptual process. Conceiving of the perceptual process as made up of stages also allows Kilwardby to demonstrate the compatibility, announced earlier in the treatise, between the perceptual models of Aristotle and Augustine. Kilwardby does so by attributing to each of them the best description of a stage of the process. The transmission of a species and its reception in the sense organ, as a form of natural causation—​the doctrina phisica de modo sentiendi69—​ is best described in Aristotelian terms, whereas the psychological stage of producing the internal image and the awareness of the external thing the image represents is best described in Augustinian terms.70 Together these two stages constitute a perceptual experience, which entails a clear separation between the level of physical interaction between the external thing

110  Robert Kilwardby and the sense organ, which has the object as its cause, and the actual perception: “the affection of the ears is nothing but the affection of the body. But it does not follow that the affection of the ears effects the affection of the auditory sense, as a cause of it.”71 The actual perception of sound has the soul—​the power of hearing—​as its cause, because it is the soul that is able to intermingle itself with the species affecting the bodily organ,72 make an internal image, and hear the sounding thing. This process, in clear contrast with the Aristotelian way of describing perceptual causation, is illustrated with a radical reinterpretation of the Aristotelian wax seal analogy: “If you place a seal before wax so that it touches it, and you assume the wax has a life by which it turns itself toward the seal and by striking against it comes to be like it, by turning its eye upon itself it sees in itself the image of the seal.”73 This passage neatly illustrates the very special way Kilwardby conceives of efficient causality, namely, taking the soul as having the role of producing the perceptual act with its representation rather than making the act the direct result of the external thing impressing its form in the sense. Again, the key aspect here is the focus on the clear distinction between the action of the external thing on the sense organ and the action of the soul on the affection of the body. The two relate to each other in a noncausal way, as the quoted text clearly shows. The object as the agent impresses the seal onto the wax, which receives it. But the soul, in counter-​motion, assimilates itself to the body in order to make in itself the internal image by means of which it perceives: “for the sensory soul is active in the body toward the passivities of the body, and hence it conforms itself with those same passivities.”74 The wax seal analogy, as understood by Aristotelians, illustrates the body-​to-​ body interaction. As Kilwardby sees it, however, the story has more to it than can be described in physical terms. The soul has this internal power of assimilation, which is the true and efficient cause of perception. In other words, “the soul makes itself like the sensible thing, and it is the same soul which makes like, and becomes like, and in which likeness comes to exist.”75 Kilwardby needs to justify at length these different aspects because he has claimed earlier that the soul is the efficient cause of those images—​ and of the perceptual acts—​and that these images are made out of its substance and, furthermore, that these images are the soul being made like the external thing. The activity of the soul is not simply characterized by the reaction to the affections of the body but by this making in and of itself the images, which should be taken in a literal sense as from its own power and substance. The soul can be conceived of as active to this extent, because the

Knowing  111 receptive aspect is left entirely to the bodily sense organs. This plays into Kilwardby’s conviction that the sense organ is at the service of the soul to receive as a material entity the species that the soul as an immaterial entity cannot. Where Augustine says that the soul, as it were, drinks the species of things by means of the corporeal senses,76 this should be taken in a metaphorical sense as meaning that something is absorbed into the soul in the sense of being assimilated by the soul rather than impinged onto it. In this case, to drink means to receive, as that is the function of the bodily sense organ. Kilwardby repeats: “and those words by which he says that the sense is formed by the bodily sensible [thing] must be understood as the sense here standing for the bodily organ and not for the sensitive soul.”77 How could he have been clearer in his defense of what I have elsewhere called a “two-​ step account of perception”?78 One step is the affection of the sense organ by the reception of the species, and the other is the psychological act of reaction and awareness that is perception proper. Augustine should be read as saying that the external thing causes a change in the sense organ and not in the sense power or the sensitive soul. To do so would mean that the object exceeds its causal power, thus voiding the instrumental role of the sense organ (and the body in general). Similar to perception is the phenomenon of pain or sadness, which needs to be explained in roughly the same way (i.e., as an affection of the soul itself reacting to the affections of the body, rather than the other way around). When that action (of the soul coming to meet the affections of the body) is convenient—​that is, it agrees with the soul’s motion—​the feeling is one of pleasure; when difficult, it corresponds to the feeling of pain (dolor). The soul perceives as painful the difficulty of its own action on the body, a sort of misalignment. The only way the body is said to act on the soul is by resisting the commands of the soul; even in this case, however, it is not a mode of action by the body, properly speaking but rather a failure of the soul in making its command obeyed: “thus, the vexation of the soul is not from the body as an efficient cause, but from the disobedient and resistant matter.”79 In other words, this resistance is more a failure of the soul’s action as the moving and efficient cause than an actual action that comes from the body. Although the body has a role to play in the cognitive act, the focus remains on the soul as the efficient cause: “both intellectual and sensory cognition is caused by the sensible things as causa sine qua non, not as the main or per se efficient cause of cognition but as the necessary instrument or necessary occasion.”80 In QLIIS 119, Kilwardby clarifies what he means by causa sine qua non, which can apply either to

112  Robert Kilwardby cases of self-​causation or cases when one thing, by being present, serves as an occasion for the making of another thing by allowing it be made. He illustrates this with the example of the sculptor, who is the agent and thus the efficient cause of the statue, despite the sculpting being made possible by the use of certain instruments (a chisel, say) that allow him to work on, say, marble. But no one would suggest that the chisel is the efficient cause of the statue; in like manner, no one would say that the object represented by the sculpture is the actual efficient cause of the statue. Now, there is the risk of pushing the argument too far into the soul’s favor, which would give rise to the idea that the soul can at will produce images of sensible things (i.e., without there being any corresponding image in the outside world). That is why the object needs to be present and act on the sense organs via the species, as the necessary occasion for perception.81 It is only due to the presence of the chisel, or even of the model, in relation to the sculptor that the statue is made; there is no causal relation that is explanatory of the making of the statue. Likewise, the presence of the object to the senses is not what causes the perceptual act that has that object as its end term. Therefore, “the soul occurring to the affections of the body is the cause of cognition per se, and the sensible [things] and the sense organ are the accidental [cause], just like the instrument or instruments the soul uses to be informed.”82 Applied to the case of perception, the distinction between the soul as the efficient cause per se and the object and the affection of the bodily organ as necessary occasions is the key to Kilwardby’s theory of perception, which allows him to seamlessly combine the Aristotelian and Augustinian models. Asked about what explains this capacity for the soul to form an accurate image of the external thing from its image or species in the sense organ, Kilwardby has no qualms about attributing it to a certain natural instinct:83 the soul just is that kind of thing that produces representations of external objects and knows them, without needing to be caused to do it. It just needs the proper occasion or opportunity, which the external thing presents (and which the occurring perceptual act is about).

Cognition In the tradition of the early, thirteenth century commentaries to the logical works of Aristotle, one finds an agreement among authors as to what the main cognitive operations of the intellect are:  first of all, the simple

Knowing  113 apprehension of universals, followed by the formulation of mental propositions—​ affirming or denying something about something—​ and finally the production of discursive reasoning, primarily in the form of syllogisms, both theoretical and practical. The way these different operations are examined corresponds, in some interpretations at least, to the way their linguistic counterparts are examined. The different operations of the intellect producing different linguistic units are studied in Aristotle’s different logical works: the simple significant expression, which signifies one of the ten highest kinds of things, is the subject matter of the Categories; the declarative sentence is the focus of On Interpretation; and the syllogism is the focus of the Prior Analytics. The application of this general syllogistic form to necessary matter, which is presented in the Prior Analytics, is found in the Posterior Analytics in the form of the demonstrative syllogism; the application to probable matter appears in the Topics in the form of the dialectical syllogism; finally, the Sophistical Refutations deals with sophistical matter (i.e., fallacious reasoning).84 Underlying all this is thus a conception of logic, as the science of speech and of thought, focusing on investigating the linguistic expression of mental acts, be they of simple or complex entities. In turn, these mental entities, be they concepts or propositions, are intended to correspond to things and states of affairs in the world that, not being true on their own, determine both the truth value of those mental propositions and, in a mediate way, their linguistic expressions. In the subsection “Words, Thoughts, and Things” in ­chapter 3, I have examined these linguistic expressions. In this section, I will focus on the intellectual processes. It is worth pointing out that Kilwardby does not have one particular work in which he examines intellectual cognitive operations in the same way he examines sense perception. Therefore, his views on the nature of intellectual cognition have to be reconstructed on the basis of the best evidence found scattered throughout his works.

Thinking I have shown in “Words, Thoughts, and Things” how Kilwardby approaches the question of the different operations of the intellect, especially the ways such operations combine (and separate) individual concepts. But that concerns the nature of the operations, not the power that performs them. For the medieval Christian worldview, probably

114  Robert Kilwardby one of the most insidious issues arising from the commentary tradition of Aristotle is the theory of one intellect being common to all human beings, which is defended by Averroes. This view is also quite commonly referred to as “monopsychism,” from “single” (mono) and “soul” (psyche). Initially Averroes was extremely well received in the Latin West because of his acuity in explicating difficult passages in Aristotle, making him a household name in medieval academic circles—​so much so that he became known simply as The Commentator (on Aristotle’s works). This enthusiasm quickly subsided, however, when his theory of the unicity of the intellect, with its implications for human identity and salvation, was better understood.85 The original claim by Averroes was that there is one intellect (in both its passive and active aspects) common to the entirety of the human species, such that there are no individual human intellects. The existence of one intellect common to all individual human beings raises two kinds of worries. The first concerns the issue of individual responsibility:  if what properly characterizes a human being is the possession of an intellect that allows her to decide how best to think and act, the existence of a common intellect means that each individual human being is not responsible for her own individual actions because she is not even the subject of her own thoughts. The second is a question of an epistemological nature, namely, whether what is known (i.e., the object of intellectual cognition) is one and the same in all human beings. This is an important aspect, because one of the primary justifications for the thesis of the unity of the intellect is that it warrants the objective nature of knowledge. If what an individual human being knows is the result of her own individual intellect, how can there be certainty that what is in her intellect—​and each of the individual human intellects—​corresponds to objective knowledge (i.e., being in the same way in all other individual intellects)? If, on the contrary, as Averroes argues, there is just one intellect that all human beings share, the objectivity of intelligible content is guaranteed by the fact that it is one and the same intellect that thinks for all human beings. The Averroist theory thus aims at achieving epistemological objectivity by grounding it in an ontological unity. Also dangerous in Averroes’s suggestion of unity is that it removes from that same cognitive subject the ownership of its own thoughts:  if Averroes’s claim is true, it means that someone other than me would be responsible for my own thinking.

Knowing  115 The objection Kilwardby presents against Averroes’s theory of one intellect common to the human species is twofold: on the one hand this thought must be mine, which is to say, it must be in me as its subject and agent, and on the other to be in this cognitive subject does not affect the representational value of a representation.86 I call these two arguments the metaphysical argument and the epistemological argument. The metaphysical argument is against Averroes’s claim, as reported by Kilwardby, that the intellect is like the Sun: one is enough to shine and warm all the terrestrial bodies. Averroes’s argument, as reported by Kilwardby, can be formulated in the following way: “the intellect is the principle of vivification of a body; there is more diversity between different parts of the same body than between different bodies; and one and the same intellect is able to vivify all the bodies of the human species.” Kilwardby’s objection against this argument is that being an external activating and unifying principle, like the Sun, is quite different from being an internal vivifying one, like the soul (or the intellect), which must be internal to each individual human body. A second argument from Averroes, of an epistemological nature, can be formulated in the following way: if species are to represent one and the same thing, they cannot be different in different intellects, because if the numerically distinct species are to any degree different, they will represent to that degree the thing in a different way, and thus our knowledge cannot be of the same thing in a universal way.87 Therefore, he argues, if the species in my soul and in your soul differ, [they do so] either completely or in part. If completely, then it must be either a different species or it would not represent [indicabit] the thing. If in part, either that part indicates something of the thing or not. If it does, it would represent more perfectly one thing than another. If not, that species is not of the nature of the conceptual species because the conceptual species must represent a thing. It should agree completely. Therefore, it agrees completely. Therefore, the species must be one in number. In the same way, the soul [i.e., the intellect] can and must be one in number.

Kilwardby takes this argument to reveal a clear flaw in Averroes’s reasoning, namely, the confusion between that which is being thought—​the universal as the thought content—​and that by means of which the features of things in the things themselves are recognized by the intellect as being common: the universal as the referent to the thought content.

116  Robert Kilwardby Kilwardby addresses this issue at length. He starts by noting that what justifies the application of a concept to several numerically distinct things is the existence in those things of something that is common, a shared essence. The intelligible species or concept (here identified, for simplicity’s sake) in each individual intellect owes its universality to the commonness existing in all things instantiating that universal. But the essence as such is considered in itself beyond its existence in an existing individual.88 The core claim is then that the existence in numerically distinct intellects does not affect a concept’s representational or cognitive reach (i.e., what it represents or signifies), in the same way that to exist in nature in ontologically distinct things does not affect the species qua common or shared features of reality. Consider the following example: the concept of “chair” in my intellect is numerically distinct from the concept of “chair” in your intellect, but they stand for the same essential content. Their existence as thoughts in you and me in no way affects their representational content, which is the same. Likewise, the existence of “chairhood” in and contracted to each chair in the world does not affect its being signified by the concept “chair” existing in my and/​or your intellect. Kilwardby’s objection is that the images of Plato in the souls of Socrates and Cicero are numerically distinct but agree in species as images (representing Plato). These images are accidents, qualities, in their souls. However, from the point of view of those images’ essence as representations—​simulacri—​of Plato, the fact that they are in Socrates’s and/​ or Cicero’s intellect(s) is irrelevant. Irrespectively of being in the intellects of either person, they are images/​representations of Plato: it is the object of their intentional content that is unaffected by the existence in different souls. They agree as belonging to the same species, namely, representations or images of Plato. The representations agree in their representation of a species, being themselves of the same species as representations; they agree in being representations and in representing the same thing. Imagine that we produce from the same prototype (prototypi)89 a series of identical-​ looking objects—​say, postcards of Picasso’s Guernica. Each postcard is an individual entity in the world that, however, shares with the other things of the same kind being a postcard, as well as being a postcard that represents Picasso’s Guernica. Species in the soul are just like those postcards. The images/​ representations, however, are numerically distinct, be they sensitive (in the imagination) or intelligible (in the intellect), which is

Knowing  117 nevertheless accidental to their nature as representations of, for example, Plato. At the same time, the representations of Plato and Socrates in the soul of Cicero are numerically distinct in that same soul, although they agree in representing that which is common to both Plato and Socrates—​ the common essence (universal) that is abstracted by the intellect from what is represented in the sensory representation of Plato and Socrates. In other words, closer to what Kilwardby says, the representations of Plato and Socrates have in nature an essential agreement, which the intellect recognizes and abstracts, and which constitutes its certain knowledge. The universal is precisely the ratio of this essential agreement of many representations of the same nature. Abstraction is neatly defined as “the intellectual consideration of the common account in which representations of the same nature agree, not taking into account the features that are particular and proper to those representations.”90 Kilwardby is therefore right in claiming that such a representation (qua representation) of an objective and shared feature is not affected by being instantiated in individual cognitive subjects. The requirement of universality applies to the content of the concept, not to its use by individual thinkers entertaining a thought that involves that concept. This can be formulated in terms of the principle of wholeness of representation: “the concept of a thing is the same as a whole in any mind because it represents the thing as a whole.” What Kilwardby is aiming at here is that in order for something to have a universal epistemic value, it must be essentially the same in the soul of any knower with no subjective aspect added to it; otherwise, any added aspect would particularize the representational value of the (universal) species and therefore lose value as a cognitive instrument. In other words, if my knowing y by means of x were to introduce any change in x as a representation, then it would be impossible for x to be a way to (universally) know y. The argument also extends to imply that being in my mind—​that is, being entertained by me—​already affects the cognitive value of x. Kilwardby argues that this is why Averroes takes the unicity of the intellect to be required for universal knowledge. As Kilwardby points out, however, Averroes is wrong, for while it is necessary that the representational value is secure by the sameness in the content of the representation (species) in me and you and whoever entertains a thought x with y as its content, the entertaining itself of the concept adds nothing to its representational value. Henceforth, Averroes’s argument is simply wrong, and so

118  Robert Kilwardby likewise is his doctrine of the unicity of the intellect. The universality of the species/​concept in its representational nature is not affected by its inherence in different intellects (i.e., by being numerically distinct as species-​entities according to their existence in individual intellects). From the point of view of the species being a constituent of the mental act of thinking, it can be present in many numerically distinct intellects, thus making the species numerically plural. From the point of view of the content—​what it represents and what it signifies—​it remains one and the same, because it is not affected by the numerical plurality of the species as constituents of individual acts of thinking.

Representing and Instantiating On the basis of a disanalogy he has identified in Averroes’s argument, Kilwardby moves to a digression on the nature of numerical oneness when applied to a form. A form, he says, can be partitioned into the parts of the material thing it informs, as is the case of the soul that constitutes the principle of life in the body it inhabits. In a sense, the soul is one; on the other hand it is not. It is plural in keeping with the parts of the body it informs, yet that is not the case of a form taken in abstraction from matter, as that is a question of the soul being considered apart from the body—​light apart from the diaphanous body (air or water)—​but also, and more to the point, the form of the intelligible species. The intelligible species is not bound to be particularized, neither by the things instantiating it nor by the intellect that abstracts it from those instantiations.91 All intelligible species are intelligible in the sense of being representative of something. In a sense, their universality has both internalist and externalist causes: the recognition of common features between external things is the task of the soul, but the existence of the features to be recognized is not caused by the soul. As Kilwardby points out, “we cognize the universal by means of the negation of the particular, so that we grasp the universal essence by removing and separating the existing material dispositions from that particular.”92 The soul, as it were, recognizes this commonness. By doing so, it discovers the universal, which, as an intelligible representative of the common feature, has no existence outside the soul. This grasping is thus the result of a process of abstracting from those particularizing features, which one cannot find in individual things apart from one’s considering

Knowing  119 them. What is achieved by this abstraction is an essential likeness (essentialis similitudo) between agreeing individual things that exist outside the soul, which is the universal. The universal is precisely “that which is abstracted from many similar simulacra by the work of reason and the intellect.”93 Kilwardby gives the example of humanity, which is abstracted from considering the images of this and that and another human being. In QLIIS 17 he notes: “it is the intellect that acts in them the universality.”94 Universality in this regard is the result of an active process of removal, layer after layer, of what individuates this and that thing, neither of which is the object of mental cognitive consideration. For instance, one can isolate the surface, by abstracting it from the body in which that surface exists, or the line, by peeling away the surface; but the universal resulting from that consideration in isolation from how things are in the world cannot as such be found in the particular existing things, because there is no surface that is not “the surface of this body.” At the same time, who could deny that bodies have surfaces or that lines are constituted by points? The argument Kilwardby wants to make is that actual existence offers the ground for the potential intelligibility of the universal, as in the case of humanity abstracted from actually existing individual human beings. In that sense the universal exists outside the soul.95 Another way of understanding this is to think about quantity. In his NSLP (lectio 8), Kilwardby considers the category of quantity according to its two types: discrete and continuous (already discussed in the subsection “Time” in ­chapter  2). Discrete quantity is any quantity whose parts are not conjoined at a common terminus or end point (a number, for instance). Continuous quantity on the other hand is any quantity whose parts are conjoined at a common end point (a line, for instance). Now, if there is a continuous quantity, like that found in a body, the way to measure that quantity is by “breaking” the body part one wishes to consider and applying a measure of discrete quantity to it. The body still remains continuous, but one takes that part in isolation from the rest and measures it. The same could be said about time, which is a continuous whole that can be considered bits at a time, or even speech (e.g., a word considered from the point of view of its constituent syllables). Abstraction is in a way the mental operation of breaking up conceptual parts that are not broken up like that in the world outside the mind (i.e., to consider the posterior without the prior in its constituent elements).

120  Robert Kilwardby The issue of priority is relevant because something can be said to be prior to knowers or prior to nature. The rule of thumb for understanding this is that the order of cognition is contrary to the order of constitution: in the order of constitution, one proceeds from what is more general to what is more particular (i.e., from the genus to the individual). In the order of cognition, one proceeds from the particular, which is perceived, to the universal, which the intellect comes to know by abstracting sensory information about particulars in the world. However, although the object of perception is what is particular, one seems to actually start by perceiving the universal prior to the perception of the particular: one perceives at a distance that something is a body, then that it is an animal, then a human being, and finally Socrates. But this does not mean, as Kilwardby points out, that the universal is first known, because what one knows is not the universal as such but the “confused universal” (universale confusum)—​a fuzzy or undefined universal rather than a sharp kind, or the universal simpliciter.96

Universality Universality and individuation are then two faces of the same coin, as it were. The point is that one needs to establish the distinction between that which is common to all individual things of the same nature, as they exist in the external world, and that which is common in the images of individual things in the soul. In NLPost I.7, 41, Kilwardby remarks that the universal existing in the intellect as “human being” (homo) does not exist in things in nature; rather, the universal human being simply signifies what is in the intellect: “therefore, the universal human being is not a human being” (homo universalis non est homo). For Kilwardby, everything that exists in the external world either is an individual or exists in an individual as part of its constituting nature. Individual things in the world have some constituent element that makes them a part of the species and another (element) that constitutes them as an individual that is different from other members of the same species. The difficulty with the principle of individuation is that what explains why something is distinct from all other members of the same species must be essential to the description of this individual but not so essential that it must become part of the essence-​expressing definition, because definitions are

Knowing  121 only of what is universal and there are no definitions of individuals. There is no individual without an essence, but the actual existence of the individual is irrelevant to the essence.97 Or better said: the essence is essential to the individual, but the individual is accidental to the essence. The aim of science is to discover what is common to the concrete singulars, so that a definition can be formulated that expresses that common (thus, universal) nature. Definitions apply to individual things because only individual things exist outside the soul.98 A definition is about singular things not qua singular but insofar as they instantiate that universal nature.99 The best way to formulate this concept already presupposes the answer to the question: it would be inaccurate to say “common to all individual things” without adding the qualification “of the same nature,” because either there is not anything that is common to all things or if there is something it is not explanatorily useful. The identification of the “same nature” is presupposed by the identification of the common feature(s). The point is then that it appeals to certain features that things may have in common as their constituents, insofar as they are individuals. Similarly, images of sensible things have in common their being images—​and even being images representative of the same thing—​but they are individual entities, existing at different locations. These images are ontologically distinct but are discovered by the intellect as belonging to the same kind as images; in addition, what makes an image this way is its representative value, that is, its standing in relation to another thing. As representations of the same thing, images have something else in common, which notwithstanding is accidental to their being images. In his book Thinking and Experience, the philosopher H. H. Price noted that conceptual knowledge is possible because the world is not made up of continuous novelty but is characterized by the same features belonging to different things in the world. As he points out, it is this permanence of common features that allows one to have a world rather than merely simple experiences of it. Likewise, the issue at the center of medieval discussions on universals was whether these features reflected the constitution of individual things in the world in such a way that they were not individual but universal on their own. Questions about the nature of universals tended to be addressed especially in commentaries to the Isagoge of Porphyry, and Kilwardby was no exception in this regard.100 He repeats the three main questions asked there, pointing out how Porphyry decided not to properly

122  Robert Kilwardby answer the following questions about the five universals of predication (genus, species, differentia, proprium, and accident):101 1. Whether universals are something in things or just in the intellect and not in things 2. Whether universals are corporeal or incorporeal 3. Whether universals are separated from sensible things or in sensible things102

The first view—​ which Kilwardby, like most of his contemporaries, denies103—​holds that universals exist on their own, apart from things, while stating that universals exist outside the mind. Instead, he holds that nature produces things in matter, not apart from it, so that ideas are monstrosities (quasi monstra) and play no role in scientific thought. There are eternal ideas in the mind of God,104 but one has no access to or use of these in one’s cognitive processes, for example in demonstrations.105 The (realist) assumption is that there are universals in things, but the key question concerns what kinds of entities these universals are: how can one and the same entity be present in a multitude of individual things as their essence? One way to answer this question is by considering the process of constitution, whereby a universal, such as a species, is individualized: “in the same way that an object creates one form or likeness in an unbroken mirror, if the mirror is shattered that form is multiplied into other forms by the multiplication of the pieces [of the mirror]. Likewise, the species that is a form and complete essence on its own is numerically [multiplied] in material [things] or in parts.”106 One form is multiplied into many things by coming to be in matter and, as such, is individualized as the essence of the individual. Universal forms do not float above things but rather are contracted in their existence as the essences of concrete particulars. Kilwardby uses the term signatio to refer to this reception of form in matter that individuates. The question then is, how does the universal relate to what makes the individual an individual? Kilwardby’s answer is that universals exist outside the mind but in a state of potentiality: “the form remains universal, and so our knowledge is not a figment of the soul since it is about what is universal. For there is something universal outside the soul in matter, although neither the matter as bearing the universal forms, insofar as they are such, nor the universal forms themselves, insofar as they are such, are able to be things and beings in act outside the soul; they are in potency.”107

Knowing  123 In actuality, universals are not in individual things, because in the external world things are either individual or exist in individuals. The universal, as the essence of something, does not exist in isolation from that thing in which it exists. But that does not mean that it does not exist, somehow. This somehow characterizes the form’s existence in a potential state, that is to say, characterizes the form as being potentially thinkable by intellectual souls. It is on this “potentiality to thought” that human science depends. According to Kilwardby, the universal can be considered under two different aspects: on the one hand in its essence as being said of the many; on the other hand according to its being, as instantiated in the many. The soul is able to abstract the universal from the multiplicity of sensory images of Callias, Socrates, and Plato (i.e., individual human beings). The universal is found in this individual as something common, but perceived by the senses in a contracted way.108 The unity of that abstracted universal form is the unity of the species or genus, not a numerical unity.109 In this way one can understand how the universal can be one in the many, because it is the unity of potentiality. But that mode of bringing universal forms into existence by considering them in isolation from the particulars in which they exist in reality is an epistemic process, not a metaphysical intervention. Universals are two-​faced entities: as essences of individuals, universals exist in a contracted way and are thus individuated; as concepts, they signify those essences—​ the commonness that exists in the individuals instantiating them—​but exist as proper universals in the thinking mind. Kilwardby makes this clear when he remarks that in things the universal and the individual are one and the same, differing simply in account. Whatever exists in “designated matter” (i.e., matter with dimensions and a spatial-​temporal location) is an individual. But that same form so existing can be considered in isolation from that matter, and as such it is considered a universal. In other words, “the soul separates that which is posterior and accounts for individuation and considers it on account of being a form, which is prior, and in this way [the soul] makes universality.”110 As the passage shows, the potential universality of forms is only actualized when considered in isolation from the individual thing in which it enters as its constituent. Or, as Kilwardby puts it in a schematic way, forms “as not in this are universals, but as in this are individuated.”111 In the case I have been discussing here, the focus has been on the universal essential forms that constitute the essence of an individual thing and, as such, include the genus and specific difference. But Kilwardby thinks

124  Robert Kilwardby that this principle of plurality extends to all different aspects of constitution, not only essential determinations but determinations of any kind. The constitution of the individual by those universal forms means that “an individual is constituted by matter and by a plurality of forms.”112 Two key philosophical issues arise from this view. The first is how to account for the way those forms come into being in the actual constituting of the individual thing. This is a question about a theory of personal development, which applies to all individuals of that species. The second issue concerns the ontological status of those forms in the actual constitution of any given individual—​that is to say, how they coexist and whether or not this coexistence affects the unity of that individual. In both cases, the central issue is that of individuation. Kilwardby argues that there are two intrinsic causes of individuation: form as the active cause (or de qua causa) and matter as the passive cause (which he also calls causa sine qua non and causa in qua). The form of the species contracts the form of the genus to the form of the individual, in this way individuating the composite. The universal form is in a state of indetermination and potentiality prior to the actual designation (signatio).113 That act of signatio—​of contraction of the generic to the individual—​is the cause of individuation, from which follows the actual spatial-​temporal location. This also means that the same form is universal and individual on different accounts, such as being the form of corporeity and being the form of this body. What is abstract from the point of view of essence is individual from the point of actual existence in the concrete individual.114 At the level of the individual being it is preferable to speak of “individual property” (individualis proprietas), which is nothing but the individual’s actual existence (actualis exsistentia).115 Only this allows for the species to be the whole of the individual’s essence without being the whole of the individual.116 In that sense, one can say that the individual is characterized by its own individuation as an actual existent thing—​that is, essentially—​and thus is not dependent on spatial-​temporal determination. Space and time are, of course, distinctive features of a thing, as no two corporeal substances can exist in one and the same place at the same time, but Kilwardby takes spatial-​temporal location to follow from, rather than being the cause of, individuation. Otherwise, one needs to accept that the thing that occupies this place at this time must somehow already be such (i.e., that it can occupy this place at this time) and, thus, already be individuated. For Kilwardby, individuation is by matter and by form, due to which the individual

Knowing  125 substance comes to exist here and now. That is the case for corporeal things. However, angels or human souls are individuals who are not located in time and space.117

Scientific Knowledge Among the commentaries on Aristotle that Kilwardby wrote in his Parisian period as a master of arts was one on the Posterior Analytics.118 Together with that of Robert Grosseteste, Kilwardby’s commentary is among the earliest extant works whose authorship can be asserted. Albert the Great’s commentary, to give one example, is later (c. 1245–​1260). Chronology matters because Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics is a particularly difficult work. The difficulties in understanding it arise from the nature of the work, which tries to serve two masters: on the one hand it presents an epistemological story focused on the use of the demonstrative syllogism as a knowledge-​ producing device; on the other hand it tries to offer a basic theoretical framework for a theory of science, in terms of what we would nowadays call methodology of science. This allowed for the ambiguous use of the term scientia in medieval Latin to signify both knowledge, as intellectual understanding, and science, as scientific endeavor, an ambiguity like that occasioned by the Greek term episteme.119 From very early on, medieval thinkers struggled to make sense of these two aspects and to provide an interpretation that made sense to their students and other interpreters. As a recent scholar put it, “at the time of Albert the Great and St. Thomas, the theory of demonstration proof had become clear and accurate. The conditions required by Aristotle for a strictly scientific cognition were known.”120 It is important to understand how this theory had become clear by the third quarter of the thirteenth century and who had come up with it. This section aims to show Kilwardby’s contribution to this state of affairs. In his contribution to this Latin commentarial tradition, Kilwardby pursues two levels of meaning: on the one hand he focuses on the conditions for producing demonstrations that bring about knowledge of what always is and of what is universal. On the other he focuses on demonstrations in the context of an exam on the principles of the structure of scientific inquiry in general. Connecting the two is the work of the logician, who leads the process of discovery of those terms to be used in demonstrations while working to determine the principles that regulate how the special sciences

126  Robert Kilwardby operate. In addition to these general meanings, scientia has a more specific meaning as the habit of the disposition of the soul by which we know the conclusion of the syllogism. It contrasts with another habit, the intellectus, which consists of the knowledge of the premises of the syllogism. A third habit, called acumen or solertia, is defined as the capacity to swiftly grasp the middle term of a syllogism.121 Kilwardby structures his commentary on the Aristotelian treatise around three main issues: first, the intellectual cognition of the universal content that provides the grounds for building scientific demonstrations; second, the specific procedural treatment of on the one hand demonstration in its syllogistic form and on the other the definition on whose basis the highest kind or strict form of demonstration is made possible; and third, the knowledge of the principles of demonstration and of the conclusions that follow from those principles. In addition, he focuses on the conditions for the premises of the demonstrative syllogism, namely, that they must be de omni, per se, and universal; what the difference is between the two main kinds of demonstration (i.e., demonstrations quia and propter quid); and finally, what the strongest (potissima) kind of demonstration is: the demonstration of the cause or reason why (propter quid), which is about what always is (semper) and what is necessary but can also be extended to what is often or for the most part (frequenter).122

Knowledge Kilwardby starts his commentary on the Posterior Analytics, aptly dubbed Notulae or “Notes,” by considering a very general traditional distinction between the human intellectual modes of knowing:  demonstration and inductive reasoning. Whereas in the former one starts by what is better known in an absolute sense, in the latter one starts with what is better known because it is the result of direct contact between the perceiver and the perceived thing in a sense experience.123 Demonstration is a kind of syllogistic reasoning, which starts from previously existing knowledge,124 in the form of the knowledge of the premises (principia), and proceeds to the knowledge of conclusions (conclusiones). In the background is what Kilwardby takes to be the Aristotelian definition of knowing (scire):  to know what the cause of something is, and that it is so and cannot be otherwise.125 Knowledge is primarily of what is universal, and thus it is the result of intellectual cognition—​in contrast

Knowing  127 with perception, which is of what is particular. Kilwardby is here adopting the four senses of “to know” (scire) that one finds spelled out already in Grosseteste:126 1. In a general sense, to know is the comprehension of the truth of contingent things. 2. In a common sense, to know is the comprehension of the truth of things that often are. 3. Properly, to know is the comprehension of the truth of things that are immutable. 4. Most properly, to know is the comprehension of the truth of things that always are the same and the truth of which depends on what is prior.

Whereas the knowledge of the premises and the conclusion of a demonstration fits into the third sense of knowing, the knowledge of the conclusion that follows from the premises corresponds to the fourth sense (i.e., as the comprehension of the truth of what is always the same way and that of necessity follows). To know something is to know its cause, but often things have more than one cause. Kilwardby considers, however, that only one such cause is the cause of the completion and perfection of that thing (complectio et perfectio rei), and therefore to know is to know that.127 Only a form can be a cause in this sense, such that the search for the cause is the search for that form. This point, of course, reverberates in Kilwardby’s account of the human composite, in particular his account of the human soul itself as a composite, which I examined in the subsection “Form” in ­chapter 2. In the case of scientific knowledge, the point is that there need not be just one form that explains all essential properties of a thing, but there must be one among all those forms that accounts for the most determining essential properties. To know a cause properly is to know (1) what the cause is in itself, (2) how it is directed to the thing it causes, and (3) what sort of necessary relation (if any) it holds regarding its effect(s).128 What Kilwardby has in mind at this juncture will be spelled out later on, but for now it suffices to say that one and the same form can be found in both cause and effect, meaning that it exists in the effect because it existed before in the cause,129 just as in a demonstration the cause of the conclusion is found in the premises. It is also important to note that Kilwardby explicitly follows Aristotle in saying that to know is to know the cause and that this cause is

128  Robert Kilwardby one because the final, formal cause and the efficient cause are essentially one and the same—​although different in being.130 Kilwardby starts his NLPost with the basic assumption that the primary way of acquiring knowledge is by means of demonstrations, which are syllogisms that bring about knowledge.131 Demonstrative reasoning allows one to know the necessary cause of something; as such, demonstration is contrasted to opinion, that is, accepting an immediate proposition that is not necessary or, even if it is necessary, not accepting it on account of its necessity.132 Opinion can be true or false because it is about what can be otherwise, whereas scientific knowledge is about what is true only, because it is about what is always necessary.133 A demonstration is of those things that are by themselves (i.e., per se, in the first and second sense of per se).134 (More will be said on this later.) It must be noted, however, that scientific demonstrations can also involve what frequently (frequenter) is, a qualification that is necessary to cover for those cases where one deals with natural things (in naturalibus).135 Demonstration is the method per se of knowledge acquisition, which needs to be applied to the particular subject matters of the special sciences. Kilwardby illustrates this distinction between the special sciences (like geometry, theology, etc.) and the method they use to acquire knowledge, the demonstrative syllogism; he gives the example of a ruler that is used to trace several lines on parchment. These lines are numerically distinct from each other but are similar qua lines, just as demonstration, considered and taught in the Posterior Analytics, is then applied in the special sciences to their particular subject matters.136 The point is that to know what the definition of a triangle is belongs to the science that deals with geometrical figures, and that demonstrations dealing with this subject matter and its attributes are for that discipline to perform. That knowledge is certainly discipline-​specific rather than general and cross-​disciplinary. To understand how these two aspects coexist within a medieval theory of science, one must proceed by first examining Kilwardby’s theory of demonstration. Only then, in the last section, will I deal with scientific inquiry, namely, the division into special disciplines and the relations between these.

Demonstration I have been noted earlier that the two books of what is called the logica vetus—​the Categories and On Interpretation—​ deal with the material

Knowing  129 principles of the syllogism (terms and propositions), whereas the books of what is called the logica nova—​the Prior Analytics and Posterior Analytics—​ deal with the kinds of syllogism and their parts.137 The syllogism is defined as “a speech in which, [due to] certain things being stated, something else comes about by necessity because these things are so.”138 In one of these works of “New Logic,” the Prior Analytics, the focus is on the unqualified and the syllogism simpliciter, that is, the syllogism that is not contracted to any particular matter, neither probable nor sophistic nor necessary. The syllogism simpliciter is constituted by two propositions and three terms. As explained earlier, what is “being stated” is the material part of the syllogism, that is, the terms and propositions,139 whereas the syllogistic form is constituted by mood and figure.140 Figure is determined by the placement of the terms, while mood is determined by the quantity (universal or particular) and quality (affirmative or negative) of the premises.141 In the case of nonmodal syllogisms, there are only three figures. This is explained by the fact that “a figure is an arrangement of three terms in two propositions. Therefore, either the same term is predicated of both propositions . . . or the same is subject in both . . . or it is subject to one and predicated of the other.”142 The fact that some things follow of necessity from others depends on the things stated, but also and especially on the way they are stated; that is, it depends on their arrangement in the structure of the syllogistic premises. The validity of the syllogism depends on this arrangement: the middle term must connect the two extremes in the right way for the conclusion to of necessity follow.143 Among the figures, the first is the most complete and primary. Kilwardby gives several reasons for this fact: it is the one, among the syllogistic figures, that (1)  maximally brings about knowledge, by showing the essence of the thing; (2) brings about propter quid knowledge (i.e., knowledge of the cause) by having the middle term as the subject in the major premise; and (3) demonstrates by means of a definition, because only in the first figure is the conclusion a universal affirmative proposition (the conclusion is negative in the second figure and particular in the third). All other figures can be assessed on the basis of the first syllogistic figure, because only it appears to be immediately necessary. Thus, there seems to be a unity in this form of speech, that is, in the syllogism. In fact, Kilwardby argues that this is so because the minor proposition contracts the major proposition to the conclusion in such a way that one should not count the propositions separately as “several” but as one speech or argument. The unity of “demonstrative” speech is due to the unity of

130  Robert Kilwardby its end term, the conclusion. It should still be noted that according to this medieval characterization of syllogistic form, the conclusion is included in the premises in what concerns its matter: the conclusion is constituted of the two extremes, whereas in each of the premises one of the extremes either predicates or is predicated of the middle term.144 This introduces an interesting shift toward more metaphysical considerations, with Kilwardby pointing out that it is reductive to say that one thing only has one form. Instead, one should say that there can be multiple forms in any one thing, provided that they are organized and ordered to one another, so that “some form is material and is in potentiality to an ulterior form, but some is final and completing.”145 This unity is found in natural things and in the logical composition of beings of reason: the term is the remote matter, whereas the proposition is the proximate matter; on the other hand the figure is the incomplete form, whereas the mood is the completive form. All these forms come together in one syllogism.146 The syllogism is divided, from a material point of view, into the necessary, the probable, and the sophistical. Kilwardby insists that the demonstrative syllogism must take precedence with respect to all other syllogistic forms because it is here that the highest form of good—​in demonstration—​ is achieved:147 “the goodness of the syllogism consists in the ability to produce belief or knowledge or such.”148 The general aim of the syllogism is to bring about cognition,149 so a perfect demonstrative syllogism is one that brings that about in good order. In that sense, syllogisms can be perfect or imperfect.150 A perfect syllogism is one the necessity of whose premises’ entailment is evident. As for imperfect ones (i.e., those lacking bene esse), there are ways to transform them into perfect syllogisms, such as by means of the method of conversion, whereby the order of the terms is altered. But even an imperfect syllogism is a syllogism, as it still brings about the cognition that something is of necessity said of something else. It is just the case that it requires an element extrinsic to the premises to make the necessity of this connection evident.151 The way I have presented Kilwardby’s syllogistic theory paints a picture of demonstration that is mostly independent of psychological considerations. Notwithstanding the fact that Kilwardby’s NLPost is not designed to be a treatise on psychological cognitive processes, the development of a theory of science depends on general mechanisms of discovery of universals (that serve as propositional terms) and causal middle terms, which explain why

Knowing  131 an attribute (the predicate) can be said of a subject—​in other words, can be explanatory of why it is what it is.152 In that sense, demonstration depends on three major epistemic operations: the discovery of essences; the process of reasoning that establishes the relation of entailment that holds between terms; and the process of discovery of the first principles.

Preexisting Knowledge The starting point for this account of knowledge is the assumption that all human intellective cognition originates from preexisting knowledge.153 In the case of demonstrative science, it starts from what is simply better known, the universal, whereas in the case of inductive sciences, it starts from particular cases and proceeds to universals (i.e., it starts with what is better known by humans (what is immediately made accessible to us via sense perception) to what is better known by nature).154 There can be intellectual cognition only when there is prior sense perception,155 and it is on the basis of this preexisting knowledge that the terms that are constitutive of syllogistic premises come to be known. That has led some, according to Kilwardby, to claim that sense perception is the cause of scientific knowledge and that this dependency is due to humans’ connection with the body as the consequence of original sin.156 Kilwardby prefers instead to emphasize that the intellect uses the senses for true knowledge (uerissime scientia), as without them humans would have no access to the external world,157 and would not be brought to know as the result of their activity. Kilwardby illustrates this dependency of the intellect on the senses with the image of seeing through a mirror, that is, a kind of indirect or mediated seeing. The intellect’s cognition of corporeal things is always assisted by the lower sensory powers of the proper senses (sight, touch, hearing, etc.), the power of imagination (ymaginatione), and the estimative power. In a proper Augustinian fashion, Kilwardby accepts that if humans were free from this dependency, as in the disembodied state, the intellect would have, by its own light, direct access to the world and everything would be bright due to the light of truth. Unfortunately, the human being in the postlapsarian state depends on sensory powers, and with that dependency comes the possibility of error and falsity:  we do not see the essences of things directly but collect information from individual sense experiences of particular objects in the world.

132  Robert Kilwardby The process is described in the following way: from many perceptions we get one memory, and from many memories we get one experiment (experimentum). As a technical term, “experiment” means the result of “a comparison made according to the natures of many things that are present and retained in memory, so that from them something may be taken that is common to all of them. This common thing is a universal. Hence experiment, as he [Aristotle] means here, is that through which a universal is immediately taken.”158 Our knowledge of universals arises at the end of a process of progressive abstraction, by means of which the intellect discovers in the structured memory of many perceptual experiences what is common to the particulars perceived. By connecting the particulars and the universals that arise from it, the experiment bridges the perceptual and intellectual levels. Failure in that process results in general scientific failure, because demonstration depends on universal concepts as its constitutive material elements.159 The important thing to note for now is that humans must rely on this basic contrast between what is perceived—​for instance, an eclipse, which is a particular thing in the world at this time and in this place—​and what knowledge proper is (i.e., what that thing we call an eclipse is and what the cause of it is): knowledge not of the cause of our perceiving the thing but of the cause of it being what it is (in this case, an eclipse). By simply perceiving it, there is no way I can know what in that experience is specific to this experience of mine and what is proper to an eclipse in isolation from my experience of it.160 The cause of the eclipse, the interposition of the Earth between the Sun and the Moon, is not made explicit to us simply from our experience. Even if it were, there is no way we would know that that is the case in all eclipses—​and thus know their real cause—​by perception only, even though our contact with the phenomenon to be explained takes place via sense perception. The same idea holds for whatever thing we consider from this scientific point of view. Kilwardby observes that this means that perception is an “occasion for scientific knowledge,” since we are prompted by experiencing a given phenomenon to investigate it in such a way as to find its proper universal cause.161 We perceive the lack of light during an eclipse and may even perceive what is causing it in this particular case, but to know what is the cause in all cases—​in a universal and necessary way, as is required for proper knowledge—​is beyond the reach of perception.162 The particular nature of these cases raises the issue of the epistemic value of demonstrations that are about something that is not always the case, even

Knowing  133 if it is frequently or for the most part the case. Kilwardby argues that these properties always are of their subjects: the privation of light due to the interposition of the Earth between the Sun and the Moon is always true of the eclipse (of the Moon). In other words, a particular instance of an eclipse is a contingent rather than a necessary fact, but the explanation for the eclipse, which is the shadowing of the Moon by the Earth, is necessary.163 The eclipse as a universal always is, whereas the particular instantiation of it, which we experience via the senses, is contingent.164 When we demonstrate in the highest kind of demonstration, we do so about eclipses in general (simpliciter), whose cause is the interposition of the Earth between the Sun and the Moon, rather than about a particular event. Of course, the demonstration is true about this eclipse because it is true about eclipses in general. Demonstrative knowledge is not about what is sensible and contingent but is about what is necessary and intelligible.165 Demonstrations deal with universals,166 but demonstrations can be made with respect to sensible things—​not as sensible things as such but as what is contracted to sensible matter.167 In the big scheme of things, Kilwardby argues that the more universal a proposition is (e.g., “a triangle has three angles”) the more one knows, in comparison with what is less universal (e.g., “an equilateral triangle has three angles”).168 He further connects this idea with Aristotle’s claim that knowledge is first and foremost about causes, so that a demonstrative syllogism works by showing what is a cause of what is the case. Universal knowledge requires a universal cause.169 Now, the more universal a cause is, the more knowledge it brings about, which is precisely the question at stake: the more we know about geometrical figures in general, for example, the more we know about a particular type of triangle. The cause of the thing in a properly scientific demonstration is determined by the middle term, and the middle term of a universal proposition is closer (propinquius) to the universality, immediateness, and evident-​ness of a first principle than a particular one.170 Equally important for Kilwardby is to stress that the mode of discovery of the middle term starts with what is observed and is built from there, rather than being dependent on innate rules.171 A similar point needs to be made about the discovery of the first principles. The initial question is whether these are acquired or innate in us. Kilwardby’s interpretation of Aristotle’s answer is to say that it is both: there must be in us from the outset a power that is capable of coming to know those first principles. That power or faculty cannot be intellectual, because all intellectual

134  Robert Kilwardby knowledge seems to need to be based on first principles (thus begging the question). This power must be sensitive. But all animals have senses, which means that all animals could be capable of coming to know such principles. Kilwardby restricts this idea that sensation is the immediate source of the knowledge of the first principles by pointing out that the senses only lead to the cognition of the first principles in those cases where there is the capacity to keep or preserve the sensory information received: “from sense memory comes to be and from the multiplication of memories the experiment comes to be, because a single experiment comes to be from many memories;  .  .  .  from the multiplication of the experiment, the universal comes to be, and by that I mean the universal at rest in the soul, one among many particulars, and not separable from those particulars; being the same in all of those constitutes the principle of science and art.”172 In other words, the sensory information is received in the form of sensible species. In those beings who are capable of that, these species are then retained by the power of memory and used for further cognitive processing. But not all animals have memory. Instead, memory is found only in animals who also have the power to compare species and identify a common universal ratio (quedam ratio uniuersalis) among them.173 In other words, Kilwardby is clearly affirming that only animals who are rational are capable of cognizing such principles. Kilwardby emphasizes that that commonness is the result of an act of comparison (collatio) between the multitude of individuals retained in memory, and the resulting assessment of unity or commonness is nothing but the experiment (experimentum), as noted earlier.174 By knowing particular things of a certain kind, we are able to understand that a certain feature or predicate is said of (because it inheres in) other things that also fall within that kind. It is this method of discovery that is used to acquire the “discipline-​specific principles”: “[Aristotle] says that the principles specific to each field of knowledge are taken from experience—​which he proves inductively, saying that astrological principles are discovered through experience in astrology, and similarly in every art and field of study. And this is ABOUT EACH KIND OF THING.”175 Astronomical principles are discovered from perceptual experiences with astronomical phenomena. Once these are found, one should proceed to the discovery of how to arrange the middle term so that it connects the two extremes of the conclusion in a way that shows that the conclusion necessarily follows from the premises.176

Knowing  135 He gives an illustrative example: “for from the fact that perception (or the understanding mediated by perception and experience) perceives that ‘animal’ in respect of all its singulars is contained by ‘sensible,’ as is ‘sensible’ in respect of all its singulars by ‘body,’ it recognizes at once that ‘body’ in respect of all its singulars inheres in ‘animal’ through the middle ‘sensible.’ And it is in this way that the rule teaching how to establish the universal affirmative is discovered. In the same way discoveries are made about the other rules.”177 Here “body” is predicated of the animal by means of the middle term “sensible”; in other words, a sensible body (i.e., a body capable of sensing) is an animal.178 A main task of logic is precisely to discover these natural properties of things on account of their being common (in ratione communi). Only qua common intentions do they serve the purpose of being part of demonstrative knowledge. It is on the basis of sense experience that we come to know the universal terms and the first principles, which enter into the constitution of demonstrative reasoning and thus scientific knowledge.

First Principles Up until now I  have been examining in an unspecified way the first principles of demonstration as Kilwardby understands Aristotle to have presented them in his Analytics. But, Kilwardby points out, there are two kinds of first principles in Aristotle’s theory of demonstration. Whereas some first principles apply uniformly to all fields of inquiry,179 others are appropriate to a particular subject matter.180 It is an important feature of the theory that the same general method of demonstrating can be applied to all subject matters, but the method must be contracted to a given field of inquiry by means of the specific principles that are proper to it,181 be it geometry or theology.182 No science has access to the justification for general propositions at a level higher than itself; rather, a science receives certain generic principles, simple and without determination (about, say, numbers and triangles), from that higher science and contracts them so as to apply them to its own subject matter. The higher is above the lower’s pay grade. Kilwardby emphasizes the existence of a universal method for reaching common or generic principles for all syllogisms, applicable to all fields of knowledge and distinct from discipline-​specific (propriis) principles.183

136  Robert Kilwardby Following Aristotle, Kilwardby discriminates between two main types of immediate principles: the postulate (positio) and the axiom (dignitas).184 Whereas postulates correspond to principles that are proper to the special sciences, axioms are common principles. Axioms are the most immediate and common to all sciences.185 They are immediate because they do not require an external reason to be accepted, being such that on considering them one simply grasps their truth (i.e., by simply understanding what its constituting terms mean). In other words, the truth of an axiom is evident to anyone endowed with a rational faculty.186 Examples of axioms are the logical laws of identity and noncontradiction: affirmation and denial cannot be true of the same thing at the same time (de nullo eodem est affirmatio uel negatio simul eiusdem);187 and “if equals are subtracted from equals, the remainder is equal” (ab equalibus equalia demas).188 The evident-​ness of axioms raises a difficulty for Kilwardby’s empiricist thesis, according to which all knowledge proceeds from previous knowledge. He accepts that this constitutes an exception, because these principles cannot be further grounded on something else. Were it not the case, the quest for knowledge would be unintelligible, as Aristotle determines: “it begs the question that, in order to prove the thesis, something is assumed from among those things that are apt to be proved through themselves.”189 These principles are indemonstrable because otherwise knowledge would entail an infinite regress, like the pseudoexplanation according to which clouds come from rain and rain comes from clouds.190 In axioms, a given general property is predicated of the subject, but one cannot prove why that property is so predicated.191 Despite many things following from that first principle, no further knowledge can be had about the justification of that proposition. Axioms are primitives of a theory (i.e., they ground other principles and even demonstrative proofs but are in themselves ungrounded beyond the intellectual act by which they are grasped).192 They are known by themselves (per se nota) and immediately evident. These are quite strict requirements that, notwithstanding, are needed if one is to achieve universal certain knowledge in a demonstrative fashion. That self-​standing evident-​ness does not apply to postulates, which need to be supplied with a reason or justification that is external to them.193 Postulates are of two kinds: hypotheses (or suppositions) and definitions. A hypothesis is a statement in which something is said to be or not to be;194 in other words, a hypothesis has existential import. A  definition on the other hand expresses what a thing is but remains neutral as to whether

Knowing  137 that thing is (or exists) or is not. Although it can be a premise, a definition is more properly said to be part of a principle, corresponding to either the subject or the predicate of a proposition.195 To sum up, hypotheses are existential propositions (i.e., have existential import, stating that something is or is not  =  x exists), whereas definitions have a predicative form (x is y). Both definitions and hypotheses are applied to specific fields of inquiry, respectively, by showing that something is the case—​for instance, that the subject matter of that science exists—​and why a certain predicate belongs to that subject.

Principles In the most perfect kind, a demonstration must have as its starting point appropriate premises that are true, first, immediate, prior to and better known than, and the cause of the conclusion.196 Of these, being true, first, and immediate take center stage (i.e., are primary), and in fact Kilwardby thinks the other requirements can be reduced to these three.197 True is obvious, because there can be no knowledge of what is false:198 principles should be necessarily and maximally true (or “maximally known in truth” (maxime nota in ueritate).199 In a less-​than-​explanatory manner, Kilwardby points out next that to know simpliciter is to know what is first and immediate rather than what is accidental or in a qualified manner (sub conditione); therefore, the two conditions—​to be first and immediate—​must hold of the principles. There is a difference between the two, though: to be first means the absence of a prior premise, and to be immediate means that there is no intermediary (i.e., no middle term) between the subject and predicate.200 Now, to be immediate is the only condition that enters in the definition of a principle taken on its own, whereas all others refer to the way the principles relate to the conclusion.201 The remaining conditions are justified by the fact that causes are naturally prior to their effects and better known in an absolute sense:  to demonstrate is nothing but to show the cause of the conclusion from the premises.202 The reasoning is clear:  if to know is to know the cause, one must know those conditions that express the condition of a cause (i.e., to be better known and to be prior).203 As I have shown, there are two ways of being prior and better known, namely, by nature and by us: universals are prior and better known by nature, while particulars are prior and better known by us.204 Realizing that “better known by nature” may sound odd

138  Robert Kilwardby to the uninitiated reader, as nature is not an entity endowed with cognitive powers, Kilwardby explains that this does not mean a distinction between us and the external world but a distinction within the human soul between the senses and the intellect. Therefore, “better known by nature” means having an intellect that is naturally well disposed to know, whereas “better known by us” means the good use of our senses in judging external things.205 He also points out that “better known” here means to know why the thing is what it is rather than simply knowing what the name of the thing signifies.206 As shown earlier, the end or purpose of scientific knowledge is to show that a conclusion necessarily follows from the universal affirmative propositions that constitute the premises of that demonstration. In a sense, the premises work as the causes of the conclusion by showing why a given property is necessarily predicated of a given subject. That being the case, the starting point—​the principles—​cannot be less evident than the conclusion. Kilwardby further notes that these principles are preexisting knowledge with respect to that conclusion, not in a temporal sense but in a logical one: the conclusion unfolds from the premises, necessarily in the optimal case. These are the principles, and those were the conditions necessary for demonstration of the highest kind (potissima), that is, of those things that always and necessarily are.207 But what Kilwardby is interested in next are the conditions that regulate the contraction (i.e., applicability) of the demonstration simpliciter to the actual necessary demonstrations that produce knowledge. As examined earlier, the principles of demonstration simpliciter are abstract, applying to no particular matter, and thus are not productive of knowledge. By being common to all demonstrations (and all sciences), they cannot be proper, and therefore more than accidental, to any particular thing. But what matters for the production of knowledge is that demonstrations proceed from premises that are appropriate to that which is demonstrated.208 So, whereas a syllogism can be constituted by nonappropriate premises, a demonstration cannot. In that sense, the syllogism simpliciter does not produce either knowledge or opinion, as that is not its function: that is rather the function of the demonstrative and dialectical syllogisms, respectively. The purpose of the syllogism in an unqualified sense is to determine the mode of production by inference of either knowledge or belief whenever it is contracted to specific matter.209 But, again, logic deals only with what concerns the syllogism simpliciter, unqualified

Knowing  139 and uncontracted (simpliciter et non contracto),210 rather than with a syllogism contracted to specific matter, be that probable or necessary. In that sense, logic is concerned with the middle term in the most abstract possible way. But in this case, the first principles need to meet certain requirements that are not the same for the generic common principles of a syllogism in a qualified sense.

Conditions for Predication In addition to the very general conditions of the syllogistic premises, there are three special basic conditions (conditiones specialiores) of predication within a given subject matter.211 The first is that the predicate must be said always of all the individuals that are signified by the subject term (i.e., dici de omni; “being-​ said-​of-​all”); the de omni is a disposition of the predicate with respect to the subject that indicates the necessary and universal nature of this disposition: it is always the case.212 The second is that it must be said by itself (per se). According to Kilwardby, following Aristotle, there are several ways this can take place. The first is when the predicate expresses the cause and is part of the definition of the subject; for example, in “a human being is a rational animal,” “animal” is part of the definition of “human being.” According to the second type of per se predication, the subject is the cause of the predicate and thus is included in its definition; that is the case when the subject is included in the definition of its proper accidents, the way “line” is included in the definition of its properties (passiones), namely, to be curved and straight.213 Kilwardby recalls that some properties are predicated of the essence of the thing (as for human beings to be biped), whereas others (like being musical) are not, notwithstanding the fact that these are accidents that are proper (i.e., propria) to that kind of thing.214 Kilwardby also mentions two other senses of per se, with particular focus on the third, which is about what exists on its own. The point is to contrast those things that exist on their own and those things that exist because they exist in another. Take “being able to walk” or even “walking” as an example of what does not exist on its own but can be said of what does exist, like an individual substance: this person walks.215 The fourth kind of per se is when the cause of the predication of the predicate to the subject is the subject itself, as when we predicate the humanity of a human being: the cause is the human being itself.216 It differs from the second type in that this cause of inherence is immediate rather than mediate. This kind is present in demonstrations in the major premise, and its role is to demonstrate

140  Robert Kilwardby the material definition by means of the formal definition (i.e., to demonstrate what the thing is—​quid est—​by showing its genus and difference).217 Kilwardby illustrates this with the following example: “whoever has the desire for pain in what opposes him has an accession of blood to the heart [material definition]; an irate [person] has the desire for pain in what opposes him [formal definition or definition according to the species]; therefore, [an irate person has an accession of blood to the heart].”218 The third and final condition for necessary premises is to be universal (uniuersale). That is to say, the predicate must inhere in the subject as such. Kilwardby notes that there are, however, four ways of universal predication:  according to the first, which is univocal, one predicates of all things one notion (intentio) that corresponds to their nature; that is the case with having three angles as a property of all triangles, be they isosceles or otherwise. The second is equivocal:  when one predicates of different things a notion that is not the same either in name or in nature. The third is when we predicate one notion of different natures, as when we predicate a quantity of different kinds of things that fall under the notion of a measure. The fourth is when one predicates one nature under many different notions (natura una sub intentionibus diversis).219 Kilwardby further notes that the universal as examined in the Posterior Analytics is taken in a different way in its consideration in the On Interpretation. In the latter, to be universal simply means to be said of many, whereas in the Posterior Analytics it means that it must be said of all, always, and immediately. Therefore, for the purposes of demonstration what is required of the universal is more than what is required of it in a semantic context.220 To conclude the issue of the required conditions for demonstration, it is important to recall that demonstrations are about what is per se (thus, necessary), universal, and said of all, always. It must also be noted that the necessity in question in terms of demonstration is not an absolute necessity but the necessity of the consequence and inference.221 It is in this context that Kilwardby introduces an interesting discussion, following Aristotle, concerning the attribution of an attribute to a subject and the signs associated with this attribute.

Signs of Affections I have discussed how for Kilwardby there is a process by means of which one first comes to know the causes that allow one to connect the predicate to

Knowing  141 the subject, and second, the predicate that is being demonstrated of the subject. An important issue here is the somewhat misleading terminology that wavers between predicate (passio) as attribute and as affection. The starting point is the idea that any affection of a subject must leave a trace (or sign) that can always be traced back to that affection. By knowing the sign, one knows the affection, so what is needed to come to know the affection is a strategy to come to know the sign. Some of these affections inhere in their subjects universally, others not. The strategy for identifying which is which is to take the minor common denominator, that is, those things in which it does not inhere universally, and examine what in them accompanies that affection. By knowing that that feature that accompanies those affections inheres nonuniversally, one knows that the same feature will be found in those things in which it inheres universally.222 It can only be said universally of those things in which it inheres universally. Kilwardby suggests that for lions to have large extremities is a sign of their having courage, although there are other animals that are courageous (like human beings) and others still that have large extremities (like horses) without that entailing courage. So, courage and large extremities coinhere in lions but not in all other beings in which those properties are found. What does this tell us in terms of knowledge? Kilwardby argues that there is a difference between coming to know the affection (courage) from knowing the sign (having large extremities) and knowing that this affection (courage) is said universally of some beings, like lions. Whereas we come to know the sign (of an affection) by means of perception, we come to know the affection from the sign by means of a syllogism with the three terms—​“courageous,” “having large extremities,” and “lion”—​being arranged in such a way that it leads to a valid conclusion. In a syllogism of the first figure, “courageous” stands for the minor term (1), which is predicated of the subject in the conclusion; “having large extremities” stands for the middle term (2). Both “courageous” and “having large extremities” convert. “Lion” stands for the major term (3), which is the subject of the conclusion.223 I think Kilwardby is onto something: he seems to have grasped that here Aristotle is placing great emphasis on the transition from the observation of effects to knowledge of the reason why the predicate of the conclusion is said, always and necessarily, of the subject of the conclusion. The result, in terms of knowledge, is that by perception one is able to show “the sign from the affection but not in the affection’s proper subject, whereas it [i.e., a demonstration via the middle term] shows the affection from the

142  Robert Kilwardby sign in its proper subject.”224 We perceive “having large extremities” as the sign of being “courageous,” but that is not a demonstration. What we can demonstrate properly is that “courageous” is universally predicated of the subject “lion.” We know the affection from the sign in its proper subject, that is, the courage said of the lion. Kilwardby takes Aristotle to mean that courage is an affection that belongs properly to a lion, as a species, and that the sign for this affection in this species is the having of large extremities. Large extremities are not the cause of courage, nor is courage the cause of having large extremities, but in lions these two come together, with large extremities being the sign of the affection (courage), which is part of their nature. This leads Kilwardby to consider the broader issue of what can be demonstrated.

What Can Be Demonstrated? After setting the general framework for a theory of demonstration, Kilwardby turns his focus to the central issues of what needs to be known in order to construct a demonstrative reasoning and what can be known of the subject as the result. He argues that in the process of demonstration one must provide answers to the following questions about the subject: 1 . 2. 3. 4.

Whether it is (si est) What it is (quid est) That it is (quia est) Why it is (propter quid est)225

There seems to be a certain logical sequence of questions 1, 2, and 3, so that one should first know whether something is in an unqualified way, followed by knowing that it is such and so. In that sense, all questions can be reduced to question 3.226 All three questions seem to be versions of the same question, from the more abstract to the more concrete. The idea is that nothing can be in absolute terms and that every thing must be one way or another. Once we know that it is simpliciter, we must know that it is a thing of a certain kind, like “God” or “human being.” Returning to the discussion about whether the logician should be concerned with things themselves, Kilwardby reminds his students that all sciences need to assume the existence of their subject. The implication here seems to be that in the case of a demonstration, whatever science it is applied to, one of the key questions is whether the subject is. In a sense, he remarks, that is a question

Knowing  143 for the metaphysician rather than the logician; however, the demonstrator is also interested in finding out whether the subject of which something is predicated is (1), and what is predicated of that subject (2). The subject, he goes on to say, can be either particular or universal. About the particular, it makes sense to ask whether it exists. But the same is not true about the universal; in the case of quantity (magnitudo) in geometry, for example, its existence cannot be demonstrated from, say, the triangle.227 For convenience, Kilwardby proposes different sorts of organization for these questions. First, he proposes to combine them into two groups:  the first group is constituted by questions 1 and 2, which are about what is simple; the second group is constituted by questions 3 and 4, which are about what is complex or composite.228 For instance, when we inquire about a property, the question is about what this property is in itself, and thus we are asking whether it is and what it is; or it can be about this property as it inheres in a subject, in which case we are asking that it is and why it is. On the other hand Kilwardby proposes to organize these questions into two different groups, one concerning being (1 and 3)  and one about what/​why something is (2 and 4). Any existing thing either exists on its own, like a substance, such that we need to inquire about its essence, or exists in another, like an accident, such that we need to inquire about the cause of so inhering is. Kilwardby concludes that questions about essence are “that” questions, while questions about inherence are “why” questions. 229 But he also notes that the questions “what is it?” (about definitions) and “why is it?” (about causes) are the focus of the second book of NLPost, and all the remaining questions disappear from sight to some extent.230 It is in this context of considering what can be demonstrated that the difference between perception and cognition comes (again) to the fore: in sense perception, we perceive the eclipse of the Moon, but we do not know what an “eclipse” is apart from this particular event (uisus non cognoscit eclipsim in se, sed in luna).231 To come to have universal knowledge, on the other hand, can only be achieved by means of demonstration, that is by means of bringing about knowledge in the conclusion, of what subject a given predicate inheres in or what predicate inheres in a given subject. What we are able to achieve by sense perception is the knowledge of the effect (for instance, the visual perception of the defect of the Moon), but we are not able to understand what the cause of that defect is and especially that such a cause applies to all such cases universally. For that, we need the

144  Robert Kilwardby power of abstraction and the power of generalization. Only that universal knowledge is proper scientific knowledge.232 This reorganization is put to use in Kilwardby’s inquiry about the middle term:  as the conclusion of a demonstration depends on the role played by the middle term, the way to understand what has just been said about these four questions and what we know at the end of a demonstration is to know how we discover and know the middle term of a syllogism.233 Consider the example of the defect in the Moon. If we ask what it is, the answer is “the privation of light due to the interposition of the Earth”; if we ask what the cause of (or the reason for) the defect is, the answer is “the privation of light of the Moon due to the interposition of the Earth.”234 This corresponds to the different types of demonstration,235 namely, the highest kind (potissime) of demonstration, which Kilwardby calls propter quid, or a demonstration of the reason why, and the less powerful (minus potentis) particular demonstration, which he calls quia, or a demonstration of the fact.236 The difference between the two kinds of demonstration, quia and propter quid, exists even when considering the same object (e.g., a human being). One can know what a human being is in her essence and immutable attributes and not take into consideration her accidental features; on the other hand one can know a human being from the point of view of her accidental properties.237 In an essential way, to know is to know the cause of something, the “why it is so.”238 Take the example of the lunar eclipse, where the eclipse (eclipsis) = A, the interposition of the Earth between the Sun and the Moon = B, and the Moon (luna) = C.239 B is the middle term. To ask whether A is predicated of C (i.e., whether there is an eclipse of the Moon) is to ask whether B, the (causal) definition of A, is.240 The eclipse (defectus lune) is the privation of light from the Moon due to the Earth’s interposition between the Sun and the Moon.241 In this case, we demonstrate propter quid because we demonstrate by means of the interposition of the Earth, which is the real cause of the eclipse.242 The middle term is the cause of what is predicated of the subject—​as in the case of the subject “Moon,” or “triangle,” or “Earth”—​and is the cause of the predicate “defect”: the defect of the Moon is the Moon’s privation of light due to the interposition of the Earth.243 So the “what is” and the “reason why” are one and the same, because the middle term of something and that thing of which it is the middle term are one and the same.244 To ask whether there is a thing is the same as to ask what the cause is, and the definition, of that thing.245 The middle term of a demonstrative syllogism is a causal definition.246 We

Knowing  145 could, of course, demonstrate by using as the middle term the privation of light, but in this case we demonstrate by means of the effect and thus demonstrate quia. Kilwardby further proposes that in the highest kind of demonstrative demonstrations, the middle term defines the predicate of the conclusion of that syllogism: diffinitio passionis debet esse medium.247 His argument for his view is that the middle term shows the cause of the predicate belonging per se et propter quid to the subject of the conclusion.248 This view is in clear contrast to what became the dominant view, according to which the middle term was the definition of the subject of the conclusion.249 Kilwardby argues against this view in the following way. The definition of the subject includes all the essential attributes of the subject. As the middle term in a demonstration is a causal definition, if the definition of the subject were the middle term, all attributes would have one and the same cause. Instead, he argues, the definition that plays the role of the middle term in a demonstration must be appropriate for a specific predicate, because in order to demonstrate this particular predicate of the subject, the middle term must show the specific cause of that predicate. Only the definition of the predicate can do so, and therefore, the middle term of in a demonstration must be the definition of the predicate.250 It is clear from what has been said that the middle term holds an explanatory value and that there is a clear relationship between definitions and demonstrations. But there are two ways of understanding this: first, that the middle term is the definition connecting the two terms, and second, that what something is, expressed in its definition, is revealed through demonstration.251 There is a significant difference between showing that A is a definition of B and showing A of B. The latter is done by means of the middle term, which explains the relationship between the two extremes in the conclusion, the subject and predicate. That is the focus of book 2 of the Posterior Analytics, which asks:  if demonstrations rely on definitions, are demonstrations the same as definitions?252

Definitions Kilwardby answers this question by denying that they are one and the same. He starts by defining a definition: “a definition is a statement that signifies the quiddity of a thing. A quiddity, on the other hand, is a form, the parts of which are expressed by the parts of the definition.”253 The

146  Robert Kilwardby traditional way of generating a definition is by means of the process of division.254 The first genus is divided into its immediate species, so that each of these now becomes a further divisible genus, and the process continues until we arrive at the last difference that completes the thing, so that there can be no further species.255 The definition expresses this last and completive species,256 what is called the species specialissima: the essence of this individual human being is his humanity, and that is his specific difference.257 Only the proximate genus and the specific difference are included in the definition, because the proximate genus already includes all the genera above it, and it implicitly signifies them.258 For instance, in the case of the definition of “human being,” we do not need to say “rational mortal living body”; “rational animal” is enough. Returning to the issue of the comparison between a definition and a demonstration, one main difference is that there are only definitions of universals, while there are demonstrations of particulars. Moreover, whereas a definition expresses the essential properties of something,259 a demonstration brings about knowledge in the form of predication of this of this (subject) (hoc de hoc).260 There is thus a basic difference between demonstrations and definitions:  the aim of the demonstration is to show that something is or the reason why x is predicated of y (quia res est), whereas a definition serves the purpose of showing what something is (quid est res).261 But as a demonstration shows (ostendit) something of something by means of a middle term,262 the questions are whether a definition can play the role of being the middle term and whether a definition can be demonstrated. In order to answer those questions, one needs first to consider what a definition defines. There are two kinds of definitions that play a role in demonstrations: on the one hand are (1) those definitions that are the first principles of demonstration and that as such cannot be demonstrated. This is the nominal definition of the subject.263 On the other hand are (2) those definitions that can be demonstrated, and these are of the predicate of the conclusion. Here Kilwardby introduces a distinction between definitions according to species and definitions according to matter. A definition according to species is an essential definition, which indicates what the thing is and why it is: an eclipse is the privation of light due to the interposition of Earth. The definition according to matter indicates what the thing is:264 an eclipse is the privation of light (in the Moon). Matter here is taken in the sense of specifying the “formal” definition.265 Another classical example is that of thunder: for

Knowing  147 Kilwardby, the definition of thunder as “noise in the clouds” is a definition according to matter, whereas the definition of thunder as “the extinction of fire in the clouds” is a definition according to species.266 In the highest sort of demonstration, the middle term is a causal definition.267 Cause here is to be taken in an epistemic sense, that is, as that which makes us know that this is the cause of that effect.268 The essential point is that something must be demonstrated by means of its cause, and by what is prior in nature, rather than by its effects—​and thus what is posterior in nature. This is achieved via the middle term, which connects the two extremes and thus brings the syllogism to completion in its function of discovery.269 Kilwardby applies the twofold account of a definition—​according to species and according to matter—​and argues that the species definition of the predicate demonstrates the matter definition of the predicate.270 The matter definition is demonstrated by the species definition in both cases of the predicate: of the “what it is” (this is found in the conclusion of the demonstration) and of the “why it is” (this is the middle term of the demonstration). One can demonstrate that “the moon is eclipsed” (eclipsed = privation of light) by using as the middle term “privation of light due to the interposition of Earth,” which is the species definition of the predicate of the conclusion. From this we can build the following demonstration:  verything that is deprived of light due to the interposition of E Earth is eclipsed, and the moon is deprived of light due to the interposition of Earth; therefore, the Moon is eclipsed.271 The species definition is found in the premise, whereas the matter definition is found in the conclusion of the demonstration. Kilwardby takes this to mean that what is according to the species is the cause of that which is according to matter.272 As noted earlier, the definition of the subject cannot be demonstrated and as such is a first principle of demonstration, whereas the definition of the predicate is the middle term of the demonstration.273 The question that immediately follows is whether the definition of the predicate can both be the middle term and demonstrate the predicate of the subject in the conclusion, because in that case it seems that we are begging the question (i.e., it seems to entail that we are proving what has already been assumed). Kilwardby objects to this claim of circularity by saying that the demonstration of the

148  Robert Kilwardby attribute to the subject is done either by means of a composite of subject and attribute, in case the attribute is an incomplete accident, or by means of the definition of the attribute itself, in case the attribute is an accident that has complete being in its kind because it is shown as being contracted to that subject.274 It is now clear that scientific demonstrations of the highest sort require a causal middle term, which is the definition of the predicate. In order to discover such a term, it is often necessary to search for an essential predicate that is common at different levels of generality and, in some cases, common to other species. Kilwardby supplies the example of a “horned animal,” of which two attributes can be predicated: to have two stomachs and to lack teeth in the upper jaw. Lacking upper teeth makes mastication more difficult, therefore necessitating an additional stomach whose function is to masticate the food (literally, to ruminate). Following this reasoning, to have horns is the cause of not having upper teeth and to lack upper teeth is the cause of having more than one stomach.275 The problem with this is that there are animals who lack both horns and upper teeth, like deer and camels. Kilwardby answers this by noting that this would be a real objection if what was being asserted was the convertibility of the cause with the effect, which is not the case. Thus, he concludes, “it is clear that to have horns is the cause of [animals] not having upper teeth and not to have upper teeth is the cause of [animals] having many stomachs, so the existence of horns is the cause of those attributes.”276 The proper subject (and thus cause) of having teeth and having horns is the taking on of “terrestrial matter” (materia terrestris); when this is used to make teeth, it does not make horns.277 In other cases, there is an ordered series of causes, as can be seen in an example concerning the floods of the Nile. The fact is that the Nile floods more often at the end of the lunar month (i.e., the new moon) than during other periods, as it is also the period of greater humidity. The explanatory middle term in both cases seems to be the lack of the Moon, but one is subordinated to the other: “the power of the Moon, as the astronomers claim, is the power of humidifying, and this power of humidifying humidifies the air and increases the humidity in the waters.”278 Therefore, the absence of the Moon explains the higher humidity, which in turn explains the flooding. But this is not enough as an absolute explanation, because flooding takes place primarily during certain months due to the tide: the

Knowing  149 higher level of the sea moves the sands in such a way that these constitute an obstacle to the Nile, which leads to the flooding of the river with an increased volume of water. Despite there being contributing causes to flooding, one is the proximate cause, which is the increased humidity, and the other is a remote cause, which is the absence of the Moon. The conclusion from this is that a demonstration can have more than one cause, one subordinated to the other, which shows why the predicate belongs per se to that subject. Kilwardby illustrates this coexistence of causes with another example, this one taken from Themistius. It uses four terms:  shedding leaves (major term), condensation of milk, leaf size, and fig tree (minor term). There are two causes in this case: the proximate cause of the fig tree shedding leaves is the size of the leaves, and the remote cause is the condensation of the milk.279

Disciplining the Disciplines Kilwardby extensively analyzes the different kinds of knowledge, as well as the principles of organization of the different scientific fields.280 A previous section concluded with his important distinction between those principles that are common to all special sciences and those that serve as premises in demonstrations belonging to particular fields of inquiry. He remarks that one can argue for the unity of science at different levels: on the one hand the unity of science in general is guaranteed by the existence of certain very general first principles, whereas on the other hand the unity of any special science is guaranteed by its own set of principles as well as the unity of its subject matter.281 In fact, he remarks, the subject matter takes precedence, because the first principles are structured around the genus of a subject matter,282 as they provide the requisites for the parts of the subject and its species to be properly demonstrated of the subject.283 Thus, “the diversity of sciences results from the diversity of their subject matters,”284 because any discipline is divided “according to the division of the things about which it is.”285 Any special science (scientia speciali) is defined by having a unified subject matter.286 It belongs to each science to know the parts and species of this subject and to discover the properties or attributes (passiones) that can be demonstrated of these parts and the species of its subject matter.287 This discovery is done by means of definition, division, and collection:

150  Robert Kilwardby 1. By means of division of genus into species via differentiae, one comes to know the subject of a science.288 2. By means of collection or reasoning, one comes to know the attributes of the parts of the subject. 3. By means of definition, one comes to know (and describe) the subject’s parts.289

To identify the subject matter of a discipline is important to the “scientific constitution” of a disciplinary field but says very little about the way that disciplinary field relates to others. For this, one needs to provide a “principle of classification,” on the basis of which a schematic arrangement of the different disciplines—​constituting the scientific universe—​identifies their relative places. The result is what is called a “classification of sciences,” similar to those proposed by philosophers such as Aristotle, Boethius, and Hugh of St. Victor, to mention just the most influential ones. This statement of purpose is too general, however. What is necessary to establish that structure, first of all, is to propose the criteria according to which the organization of disciplines into main groups is realized. By determining the main category to which a discipline belongs, one provides the genus of the definition, but the complete definition requires a specific difference, which allows for the contraction of the genus to the species. This contraction is done by the difference bringing an additional qualification that is essential to that subject matter. In other words, any classification of sciences needs to (1) provide criteria for the division of science into the main strands, showing how strand x is different from strand y. After this, it must (2) show what disciplinary fields fall under a given strand; this determines the genus for further specification vis-​à-​vis the different disciplines. Kilwardby does this with great detail in his most famous work, the De ortu scientiarum, where he plays with different kinds of criteria. In addition, he also tries to show how the different disciplines within a given disciplinary field relate to each other, for instance, by comparing dialectic and demonstrative sciences, or disciplines that belong to different disciplinary fields, like logic and metaphysics. Take the case of the main divisions. In DOS 1, Kilwardby proposes the major division of human sciences and divine sciences (or sciences of the divine). Human sciences are those that concern human actions and operations, including speech; divine sciences are those that deal with issues related to “divinity.” In DOS 2, he presents a different classification of the

Knowing  151 sciences into those that are (1)  about what is necessary, (2)  about what is useful but not necessary yet nevertheless respecting the Catholic faith, and (3) about what is dangerous and prejudicial. Kilwardby quickly dismisses the need to discuss those disciplines that fall under (3) of this second classification, and to focus instead on those that belong to (1) and (2), arguing that this division is somehow a reformulation of the first division into human science and divine science. Furthermore, this second classification (in DOS 2) allows him to identify the aim of the scientific endeavor, generally considered: “all cognition is ordained to honest living.”290 Whatever kind of knowledge is acquired, it must serve the ultimate purpose of being directed toward virtue;291 otherwise, even if useful, it is considered to be vain. This introduces a notion of usefulness as that which is aimed at humans’ salvation. Knowledge is not considered an end in itself but the means for the ultimate end of human life, which is salvation. Thus, the Aristotelian maxim “All human beings naturally desire to know” must be read as meaning that human beings desire to know as a condition of salvation. But in epistemological terms, this principle is applied to the order of the sciences, so that all human sciences must be considered from the point of view of being subordinate to, or in the service of (famulantur), theology, the study of the divine. First among the human sciences is speculative science, which is the part of philosophy that deals with divine matters, namely, the divine nature and all things created by God.292 Kilwardby tries to address the exegetical concern of whether the speculative branch of science is of the divine or not, because certain passages in Aristotle seem to suggest that he takes speculative science to be about things other than the divine. Kilwardby’s reply is that speculative science concerns everything that originates in God and as such is not the result of or a part of human activity.293 Thus speculative science includes the subdivisions of natural philosophy, mathematics (which includes the sciences of the quadrivium, that is, geometry, astronomy, music, and arithmetic), and metaphysics (so called by the philosophers, whereas the Catholics call it “divine science”).294 Metaphysics deals with being simpliciter:  the metaphysician considers substance and its parts, matter and form, but apart from change and privation.295 Natural philosophy on the other hand is about mobile bodies qua mobile, divided into corruptible and incorruptible mobile bodies. Corruptible bodies are those at the sublunary realm and are further divided into simple bodies, like the elements, and composites of the simple bodies.296 Although

152  Robert Kilwardby each disciplinary subfield considers only those properties that the kind of mobile things it investigates has, from sublunary to celestial, the scientific process of discovery of the natural philosopher aims at comparing each of these with respect to things that are the subjects of other subdisciplines. So living beings and celestial bodies differ in that the former have souls as principles of motion whereas the latter move by the action of a first motor; they are similar in that the explanation of their motion appeals to those same properties of form, matter, and privation. Those properties are not considered in essential terms: for instance, the soul is not considered from the point of view of what a soul as such is, but qua the principle of motion of the body it informs. Kilwardby makes it clear that this is precisely the whole point of having different disciplines investigating the same things or phenomena from different points of view:  some consider bodies qua mobile, others qua bodies, and so on. Together these disciplines cover the whole field of human inquiry, and the comprehensiveness of inquiry is guaranteed by the relations established among the disciplines. In order to accommodate some of these relations, especially between disciplines within a certain kind, some of which are more general and others less general, we need to include in the scheme of a classification of sciences the relation known as subalternation (discussed later). The other main branch of science, which concerns “human things,” includes all the disciplines that are the result of the intentionality of human action:  the active sciences of mechanics and ethics on the one hand and the sciences of language (i.e., grammar, logic, and rhetoric) on the other.297 The mechanical disciplines, which Kilwardby includes, following Hugh of St. Victor’s Didascalicon, have inherent utility in assisting beings in handling their natural physical constraints. Kilwardby also follows Hugh in grouping the seven mechanical arts into three related to what is external to the body (extrinsecus corporis): clothing, weaponry (further divided into architecture and industry), and navigation; and a group of four arts that focus on what is internal to the body (intrinsecus corporis): agriculture, hunting, medicine, and theater.298 This scheme mimics the traditional division of the seven liberal arts into the sciences of the trivium (about language) and of the quadrivium (about things). Among these human sciences that are the result of human action, Kilwardby places ethics, which “examines voluntary operations. What is natural never subjugates that which is voluntary to it because nature is the principle of motion in those things that can act in one way only, while the will [the principle of motion in voluntary things]

Knowing  153 is the principle to act in one way or another. In the same way that will is a nobler principle than nature, all the speculative disciplines are ordained to ethics, not because they are subordinate to it but because they are auxiliary to it.”299 The auxiliary role of the speculative sciences in respect to ethics mimics the principle according to which truth is ordained to the good, just as knowledge is ordained to action. In that sense, the speculative sciences constitute part of the larger scheme of scientific progress, whereby they are auxiliary to the human effort of achieving that ultimate goal of righteous living, which is the proper object of ethics. In the second prong of the sciences dealing with “human things” are included the sciences of speech, which include grammar, rhetoric, and logic. Grammar has as its subject matter conventional significative speech, which it examines from the point of view of its congruity (i.e., well-​formedness). Rhetoric is also about significative speech, albeit from the point of view of speaking well rather than of conforming to structural formal norms, but shares with grammar a dismissive approach to truth. Logic on the other hand is thought to be the most important discipline in this group, being described in several places as a “science among sciences.” The importance of logic derives from its role in discovering the methods of reasoning (thus, being a scientia rationalis) and discoursing (thus, being a scientia sermocinalis), which all the different disciplines use to investigate their particular subject matters, whatever they may be.300 As the science of reasoning, logic has nothing specific to contribute to that disciplinary realm. There is a distinction between the job descriptions of the particular disciplines, which seek knowledge, and the job description of logic, the discipline that seeks the method of knowing. This method is divided into two modes:  discovery (inveniendi) and judging (iudicandi).301 Being the discipline responsible for the generic method of knowing gives logic an important methodological exception: “for logic is about the method of knowing and teaching. Hence, it can regulate itself in method, and it does not stand in need of anything else preceding it that regulates it, because when it makes determinations about knowledge and about the method of knowing, these are not two things to it because what is the method of all the fields of knowledge is a field of knowledge by itself.”302 In all other disciplines, method and subject matter are distinct; in fact, all other disciplines apply the method discovered by logic in order to reach the truth about their own subject-​genus. In the case of logic, as the passage shows, its subject matter is the method of knowing. So the more logic develops the

154  Robert Kilwardby methods of knowing, the more it advances the expertise on its own subject matter. In contrast, in all other fields, the method is what allows progress in the given subject matter, but without that progress feeding back into the method itself. Kilwardby notes that two disciplines stand at opposite ends of the scientific spectrum. Logic stands on one side, as the discipline that deals with ens rationis, that is, the being of reason,303 the most important expression of which is the syllogism. At the other extreme stands metaphysics, which deals with natural being (i.e., with what there is in the extramental world). I must now focus on how each discipline relates to all the others within that spectrum.

Subalternation One of the most important features in this conception of science is the way disciplinary fields are related to one another within the same genus of subject matter. This relation takes the form of what is called subalternation.304 In DOS 324, Kilwardby advocates three criteria for subalternation. The first is that the subject matter of the subalternated science falls under the subject-​genus of the subject matter of the subalternating science. The second is that the properties per se of the subject of a subalternated science can only be proven by means of the properties of the subject-​genus of the subalternating science,305 that is, by adding something of another genus that is in some aspect essential to the subalternated science.306 The role of that additional condition is to specify and contract a demonstration to the thing that is demonstrated.307 One example of subalternation is the relation between the science of geometry and its subordinate sciences. Geometry is the part of speculative philosophy that is devoted to the study of limited magnitude, that is to say, finite limited quantity abstracted from natural matter, its parts, and their properties.308 Insofar as both astronomy and optics also have as their subject matter magnitude in applied versions, these two sciences are subordinate to geometry. Astronomy is a speculative science that has as its object the magnitude of celestial bodies and the distance between them,309 whereas optics is defined as the speculative science that has as its object the diverse modes of vision, focusing on the nature of visual rays. If one is left wondering why optics belongs to the genus of magnitude that is the subject matter of geometry, the answer is simple: visual rays propagate rectilinearly.310 Consider the further example of two rays reflected on the

Knowing  155 surface of a mirror, which we can judge as having the same angle. Doing so is to apply principles of the (subalternating) science of geometry to the (subalternated) science of optics (perspectiva). If we are to compare the kind of demonstration produced in these two (subalternate and subalternating) sciences, we should say that in the subalternated science we have a quia demonstration, whereas in the subalternating science we have a propter quid demonstration.311 Finally, the last criterion for subalternation is that demonstrations of subalternated sciences must be made within the same subject genus of the subalternating science; that is to say, a property of something belonging to one genus cannot be demonstrated from a thing belonging to another genus  —​for example, a geometrical proposition demonstrated by means of arithmetic.312 Moreover, each subalternating science has a set of first principles that are used as starting points for all the subalternated sciences.313 For example, the properties of numbers of harmony can only be known through the knowledge of the properties of numbers simpliciter.314 Knowledge at the level of the higher science is applied to the lower sciences. As the properties of things of one genus cannot be demonstrated by things of another genus,315 each science must demonstrate the properties of its subject matter on the basis of the principles proper to its genus.316 In sciences that hold a relation of subalternation, the subalternated (subalternata) science can make such a proof by using the middle term from the subalternating (subalternans) science.317 So geometry descends (descendit) into a lower science, like optics, and provides it with the content that allows for a demonstration of a given property of its subject matter, as when using the notion of a line to explain radiation (from the object to the eye). But even in this case, as the example shows, by means of the addition of a condition or qualification of a different kind, the subject is specified or contracted to the thing about which the demonstration is made. The example is further specified: one knows through geometry that if there are two triangles in which one of the angles in one is equal to one of the angles in the other and that the sides of the equal angles are proportional, the remaining angles must also be equal; in the science of perspective or optics, this principle is applied to demonstrate that two angles of which one is constituted by a ray incident to a mirror and the other of the ray reflecting in the mirror from the first are equal.318 So the abstract triangle of the geometrical science is contracted in the science of optics to demonstrate

156  Robert Kilwardby how rays behave in nature when reflected by a shining surface. The subject is the same but in a qualified and contracted way, entailing a difference in what concerns the nature of their corresponding demonstrations, as noted earlier; whereas the subalternating science demonstrates propter quid, the subalternated one demonstrates quia.319 In other words, the demonstration of a subalternating science tells us why it is the case, whereas the demonstration of a subalternated science tells us that it is the case. The reason for the difference is that the subalternating science deals with the subject at a higher level of abstraction (i.e., universality) than the subalternated one. The science of optics, for instance, considers the properties of the eyes, the nature of radiation, the nature of the straight lines of visual rays, and the curvature of the eye lens. Geometry on the other hand has nothing to say about the nature of visual rays qua visual phenomena because it does not study lines thus contracted. Geometry is concerned with the properties of the rays, as well as the reason why they have the properties they have, only insofar as they belong to the properties of a line in an absolute sense rather than to a particular type of line or even an individual line.320 It is very clear that demonstrations belonging to a given science must start from its proper principles contracted from the higher subalternating science, because the aim is to prove something of its specific subject matter. The common principles, which are indemonstrable, are at too high a level of abstraction to play this role.321 Importantly, this also allows us to conclude that all that is known concerning the subject of a particular science from common principles is known accidentally, while from proper principles we can know what inheres per se in the subject matter. Kilwardby attributes this to the fact that the middle terms by means of which a proper attribute is shown to be of the subject stand, in such a demonstration, in equal distance from the two extremes within the same genus.322 He elaborates on this when he remarks at the end of NLPost I.23 that a higher science such as geometry only concerns intelligible objects as such (e.g., lines in abstraction) rather than qualified things (e.g., visual rays). That is a mistake others make when they take universals to be completely separate from particular things, as if we could conceive of such independent entities. Kilwardby claims that this was the view of Plato, for whom universals did not exist in the many (individual things) but existed apart from the many.323 For Kilwardby, it is very clear that universals are not ideas and that for there to be one universal above and beyond the many individuals that instantiate it, the universal must be one in many and about the many. Likewise, for a demonstration to

Knowing  157 be necessary, its middle term must be a universal, and this universal must be, as just said, found in the many and said of the many.324 All forms of general knowledge must thus be contracted to a particular subject matter (i.e., the subject matter of a particular science) in order for demonstrations to bring about new knowledge, not unlike the way the rules of the syllogism simpliciter need to be contracted to the different kinds of syllogism: demonstrative, sophistical, and so on. In a sense, Kilwardby seems to be hinting here at an essential feature of Aristotelian methodology of science and the principles of knowledge: general and common principles of science provide an operational background knowledge that enables us to proceed in ways that are sound and rationally abiding but do not provide us with knowledge: knowledge and understanding result from contracting abstract information to information that is true of a particular kind and subject matter. At the same time, it seems clear that the subalternating science brings more certitude than the subalternated one because its subject matter concerns things that are more abstract than those that concern the corresponding subalternated discipline. This is so because the subject of the latter is a contraction—​and thus a restriction in an ontological sense—​of the subject of the former: for instance, harmony contracts numbers as the subject of arithmetic with sound.325 This means that the subalternating science not only covers more things—​the more something is universal, the more things instantiate it—​but also that it is less subject to errors because it is further removed from composition. The assumption here is that generality entails more certitude, the way a number is simpler than the countable objects—​say, “tables” or “things in this room”—​the number refers to. The claim is that we can be more certain about the number than we can about “being countable.”326 Another way of understanding this is to think in the following terms: if one wants to know whether a certain predicate is attributed to a subject, and what the reason is for this attribution, it is necessary to know more about that subject. No accident can be known without its substance.327 Having these concerns in view, it is easy to grasp the conclusion that the most certain science is that of mathematics, because it deals with the kind of things that are always the same, whereas on the other side of the spectrum of certitude we find natural philosophy, which deals with things that are naturally corruptible and changeable. No demonstratio potissima can be achieved in that area of scientific inquiry.328

158  Robert Kilwardby

Notes 1.  Kilwardby, DSF 152. 2.  Kilwardby, DSF 1.  On this treatise, see Chenu (1926; 1957); Veenstra (2004); and Lewry (1983). 3.  Kilwardby, DSF 2. 4.  Kilwardby, DSF 3. 5.  Kilwardby, DSF 168–​172. In what follows, I do not pay close attention to this corporeal spirit (which he calls “vitalized corporeal spirit’’) and its relationship with the soul proper (which he calls “vitalizing soul”) in the process of perception. This is for two reasons. First, Kilwardby himself introduces this “instrument” very late in the treatise (from 166 onward), when he starts addressing physiological or medical kinds of explanation (which in DSF 198 he seems to associate with Aristotle). Second, whatever the details are concerning the way this spirit is part of the process, what matters is that the physiological level of explanation is parasitical in respect to the psychological level of explanation. By calling the whole combination of sense organs, nerves, and corporeal spirit the organ of sense, Kilwardby shows that whatever goes on at that level conforms to, rather than determines, the higher psychological level of explanation. This is made clear in DSF 184, where he explains that the species received in the organ of sense is not transmitted “locally” from the external sense to the common sense, so that one part follows another, but “the whole image is everywhere and the whole as a whole is at each point of the organ”; by this he means from the external sense organ to the ventricle in the brain where the common sense is located. This is not a materially based explanation but a psychological (and spiritual) one. In fact, he quickly notes that this “immediateness” is “due to the spiritual nature of the image” (DSF 184). This is also made possible because the (vitalizing) soul is a “simultaneous whole” everywhere in the corporeal spirit and the body (DSF 185). It is thus clear that the explanatory role goes to the soul as such, and the corporeal vitalized spirit is the instrument of its action, at least as concerns motion. On this, see Silva 2008. 6.  See also Kilwardby, QLIS 89 and QLIII1S 44. 7.  Kilwardby, DSF 4. 8.  Kilwardby, DSF 4. On this issue, see Spruit (1994) and Tachau (1988). 9.  Kilwardby, DSF 5. 10.  Kilwardby, DSF 25. 11.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.33, 744. 12.  Kilwardby, DSF 7. 13.  Kilwardby, DSF 9. 14.  Kilwardby, DSF 10. 15.  Kilwardby, DSF 11.

Knowing  159 16.  Kilwardby, DSF 22, 59. 17.  On this, see Silva (2014b). 18.  Kilwardby, DSF 11. 19.  Kilwardby, DSF 14–​15. 20.  Kilwardby, DSF 23. 21.  Kilwardby, DSF 24. 22.  Kilwardby, DSF 26. 23.  Kilwardby, DSF 27. 24.  Kilwardby, DSF 35. 25.  Kilwardby, DSF 42. 26.  Kilwardby, DSF 47. 27.  Kilwardby, DSF 50. 28.  Kilwardby, DSF 54. 29.  Kilwardby, DSF 54. 30.  Kilwardby, DSF 55. 31.  Kilwardby, DSF 56. 32.  Kilwardby, DSF 69. On this, see Knuuttila (2008). 33.  Kilwardby, DSF 97, 92. It is secondary whether or not this corresponds to the position of any given Aristotelian; what matters for interpretative purposes is that Kilwardby reports this view as being Aristotelian. 34.  Kilwardby, DSF 56, 68. 35.  Kilwardby, DSF 54. 36.  Kilwardby, DSF 54. 37.  Kilwardby, DSF 56. 38.  Kilwardby, DSF 60. 39.  Kilwardby, DSF 62. 40.  “Spiritus in se format et de se imaginem rei forinsecae ad imitationem imagines receptae in sensum”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 189–​190. 41.  Kilwardby, DSF 63; see also DSF 68. 42.  Kilwardby, DSF 134. 43.  Kilwardby, DSF 166. 44.  Kilwardby, DSF 76. 45.  Kilwardby, DSF 79. 46.  Kilwardby, DSF 86. 47.  Kilwardby, DSF 94. 48.  Kilwardby, DSF 99. 49.  Kilwardby, DSF 100. 50.  Kilwardby, DSF 103. 51.  Kilwardby, DSF 112. 52.  Kilwardby, DSF 101. 53.  Kilwardby, DSF 101.

160  Robert Kilwardby 54.  Kilwardby, DSF 102. 55.  Kilwardby, DSF 102. 56.  Kilwardby, DSF 103. 57. “Duo enim sunt in sentiendo, scilicet attencior operacio spiritus in corpore passo et huius actionis percepcio”; Kilwardby, DSF 103, 77. 58.  Kilwardby, DSF 150. 59. “Assimilacio autem talis non est aliud quam formacio ymaginis rei sensibilis qua inuenit affectum suum organum in seipso, quia ipsa affectio organi ab obiecto sensibili est passio de qua loquimur. Et hec non est nisi impressio similitudinis obiecti in ipso organo facta”; Kilwardby, DSF 103. 60.  Kilwardby, DSF 91. 61.  Kilwardby, DSF 125. 62.  Kilwardby, DSF 112. 63.  Kilwardby, DSF 126–​128. 64.  Kilwardby, DSF 104. 65.  Kilwardby, DSF 104. 66.  Kilwardby, DSF 103. 67.  Kilwardby, DSF 118. 68.  Kilwardby, DSF 110–​111. 69.  Kilwardby, DSF 113. 70.  Kilwardby, DSF 112. 71.  Kilwardby, DSF 114. 72.  “Complectente et conuoluente secum speciem in organo inuentam”; Kilwardby, DSF 113. 73.  “Erit autem qualecumque simile ad istud intelligendum, si posueris sigillum coram cera ita quod tangat eam, et posueris ceram habere uitam qua se conuertat ad sigillium, et inpingendo in illud assimilet se illi, et in se aciem reflectendo uideat in se ymaginem sigilli: sic enim spiritus sensitiuus se conuertendo attentius ad suum organum specie sensibili informatum facit se ei similem, et in se propriam aciem reflectendo uidet se talem”; Kilwardby, DSF 103, trans. Broadie. 74.  Kilwardby, DSF 136. 75.  Kilwardby, DSF 138. 76.  Kilwardby, DSF 118. 77.  Kilwardby, DSF 118. 78.  Silva 2019. 79.  Kilwardby, DSF 121. 80.  Kilwardby, DSF 123. 81.  “Quamuis enim spiritus sensitiuus formet in se ymaginem rei sensibilis, non tamen potest hoc facere nisi data oportunitate per debita adminicula,

Knowing  161 cuiusmodi sunt quod sensibile sit presens immutansque medium et organum sensitiuum”; Kilwardby, DSF 124. 82.  Kilwardby, DSG 123. 83.  “Non facit hoc casualiter set naturaliter, et prout a superioribus causis cognicionem et artem regitiuam habentibus directus, instinctu naturali ducitur”; Kilwardby, DSF 128. 84.  Kilwardby, DOS 503. 85.  See de Vaux (1933). 86.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 78. 87.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 78, 215. 88. “Sic duorum hominum est convenientia essentialis in humanitate non individuali sed in humanitate simpliciter considerata praeter esse signatum et individuale”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 71. 89.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 78, 219. 90.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 78, 222. 91.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 78, 217. 92.  “Cognoscimus universal per negationem particularis, per remotion­em enim et separationem dispositionum materialium existentium ex parte ipsius particulares intelligimus essentiam universalis”; Kilwardby, NSLP 8, M 20va. 93.  “Et dico universale quod opera rationis et intellectus a multis simulacris similibus abstrahitur”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 78, 221. 94. “Intellectus est qui agit in eis universatlitatem”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 72. 95.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 72. 96.  Kilwardby, NSLP 18, M 41ra. 97.  “Personalis autem proprietas non est essentialis naturae, ut dictum est, sed individuo”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 19. 98.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 72. 99.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 72. 100.  The best introduction to the issue of universals in the historical context in which Kilwardby writes is Piché (2002; 2005). 101.  “Quaestiones difficiles circa ipsa universalia, quas recusat determinare”; Kilwardby, NSLPor 2, P 34ra. 102. “Prima igitur quaestio quam recusat determinare est ista, utrum universalia sint aliquid in re, an solum in intellectu ita quod non in re, sicut posuit Plato. Secunda quaestio est utrum sint corporalia vel incorporalia. Tertia quidem est utrum sint separata a sensibilibus, an sint posita in sensibilibus”; Kilwardby, NSLPor 2, M 2rb. 103.  See Piché (2002; 2005).

162  Robert Kilwardby 104. Kilwardby, NSLPor 2, P 34rb. Ideas in the divine mind are not universals in the proper sense here being considered, but rather these are causal reasons or exemplars of things in the world. 105.  “Quamuis in ueritate sint ydee secundum rationes in mente diuina ab eterno, ad demonstrations non accipimus illas. Non enim predicantur uel insunt rebus”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.36, 230–​231. 106.  “Et exemplariter potest uideri qualiter ipsa species numeratur in ipsis individuis: sicut enim uidetur obiectum in speculo integro unam facere formam vel similitudinem, si autem frangatur speculum multiplicatur illa forma in alias formas per multiplicationem fractionis, sic et de ipsa specie uidebitur quod cum sit una forma et essentia completa in se, numeratur tamen in materialibus sive in partibus”; Kilwardby, NSLPor 5, P 37ra. 107.  DOS 303, quoted and translated by McAleer (1999), 42, with changes. 108.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.33, 506. 109.  “Et illud est unum non unitate individuali sed unitate specie vel generis”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 71. See also QLIIS 78, 218: “quod non sit unum numero intelligibile in diversis intellectibus quamvis sit unius rei representativum.” 110.  “Separat tamen anima rationem individuationis quae posterior est, et considerate an in ratione formae quae prior est, et sic facit universalitatem”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 66. 111.  “Sed considerate utrumque: non ut in hoc, universalia sunt; sed ut in hoc, individuata sunt”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 67. 112.  “Plures formae sunt in una materia in constitutione unius individui”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 65. 113.  “Forma enim ut signata actu contrahit se ipsam ut est indeterminata et in potentia”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 67. 114.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 70. 115.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 65. 116.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 68. 117.  “Ex quod enim alicubi est individuatio sine ‘hic’ et ‘nunc’ locali et temporali, bene potest intelligi individuatio et proprietas individualis sine illis”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 17, 68. 118.  The work is edited in Notule Libri Posteriorum, ed. D.  Cannone, in “Le Notule Libri Posteriorum di Robert Kilwardby nella tradizione esegetica latina medievale del XIII secolo” (Ph.D. diss., University of Cassino-​University ‘La Sapienza’, Rome, 2003–​4). Unfortunately, I only had access to vol. 2 of her dissertation, where the edition of the Notule is found. 119.  On this, see Harari (2004). 120.  Webering (1953), 173. 121.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.45, 320. 122.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 293–​294.

Knowing  163 123. “Sillogistica facit doctrinam ex simpliciter notioribus et ex uniuersalibus; inductiua uero ex singularibus que sunt nobis notiora et non simpliciter notiora”; Kilwardby, NSLPost I.1, 12. 124.  “Omnis intellectiua cognitio fit ex preexistenti cognitione”; Kilwardby, NSLPost I.2, 15. 125.  “Diffinitio talis est:  scire simpliciter, et non sophistico modo, quod est secundum accidens, totum illud diffinitum est cognoscere causam propter quam res est, et quoniam illius est causa, et quod impossibile est aliter se habere”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 29–​30. 126.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5. Silva (2012; 2016; 2017); Corbini (2013), 166. 127.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 33. 128.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 33. 129.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.10, 48. 130.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 33. 131.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 31. 132.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.45, 322. 133.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.44, 310. 134.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.20, 116–​117. 135.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 293–​294. 136.  Kilwardby, NLPost, prologue, 4–​5. 137.  In what follows, I do not pay much attention to the Prior Analytics, as there is a recent and seminal book-​length examination of this work in Thom (2007). The same is true for Kilwardby’s theory of modal syllogisms, which is analyzed in detail in Lagerlund (2000). 138.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.4, 77. 139.  Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 40. 140.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.4, 82. 141.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.35, 776. 142.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.10, 193. 143.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.10, 178–​180. 144.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.4, 84. 145.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.10, 195. 146.  See Thom (2013a), 134–​138. 147.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.5, 86. 148. “Bonitas sillogismi consistit in hoc quod potest facere fidem uel scientiam uel aliquid tale”; Kilwardby, NLPri, prologue, 28–​30. 149.  “Opus sillogismi  .  .  .  est facere cognitionem”; Kilwardby, NLPost, prologue, 8. 150.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.1, 44. 151.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.5, 88. 152.  Kilwardby, NLPost, prologue, 6.

164  Robert Kilwardby 153.  “Omnis cognitio intellectiua fit ex preexistenti cognitione”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.1, 11. However, he encapsulates this as:  “non omnis intellectiua cognitio fit ex preexistente cognitione, sed humana solum”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.1, 13. The assumption is that angelic cognition is not dependent on sense perception. 154.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.1, 12. 155.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.1, 13. 156.  “Propter copulationem cum corpore”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.33, 206. 157.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.33, 206. 158.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.37, 811, with changes. On the medieval notion of experience, see King (2004). 159.  “Ex uniuersalibus non est scire sine inductione nec ex inductione siue sensu; ex quo relinquit quod deficiente sensu, deficit utraque cognitio, scilicet tam sensitiua quam demonstratiua”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.33, 205. 160. “Uideremus ipsam eclipsari, non enim sentiremos nisi eclipsim singularem, sed non scitur aliquid nisi per causam universalem”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 296. 161.  “[Sensus] non est propria causa faciens nos scire, sed ocasione ipsius sensus coaccidit in nobis cognitio uniuersalis et scientia. Quorundam enim singularium sensus statuit, consequitur apprehensio et cognitio uniuersalis quod est principium et cause scientie”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 297. 162.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 341. 163.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 129. 164.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 296. 165. “Ex iam probatis patet quod demonstratio non fundatur supra fortuitum, sed necessarium, non supra sensibilem, sed supra intellegibile”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 297. 166.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 295. 167.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.38, 271–​272. 168.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.38, 259. 169.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.30, 486. 170.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.38, 270. 171.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.33, 742. 172. “Ex sensu fit memoria, sicut nunc dictum est, et ex memoria multiplicata experimentum, quia unum experimentum numero est ex multis memoriis  .  .  .  experimento multiplicato, fit uniuersale, dico, ipso uniuersali in anima quiescente et ente uno preter multa, id est particularia, non tamen separatum a particularibus; sed cum sit in illis omnibus idem est principium artis et scientie”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.33, 504. 173.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.33, 503. 174.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.33, 509.

Knowing  165 175.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.37, 807, trans. Thom. Capitalized words (in the original) indicate the words of Aristotle’s text on which Kilwardby comments. 176.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.37, 806. 177.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.33, 743, trans. Thom. 178.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.33, 742. 179.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.4, 21. 180.  “Dignitates per quas demonstrantur passiones de subiectis contingit a diuersis scientiis determinari, sed subiecta et eorum passiones in diuersis scientiis diuersa sunt”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 120. 181.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.36, 792. 182.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.36, 792. 183.  Kilwardby, NLPri I.36, 803–​804. 184.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.9, 45. 185.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.43, 306. 186. “Propter se ipsum manifestum est omni intellectui,” by which he means that “in the same way as the visible does not require anything but to affect the eye to be seen, also the axiom requires nothing else to be known than to fall under the gaze of the mind” (“sicut enim lucidum visibile ad hoc quod uideatur non indiget nisi uisu exteriori cadente super ipsum, sic dignitas ad hoc quod sciatur, non indiget nisi ratione que est aspectus mentis cadente super ipsum,” NLPost I.23, 144). 187.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.24, 149; see also I.8, 43. 188.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.23, 141. 189.  Kilwardby, NLPri 67, 1392. 190.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.11. 191.  “In dignitate predicetur aliqua proprietas de subiecto  .  .  .  proprietas inherens subiecto dignitatis non est passio probata in scientia”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.2, 16. 192.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.19, 111. 193.  “Dignitas neque est suppositio neque petitio; sic dignitas non indiget exteriori ratione ostendente ipsam esse, nec alico modo explanante, sed solum ratione que est in anima, sicut uisus in oculo; sed tam petitio quam suppositio indiget exteriori ratione”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.23, 143. 194.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.9, 45. 195.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.9, 46. 196. “Necesse est demonstratiuam scientiam esse ex ueris, primis, et inmediatis, prioribus et notioribus et causis conclusionis”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 34. 197.  On this reduction as an originality in Kilwardby, see Corbini (2006), 61. See also Silva (2012).

166  Robert Kilwardby 198.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 34. 199.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.10, 50. 200.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 38. 201.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.8, 44. 202.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 36. 203.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 36. 204.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.7, 39. 205.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.7, 39–​40. 206.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 35–​6. 207.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 294; II.1, 333. 208.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 34. 209.  Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 34. 210.  Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 26. 211.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.12, 61. For a detailed examination of these four aspects and the relationship between the views of Kilwardby and those of his contemporaries on them, see Corbini (2006). 212.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.12, 65. See Corbini (2013), 168–​178. 213.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.14, 79. 214.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.19, 109. 215.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.13, 71. 216.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.14. 217.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.14, 76. 218.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.14, 77. 219.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.18. 220.  On this distinction, see Corbini (2013), 169–​172. 221.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.19, 115. 222.  Kilwardby, NLPri 77, 1584. 223.  Kilwardby, NLPri 77, 1589. 224.  Kilwardby, NLPri 77, 1597. 225.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.1, 328. 226.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.1, 332. 227.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.1, 334. 228.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.1, 331. 229.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.1, 330–​331. 230.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.3, 343. 231.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.1, 332. 232.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 341. 233.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 337. 234.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 339. 235.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.10, 48. 236.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 28.

Knowing  167 237.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.44, 315; see the whole of lemma 44 for the comparison between these intellectual habits, which Kilwardby lists as including reason, intellect, science, art, prudence, and wisdom. Here reason (ratio) stands for reasoning or the power collative of the premises and the conclusion. In this passage, Kilwardby distinguishes between the logical and physical consideration of these habits (intellect, etc.) as dispositions for operation and as powers of the soul by means of which those operations are performed. 238.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.5, 29–​30. 239.  Kilwardby, DOS 428; 497. 240.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.10, 54–​60. 241.  “Priuatio luminis a luna terre obiectu”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 339. 242.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.30, 484. 243.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 339. 244.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 340. 245.  “Ad secundum dicendum quod medium rei prout hic sumitur idem est cum re cuius est medium: est enim diffinitio rei, que idem est cum re; et ita querere an sit res est querere an sit medium rei”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.2, 340. 246. Kilwardby, NLPost II.3, 343. See also Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 18. 247. “Definitio autem quae est medium in demonstratione, secundum Aristotelem, est definitio passionis”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.6, 29; DOS 563; see also NLPost II.31, 490; II.32, 498. 248.  “Medium in demonstratione facit scire per se passionem de subiecto per se et propter quid”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.20, 117. This excludes the possibility of any accident to be demonstrated per se and propter quid of the subject. 249.  On this, see Longeway (2007). 250.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.11, 406. 251.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.8, 93b15–​18. 252. “Tertia est quid sit diffinitio, et per hoc indendit an ipsa sit idem demonstratio uel non”; Kilwardby, NSLPost II.3, 344. 253. “Diffinitio enim est oratio significans quiditatem rei.” Kilwardby, NLPost II.3, 346. 254.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.5, 363. 255.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.27, 469. 256.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.23, 460; II.27, 469. 257.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.5, 364. 258.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.5, 265–​266. 259. “Omne predicatum conuertibile aggregatum ex hiis que insunt in quidditate rei, est diffinitio”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.6, 367. 260.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.3, 347. 261.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.3, 350. See also NLPost II.7, 375.

168  Robert Kilwardby 262.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.3, 347–​354. 263.  “Diffinitio enim subiecti dicitur principium quia est extra supposita ante demonstrationem et non est de contextu demonstrationis ipsius passionis”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.12, 427. 264.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.12, 424. 265.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.11, 401. 266.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.11, 413. 267.  “Nos scimus per causam et causa monstratur siue designatur per medium”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.13, 429. See also II.22, 456; NLPost II.3, 343.12–​ 14; DOS 527; LPA, prologue. 268.  “Hic intendit de eodem in quantum est causa siue propter quid et quia, non intendit de causa nisi in quantum est causa cognitionis effectus”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.13, 428. Kilwardby distinguishes between two senses of cause: as a principle of being (principium essendi rem) and as a principle of knowing (principium cognoscendi rem); NLPost II.13, 430. 269. “Sed nos scimus per medium syllogisticum ordinatum ad demonstrandum; ergo per causas non scimus nisi per medium demonstrationis significantur”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.13, 429. 270.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.12, 426. On the origin of the distinction between formal and material definition, see Longeway (2007), 37–​40. 271.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.12, 426. See Corbini (2006), 216. 272.  Demonstrations that have the definition of the subject as the middle term are possible but are not of the highest kind. Kilwardby illustrates this with the following example: the species definition of anger is “a desire for pain in an opponent” (appetitus contrarii doloris), while the matter definition is the rushing of blood to the heart, that is, the material conditions in which the formal definition is realized in the real natural world. Thus: in whomever there is a desire for pain in an opponent, the blood rushes to the heart, and in one who is angry there is a desire for pain in an opponent; therefore, in one who is angry the blood rushes to the heart (Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 126–​127). 273.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.11, 405. 274.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.11, 407. 275.  “Nota quod animal cornutum non habet dentes superiores quia materia terrestres dura, que debet transire in dentes plus, subtiliatur in huiusmodi animalibus quam competit materie dentium, et ideo ascendit ad partem capitis superiorem et fiunt in cornua. Vnde patet quod, quia animal non habet cornua, ideo habet dentes superiores; et quia non habet dentes superiores, ideo habet plures uentres”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.29, 477. 276. “Sic igitur manifestum est quod habere cornua est causa eius quod est non habere dentes superiores, et non habere dentes superiores est causa eius quod est habere plures uentres, et ita habitus cornuum est causa utriusque passiones”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.29, 477–​478.

Knowing  169 277.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.29, 477–​478. 278.  “Item, uirtus lune, ut uolunt astronomi, est uirtus humectans et uirtute sua humectante aera et augmentat humidum in aquis”; Kilwardby, NLPost II.29, 481. 279.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.32, 496. 280.  On Kilwardby’s classification of sciences, see Weisheipl (1965); Maièru (2013); and Silva (2017). 281.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.41, 288; NLPost I.42, 293. 282.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.42, 293. 283.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.41, 288–​289. This is a logical rather than an ontological genus (NLPost I.43, 300). 284.  Kilwardby, DOS 108. 285.  Kilwardby, DOS 5. See also DOS 40. 286.  Kilwardby, DOS 167; 221. 287.  Lewry (1978), 382; see also Kilwardby, NLPri, prologue; LT 50, 125; DOS 650–​652; NSLPor, prooemium, M 1ra. 288.  Kilwardby, NLPost II.27, 469, examines the method of division by means of which one arrives at the definition of the species specialissina. He notes here that we should start by dividing the genus into immediate differentiae, which comprehend the whole genus, after which follow successive stages of division until the last differentia of the thing, making clear that nothing (no essential attribute) should be left aside—​otherwise, the process is compromised. That is why the last differentia does not differ in anything from the species: “differentiam ultimam nichil differre specie, a toto, scilicet a diffinito, quia ultima completiua est eadem in differentia diffinito” (469). 289. Kilwardby, DOS 524–​ 525; QLIS 7, 18–​ 19; Silva (2016). See also Kilwardby, NSLPor, prooemium, M 1ra; 5, M 5ra; see also LDB 409. 290.  Kilwardby, DOS 3. 291.  Kilwardby, DOS 639. 292.  Kilwardby, DOS 14. 293.  Kilwardby, DOS 16. 294.  Kilwardby, DOS 16. 295.  Kilwardby, DOS 323. 296.  Kilwardby, DOS 42–​45. 297.  Kilwardby, QLIS 90, 286. In DOS 625–​648, Kilwardby considers the different ways to order the sciences: (1) order of discovery, (2) natural order, (3)  according to ends, (4)  degree of certainty, and (5)  teachability. See Silva (2016) on this. 298.  Kilwardby, DOS 363. 299.  Kilwardby, DOS 405. See Celano (2013), 340. 300.  Kilwardby, DOS 492. 301.  Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 10.

170  Robert Kilwardby 302.  Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 13, trans. Thom. 303.  Kilwardby, NLPri I, prologue, 15. 304.  The following paragraphs are adapted from Silva 2014. 305.  Kilwardby, DOS 330. 306.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.28, 175. 307.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.22, 134. 308.  Kilwardby, DOS 64–​65. 309.  Kilwardby, DOS 72. 310.  Kilwardby, DOS 77. 311.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.22, 135. 312.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 120. 313.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.22, 137. 314.  Kilwardby, DOS 330. 315.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 120. 316.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 123. 317.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.21, 121. 318.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.22, 134. 319.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.29, 176. 320.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.29, 177–​178. 321.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.22, 132. 322.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.22, 133. 323.  “Posset aliquid credere ipsum aperte ponere uniuersalia esse separata ab singularibus, sicut posuit Plato, quia per istud uerbum ipse dixit uel demonstrat de linea in intellectu existente, hec autem non est in multis, sed extra multa, et ita uniuersale est unum extra multa et non in multis”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.23, 148. 324.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.23, 148. 325.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.41, 286. 326.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.41, 287. 327.  Kilwardby, NLPost I.41, 288. 328. “Verumptamen illud non contingit in mathematicis, ubi sunt potissime demonstrationes que solum sunt de rebus permutabilibus et sempre uno modo se habentibus, sed in naturalibus hoc contingit ubi forte non est demonstratio potissima, sed extensiue dicta; est enim de rebus transmutabilibus et corruptibilibus”; Kilwardby, NLPost I.41, 291.

• 5

Behaving

Existing scholarship has shown that the reception of the Ethics in the Latin West was characterized by three main stages: in stage 1, books II and III were translated in the twelfth century; soon after, book I was translated. The first surviving Latin commentaries on these three books of the Ethics are from the mid-​thirteenth century, including that of the Anonymous edited by Gauthier (from 1235),1 as well as those by Pseudo-​Peckham and by Kilwardby.2 Kilwardby is thus one of the first to comment on the Ethics in this version known as the “old and new Ethics”: ethica nova corresponds to book one and ethica vetus to books two and three. In stage 2, the remaining books, up to book X, were translated by Michel Scot at the beginning of the thirteenth century. This translation is now lost. During this stage, Hermann of Corinth translated Averroes’s commentary and the summary known as Translatio Alexandrina. Stage 3 is defined by the translation of the whole work by Robert Grosseteste and his team (1246–​1247), to which the Greek commentaries by Eustrasius and Michel of Ephesus are added. Albert the Great’s commentary is from this period (c. 1248–​1252); it was read by Thomas Aquinas, who in turn wrote his own very influential commentary.3 The early nature of Kilwardby’s commentary is shown in the way he interprets the Aristotelian notion of happiness.

Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

172  Robert Kilwardby

Ethics: The Science of Happiness Kilwardby’s commentary is characterized by a somewhat naïve view of the Aristotelian understanding of happiness, defending a distinction between a philosophical and a theological notion of happiness. According to the philosophical conception, happiness is dependent on human virtuous action and is achievable in this life. This taps into what Kilwardby says in a number of places (other than his Ethics commentary) about there being a theoretical and a practical end to human life, in accordance with the different perfections of the human soul.4 The intellect is perfected by its cognitive activity, whereas the soul as a whole is perfected by acting in a way that agrees with the requirements of a good life in civil society (i.e., in accordance with the moral virtues). That is precisely the kind of happiness Aristotle is talking about, as Kilwardby explicitly says: we have therefore a determination about the first question, that is, whether living beings can be happy or not. And we saw that Aristotle already determined that [they] can. And I say this about that happiness of which he talks in this book, which he always and everywhere calls the perfect action according to virtue. Thus, he certainly did not intend here [to talk] about any other happiness than that which is said [to be] living in accordance with the dictates of civil doctrine; nor should civil doctrine be concerned with other [kinds of] happiness. Therefore, whether after death the soul or the whole human being is [able to be] happy does not belong to that [civil doctrine] for sure, and Aristotle did not determine about this.5

This is a very significant passage because it shows that Kilwardby is, first of all, trying to find a reading of Aristotle that respects the original intention of the author, which, as such, is not contaminated by reasons external to the text. Kilwardby goes to great length, venturing into dangerous territory, independently of Christian doctrine, to defend what he takes to be the best reading of the pagan Greek philosopher. In what follows, I  seek to find the motivation for Kilwardby’s view by interpreting it vis-​à-​vis his default modus operandi, which is characterized by an attempt to make distinct philosophical doctrines compatible and harmonious. In order to do this, I need to focus on what is perhaps the central question concerning medieval ethics: what is the human good? The best place to start is the DOS, because, despite the fact that the ET is earlier, the DOS

Behaving  173 is a more general text, written for a nonexpert audience. There Kilwardby argues that for both contemporary Catholics (catholicos) and ancient philosophers (antiquos philosophos), the human good is identified with the state of beatitude. But whereas the former call it “beatitude” (beatitudine), the latter prefer to use the term “happiness” (felicitas). They also disagree on whether human beings can achieve that state in this (mortal) life; for the philosophers, happiness can be achieved in this life because happiness is nothing but acting in perfect accordance with virtue. For Catholics, on the contrary, beatitude is not attainable in this life because only in the other (eternal) life will we be able to come into direct contact with God. Beatitude is thus made to correspond to beatific vision, the direct contemplation of the divine. Kilwardby remarks, however, that this difference between theologians and philosophers is less significant than it appears at first sight and can be made compatible. For philosophers, the fruition of God is not the end or goal of human life—​that is, it is not the highest kind of human good (summo bono humano). Rather, the virtuous living they identify as that end is what serves the purpose of the theological end of divine contemplation. The suggestion is to take these two as together cooperating in the perfection of the human life: “virtuous consuetude and its acts are a major part of the human perfection in this life, which leads to another [perfection] and as such is a disposition to another virtuous and perfect life, and thus it is ordered to this latter one.”6 In other words, the philosophers’ doctrine of virtue is not wrong. Instead, it simply has a limited reach in that it serves, rather than constitutes, the ultimate end.7 Conceived in this philosophical sense, virtue is ordained to the ultimate end because it promotes a set of rules and moral percepts that contribute to increasing the individual’s virtuous life and therefore improves the standing of human moral existence. This means that there is a perfectibility proper to human earthly life that has a role to play in individual moral development, which aims at the beatific vision attainable only with eternal life. Kilwardby elaborates on this in his description of the moral science (moralis), which includes a monastic or individual aspect, an economic or private aspect, and a political or public aspect.8 The underlying motivation for these moral disciplines is the instruction of human beings about the way to behave in the context of social interactions, be that at the family level or in society at large. The focus is on voluntary operations, performed

174  Robert Kilwardby according to the principles of right behavior, and considered not in isolation from but as informed by the human embodied condition.9 The embodied condition is significant because, simultaneously bringing focus to the real circumstances of human life, it seems to embed these moral disciplines in the natural realm, which can be thought of as subordinating them to metaphysics or natural philosophy. A worry is whether that act of subordination brings with it determinism, so that—​as thus conceived—​natural agents cannot freely choose their courses of action. Kilwardby emphasizes the voluntary nature of these actions, however, making it clear that, qua voluntary, they fall outside the scope of the determinism of the natural actions that characterize those other disciplines. A natural action is of the kind that is determined in the relevant manner by its causal antecedents, so that the principle of motion accounts for a certain particular action. Voluntary actions on the other hand can be this or that way, including what is contrary to the natural order of preceding actions.10 In addition, there is also increased dignity in voluntary action, which results from the fact that the end term of cognition is in fact action. Therefore, the ultimate end of the speculative sciences is subordinated to the end of ethics and the pursuit of the good as such. Taking the broader holistic view on the sciences, one can—​or even should—​say that “in a certain way, the ultimate end of philosophy is moral ethics and the end of that is the ultimate end of all ends intended in philosophy and its parts, and thus the whole philosophy. Therefore, the whole philosophy and everything that is understood by philosophy is ordered to beatitude.”11 Beatitude is the end of all human actions, be they related to family members or others in the society, because such an end is perfective of human nature.12 In that sense, it is also the proper end of the other sciences. Thus, Kilwardby suggests that we could say that all other sciences are in the service of (famulantur) ethics.13 Having argued for the superiority of ethics over all other sciences, Kilwardby moves on to the definition of what ethics is in itself. As he has done in a number of other places, he notes that in order for something to be known, one needs to know what the constituting parts of that thing are and what properties follow from those parts. In the case of human beings, there are two constituting parts: an immaterial one, the soul, and a material one, the body. These two constituents are studied by different disciplines: metaphysics in the case of the soul and natural philosophy in the case of the

Behaving  175 body. In the case of material things, their constituting parts can ultimately be reduced to the four elements. Of course, even in the case of the soul, some of its properties can fall within the scope of natural philosophy, like the study of those properties that result from the soul’s connection with the body. The operations the soul performs via the body (for instance, motion or perception) should be counted among these. Other operations, however, are defined by their end or purpose, like those that fall within the scope of moral philosophy. Other properties of the soul that involve voluntary action are related to the production of speech. In order for speech to be produced, two elements must be present: first, a willing or intentional subject capable of producing voluntarily significative sounds; second, bodily instruments by means of which these sounds can be produced. Kilwardby is clear here that meaningful sounds are produced by those who have both intention (i.e., having a purpose in mind) and will (being capable of realizing that intention in a natural way). What is particularly interesting in these passages is the emphasis he puts on the connection between human action and the sciences of speech, which he otherwise closely connects to the sciences of reasoning. The idea seems to be that the perfection of a human being qua human is dependent on both virtue and knowledge, and that for both of these it is essential to possess the capacity of speaking in meaningful terms. Furthermore, it seems implicit in his reasoning that this ability to speak in meaningful terms must not be considered as an end in itself but as serving the purpose of communication, that is, making someone else know what I mean when I say this or that. Communication is essential for human nature, and the implication is that it is so because human beings are social animals—​although Kilwardby does not make that explicit here. Returning to the other main fork in this division of fields of inquiry, Kilwardby takes “the good” to be the subject matter of moral science. The human good can be further divided into the highest good, which is happiness, and the inferior good, which is virtue (virtus) and is ordered to happiness. The two have a natural order, so that the aim of human life in moral terms is happiness and the way to achieve that happiness is by being virtuous or acting in accordance with virtue. A scientific inquiry into moral action must then be able to identify what the good and virtue are and, further, how these can be achieved. A central aspect of this inquiry is to explain how one can choose the good and avoid the bad/​harmful.14 This is

176  Robert Kilwardby important because we do not always choose what is simply good; often we select what appears to us as good. Human action is thus motivated not always by the good in an unqualified manner but often by what is qualifiedly good. This must hence be part of the subject matter of the moral discipline. The starting point for this investigation is the Aristotelian statement that in normal conditions all things desire the good. This can mean different things, for instance, when applied to natural things and when applied to animals. In both cases, appetite is a natural inclination (inclinacio) to act in a certain way, which in the case of animals is the direct result of their being alive. From the point of view of the object of desire, this cannot also be the same for all things; instead, different things must be inclined to things of different natures. On the other hand there is also a basic difference between different kinds of ends, which Kilwardby takes to be two:  one kind of end is the activity itself, while the other kind is the end or result of the activity. For instance, in the case of the activity of building, the result of the activity, the house, is the end of the activity. On the other hand in the case of the activity of dancing, the activity is an end in itself (my example, not Kilwardby’s). He considers at length which of these is superior, the act on its own or the result of that act. He concludes that the result—​the “that for the sake of which” the act or activity is performed—​must be superior to the activity done for its own sake. He seems to be following the Aristotelian thesis that the “that for the sake of which” is explanatory and thus is superior to the act of doing. An illustrative example is that of military action: the victory at the end of a military operation is better than the military operation itself. This conclusion seems to carry with it some further interesting conclusions:  namely, if the end result is superior to the activity attaining that end, it must be the case that there is a sequence, and even a hierarchy, of activities that are somehow destined toward that final result. In other words, there is an end (finis) to which all other partial ends or results are directed, and that last one is more desirable than all others. That end is the optimal good, in relation to which all others fall in line, and it is more noble (nobilior) than all partial ends subordinated to it.15 Likewise, in the case of the virtues and powers or faculties, there is a hierarchy whereby all are ordained to the highest among them. Kilwardby’s claim is thus simple: there is a hierarchy of powers and of virtues, and there is an end that is superior to them all and toward which all other partial ends tend.

Behaving  177 This is just like the case of the art of architecture, which, for building a certain structure, requires the assistance of many different disciplines and sets of skills. The end of each of these auxiliary disciplines is valued insofar as it is ordered to the ultimate end, which is the resulting structure. The moral of the story Kilwardby is trying to tell is that all the powers of the soul and all the virtues are ordained to the ultimate good, which is good in the highest degree and, as such, is the ultimate end of human voluntary action. It is the nobility of that end that counts above all. Without the existence of that ultimate end, there would be no limits to desire; there would always be another desire similarly worth striving for and pursuing. Instead, by having an end “for the sake of which” all things are desired, human activity is target-​ oriented and thus perfectible, precisely because the end is attainable instead of being moved from desire to desire without an ultimate end in view. The multiplicity of objects of desire does bring with it a major concern, which is connected to the necessity of a moral science. If there is an ultimate end to which all partial ends tend and if there are multiple tending partial ends, it is necessary for us to be able to identify these ends. That is exactly the objective of moral science, which is concerned not only with the substance of the good but also with its properties and the conditions in which it is exercised. The first to be considered is what Kilwardby calls “civil doctrine” (civilis doctrina), related to the activities of living in a society. This can be further divided into the noble arts of military science, rhetoric, and economics. Together these disciplines instruct human beings on the four main cardinal virtues (i.e., fortitude, prudence, temperance, and justice). Military science instructs human beings on how to develop fortitude, while rhetoric instructs on prudence-​related issues and economics on the issues related to temperance concerning oneself and one’s family and thus is also related to justice. In fact, by establishing a certain order among individuals, economics has a major role to play in the relations among human beings as fellow citizens (concives).16 The importance of civil doctrine is evident in Aristotle, says Kilwardby, because it is determined by the maximal and most perfect good. Inspired by this, Kilwardby claims that the good is not defined as what is good for just one—​or should not be so defined—​but as what is good for the whole society.17 One thus finds another expression of Kilwardby’s natural sociability argument, which I briefly noted earlier. One of the consequences of this diversity is that the moral science is characterized by aiming not at absolute certitude concerning the good but

178  Robert Kilwardby at a kind of coarse-​grained (grosso modo) certitude. Although there is a correspondence between being just and being good, there is a diversity of types of good and a corresponding diversity of ways of identifying them: first, from the identification of their effects, as one identifies spiritual goods by means of their manifestation in sensible things; second, by reasoning; and third, by means of division and distinction. The problem with the identification of the good and the good-​leaning virtues is that moral actions are not moved (and thus explained) by natural (and thus regular, ex certis) causes but rather are the result of the will.18 These are voluntary actions, as discussed earlier. A fine example of this is the cause of sin: one cannot reason about the causes of sin from their regularity because what causes sinful actions is the intention to commit sinful actions. The ethical science is about voluntary intentionality rather than natural determinism. One can see that Kilwardby has been operating until now on two different levels. On the one hand he examines moral science from the point of view of the rules of scientific inquiry and discovery; on the other hand he considers how moral science is put to use by individual human beings and their education in moral precepts. Finally, he has considered what kinds of mental acts moral behavior entails. He is thus operating at descriptive, normative, and meta levels of analysis. For instance, after focusing on what kind of certainty can be achieved in moral science, he turns to consider what types of people enjoy the optimal conditions for being instructed in moral principles. According to him, youngsters, in terms of both age (etate) and character (moribus), are to be excluded. The justification for this is that moral actions are operations directed to the absolute good performed by the practical intellect. People of young age do not have the capacity for that kind of reasoning, whereas immature people equally fail to aim toward the good because they are controlled by their passions, like anger and joy. Even though immature people would be able to learn and grasp what is morally required of them, they would nevertheless fail to act accordingly. The underlying idea here is that moral doctrine is about not simply knowledge but knowledge that is applied to action. Accordingly, people can fail in different ways: whereas the young in age fail to understand what is required of them, the young in maturity fail to act in accordance with what they know is expected of them.19 People who are immature in character are just like those who are guilty of moral incontinence: to know what is right does not make them act in a correct manner. However, identifying the wrong kind

Behaving  179 of target for the instruction of moral doctrine allows one to understand what the appropriate target is: the one who acts in accordance with rational desire (secundum desiderium racionis).20 The implication in this thesis seems to be that rational desire must be the desire for the highest good (summo bono).21 Moral doctrine is therefore about determining or discovering this good, so that one’s free choice of will can, on the basis of what one knows, select the best course of action, namely, to do what one ought to do. This section has started with Kilwardby equating the higher good with the achievement of happiness. What he does next is precisely to pursue this lead. Happiness can mean many things: first of all, it can be applied to fortune or luck. Second, it applies to both living well and acting appropriately, two activities of the soul; happiness in this sense primarily characterizes the mental realm.22 Kilwardby reminds us that happiness can mean different things for different types of people. For instance, philosophers take happiness to mean the practice of good works; for others, however, it means to have power and fame and honors; and for others still, it refers to something entirely absolute and separate, that is, the first cause of goodness in all existing good things.23 While the last view is that of Plato, Kilwardby notes that Aristotle accepted it when it was applied to the noncaused highest good, which was God. What Aristotle denied was that such a “separate” good applied to the human highest good, which was precisely the kind of good Aristotle was primarily interested in examining in his Ethics. Again, Kilwardby makes clear that Aristotle had a legitimate focus on the human good, independent of what the Catholic understanding of that good is, and that Aristotle’s ethical theory must be understood against that background in a way that is compatible, if possible. Furthermore, Kilwardby follows Aristotle in lashing out against those who take the highest human good to be a life dedicated to voluptuousness or pleasure. According to these unnamed thinkers, all other facets of human life must be ordered to pleasure and gratification of the senses. Kilwardby’s objection is that such life is proper to animals and there is no “happiness” in animal life. Sensuality cannot therefore be the ultimate end of a proper human life.24 Likewise, happiness cannot be found either in honors or in civic virtue. It cannot be found in honors because they are superficial, whereas true happiness is not. Moreover, honors are primarily and properly found in the one honoring rather than in the one being honored, whereas happiness is really in the happy person. Finally, honors are easy to

180  Robert Kilwardby achieve, which is precisely the opposite of happiness. Furthermore, whereas virtue can exist in an imperfect human being, true happiness cannot, because when happiness is achieved, it consists in a continuous act rather than in isolated instances, and thus it fully informs the happy person.25 Turning to the possible identification of virtue with happiness, Kilwardby notes that even if virtue is necessary for the pursuit of happiness, the virtuous person is not necessarily a happy person (virtuousus non est dicendus felix) but on the way to happiness.26

The Good From what I  have just explained, it is clear that Kilwardby sides with Aristotle on a number of issues. Plato’s view on the other hand is subject to intense criticism, as a view that claims that there is a universal good that is separate from individual good things, in spite of being the cause of the good in those things. Kilwardby explicitly identifies Plato as the author of this view and repeats Aristotle’s statement that it is a view from a friend but love for truth trumps friendship.27 Kilwardby attacks the thesis that there is a universal good, qua idea, which can be predicated of individual good things, not, he says, because of his distaste for ideas but because of ideas being separated from individual things. In this regard, there are universals apart from individuals, but that being the case, do they have something in common? Are there ideas of these ideas? That is the metaphysical objection. He drafts the logical objection in the following terms: the universal good, qua separated, would be univocally predicated of all things belonging to any of the categories, but it seems problematic to say that there is something univocal to all. On the contrary, he notes, siding with Aristotle, there is a highest good in each of the categories of being (i.e., the highest good in the category of substance, the highest good in the category of quality, and so on). This last argument probably requires some further explanation. Kilwardby is here hinting at the threefold consideration of universals as prior to things: as causal exemplars on whose basis individual things come to be; as posterior to things (i.e., as universals proper, abstracted from their individuating conditions); and as in things (i.e., as a constitutive part of things themselves, namely, as their form or species). The criticism he lays out against Plato is that he fails to account for that third way of considering

Behaving  181 universals (that is, as existing in things) and instead emphasizes their existence as separated from the things of which the universal is then predicated. From Kilwardby’s Aristotelian point of view, predication must be rooted or founded on something that is in the things that the universal is being predicated of. Otherwise, the same universal can be predicated univocally, by the intellect, of all things, namely, things that belong to any of the categories; but nothing can be univocally predicated of all categories. Instead, in the case of the good, the good can be said to have something in common with the partial goods that are found in the different categories. This is contrary to what Plato says: that there is one good univocally predicated of things in all categories.28 I take this as a clever objection to Plato’s theory of forms or, in more medieval terms, his theory of universals: the diversity of universals is associated with, and even dependent on, those universals being instantiated in particulars of different kinds. Otherwise, “if there is one idea of the good that is equally and univocally said of all the goods, it is necessary that there is one account of the good that is said of all the goods; thus, the perpetual good cannot be said [to be] better than the temporal good, which is an inconvenience.”29 The point is clear that although there is something that instances of a universal must have in common, there are also aspects of the universal that are distinct. This distinctiveness comes from the ways the universal is instantiated—​or from that in which it so exists. By overlooking this important point, Plato fails to properly account for universals, such as that of the good, which must apply univocally to all good things. A different version of the theory, which Kilwardby attributes to the Pythagoreans, says that there is an order or hierarchy of goods, so that the universals are actually differentiated—​thus avoiding the criticism aimed at Plato. Yet, according to this view, some goods are goods by themselves, and others are goods on account of others; while the former are separated, the latter are instantiated in the many. In any case, good is formulated in different ways, rather than being univocally predicated of things of different sorts.30 Kilwardby’s main objection to this view is that it still argues for one common idea being per se univocally predicated of all the particular goods, insofar as they are good. If things like wisdom, honor, and sensuality have something in common, due to which they are good, they also have something different due to which they are a good of this type. The question is, how can we find something per se that is common and separated and univocally predicable? For Kilwardby, that is an impossibility. He

182  Robert Kilwardby is not, of course, denying that things instantiate universals, as white is found in ceruse (cerussa) and in snow (nive). That is precisely the point: it is found in them, and it is from those instantiations that the intellect abstracts “whiteness.” That universal, be it “whiteness” or “goodness,” does not exist apart from things and from being univocally predicated of them.31 The good can be good for different reasons: for instance, if it is the result of a good action or is ordained or directed to a good end. Both are good by way of likeness or proportion rather than by univocity:32 they are alike without having the same mode of being. Dismissing these theories, however, does not get one closer to the definition of the good that is essential to Kilwardby’s (and Aristotle’s) project. To that definition Kilwardby turns next. Kilwardby notes that there are two levels of analysis of the good: first, it is the level of the general good, which is defined as being corrective of particular or partial goods; second, it is the level of the partial types of good, which are operative in the different aspects of life and fields of knowledge. The quest for the general good seems to be the task of the metaphysician, but the quest for the partial types of good seems to fall within the scope of the different specialized disciplines corresponding to the different kinds of activities. Having earlier on defined happiness as attaining the highest human good, which is the end of the different human activities, the good as such is a kind that needs to be examined from the point of view of its species (i.e., the particular kinds of good, like those of medicine or military art).33 Thus, the good is that which is achieved by means of specific activities, and the result of those activities constitutes happiness.34 These pursuits, however, must be chosen by moral agents. Among these Kilwardby lists honor, pleasure, understanding, and virtue. Honor reflects one’s interest in the world around one in the form of external prosperity, pleasure reflects the desire for a healthy body, understanding reflects one’s love of knowledge, and virtue expresses the desire for the good behavior of the soul. Together they constitute all one needs, not for a life of solitude but for a proper human life surrounded by other human beings—​friends, family, and members of one’s human community. That is the bedrock of civil society.35 Above all these we find happiness, which we choose for the sake of itself, rather than for the sake of another, such as a proper eligible good, because happiness is the best and highest of all the types of good, and to it all others are subordinate.36

Behaving  183 Another way of saying this is that happiness is the end of those activities that are proper to the human being qua human being. There are, of course, many operations human beings are able to execute, but only those performed by the rational soul are considered. Sensitive operations on the other hand are common to both nonhumans and humans and so they must be excluded. Likewise, operations that obey reason but are not inherently rational, such as those of the concupiscible and irascible powers, are not included. Now, the operations of the rational soul can be divided into theoretical or speculative and practical or operative, but Kilwardby primarily focuses on the speculative and practical ones, and especially on speculation concerning practical action. The core idea is that there are two levels of vital actions that are proper to human beings: first, those that are operations of the soul-​body composite, and second, those operations of the soul that are related to living and acting well (bene vivere et bene operari).37 These kinds of activities are not episodic but continuous over the entire duration of a life. That continuity is important, because learning how to achieve the state of happiness is like learning how to draw a circle: “likewise, to reach happiness it is necessary to place it as in the center and after that to circulate around it, starting from good activities, excelling in these and ending in them.”38 First, one starts with marking the center, and then one moves to connect one point with another around that center. In order to reach happiness, one must dispose and organize what is properly constitutive of oneself, for example the body and the soul, so that the whole process reaches full circle—​which, of course, is a long-​term commitment.39 It requires, above all, the capacity to keep improving those things in which one is deficient, in order to become proficient (for instance, in realizing good works, for which the soul needs to be educated and accumulate practice). A central issue is how to discover the principles guiding action. For this, Kilwardby says, one should follow the basic rules of scientific knowledge. There are some principles that apply to many sciences indifferently and others that apply to specific disciplines. One important aspect of this epistemological doctrine is precisely that we cannot attain the same level of certitude in all sciences; rather, this level is proportional to each discipline’s subject matter and properties.40 Different sciences consider those things that fall under their subject matter according to their proper mode of consideration and the restrictions that are proper to their subject matter. Principles are also known in as many different ways as the sciences themselves; the

184  Robert Kilwardby principles of logic are known by means of induction, the principles of natural philosophy are known by perception, and the principles of moral science are known by habituation and exposure to accepted practices.41 In the case of the practical good, Kilwardby follows Aristotle in claiming that there are three kinds of good: (1) external types of good, as in good fortune, and internal types of good, which are further divided into (2) types of good of the body and (3) types of good of the soul. Of these, happiness corresponds to the highest types of good of the soul. Good for the soul is found in the activities of the soul and in the acts that result from them.42 Activities of the soul and their results, when they exist, are good on their own (i.e., qua acts of the soul), rather than being good on account of something external. In other words, their goodness comes from their inherent value qua produced by the soul and as its perfection. So when we talk about living well and acting well, we basically mean the same thing, because to live well depends on the soul acting in conformity with what perfects it. Living and doing well are the results of the activity of a good soul.43 The question of whether happiness is about a good life or good actions is an important philosophical one, and on that there are a variety of views. According to some, truth is what grants happiness, for others it is prudence, and for still others it is (a certain kind of) wisdom.44 Kilwardby’s own view is that happiness is best described as the virtuous activity of the soul.45 One can, however, still inquire whether the acts themselves or the dispositions (or habits) that precede them are the better type of good. Kilwardby is unequivocal in defending that the acts are superior to the habits, so that a good act trumps a good habit.46 Likewise, victors are better than losers: “in the same way as in the Olympic games, those who receive the crown are not those who are the strongest according to habit but those who won according to their actions.”47 To the victor go the spoils, as the saying goes, and the victors are those who act, rather than those who are disposed (even if properly) to action. In what concerns human beings, there are two basic types of acts: those that are about life, as to be alive is an activity in itself, and those that are about “the perfection of the rational soul according to well-​ being.” The act of happiness (actus felicitatis) is that second type of act.48 The satisfaction (delectacio) that arises from that activity is caused by the soul, and it is that to which the soul is directed. Elsewhere,49 Kilwardby argues that the soul is perfected by two activities: science, which aims at the cognition of truth, and virtue, which is directed to the comprehension of the

Behaving  185 good. But he makes clear that whereas knowledge is the perfection of the intellectual part of the soul, virtue is the perfection of the whole soul and, as such, is superior to knowledge. In ET, he makes it clear that the virtuous activities of the soul are pleasurable on their own or by themselves. This is not, however, the kind of pleasure one gets from sensuality, because there is no merit in sensuous action. Rather, virtuous activities of the soul entail the enjoyment of what is the perfection of the activity of the soul and is a good in and of itself.50 A point of major significance here is that Kilwardby is not saying that some operations bring about consequences or results that are pleasurable; rather, the activities of the soul, if virtuous, are such (in terms of excellence, optimas) that they are enjoyable in themselves. They do not merely have the appearance of being good and bringing satisfaction but are good and bring enjoyment. That being the case, the question to ask next is what the cause of happiness is.

The Cause of Happiness Kilwardby starts by accepting that some external types of good contribute to happiness, not in the sense of happiness depending on them but in the sense that a lack of external types of good, like good friends and family, does diminish one’s happiness.51 It is nevertheless important not to confuse the impact external factors have on one’s happiness with the happiness itself being determined or caused by external factors (for instance, by chance). The central question then is, what is the efficient cause of human happiness? The first option is that God is the cause of all excellent things (optima) and that human happiness is an excellent thing; thus, God is the cause of human happiness. The second option is that the cause of happiness is virtue, so that those who are virtuous can achieve their proper aim, which is happiness. The third option is that happiness is the common good.52 What becomes clear from these considerations is that happiness is best described as a process whereby human beings develop qua humans. Such a process includes, first of all, education to develop in the soul an inclination for virtue; second, becoming properly disposed toward virtuous actions and righteous behavior; and third, God inducing happiness.53 This scheme seems to suggest that there is a process that terminates in the gratuitous action of God. It also suggests that happiness is not a given of nature,54

186  Robert Kilwardby and that it is not acquired by art or chance. Instead, happiness is the result of human agency and intentionality, God’s intervention at the culmination of the process notwithstanding. As stated earlier, happiness is the activity of the soul in accordance with reason, to which all other things—​like habits and operations—​must contribute as instruments. These contributing elements, which also include exterior kinds of good, do not on their own bring about happiness but cooperate in achieving it.55 Kilwardby cites Aristotle as saying that all that is necessarily needed for happiness is the human soul’s excellence in operation; all other factors, including external ones, are important and useful but not decisive. The reason for that is that external things are unstable (instabiles) and changeable (transmutabiles), whereas happiness requires what is permanent and stable, and that is why only virtuous activities can constitute happiness. No one is said to be good or bad as the result of having or lacking external possessions but rather by acting or failing to act in accordance with virtue: “human happiness consists in virtuous actions.”56 Education and practice in good actions are among the significant contributing factors ultimately determined by the nature of the mental acts realized in accordance with virtue and defined by their ultimate ends. As the end of civil doctrine is happiness, civil doctrine is significant in educating human beings about what is the best way to act.57 Nonhuman animals, as noted earlier, are excluded from achieving happiness, and the same applies to nonadult human beings and even postprime humans. The idea seems to be that in order to perform those activities that accord with the principles of civil doctrine, one should be in the prime of one’s cognitive capacities (the perfect life), which is not the case with the elderly and infants.58 In addition, happiness depends on the full exercise of one’s rational capacities, which means that in the absence of the optimal conditions for this exercise, there can be no happiness. That is why Kilwardby ends up suggesting that at death and in the state after death, there is no happiness.59 Later on he returns to a related question, on which he elaborates at length, about whether the actions of those close to the dead have an effect on the dead person’s happiness. He concludes that it is difficult to adjudicate whether that is the case.60 It is difficult to fathom why Kilwardby decided to devote so much space to this discussion about postmortem happiness. One way to understand it is by locating it at the intersection of two questions that are significant for

Behaving  187 him: whether external factors play a role in one’s happiness and what it is in the nature of the activities of living things that contributes to happiness. I  have shown that he takes the properly human rational operations that conform to virtue to be those leading to happiness, because such operations are pleasurable in themselves. Such operations are also characterized by their permanence and continuity; and they are so because they are the operations proper to a living thing of a rational nature. That continuity in turn brings stability, another factor for happiness, so much so that Kilwardby finds the perfect analogy for this in the geometrical figure of the quadrangle. A square is good because it is stable, being without vice or fault. Contrary to a circular figure—​to which Kilwardby has appealed before—​ a square is not in motion, nor does it seem to suggest motion. Instead, it symbolizes immobility and even inflexibility, and thus it can be read as a symbol of the four cardinal virtues.61 Living beings are happy insofar as their actions are virtuous because their life consists in the virtuous exercise of rational activities.62 In addition, to say that happiness requires a continuous effort throughout one’s life means also that one is subjected to all sorts of challenging adversities. Human existence is filled with adverse contingencies, which one must endure in order to achieve the desired happiness. So, to act in accordance with virtue means to act in the best possible way, given the circumstances,63 and thus that no human being is beatified during his or her life. Happiness is thus not defined by the absence of adversity but as the result of dealing with it—​not for a limited time but for the duration of a lifetime. That is why he mentioned earlier on that the process to achieve happiness is one of living a complete life,64 and of demanding continuous action of oneself. Again, the only way to defeat adverse circumstances is to persevere in virtuous activities, so that “the operation according to virtue is called the perfect life; thus, the perfect life is that which is virtuous according to the four main virtues. The combination of the four cardinal virtues is said [to be] the perfect virtue, and the operation of that life is in accordance with the perfect life, and the civil doctrine invites human beings to the realization of that life.”65 No external thing can replace that internal moving force of getting things right in accordance with the virtues. In particular, as Kilwardby reads Aristotle in this passage, what Aristotle means is that happiness requires living life in accordance with those virtues that constitute the civil doctrine.

188  Robert Kilwardby

The Virtues There are two kinds of human virtue: intellectual (i.e., wisdom, phronesis—​ or prudence [prudencia]—​and intelligence) and moral (i.e., freedom and honesty). Intellectual virtues perfect the soul with respect to understanding and theoretical speculation, whereas moral virtues perfect the soul with respect to informing the intellect on how to act.66 Another way of explaining this division is to contrast the theoretical intellect with the practical intellect. The theoretical intellect is divided into the virtues of knowledge (intelligence), the virtues of knowing with delight (wisdom), and the virtue of electing what is already known and loved. Kilwardby argues, though, that the moral virtues of freedom and honesty should not be considered apart from the theoretical ones, as they are found in the same source; in other words, the moral virtues are better described as the way the intellectual virtues are applied to human behavior.67 In that sense, what one must understand by “freedom” (libertas) is the righteous way a human being acts by and for himself; by honesty one should understand the way one conducts oneself with regard to others.68 In a way, the theoretical virtues are turned toward God, and the moral virtues are turned toward the world and other human beings.69 The picture is now clear: “happiness is the act of the soul according to perfect virtue.”70 But to know what the perfect virtue is seems to require education. The rule of thumb seems to be that the better a “virtue is known, the easier it is to contemplate happiness.”71 That task belongs to the civil doctrine. Kilwardby further remarks that the aim is to grasp not simply any virtue whatsoever but the properly human virtue that is ordered toward the human good, which is happiness. That virtue is the virtue that corresponds to the perfection of the soul, not of the body; thus, to know the human virtue that leads to happiness, we need to know the human soul. Civil doctrine must focus on how the soul can acquire this virtue and which part of the soul is capable of doing that. The main division of the soul is between the rational and the irrational parts. Other divisions can be considered, for instance, according to the bodily location of the soul’s parts or faculties. According to Plato, the intellective soul was located in the brain, the sensitive soul in the heart, and the vegetative soul in the liver. Aristotle on the other hand considered the distinction into functional parts to be conceptual only. In any case, Kilwardby takes the rational versus irrational division as the more explanatory one

Behaving  189 and thus the starting point for his analysis. The irrational part is further divided into parts that in no way partake of the rational nature of the soul, like that responsible for the vegetative functions, whereas others do participate, like the sensitive part.72 The functions that are proper to the vegetative soul have nothing to do with reason and civil doctrine, so they should be excluded from one’s consideration. That is not the case with the sensitive soul, which is part of the irrational part of the soul but is related to the rational part in the sense that it obeys reason (obedit racioni): “from this it seems that the sensitive power is in a certain way rational because it participates in reason.”73 In doing so, the sensitive part of the soul has a role to play in what concerns an account of virtue. On the one hand the appetitive powers have a certain “innate principle to move contrary to reason,” so that when reason determines or rules that something is to be pursued, the sensitive part is moved by what is contrary to it. In that sense, the sensitive powers are irrational.74 On the other hand the sensitive part of the soul is rational because “it does not execute any [motion] except what is determined and suggested by reason; and in this way it participates in reason in acting.”75 There are levels in this cooperation, according to the character of the individual human being under examination. In other words, the sensitive soul of a morally strong and honest human being is more easily disposed to being the subject of the ruling of reason because her moral character makes it easier to obey the dictates of reason.76 Rationality can thus mean either being rational as such—​that is to say, ontologically having the power of reason—​or being obedient to reason(s).77 The sensitive motive powers of concupiscence and irascibility participate in reason by obeying reason; this is rationality by participation, but a rationality that is specifically practical in its outlook. That is to say, the sensitive soul seems to participate in reason not about knowledge but rather in what concerns action. Reason persuades (suadet) the motive powers of the sensitive soul to operate well,78 but Kilwardby wonders whether Aristotle has something stronger in mind, along the lines of the sensitive soul having access to the “reasons” presented by reason and judging what to do on the basis of that. In other words, the question is whether compliance actually requires being informed about what one complies with. In either case, the bottom line is that the sensitive powers are not rational of themselves—​ontologically, they belong to another part of the soul—​but are rational in the sense of participating in reason by obeying and conforming to its dictates.

190  Robert Kilwardby Some aspects of the way we behave virtuously need to be accounted for on the basis of education or doctrine, which is acquired by experience. But the capacity to develop moral virtuousness is not the result of the causal action of nature; instead, humans can be(come) moral beings because that is the kind of beings we are. We have in us innately the capacity to become virtuous,79 just as matter has a capacity to receive form. Although “getting the form” (in the case of matter) and receiving virtue are dependent on the action of an external agent, these also depend on the existence of an internal disposition.80 What Kilwardby seems to be emphasizing here is that the capacity to receive is necessary for receiving. Accordingly, he further notes that we must explain the realization of an act by the existence of a disposition to the act rather than explaining the existence of the disposition by showing the existence of a certain act. That is clear in the case of seeing, as it is not from seeing that a disposition for seeing comes to be in us; rather, we see because we have this disposition.81 Moreover, the only way we can learn to be virtuous is by the activity itself of being virtuous. We start from a state of incompleteness and incrementally develop this disposition to a state of completion. In other words, it is from the practice of good acts that we develop moral virtue—​not just any acts but good acts, Kilwardby emphasizes.82 The processes of acquisition of virtue and acquisition of knowledge about virtue itself are the result of the practice of good actions, always performed or realized under specific and particular circumstances, and of considering those circumstances in which we realize our actions.83 From these observations, we are able optimally to collect knowledge about a given moral virtue and the right way to act in accordance with it. Of course, Kilwardby notes, the kind of knowledge we can aim at acquiring with respect to moral knowledge is always limited (i.e., never absolutely certain) to what is exemplary and typical.84 One thing we learn to know is that the best moral action is that which involves a sense of moderation, a mean between the extremes of a certain action, such as lacking and excessiveness. Kilwardby illustrates this in terms of engaging in physical exertions of the body in moderation, between a lack of exercise and an excess or superfluity of exercise, both of which are causes of corruption of body health and strength.85 So “in [what concerns] corporeal virtue, the moderate activities are the source of virtue, and conversely the virtue is the source of such activities; thus, the same is the case with the virtues of the soul.”86 The virtues are the source of the activities of the soul, which are moderate because the soul is infused with moderation.

Behaving  191 Kilwardby has now shown what characterizes the activities of the soul, which he says are virtuous, and also that we learn them, having an innate capacity to acquire and develop such dispositions for virtuous living. However, he must still be able to provide an account of the way that, when operating under particular circumstances, we are nevertheless able to recognize that something is virtue-​like. According to him, this is done by the sadness or pleasure that accompanies certain actions; in fact, he says that these affections are signs of the good or evil nature of those acts.87 In what concerns fortitude, a sad person experiences being fearful whereas a brave one feels pleasure. These affections allow us to identify (by reacting to) what is beneficial and harmful to the soul, because “virtues are a kind of medicine to the soul.”88 But these reactions, having an innate basis as dispositions, are the result of education. Therefore, human beings must be educated about them from very early on, just as Plato noted. By regulating human actions, they help to make the soul better. Following Aristotle, Kilwardby further notes that moral agents must be endowed with knowledge, will, and perseverance sufficient for their acting. That allows him to establish a clear distinction between moral agency and other forms of skillful action, like artistic expression. For doing well in the sense of doing well morally, it is not enough to know how to do it. Indeed, such an act must be performed according to moral goodness. One should be chaste (castus)—​which Kilwardby seems to take in the same sense as Aristotle takes moderation and temperance—​and just (iustus) in one’s behavior. In short, what is required is that one knows that it is the right thing to do, one wills to do what is the right thing to do, and one perseveres in doing what is the right thing to do, even in the event that it is not easy.89 Temperance or moderation thus seems to play a key role in the definition of virtue, and Kilwardby devotes a couple of lengthy lectures to this issue. First and foremost, he is interested in the definition of virtue, and then the specific types of means required by moral virtue. Here I start with the question of what virtue is. There are three kinds of metaphysical entities in the soul: affections (passiones), powers (potencie), and dispositions (habitus). It seems clear for Kilwardby (and for Aristotle, in the text Kilwardby is commentating on) that virtue must be a habitus rather than a power or an affection. Although virtue would qualify as a quality in the soul, like affections, there is an important difference between the two: whereas affections are involuntary, virtues are voluntary. In fact, the will seems to be the cause of some of the virtues.90 Moreover, affections

192  Robert Kilwardby are moved, whereas habits are disposed to action, so that it is by means of habits that we operate. On the other hand there is a clear difference between powers and virtues: powers are innate in us (i.e., they constitute an integral part of our mental architecture from the outset) whereas habits are acquired by the continuous process examined earlier.91 Habits, though, are related to powers in the sense that a habit or disposition is the last (ultimum) of a power, which is to say, the perfection of the power.92 It is not enough, however, to say that virtues are habits. We need to specify what kind of habits they are. Initially important to note is that virtues are the kind of habits that perfect human beings qua human and that they deliver good acts. A  first definition of virtue can be suggested:  “the voluntary disposition that consists of the mean determined by knowledge.”93 This definition indicates the need to be able to identify the mean between two extremes, which is a difficult task. It requires, first of all, a determination about what those extremes are and whom or what they stand in equal distance to. It could be with respect to things, like the distance between two things or between two numbers. For example, consider 10 as too much (excess) and 2 as too little (lacking); the median between the two is 6, because the numerical difference between 10 and 6 is the same as between 6 and 2. This seems to be wrong, though, because (intuitively, at least) it seems that we cannot say that a moral decision could be made in such an absolute sense. Instead, Kilwardby claims, things are more complicated in what concerns the circumstances for moral action, as moral comparisons must be sensitive to the particular conditions of the things being compared. Now imagine that you want to decide how much food to give to two different persons, one an athlete and the other a student. We cannot simply say that 10 pies are too many and 2 pies are too few, such that each person should get 6 pies. That may be eating with moderation for the athlete but not for the student. What is appropriate (i.e., moderate) is relative to the characteristics of the individuals being considered. Therefore, moral judgment is more particular and subjective than the arithmetical mean. A second definition of virtue can thus be attempted: “an operation in which excess and lacking and moderation are considered.”94 According to this definition, you know that you can only understand what mean you should consider when you know what things the two extremes are, so that there can be no consideration in the abstract of what concerns moral virtue. What you know is that moral virtue requires a consideration of what it means to be moderate with respect to you, that

Behaving  193 is to say, in a subjective sense. It also entails knowing the particular circumstances and conditions; so an even better third definition of virtue can be attempted: “the voluntary disposition that consists of the mean relative to us [i.e., the agents] that is rationally determined by a wise man.”95 To be virtuous is to be moderate with respect to the extremes. One’s consideration of them—​using background knowledge, assessment of their particular circumstances, and so on—​is part of the definition of virtue. To be virtuous includes the capacity to correctly identify and assess the extremes, which are particulars, and the mean between them.96 It also entails the exercise of the capacity to select among the possibilities of action (eligencia), which can be either good (as it should be) or bad. In any case, this exercise must be voluntary. Kilwardby examines at length the conditions under which it is properly called voluntary. Guiding his theory is the notion that we are mostly responsible for our actions and that we should be rewarded for electing the good and avoiding the bad. But in order for this assessment to be proper, the person making it must be able to know whether a given action was voluntary or not.97

Voluntary Action The first contrast between what is voluntary and what is involuntary is that the latter is the result of violence. This does not mean brute-​force violence but that the principle of motion or change or action is external to the thing being moved (see the section “Motion” in ­chapter 2). In that case, however, it seems that there is an identification of that which acts and that which is acted on: the agent is forced or pushed to action.98 (It can mean by force or at least coercion, like the power a master exercises over a servant.)99 Yet this is merely apparent in the sense that that which acts is here being taken as the subject rather than the efficient cause of the action, which in this case is external to the subject. Further qualifications are required, because in the case of an action in which the subject, qua agent, acts in ignorance of the reasons for action, this could in principle be called involuntary action. Likewise, some actions that are caused by an internal principle do not qualify as voluntary motion, as is the case with nonanimated objects, or even animated objects qua natural objects. Kilwardby is probably thinking about the case in which someone falls, which is an action that has its cause in the weight of the subject without that being a voluntary motion; in addition, Kilwardby aims to consider whether this also means something like being moved by one’s own emotions or low-​order desires. That is, in what

194  Robert Kilwardby sense is one an agent when acting in those circumstances? If being moved by desires makes an action involuntary, it seems that animals and infants are not capable of voluntary actions.100 Kilwardby defines voluntary motion as that in which “the principle of operations is in the agent,”101 whereas involuntary operations are those in which the agent decides nothing beyond the circumstances,102 which is another way of saying that the circumstances decide for the subject, fully determining his/​her actions. But Kilwardby wants to be very specific—​and restrictive—​about the conditions under which he accepts classifying an action as involuntary. For instance, he denies that ignorance can be used to argue for involuntary action; instead he claims that it is the responsibility of the agent in most cases to know what he/​she can be expected to know in the given circumstances.103 In other words, when one acts out of ignorance one can still be acting voluntarily if it is the case that one is the cause of one’s own ignorance. If, however, that is not the case (i.e., one is not the cause of one’s own ignorance), then the action is performed involuntarily. An action is “involuntary by ignorance when it is done due to the [agent’s] ignorance of some circumstance or circumstances of the singular acts.”104 This is another way of saying that we do not know what we cannot know. Indeed, absence of knowledge that might lead us to act otherwise must be included in the assessment of the involuntary nature of the action. Kilwardby further specifies what kind of circumstances he has in mind:  namely, those concerning one’s personal circumstances; the nature of the action; the object of the action; the place and time of the action; the instrument; the mode; and the end of the action.105 It is not credible that the agent could ignore all those circumstances of any one given action, but one could ignore some of them, thus making the action involuntary. What is clear, however, is that Kilwardby takes this to be a matter of considering the particular circumstances involved in any particular action, which reinforces the idea, advocated earlier, that moral actions cannot be assessed on a universal and abstract level. On the other hand an action is voluntary when the agent, in possession of the particular circumstances of that action, assesses and selects the course of that action. A first question to be asked concerning this is whether freedom and voluntariness are one and the same. Kilwardby argues that they are not. To return to an example used earlier, children and nonrational animals are capable of acting voluntarily but are not capable of choice,

Behaving  195 because they are not capable of deliberation. Their actions are determined by desire. Desire, located in the sensitive part of the soul, is not deliberative and thus cannot have a simultaneous contrary; choice is the exact opposite of this. Choice is not the will, because one can will what is impossible but cannot choose it as the goal of one’s actions. The will can be about anything whatsoever, even those things one cannot achieve; but choice is about what can be the subject of one’s action.106 For that to be the case, deliberation (consilio) plays an important role, but deliberation brings with it a number of conditions. Namely, one can only deliberate about what is contingent and about those things that are attainable by the human nature and are in the power of the one deliberating.107 On the other hand we deliberate primarily about things that have a high degree of uncertainty and a higher degree of significance; there is no point in deliberating about what is always done in a fixed or established way or about what is not relevant.108 In particular, deliberation is needed about those things that lead to the ends of our actions (ad finem) rather than about the ends themselves. We do not need to deliberate on what is of minor importance or can be established on the basis of empirical evidence. For instance, Kilwardby notes, we do not need to deliberate about “whether this bread is baked or not” (si iste panis sit coctus vel non),109 because we can just see it. Instead, one does need to deliberate about how one should act in a certain situation in such a way that one is able to reach one’s expected goal, provided that such a goal falls within the scope of one’s capacities.110 One selects one’s ways of going about reaching that goal once one has deliberated on how to attain it. On the basis of this, Kilwardby then suggests a preliminary definition, namely, that one chooses among those pleasurable things that are attainable. This means that one elects an action out of those things that one desires—​not some kind of low-​level desire but the kind of desire that conforms to reason.111 A question we need to ask ourselves at this point is whether we choose what is good or what appears good to us—​the implication being that we always select the good.112 Kilwardby thinks that we voluntarily choose the good if we have, as we should have, the proper dispositions. In other words, if we are disposed in the right way, things that really are good cannot but appear to us as good. A good and virtuous person always rightly judges what is good, just as a person in a proper state of health is able to discriminate the sweet from the bitter. A proper disposition allows for the identification of what is true, according to the (Augustinian) principles of measure and

196  Robert Kilwardby rule, and by applying the principle of moral virtue (i.e., by judging what there is according to the vantage point of moderation or mean between the extremes).113 One is fooled by what appears to be good but is not good only if one desires that to be the case and is improperly disposed. Being able to choose the good also means being equally capable of choosing the bad. If our deliberation allows us to pick what is right, it can also fail to do so, for the reasons just enumerated.114 Under the guise of something obvious, Kilwardby has in mind something quite striking. If our will + deliberation + choice explains the nature of our actions, our actions are voluntary, whatever their motivations may be, and thus we are ultimately responsible for them. So consider the case of a drunkard and his actions: because he is responsible for being inebriated, he is responsible for all actions that follow. If he commits a crime, Kilwardby argues, he should be penalized twice as hard as when he is not drunk. Indeed, he is guilty of voluntarily getting drunk, and therefore he is guilty of everything else that follows from that state in which he, and he alone, put himself.115 The same goes for acting out of ignorance when that ignorance is one’s fault; the same applies to acting out of desire. In a soundbite: “all the bad that is done is willed to be done bad” (omnis factus malus, volens factus est malus).116 Prior to having initiated a process, one could do the good or do the bad, but once one voluntarily initiates the process, the process is what it is due to one’s having initiated it the way one did: by voluntarily choosing as the result of deliberating. Kilwardby illustrates this with the example of a stone you can decide to throw or not: once you throw it, you can no longer stop it, and thus you remain responsible for what consequences may follow from what happens to the stone or, better, from your having thrown it.117 This view may seem too radical for our contemporary eyes, but Kilwardby is closely following Aristotle here. Kilwardby also wants to ground this view in the idea that there is something basic that secures our grip on the nature of our actions. For him, there is a certain innate inclination for us to desire the good, and on this point he goes against Aristotle. In fact, Kilwardby takes Aristotle to be generally correct but incomplete when he objects to this innateness, because Kilwardby is concerned with the idea that if the desire for good were innate, the desire for bad would be as well.118 He thinks that the issue can be solved by saying that there is a natural and innate desire for the good inbuilt in human beings but this natural disposition to which we are ordered does not determine our actions. Instead, we

Behaving  197 must assent to this disposition. We can either do it or fail to do it, in which case we fail to act according to the principles of moral virtue.119 Summing up, Kilwardby’s ethical doctrine holds that moral and intellectual virtues should be considered together as one subject and that virtue is a habit.120 Moreover, his ethical doctrine has it that we act in a moral way when we pursue the good, assenting to the results of a deliberation of the particular circumstances of the case under consideration.121 Finally, his doctrine asserts that we are, for the most part, free and responsible for the choices we make. We have a natural innate inclination to opt for the good, but we must assent to it, which we do if we are properly disposed. Importantly, in conclusion, his doctrine involves a conception of the subordination of the sensitive powers of the soul to reason in action.122 Only in human beings habituated to good actions are the appetitive powers of the sensitive soul properly disposed to obey the dictates of reason. Kilwardby’s emphasis on sensitive powers obeying, and participating in, reason in the context of virtuous action is a further indication that he belongs to the early stage of the reception of Aristotelian ethical theory, as stated at the beginning of this chapter.

Notes 1.  Gauthier (1975). 2.  Trottman (1995), 235. 3.  On this, see Doig (2001). 4.  The best studies on Kilwardby’s ethical theory are those by Celano listed in the bibliography. I refer mostly to Celano (2013), but all his other studies are essential for understanding Kilwardby’s contribution to late medieval ethics. On Kilwardby’s commentary, see also Lewry (1986). 5.  Kilwardby, ET, P 293va. 6.  Kilwardby, DOS 353. 7.  See Celano (2013), 315–​318. 8.  Kilwardby, DOS 355. 9. “Item ethica considerat humanas operationes et voluntates, non dico separatas, sed quas homo gerit in corpore mortali”; Kilwardby, DOS 404. 10.  Kilwardby, DOS 405. 11. “Et ita finis ultimus quodammodo totius philosophiae est ethica moralis et finis eius ultimus finis omnium finium intentorum in philosophia et

198  Robert Kilwardby partibus eius, et per consequens totius philosophiae, et ita omnis philosophia et omne quod a philosophia intenditur ad beatitudinem ordinatur”; Kilwardby, DOS 409. 12.  Kilwardby, DOS 407. 13.  Kilwardby, DOS 409. 14.  Kilwardby, ET, P 285va. 15.  Kilwardby, ET, P 286ra. 16.  Kilwardby, ET, P 286va. 17.  See also Celano (2013), 319–​320. 18.  Kilwardby, ET, P 286vb. 19.  Kilwardby, ET, P 287ra. 20.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 3rb. 21.  Kilwardby, ET, P 287rb. 22.  Kilwardby, ET, P 287rb. 23.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 3va. 24.  “In parte prima sic arguit:  in vita bestiali vel vita pecudum non est felicitas; sed vita voluptuosa est vita bestialis vel vita pecudum; ergo in ipsa non est felicitas”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 4ra. 25.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 4rb. 26.  Celano (2016), 84. 27.  “Cum sint enim utraque, scilicet amici et veritas, oportet magis honorare veritatem quam amicos”; Kilwardby, ET, P 288va. 28.  “Nichil univocum dicitur de omnibus predicamentis; sed bonum dicitur de omnibus predicamentis et eis inest; ergo bonum de omnibus specialibus bonis dictum non est univocum, cui oppositum posuit Plato”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 4vb. 29.  “Si una sit ydea boni equaliter et univoque dicta de omnibus bonis, necesse est unam esse racionem boni secundum quod de omnibus dicatur, et ita bonum perpetuum non magis dicetur bonum quam temporalem; sed hoc est inconveniens”; Kilwardby, ET, P 288vb. 30. “Deinde concludit ex hiis bonum multipliciter dici, et non univoce simpliciter. In quibusdam enim est bonum secundum se; in quibusdam bonum propter aliud.” Kilwardby, ET, Pr 5ra. 31.  Kilwardby, ET, P 289ra. 32. “Tercio dicit quod bonum conveniens sit omnibus. Magis dicitur secundum proporcionem et similitudinem quam secundum veram univocacionem”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 5rb. 33.  Kilwardby, ET, P 289va. 34.  “Ergo felicitas est finis omnium operacionum”; Kilwardby, ET, P 289va. 35.  Kilwardby, ET, P 289va. 36.  “Ergo felicitas est bonum eligibilius omnibus aliis” and “ergo felicitas est maius bonum omnibus aliis”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 6ra. 37.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 6va.

Behaving  199 38. “Similiter ad felicitatem apprehendendam oportet ipsam ponere tamquam centrum, et postea proporcionaliter circumscribere incipiendo a bonis operacionibus, proficiendo, et eciam terminando, in eisdem”; Kilwardby, ET, P 290va. 39.  “Deinde circa modum istum dat ydoneitatem, dicens quod hominis est disponere et deducere particulas suas, scilicet in corpore et in anima, ut bene se habeant ad istam circumscripcionem faciendam, et oportet eum per multum tempus invenire et operari ea que conferunt ad istam circumscripcionem”; Kilwardby, ET, P 290va. 40. “Non est querenda equalis certitudo in omnibus; sed in omnibus querenda est certitudo secundum possibilitatem materie subiecte et secundum proprietatem ipsius doctrine”; Kilwardby, ET, P 290va/​Pr 6vb. 41.  Kilwardby, ET, P 290vb. 42.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 7ra. 43.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 7ra. 44.  On Kilwardby’s use of the notion of prudence, see Celano (1999), 157. 45.  “Felicitas est actio animae secundum virtutem, sive actio secundum quam consistit”; Kilwardby, ET, P 291ra. 46.  “Ergo actus bonus est melior habitu bono”; Kilwardby, ET, P 291rb. 47.  “Sicut in Iudis exercitativis apud montem Olimpum, non suscipiunt coronam qui sunt fortissimi secundum habitum, sed qui vincunt secundum actum”; Kilwardby, ET, P 291ra. 48.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 7 va. 49.  “Duplex sit ipsius perfectio, scilicet cognitio veri et comprehensio boni”; Kilwardby, NSLPor, prooemium, M 1ra. 50.  Kilwardby, ET, P 291va. 51.  “Videtur ergo quod bona exteriora deficiencia diminuant felicitatem”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8ra. 52.  “In tercia particularia dicit quod felicitas est bonum multis commune”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8ra. 53.  Kilwardby, ET, P 292ra/​Pr 8rb. 54. “Ergo felicitas non est eorum que sunt a natura”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8rb. 55.  “Sed alia bona que ordinantur, scilicet ad felicitatem, quedam necessaria sunt ad hoc quod sit felicitas, ut habitus boni et operaciones; quedam autem sunt cooperativa, tamquam instrumenta ad hoc quod habeatur felicitas, sicut bona exteriora, et hec utilia sunt ad felicitatem, non tamen ex necessitate eius”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8rb. On this, see Celano (2006), 13. 56.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 9ra. 57.  “In parte prima ex predictis concludit quod finis civilis doctrine sit felicitas, et civilis doctrina doceat bene operari propter felicitatem”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8rb.

200  Robert Kilwardby 58.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8va. 59.  “Felicitas dicitur a nobis esse secundum actum quedam, scilicet bonum et perfectissimum; sed talis actus non videtur esse in morte vel post mortem; inconveniens est ergo felicitatem esse in morte vel post mortem”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 8va. 60. “Utrum autem mortuus felicitetur vel non, neque asserit neque deasserit”; Kilwardby, ET, P 293vb. 61.  “Et vocatur huiusmodi homo quadrangulus habitum quattuor virtutum cardinalium, secundum quas immobilis est et inflexibilis est ad malum”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 9rb. 62. “Et notandum diligenter quod vocat hic Aristotiles viventes vere bonos, quia si non est vere bonus nisi simpliciter felix et secundum ipsum aliqui viventes sunt vere boni, secundum ipsum aliqui viventes sunt felices simpliciter”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 9rb. 63. “Sic vere bonus sempre optima operatur secundum quod potest”; Kilwardby, ET, P 293rb. 64.  “Oportet hoc facere per tempus multum, scilicet perfectum tocius vite, ita quod in toto tempore vite oportet esse de consilio bonorum et magnorum qui in moribus et in virtute excelentes sunt”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 9vb. 65. “Et nota quod vocat operacionem secundum virtutem esse vitam perfectam; vita enim perfecta est in virtute que regitur quadruplici virtute principal. Collectio enim quattuor virtutum cardinalium dicitur virtus perfecta, et operacio huius vite est secundum vitam perfectam, et ad operacionem talis vite invitat homines civilis doctrina”; Kilwardby, ET, P 293va. 66.  “Intelligendum autem est per virtutes intellectuales sciencias abutendo nomine virtutis, sicut significat statim post in littera que dicuntur intellectuales, quia animam perficiunt in speculando et intelligendo. Per morales intellige virtutes consuetudinales que perficiunt et informat intellectum in operando”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 11va. 67.  “Duplex sit virtus, scilicet intellectualis et consuetudinalis,” which he then explains in the following way: “Intelligi quod ‘duplici’ et non ‘duabus,’ et hac racione:  quia duo sunt qui differunt secundum subiectum et ponunt in numerum secundum subiectum; duplex autem est dualitas in uno subiecto radicata. “Sic autem est de virtute consuetudinali et intellectuali”; Kilwardby, ET, P 295va. 68. “Per libertatem intelligendum est virtutem moralem qua homo recte ordinatur penes se, et per honestatem qua directe ordinatur ad alios”; Kilwardby, ET, P 295rb. 69.  Kilwardby, ET, P 295rb. 70.  Kilwardby, ET, P 294rb. 71.  Kilwardby, ET, P 294rb.

Behaving  201 72.  “Virtus autem irracionalis duplex est: quedam enim nullo modo nata est participare racionem sicut vegetativa; quedam autem aliquo modo participat, sicut sensitiva”; Kilwardby, ET, P 294va. 73.  “Ex hiis patet quod virtus sensitiva aliquo modo racionalis est, quia videlicet participat racionem”; Kilwardby, ET, P 294vb. 74.  Kilwardby, ET, Pr 11rb. 75.  “Dicens quod racionalis dicitur quod nichil efficit nisi quod imperatur et suggeritur a racione; sic enim participat racionem in agendis”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 11rb. 76. “Et addit quod magis subiecta est sensitiva racioni secundum quod est hominis fortis et honesti quam secundum quod est cuiuslibet  alterius, quia in honesto et forti est sensitiva magis disposita ad obedienciam racionis”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 11rb. 77. “Si concupiscibile et irrascibile debeant dici racionem habencia, ut iam habitum est, tunc habens racionem dicitur dupliciter:  uno modo quod principaliter et de se racionem habet; alio modo quod de se racionem non habet, sed secundum quod racioni obedit”; Kilwardby, ET, Pr 11rb. 78.  Kilwardby, ET, P 295ra. 79. “Immo nos innati sumus suscipere virtutem”; Kilwardby, ET, P 295va. 80.  “Sicut materia nata est suscipere formam, indiget tamen exterior agente generante formam in ea, similiter nos nati simus suscipere virtutem, indigemus tamen aliquo exterior agente, ut ipsa generatur in nobis”; Kilwardby, ET, P 295va. 81.  Kilwardby, ET, P 295vb. 82.  Kilwardby, ET, P 296ra. 83.  “Non enim scrutatur de virtute ut sciamus quid est virtus ibi statum faciendo, sed ut boni fiamus. Hoc autem non potest fieri, nisi per operacionem sub debitis circumstanciis operatas; ergo necesse est considerare; sic circumstancias operacionum per quas fiamus boni”; Kilwardby, ET, P 296ra. 84.  Kilwardby, ET, P 296ra. 85.  Kilwardby, ET, P 296rb. 86.  “In virtute corporali ita est quod operaciones mediocres sunt principia huiusmodi virtutis, et e converso huiusmodi virtus principium talium operacionum; ergo similiter erit in virtute anime”; Kilwardby, ET, P 296va. 87. “Oportet accipere voluptates et tristicias existentes in operando esse signa bonitatis vel malicie in habentibus”; Kilwardby, ET, P296va. 88.  Kilwardby, ET, P 296va. 89.  Kilwardby, ET, P 297rb. 90.  Kilwardby, ET, P 297va. 91.  Kilwardby, ET, P 297vb.

202  Robert Kilwardby 92. “[Virtus] est ultimum de potencia; ultimum autem ipsius potencie perfectio est, quia ad perfectionem ordinatur omnis potencia”; Kilwardby, ET, P 297vb. 93.  “Virtus est habitus voluntarius in medietate consistens quo ad nos prout sapiens determinabit”; Kilwardby, ET, P 297vb. 94. “Virtus consuetudinalis est circa operaciones et passiones in quibus inveniuntur superfluitas et indigencia et medium”; Kilwardby, ET, P 298ra. 95. “Virtus est habitus voluntarius consistens in medietate quoad nos secundum racionem a sapiente determinata”; Kilwardby, ET, P 298rb. 96.  Kilwardby, ET, P 299vb. 97.  “Legislatores debent honorare bonos et punire malos; sed non possunt scire qui boni vel qui mali, nisi cognoscantur qui operantur voluntarie et qui non”; Kilwardby, ET, P 300rb. 98.  “Unde idem intendit per illum qui operatur et qui patitur”; Kilwardby, ET, P 300rb. 99.  Kilwardby, ET, P 300va. 100.  Kilwardby, ET, P 301rb. 101. “Quarum operacionum principium est in operante, ipse sunt voluntarie”; Kilwardby, ET, P 300vb. 102.  “Que nullus per se eligit preter omnem circumstanciam sunt simpliciter involuntaria”; Kilwardby, ET, P 300vb. 103.  “Unde nullus excusabilis est propter ignoranciam eorum, cum omnes universaliter scire debeant illa”; Kilwardby, ET, P 301ra. 104.  “Involuntarium per ignoranciam quod fit propter ignoranciam alicuius circunstancie vel circumstanciarum operacionibus singularibus consequente plenitudine”; Kilwardby, ET, P 301ra. 105.  Kilwardby, ET, P 301ra. 106.  “Voluntas est aliquando eorum que volens nequaquam per se operari potest; sed eligencia non est nisi eorum que putantur posse operari per ipsum eligentem”; Kilwardby, ET, P 301vb. 107.  Kilwardby, ET, P 302rb. 108.  Kilwardby, ET, P 302va. 109.  Kilwardby, ET, P 302vb. 110.  “Quando aliquis consiliatur quomodo debet operari ad finem aliquem consequendum, primo querit aliquod antecedens ad illam finem quod sit in potestate eius, et cuius ipse possit esse principium. Consequenter hoc accepto per consilium requiscit a conciliando et eligit illud”; Kilwardby, ET, P 302vb. 111.  Kilwardby, ET, P 303ra. 112.  “Nullus enim scienter desiderat sibi malum”; Kilwardby, ET, P 304ra. 113.  Kilwardby, ET, P 303rb.

Behaving  203 114.  “Malicia in nobis est, sicut et virtus, scilicet a voluntate nos male operari est nos malos esse, sicut nos bene operari est nos bonos esse”; and “patet cum in nobis sit bonum operari, in nobis erit malum vel turpe operari”; Kilwardby, ET, P 303rb. 115.  “Et est primum exemplum:  de ebrio, qui si fecerit aliquod malum propter ignoranciam causatam a sua ebrietate, puniendus est. Ipse enim est causa sue ignorancie cum sit causa ebrietatis, et ebrietas causa ignorancie. Quia quod est causa cause est causa causati. Qui igitur malum fecerit propter talem ignoranciam non meretur ignoscenciam et misericordiam sed duplicem penam:  unam pro ebrietate; alteram pro prava actione”; Kilwardby, ET, P 303va. 116.  Kilwardby, ET, P 303vb. 117.  “Eodem modo aliquis antequam fiat malus potest esse bonus; sed cum iam factus est malus, non potest statim cum vult fieri bonus cum vult, et hoc est: non enim egrogatur (14a15). Secundum simile tale: proiecturus lapidis potest ante proiectionem proicere vel retinere; sed cum iam proiectus est, non est in ipso retinere”; Kilwardby, ET, P 303vb. 118. “Non videtur Aristotiles sufficienter solvere ad racionem illarum”; Kilwardby, ET, P 304ra. 119.  “Et verumptamen quia racio similiter potest concludere de virtutibus sicut de maliciis, potest ad illam sufficienter responderi; sic, quamvis unusquisque desideret secundum quod sibi innatum est. Maxime enim desiderat ad que ex naturali disposicione maxime ordinantur. In voluntate tamen ipsius est consentire desiderio vel non; apud consensum autem est virtus vel malicia; et ideo eciam apud voluntatem, quamvis sine sciencia desideret id quod apparet bonum. Intellectiva tamen potest prohibere eam ne moveatur ad consequendum appetitum. Hanc enim habet potestatem in eam”; Kilwardby, ET, P 304ra. 120.  See Celano (2013), 324. 121. “Semper enim in nobis est operari dummodo cognoscamus circumstancias singulares”; Kilwardby, ET, P 304va. 122. “Unde debet pars sensualis obedire racioni in similibus, et nichil consequi racione inconsulta”; Kilwardby, ET, P 307vb.

• 6

Believing

Peter Lombard’s Sentences, a work written around 1150, quickly became the medieval textbook for theological science in the newly formed European universities. Kilwardby enthusiastically promoted this text as an essential part of a process of instituting and promoting the edifice of the Church.1 By this, he seems to have meant the set of beliefs, norms, and procedures that regulated the Christian religion. According to him, the message found in the four books of the Sentences is grounded on the seven gifts of glorification, of which four concern the body and three concern the soul. Those of the body are clarity, impassibility, subtlety, and agility, while those of the soul are cognition, love, and fruition. In turn, these seem to be grounded on the sacraments, which are found in the Bible and are part of the Church’s theoretical foundations. Thus, theological science and the Sentences as its textbook find ultimate justification in the sacred Scriptures themselves. Kilwardby’s enthusiasm did not prevent him from recognizing a difference in significance between the study of the necessary principles found in the Scriptures and the study of Lombard’s Sentences, which played an auxiliary role in understanding the meaning of the sacred text.2 Perhaps more important is the way both aim to contribute to the restoration (opera reparationis) of the primordial human dignity and its created resemblance to God, which were lost in the Fall. Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

Believing  205

Theology A key question is whether the subject matter of theology is God, or God’s works, or even the divine essence. In order to be a science, theology must have a unified subject matter.3 But can God and creatures, being so different, become objects of inquiry of one and the same science? Kilwardby does not take that question as an objection to the possibility of a unique science of both God and what is created but rather understands it as a statement about the methods that such a science must adopt. He answers the question by saying that a plurality of objects does not entail a plurality of sciences, and that there simply is one discipline, that of theology, which alone considers the multiplicity of things from a multiplicity of ways.4 A follow-​up question is how God can be known. Humans cannot perceive God, because God is an immaterial being.5 But God can be known sensibly because knowledge about his creation can be traced back to him: by knowing sensible things humans “ascend” to the knowledge of what is not sensible. At the same time, this mode of cognition need not be indirect or inferential only; it can also take place by means of privation. We know that God is not many of the things we attribute to creatures; for instance, God lacks mutability and composition, two properties that characterize created things. All these properties can be stated in the positive sense (of having) and the negative one (of lacking), which leads Kilwardby to state an important methodological conclusion: “it must be said about the unity of science concerning the unity of the subject that it does not require that the subject be absolutely univocal in every way, but that unity by analogy suffices for this.”6 The solution he proposes for the diversity of things is to claim that the unity of subject matter required by the theological science is a unity by analogy, so that its object can include both what is created and its creator. The best way to understand this is then to say that whatever is said properly of God can be said of a creature in a participatory way.7 Scientific endeavor is characterized precisely by a quest for agreement (convenientia) between objects that belong to the kind of its subject matter. Things can be said to agree by means of participation or assimilation. Participation is the way things of different species belong to a common genus, like birds and humans belong to the genus animal. Assimilation on the other hand is when two things agree as expressions of each other, as in the case of the agreement that exists between a sensible species (“the species

206  Robert Kilwardby of color”) and the natural form (“the color”) as it exists in the sensible thing generating it,8 or that between the form in the mind of the artificer and that form realized in matter (in a shoe, say). Assimilation is thus an agreement between one thing and its instantiations. According to Kilwardby, this is precisely the kind of agreement that exists between God and the created world. It is on account of this kind of agreement that there is one and the same science that has as its subject matter both God and his creatures.9 In this context, Kilwardby makes the further point that a creature and its creator are very distinct in terms of power; accordingly, a created mind is limited in its reach. This does not mean that such a mind has, in itself, an inherent restriction when it comes to doing better. In fact, he argues, the created mind is able to surpass its natural limitation whenever it is exposed to the grace of God. This means that when it is assisted by a divine power, the human mind is capable of coming close to the contemplation of God and the truths existing in him. The reason Kilwardby brings up this argument is precisely to show that there is no entitative radical flaw in the human creature that cannot be overcome by the action of an infinite power. In the end, the difference between creator and creature is a difference about power rather than a more basic ontological difference, and as such, both beings can be the object of study of one and the same science. Moreover, according to Kilwardby, this argument also shows that there is an inherent disposition in human beings to participate in God but this disposition needs to be exhorted to its full fruition. The science of theology has another significantly unique characteristic, which should be emphasized: practice and theory are not two completely different things but are united in a special way. All theological inquiry ultimately leads to action, as study of the virtues leads to virtuous action. Kilwardby considers this a reason for the relevance of theology.10 Theology is a science different from others because the end and origin are specific; it is a case not of discovering by means of examination but rather of believing what is stated in Scripture, not insofar as it is necessarily true but insofar as it is necessary for salvation.11 Whereas the human sciences proceed by means of the threefold method of definition, division, and collation—​and thus are subject to procedural mistakes—​theology rests on true principles that are guaranteed from the beginning.12 Another important distinction between the human and divine disciplines is the issue of their ends or goals. Here Kilwardby uses Augustine’s

Believing  207 traditional distinction between knowledge as science and knowledge as wisdom. Human disciplines, philosophy in particular, aim at knowledge. Theology on the other hand aims at the love of the good. For this, certification of what is true is not enough; it requires loving the highest good and raising oneself to that love. Kilwardby defends the view according to which there is an essential distinction between knowledge for the sake of truth and knowledge for the sake of love. Thus he explains: “there is science that is merely knowledge of what is rooted in a harmony of the pure cognitive part of the soul, according to some reasoning or vision; and there is science that is loving knowledge that is rooted in a consensus of the affective part of the soul, according to true love. The first is that of philosophers, the second that of theologians.”13 Knowledge of what is true is important, but it is not all there is for human beings. More important, as this knowledge is always founded on the knowledge of what can be otherwise, to one degree or another it is always less certain than the knowledge that originates in God, such as that which is expressed in the principles of faith. That kind of knowledge, Kilwardby notes, is superior to the certainty one can have of the principles of demonstration because, even if we do not know why they are true, we know that they are true, due to their source. There can be no falsity in the knowledge that originates in divine inspiration (divina inspiratione), but there can be falsity in the kind of knowledge that is the result of human investigation (humana inventione).14 Knowledge, as Aristotle understands it, is very limited in that it only accepts as true a causally demonstrated conclusion, whereas knowledge as accepted by theologians includes not only what is known by the mind but also what is believed by the mind.15 Theology requires both the capacity for understanding and the capacity for believing beyond what is reasoned.16 Thus, theological truth is not limited to knowledge that is universal in nature. Knowledge that arises from the causal role of the middle term in a demonstration depends on the light of the intellect itself, grasping its necessity. On the contrary, theological knowledge is dependent on divine inspiration as an absolute self-​ sufficient principle of truth.17 Faith entails precisely this accepting as true even what is given by testimony, provided that that testimony is warranted by divine inspiration. That testimony is grounded in the absolute way God knows: God sees everything all at once, as each thing is now and always in its own “reason” in a clear and distinct way.18 By being absolutely simple, God’s knowledge is without failures or gaps, and therefore knowledge

208  Robert Kilwardby that is inspired by God’s own knowledge is superior in kind to any sort of human knowledge, achieved by human means only. In that sense, such testimony goes well beyond what can be accepted on the basis of a dialectical argument as expounded by philosophers. That methodological approach is aligned with the general idea that the ultimate purpose of theology is to instruct human beings on the way toward salvation. The study of sacred Scripture is essential to the knowledge of this, but theology is not limited to knowledge. In fact, theological knowledge is directed to action, so that the knowledgeable human being can prepare himself for eternal life, in which he has the opportunity to enjoy the eternal vision and contemplation of God.19 Kilwardby hence combines what Aristotle says in the Metaphysics and in the Ethics:  “human beings naturally desire to know” and “naturally desire the good.” The desire for knowledge is thus better understood as the desire to know that true and maximal good and to know how to reach it. Depending on how one wants to take this, it seems that these two aspects support each other: knowing what is good, one can act according to that good. Theological knowledge may well be a good in itself, but it is primarily a means to an end: to inform us of what is proper for us as human beings to strive to achieve. That knowledge, Kilwardby remarks, is important to instruction in faith, hope, and charity, which are key theological virtues.20 Instruction, justification, and beatification are essential for human beings to become able to attain their ultimate end, which is to adhere to a life with God in the consummation of his glory. Such a life, however, requires a process of learning and a process of perfecting, to which theological knowledge fundamentally contributes. Underlying this process is the principle of all human beings having an intrinsic inclination to be united with God, although the fulfillment of this depends on the grace of God. The bottom line is that human beings, despite the intrinsic inclination to be united with God and the desire to know what is good and act accordingly, need the grace of God to achieve their ultimate aim, which is the beatific participation in God. In order to realize this, human beings make themselves disposed toward God’s grace-​giving action by means of learning and enacting (as the result of that learning) the principles and the truth of the Catholic faith. This learning is not in and of itself sufficient for grace and achievement of the ultimate end but is necessary for a properly disposed human being to become able to even qualify for that divine gift.

Believing  209

The Divine Trinity A central topic of the first book of the Sentences is the Divine Trinity and the nature of the relation that holds between the divine persons and the divine essence. Kilwardby follows this line and examines the Divine Trinity in terms of two questions:21 first, how should each of the elements be defined? and second, what is the nature of the relation between them? Kilwardby argues that God is defined as three persons in one essence or substance. A person is traditionally defined as “an individual substance of a rational nature,” but this leads to a number of worries about the compatibility between this definition and the need for the three divine persons to share a common essence or substance. In fact, it seems contradictory that three individual substances can be in one substance. At the same time, it is necessary to explain what property of each of the persons distinguishes it from the other two. Kilwardby carefully elaborates his solution. The first thing to do is to introduce more stringent requirements for the definition of a person. He enumerates four: 1 . 2. 3. 4.

To be of a rational nature To be in actuality Not to be part of something Not to be united with something nobler

The first two (positive) requirements are clear. The third is there to exclude considering the human soul as a person alone; only together with the body does the soul constitute a human person. The fourth is necessary to avoid the existence of two complete persons in the incarnated Christ, because the divine aspect of Christ coexists with the human aspect of Christ. Only together do they form the person of Christ. In addition to these requirements for personhood, Kilwardby argues that an individual rational substance must have what he calls “personal property,” which in a certain way is unique to that individual. That personal property is incommunicable, which means that it is not sharable, neither with other persons nor with the common nature. In the case of human persons, who are endowed with bodily parts, the personal property is determined by the here and now that characterizes embodied existence. In the case of the divine persons, the personal distinctive property is defined by the mode of origin: the Father generates and is not generated; the Son is generated and generates; and the Holy Ghost proceeds from both the

210  Robert Kilwardby Father and the Son (and does not generate).22 Paternity or generation is thus the personal property of the Father, filiation or being generated is the personal property of the Son, and spiration (spiratio) or procession is the personal property of the Holy Ghost. Another way of putting this is that God the Father is not generated (innascibilitas is his property), the Son is generated, and the Holy Ghost proceeds. Therefore, the divine persons share a divine essence but are distinct by virtue of their personal properties. Only by reduction or by means of oblique predication can the personal property—​like, generating—​be predicated of the essence.23 In other words, whatever the essence is, the person is—​but the essence is not everything that the person is. At the same time, there is a constitutive relation between the three persons—​this relation of being the father of and being the son of and proceeding from—​because to be a father entails that there is a son, and for someone to proceed there must be the one it proceeds from. This seems problematic in that the relation is counted among the accidents and God seems to be pure substance, without accidents:  otherwise, God would be changeable because he could lose or gain accidental features.24 Kilwardby replies to this concern by saying that there are two aspects to a relation: insofar as it inheres (in a substance), a relation is considered an accident, and insofar as it has a certain respect to another thing, a relation is considered a substance. That is precisely the kind of constitutive relation we find in God as the relation between the three persons (on this, see the section “The Category of Relation” in ­chapter 3).

Where From? Creation as a Kind of Change The focus of the second book of the Sentences is creation. The starting question is whether creation is done from nothing, and if so what this nothing is, or whether creation presupposes the existence of something. Kilwardby’s argument is that the power needed to bring something from a state of potentiality to a state of actuality can be found in the natural world, but the same is not true of the power to bring something from not being (in an absolute sense) into being. That latter kind of change is properly called creation and requires an infinite power, which can only be found in God. What

Believing  211 characterizes God above all else is his omnipotence, which can be defined as follows: “the power of which nothing greater can be conceived.”25 This definition makes it clear that there is no limit to God’s power, which is in clear contrast to what we find with the power of creatures, even very powerful ones. Kilwardby illustrates this with the example of the power of the king in Anglia not being applicable in France (Paris), and the same is true the other way around. In contrast with human limitations is God, who alone is able to transcend these limitations and bring about a change from nothing to being. This is clearly distinct from the kind of change whereby something goes from a state of potentiality to a state of actuality, which can be explained by natural agents. Creation, as stated already, requires the existence of a supremely powerful agent who is able to produce being out of nothing.26 Being that agent, God is the efficient cause of creation. A different but related question is as follows:  change always requires the existence of something from which change starts, which, as has just been shown, cannot be any existing thing—​otherwise, the change would qualify as generation or substantial change. How, therefore, to account for this requirement? Kilwardby explains this by saying that what is created existed already in a sense of potentiality in the efficient cause, rather than in the material cause.27 There is no “that out of which” the created world was created, except the power of the Creator. God, by his infinite power, creates being (esse) from nothing (nihil) or nonbeing (non esse).28 Kilwardby clearly argues against Aristotle, for whom any kind of change requires the existence of the principle of motion and the moved thing prior to the change itself. For Kilwardby, this is true for all cases in which the source or efficient cause of the change is a finite power; but in the case of creation, the cause of which is an infinite power,29 the change is from nothing, and therefore there is no need for dispositions in nature to explain it.30 God’s creative action has a temporal connotation and effect,31 raising the issue of the relation between the world and God. Kilwardby notes that there are several theories concerning the creation of the world, as follows: 1 . The world is coeternal with God and is not created or made by God. 2. The world is coeternal with God but not created or made by God. 3. The world is coeternal with God and is created but not made by God.

A central issue here is the difference between “being made” and “being created” by God. Being made is the result of a voluntary action, but one

212  Robert Kilwardby that does not require having a beginning in time.32 The claim is that if God exists eternally but the world only started to exist at a certain point, God decided when to create the world. That would seem to mean, however, that God did not wish the existence of the world before the moment he decided to create it. It is fair to ask what caused God’s change of heart, to wish or to allow creation to take place. The veiled accusation is the mutability in God, who went from a state of not wanting to a state of wanting the creation of the world. Moreover, it would seem that there is something required in explaining that what previously did not deserve to be created “suddenly” did. Kilwardby argues against all these views, because he takes it to be the case that all created things are composites and, as such, need to have a cause of their constitutive parts and a principle or cause of their composition. That cannot be the case from eternity; it needs to have a principle in time.33 There is a moment before which there was nothing and a moment after which there was something, and that is the definition of creation. Consequently, the world cannot be coeternal with God. Rather, from God, who is pure form, the form of other things is created. But matter must also be created and is likewise created by God, out of nothing. Of the three theories presented here, Kilwardby takes particular care to dismiss the last one, that is, the view according to which the world was not made by God but in some way emanated from him, as if in a form of radiation (irradiatio).34 The obvious objection to this view is that the emanated thing (the world) seems to share little of the source of emanation:  the created world is corruptible in most cases, limited in power, and composite. God is none of those things, so creation cannot be an emanation. More important, however, is that there is a certain natural ordering of powers in the world, so that secondary causes (in the created world) are ordered to the primary cause (the Creator). In order to be so ordered, however, the secondary causes cannot be infinite, like the primary cause. As Kilwardby later points out, “nothing constituted of number, weight, and measure is infinite.”35 Therefore, only that which creates can create, and it creates by means of an action, taking place in time, rather than by means of an emanation from eternity, as it were. Being (other than God) only exists in time.36 The conclusion then imposes itself: God could have made something coeternal but not a creature. This is so for two reasons. First, from God’s point of view, if God were to create something coeternal with himself,

Believing  213 then that thing would be equally divine and hence God would not be that “than which nothing greater can be thought” (non esset quo maius excogitari non potest, a clear nod to Anselm’s ontological argument).37 Second, from the point of view of the creature, it must be out of nothing as required by its own definition: a creature is that which is created. The best way is to understand creation as an infinite power applying itself to the creature.38 That action results in the coming into being of the thing, and it must be thought of as a voluntary act of God: God wills the creation, and despite this willing of God being a willing from eternity, its effects are connoted with time. It is an action that takes place in eternity (from the point of view of the agent) but has an effect in time—​as composite things can only exist in time. Kilwardby takes this to mean that creatures exist by creation and creation exists by itself, just as human beings live by means of the soul and the soul by means of life and life by means of itself; or that any composite is one by unity and unity is explained by itself.39 The idea here seems to be about how to discriminate between God’s action and the effect of God’s action: is creation or the creature God’s action or an effect of God’s action? To talk about creation in an ordered universe is to talk about the way what exists comes into being, from a primary state of chaos into one of order. Kilwardby considers the issue of whether the biblical version of the creation of the world is to be interpreted literally or in a spiritual sense. He leans to the spiritual side, as he takes the view that all parts of the universe were created in one instant—​or at least the first instances of all the species. Now, as all the things that exist must exist in a complete form—​because only things with a complete form exist on their own—​the assumption is that things in incomplete forms can exist but not as independent things. They must rather be parts of things that are capable of existing on their own. The first complete forms to inform matter are the forms of the elements, but it seems clear that the forms of the elements cannot be primary, so there must be an underlying form, which is incomplete, that disposes matter to the reception of the elementary forms. As developed in the subsection “Matter” in ­chapter 2, Kilwardby takes that primary form in natural substances to be the form of corporeity (forma corporeitatis)40 or the “form of the body” (forma corporis), that is to say, the form that gives matter extensions like latitude and longitude. This form, which gives dimensions to matter, is a generic rather than specific form. It precedes any form of the

214  Robert Kilwardby elements,41 and it is then specified into forms of the sublunar (recti) and celestial (circularis) bodies. Such a form is dispositional, which is to say that it exists as metaphysical indetermination ready to be determined by the determining specific forms: “that nothing is in a genus that is not also in some species is true about the works of nature. But this matter comes into being by the action of God and therefore it can, by that same power almost as if by a miracle, subsist under a general form before being distinguished by the special forms [i.e., the forms of the species].”42 Only that last specific form, as the perfective or completive of the thing, corresponds to an actual existing thing that has an existence on its own (i.e., not being part of something else). The question that remains to be answered is how these other forms come into being, determining by specifying the matter of what exists. Kilwardby replies: “that corporeal form has within itself in potency all the corporal forms that are to be produced throughout the centuries and were all cocreated in that matter so formed. Therefore, there is in that form a certain almost maximal capacity for all forms.”43 The coming into being of all forms, and thus of all material things, is explained by the existence in that original and primary form of corporeity of all forms that are to be in actuality. However, they exist subsumed in an inchoate state. The whole process of becoming thus resembles a process of unveiling of those potencies that exist in matter, that original matter created by God, which Kilwardby defines as “impregnated of potencies,”44 from which all the forms come into being (here meaning coming into actuality). Placing his theory in line with the tradition of medieval Augustinianism, Kilwardby remarks that these potentialities existing in matter in an inchoate state are called “seminal reasons” (rationes seminales).45 Another way of saying this is that under this general form, the specific forms exist in a state of indistinction and, through time, come into full distinction and actuality. It is by means of this continuous process of unveiling that we observe the work of nature as realizing a process that was initiated by God in the original moment of creation. Among the created beings, those of a rational nature have a special role, because they are perpetual; in the case of the human soul, they must be created individually by God at any given moment in time. The fact that some exist apart from material bodies and others in material bodies in the human person allows one to differentiate between the human and the angelic rational souls. According to Kilwardby, these could be taken as either belonging to the same species, as both of them share the same completive

Believing  215 and essential difference (i.e., the intellective form), or as belonging to two different species as one:  the human rational soul exists connected with matter, whereas the other, the angelic rational soul, exists separated from it. He explains: “therefore, as man is a composite of rational [soul] and corporeal [matter], it [i.e., the human rational soul] [must] differ from a rational [soul] not united with a body.”46 Whereas the human rational soul is defined by its unitability to a body, the angelic lacks it.47 Of course, angels can assume a human body if necessary, which means that all rational souls are capable of such “unitability” (unibilitas). Kilwardby argues that the difference lies in the fact that the human rational soul is essentially capable of being united with a body, whereas the angelic rational soul can accidentally be united with a body. Therefore, “this unitability of the rational soul with the body is the essential difference [between] the angelic and the [human] soul, from the part of the soul.”48 What this unibilitas refers to is an inherent inclination to be so united with the body,49 and as such it is constitutive of the essence of the human species of rational soul. While this inclination is determined by the natural perfection of this kind of soul, which is knowledge of all things, including material things, it also makes it more difficult for the intellect to perform its proper operation, which is understanding. Kilwardby points this out, noting: “the cause why in us contemplation is impeded by action is the split of the mind [toward different directions] as the result of external action. Because when the soul turns to the body, if it turns completely to it, it completely abandons contemplation, if not totally at least significantly.”50 Angels are not affected by this splitting of attention, as it were, due to the fact that their souls are not connected with a physical body. In humans, this appetite or inclination to be so united is not voluntary but natural, arising as a consequence of the Fall.51 This unitability also explains the transmission of original sin. By means of this union, the human soul gets contaminated by original sin, which is transmitted from the parents through the natural process of generation.52

Angels One may well ask, as Kilwardby does, whether angelic intelligences are thus restricted in what they know or even whether knowledge is as essential to them as a perfection, as it is for human beings. The answer is

216  Robert Kilwardby rather complicated, because he wants to say that human rational souls and angelic intelligences are different but not too different. As rational souls, acquisition of knowledge is an important part of what they do. Yet Kilwardby still wants to account for how angelic souls come to know material things. It cannot be through the body because there is no physical body to be connected to, although there may well be (if assumed). Their cognitive faculties are, in any case, roughly those of human beings, so they also need sensory information to reach the power of imagination for further processing, because all knowledge of sensible things starts from perception, according to the Aristotelian dictum. The solution is to argue that the source of that information is different: whereas in the case of humans it comes from the senses, in the case of angels it comes from reason. Angels have, from the outset, images of material things that are then moved downstream to imagination for processing. In other words, angels—​like human beings—​know material things by means of their images being made present to the faculty of imagination. They differ in that whereas humans receive those images from the senses, angels receive images independently of the senses (sine sensu) and directly from reason, in which these images have existed from the time angels were created.53 This opens up two sorts of issues: one concerned with angels directly and the other concerned with the doctrine of the Incarnation. In what follows, I will examine these two issues in turn. The first dispute is about the superiority of human beings with respect to angels, or vice versa. Kilwardby takes the view that the more something is capable of existing separated from matter, the higher it stands in the hierarchy of being. That is clearly the case with the angelic soul, which does not have the essential inclination to be united with the body and, thus, is closer to divine simplicity than human nature. On the other hand, however, it must be said that in the original, prelapsarian state, human beings and angels shared the same level of dignity.54 In fact, when he later returns to the issue of angelic atonement (reparatione), he remarks that human souls have the same capacity for grace and for glory as angelic souls and, as a result, should be placed on the same level in the ontological hierarchy of spiritual beings.55 Moreover, he notes that the consequence of the Fall is the human inclination toward the body, but that is compensated for by the fact that human beings can restore their original state. In other words, although man is subject to sin, this status is reparable.56 This leads Kilwardby to conclude that more good things arise from the inclination to be united

Believing  217 with the body than would have been the case if humans did not have such an inclination.57 I shall, however, return for a moment to the issue of angelic cognition, by focusing on the cognitive part of the rational soul (called aspectus). Although angels, due to lacking a physical body, do not come to know material things by means of the senses, their souls are still perfected by knowledge—​like any other rational soul. Unlike others, however, angelic souls have unmediated access to beatific vision and thus come to share, to some degree, in God’s knowledge. Kilwardby then presents some different views on the kind of knowledge that angels have.58 According to the first view, angels have direct simple knowledge of things, via the knowledge of those things’ causal reasons in the mind of God, but lack all knowledge concerning complex or propositional knowledge. According to an alternative view, angels know in two ways: by means of grace and by natural means. The latter is the kind of knowledge common to all intellects, which is due to their being naturally endowed with cognitive content from the outset; but whereas in nonangelic intellects this knowledge is not explicit from the starting point (ab initio), being revealed through significant experience, that is the case for angels. Angels have access to this content from the outset. By means of grace on the other hand they know in two ways: some things they know immediately, which results from direct contemplation of God, while they know other things by means of what flows from God, whenever God so wishes. Between the two options, Kilwardby seems to prefer the one that grants to angels all immediate knowledge that is possible for them to know. That does not mean that angels know everything God knows. Kilwardby certainly has in mind a thesis he keeps going back to, according to which any natural cognitive power has a limited reach, even if it can know an infinite number of things and grasp the existence of an infinite amount of relations between them. But that is the difference between a power that exists in a substance (the soul) and an accident, like knowledge, by means of the power assimilating itself to other things. That entails possible infinite knowledge (i.e., of things known) but not infinite power (to know everything about all things).59 Although he makes some of these claims in the context of Christ’s knowledge, its application to the knowledge of any rational creature is pretty straightforward. The overarching justification for this thesis comes from the idea that among the substantial forms of a thing, priority goes to the last perfective form. All other forms are capable of being further perfected and thus not the most perfect one.60 Kilwardby also

218  Robert Kilwardby considers the way the human soul can be said to be the image of God. He takes “image” in a proper way and a common way. According to the proper way, image is the imitation of something natural, whereas in the common sense, image is a certain likeness or convenience.61 In the first case, imitation means that the image always refers to that of which it is the image, as if that would be its cause, without sharing its nature. The human soul is the image of God in that sense (i.e., in that it represents God, of whom it is the image, without being of the same nature as God). This ontological difference explains the difference in epistemic reach that characterizes human beings with respect to God.

Creator and Creatures A central theological question examined by medieval theologians was whether creation entails some sort of ontological dependency of the creator on the creature. Moreover, is God changed by engaging in the activity of creation, as the relation to the creatures he creates comes to exist, when it did not exist before? Kilwardby discusses this issue in some detail in his DNR. The solution is to argue that a relation toward something else can come into being without it entailing a change in that which caused that relation,62 and to make clear that the resulting dependency is not transitive: the creature is dependent on God,63 but God is not dependent on the creature.64 Whereas the one acting is independent from the one being acted on, that which is acted on is essentially related to the agent. A creature belongs to the category of relation because its own existence is dependent on another as its cause—​a creature comes from nothing.65 Applied to creation, this means that the creature is essentially dependent on the creator but not vice versa. It is in this context that Kilwardby elaborates on the question about the special status of “creature,” which seems to be both a relative and a relation: anything created necessarily refers to, and tends toward, something else. This seems to imply that a substance, which the creature primarily is, is a relation; in consequence, relations not only are accidents but also can be substances in this very particular case. If we abstract the inhering that characterizes an accident and retain only the substantial aspect of the foundation—​the pointing toward another—​we retain the ad aliquid aspect of substance without retaining its accidental aspect.66 Applied to creatures,

Believing  219 that means that the creator-​creature relation is grounded in the substance itself of the creature, which is fully (rather than just partially)67 dependent on God.68 As shown earlier, relation is a potentially universal feature of what is:  whatever exists has the potential to point toward another (ad aliquid), which is the essence of relation. A creature provides the ontological grounding for relations simply by being an individual substance created by God.69 Examining the relation between the creator and the creature from the point of view of the creator, the key issue is whether a relation toward something else can come into being without it entailing a change in that which caused that relation.70 Otherwise, as creatures are created in time, it would mean that with this creation of the creature a relation would start to exist in God that did not exist before, meaning that God is not unchangeable.71 One can always argue that whereas one of the things is changed essentially, the other is changed accidentally, as when x becomes similar to y, the per se change takes place in x, whereas y is only accidentally changed.72 That may well be true, but it would still be the case that a change took place in God, which does not seem to be possible. Likewise, it would seem that God acts in creation, which means that there was a moment in which he had not created. Kilwardby’s way out is to argue that creation is an intrinsic and uniform action that flows from God’s essence; the divine essence is action (sua essentia est sua actio).73 There is no change from the state of not creating to the state of creating. Any created agent is such that it requires the acquisition of certain dispositions to perform certain operations, like a medical doctor or a singer, who must acquire or develop a capacity to perform the operation (healing or singing) proper to him.74 God, on the contrary, does not need to acquire any skill to perform any of his operations, including creation, because the power to create (potentia creandi) is part of his substance (i.e., what he is).75 God alone can create the world out of nothing.

Which One? The Free Choice of the Will In a series of questions, Kilwardby focuses on the issue of the liberum arbitrium (i.e., the free choice of the will), starting with whether it is a power of the soul, a habit, or simply an act. This is significant because the

220  Robert Kilwardby free choice of the will plays an essential role in sin, such that the responsibility for a sinful action must either fall to one power or to the whole soul or even to the whole human being. Kilwardby sides with the view that takes the free choice of the will to formally be a habit, so that it is predicated indirectly (in obliquo) of the soul and of the power of the will.76 The question is next whether, as a habit, it adds something to that power. One way to understand this is to say that it does, taking it as a quality of the second species, that is to say, as a determination of the power that facilitates the action of the power.77 Kilwardby seems to have a soft spot for these second species of quality, as they play important roles in his theory. He argues against those who take any sort of addition to be extraneous to human nature, saying that the faculties themselves are also something added to the substance of the thing.78 This kind of addition is natural and intrinsic to the thing and, as such, is a facilitator for the action of the power, which differs from the power only in account rather than in being. Thus, by qualifying the way the power is able to operate (with ease or difficulty), the habit of eliciting a certain action is a qualification of the whole soul. On the other hand one can say that the free choice of the will is something natural yet external to the power to which it is added. Kilwardby gives the example of acquiring a certain skill that makes the tasks related to a certain function easier to fulfill, like a form of increased agility. A habit thus considered is not an increase in the knowledge available; that is to say, it is not about the species through which one comes to know some thing but about the way one is able to operate on those acquired species. In the case of the will, the habit of liberum arbitrium, thus considered simply, means an acquired competence in the art of living well, which results in one being able to select those things that are more beneficial to good living and to identify what is harmful to it.79 It is in this sense that Kilwardby takes the free choice of the will to be a habit, which is added to the powers of the rational soul. The whole point is that by having a power, a thing is able to carry out certain functions; a habit does not affect the function itself. The function or operation can be carried out with ease or with difficulty by the power, and the role of the habit is to supply the power with the skill or disposition to do it more easily (faciliter). Now, one issue is whether the habit is really distinct from the power it disposes or is simply a distinction of reason. Kilwardby claims that the answer depends on under which aspect the habit is being considered: on the one hand when the habit is considered with respect to something other

Believing  221 than itself (as, for instance, in the case of cognitive powers that aim at apprehending an external thing), then it is really distinct from the power. However, when the power takes itself as the object of its act, then the habit is only conceptually distinct from the power.80 It seems, therefore, that Kilwardby frames the distinction as depending on the object of the act of the power rather than on the habit itself. Once acquired, such a skill is always present to the operations of the soul or powers in question, that is, reason and the will. This leads Kilwardby to the second qualification of freedom of the will, now in relation to the power of the will proper. The will is defined as “rational appetite” or desire.81 Whereas nonrational animals have appetites or sensory desire, human beings have a rational desire. It is by having reason that human beings are able to adjudicate between those things that serve the purpose of good living or not, and by having will, human beings are able to choose in accordance with reason what is beneficial for that purpose. The result is that nonrational animals act in accordance with their desires only, whereas human beings choose to act in accordance with what their reason tells them is advisable to do: “the judgment of reason shows the desire what to desire and the power to choose what to select rationally.”82 Later on, Kilwardby adds: “the free choice of the will . . . can be named a habit of the rational mind to select or a faculty of the mind to select according to [both] will and reason.”83 By supporting each other, the faculties of reason and will make their operations easier to perform. Reason is inclined to select what is best, whereas the will informs itself in choosing what is the better thing to do. As two distinct faculties, these two are directed toward different objects and perform different actions: one is directed toward knowledge, the cognitive part of the aspectus, whereas the other is directed to action, the practical side (affectus) of the aspectus. But these two work together, as if they were one power; this is simply the habit that is called liberum arbitrium: “it must be said, therefore, that even though reason and will are different faculties, in that they are distinguished by [having] different objects and operations—​ speculating about [what is] true and acting or selecting or desiring the good—​they constitute one liberum arbitrium insofar as they become one power, rationally selecting and acting. Thus, their habit is [also] one.”84 The free choice of the will is then nothing but the “ability to discern and elect” what is best to do at any given moment.85 The free choice of the will is nothing but the rational soul judging what is best and acting in accordance with what is best, so that any distinction between powers collapses in that

222  Robert Kilwardby operation, which necessarily combines aspects from the two constituting faculties. The free choice of the will instantiates this joint venture of reason and will: “as the powers of rationally choosing and the power of selecting from what has been chosen and their actions have in like manner a mutual [inclination], it seems that they conveniently constitute one power when they mutually support each other and their actions convene into one total action.”86 One action arises from the joint venture, and the proper name to give to this is active power, which is an aggregate of those two constituting powers in operation. This is not, however, an aggregate of a substantial or essential type; rather, it should be taken in a virtual sense as the joint effort of two not essentially distinct powers.87 This is an important qualification because, for Kilwardby, there is no real distinction between the faculties of reason and will, despite their different functions and objects. They belong to the same essence. But neither does the fact that they have different functions prevent them from being able to work together in one action. The same jointness can also be found to hold between different acts of one and the same cognitive cluster (say, the sensitive part of the soul), with each act being from a different (partial) power. Imagine a situation in which the external senses are in operation together with the common sense, the power of imagination, and the power of memory. All these are powers of the sensitive soul, and each has its own set of proper operations. Together they perform something that is unified as the result of a certain order(ing) that exists among such powers. Kilwardby mentions those who object to this, emphasizing that he does not see any problem in the faculties of reason and will jointly constituting one power in their operation, which is the liberum arbitrium.88 He takes it as a basic fact about humans’ psychological life that different powers inclined to be united can together form such a strong unity as to be one during an operation. That is the case when two powers from different things jointly perform an action (for instance, the visual power informing the sense organ and the object via the medium affecting the sense organ) or when two powers of one and the same thing do the same operation (for instance, when the power of writing and the power of seeing and the power of moving the hand jointly perform the operation of writing).89 These actions require a basic kind of coordination, which exists in things that have a mutual inclination. Kilwardby then expands this into a general metaphysical principle that occupies center stage in his thought:

Believing  223 it is asked in what way from two powers one is constituted. It must be said that it is not inconvenient that from those two, each ordained to the other, a whole one comes to be. In the same way as a composite substance is made of matter and form, [a substance] that is not simple like matter and form considered on their own, and in the same way as from the genus and difference a species is made that is one in effect, although not simple as either its constituents. Likewise, reason and will together make the free choice of the will, which is one [in operation], even though it is not simple like reason considered on its own.90

So, in a general sense, what Kilwardby is saying is that there is a sense in which composite things jointly operate as unitary entities due to a mutual inclination that explains the mode of functioning and the mode of being in such a unitary/​unified way.91 One is left to consider in more specific terms the way there is free choice if the liberum arbitrium is a joint operation of the will and reason. Kilwardby claims that the liberum arbitrium is free because that is what characterizes the will, but can one do otherwise than what reason judges to be the right thing to do? Kilwardby does not seem to take seriously this possible threat to free choice, for he insists that there are, as it were, two parallel tracks of will and reason that somehow refer to each other but remain largely independent. The idea seems to be that the liberum arbitrium cannot be coerced because it remains under the jurisdiction of the will, which is free. Reason also seems to be free in the sense that it knows what it knows and judges what is best on the basis of that knowledge. When considering something, it can be considered either as true or as good. Now, if it is considered as good, this can be according to natural goodness or according to voluntary goodness. If nonvoluntary natural goodness, the thing is evaluated according to the purpose it serves, so that it falls outside the consideration of the liberum arbitrium. If voluntary goodness (like that which presides over, say, the building of a house or the making of a statue), this activity depends on the choice of a human agent and thus entails liberum arbitrium. Of course, it can be considered from the point of view of my free will or the will of someone else, in which case there is nothing I can do to interfere with the decision-​making process. In either case, however, whoever is the subject of that decision, it is the result of a decision-​making process and thus entails the existence of liberum arbitrium.92 In other words, the definition of free choice of the will is as follows: “nothing but the power of

224  Robert Kilwardby the rational mind that discerns and is elective of those [actions] that are in our power.”93 Accepting this definition does not entail accepting that there are no restrictions or limitations imposed on the exercise of the free choice of the will. Despite acts of the will being fully internally determinable and thus free, the liberum arbitrium can be restricted by external elements.94 For instance, if I want to move a stone that is too heavy for me, the fact that I am not able to do it is external to my will yet restricts my action. What Kilwardby wants to signal is the real contrast between the will, which is unrestrained in what it wills, and the free choice of the will, which takes into consideration, as the result of the influence of reason, those factors that can externally limit human free action. So, whereas one can will impossible things, the liberum arbitrium aims at what is achievable.95 Kilwardby therefore sides with those who take reason to have priority over the will, but he does so in an interesting way: the will is free in its own domain, but when there is occasion to elect a course of action, reason seems to dominate. In this, the will is limited to assenting to or dissenting from what reason indicates as the preferred course of action.96 By emphasizing that the free choice of the will is restricted in its action by external elements, Kilwardby finds himself in need of explaining what kind of influences really do limit the action of the free choice of the will. These influences can come both from below and from above: from the corporeal things that surround us and from the celestial bodies, whose motions have an impact on our own motions. Kilwardby reasons that for all cases of external influence, these external elements are not sufficient, on their own, to cause a motion that is voluntary. Instead, for them to succeed, certain conditions must be met in the thing moved, so that it is better to say that the motion under such external influences is possible only due to the existence of internal, and internally caused, dispositions. External influences are, at most, contributing causes in educing, or impeding, internal dispositions. The influence of celestial bodies’ motions is a good example: they influence corporeal sublunar bodies and as such can influence the contributing factors for action, but not voluntary action. Even in those cases when an action is determined by love, for example, this is the consequence of the loving agent changing her evaluation and choice as to what to do. Even here the motion is internally caused, despite the fact that the object is external to the agent.97 One exception is God’s action with his potentia absoluta.98 God can, in fact, reduce to obedience the

Believing  225 free choice of the will. But in that case, Kilwardby remarks, it is not any more a free choice, because even “[God] cannot condition freedom, as this is what the nature of to be free is, because freedom and coercion cannot exist in the same thing at the same time.”99 What characterizes the human will in comparison to animal desire is precisely the capacity to choose at will, without any external constraint.100 For Kilwardby, only the will is really free, as it cannot be coerced by anything.101 What kind of will, one may well ask, is that which is absolutely free? He answers this question by considering freedom in two ways: 1. A quo: freedom from another. In this sense, freedom must be absolute in that it is realized under no constraint. As has been shown, this is required by the definition of freedom itself. The human will can will anything and as such is maximally contrasted with the natural realm, where each action is determined by its causal structure. 2. Ad quod: freedom as a power, which is relational in nature. God’s freedom is absolute in this sense, and humans’ is free in the sense that is not restricted in its possibilities.102

When considering the free choice of the will, Kilwardby recognizes that freedom of the second type does not apply in an absolute sense to the human will, because it must obey (servare) a certain rectitude that is constitutive of it. Moreover, humans’ free choice (of the will) is limited in this life, because our cognition of what is good is also limited and imperfect.103 Perfect knowledge results in perfection of choice, as is the case with God. One way to strengthen humans’ free choice is by the influence of grace. That is what Kilwardby considers next.

By Heaven’s Grace The starting point is the view that grace is a gratuitous gift from God that affects or changes the human mind.104 That view is identified by Kilwardby as the one Peter Lombard defends in his Sentences, distinction 26, ­chapter 6.105 God makes this gift by efficaciously causing a new disposition of the soul. Kilwardby turns toward the question of how things come

226  Robert Kilwardby to be. Some things, he says, are made immediately (i.e., in an instant) by God,106 such as matter, the human rational soul, and seminal reasons; other things, like the human body, are made by God through nature.107 Some of these things, like seminal reasons, cooperate with an external agent in order to be brought from a state of latency to a state of full actuality. But others do not require such an external agent assisting in their actualization; instead, they are able to bring about their actuality on their own. These things come to be in some already existing thing. Among these are the virtues, primary among them being justice. According to Kilwardby, human justice “is a certain passive spiritual impression on the affective part of the created rational mind by means of the adherence of love to the rules of unchangeable justice, which is found in [the mind] itself.”108 This “impression”—​he also calls it an “illustration”—​of justice is representative of all the other main virtues. According to this model of justice, which he explicitly associates with Augustine, humans have, from the outset, a set of rules that serves as the standard against which all our actions are to be judged while we are performing them. Among those principles, he lists (1)  putting God above oneself and other human beings, and (2) totally directing oneself and others to God.109 Although Kilwardby refrains in general from adopting an openly nativist reading, he does seem to admit the existence in human beings of certain rules of recte vivendi, which are impressed from the outset on the affective part of the soul.110 He also makes the point that these rules do not suffice for living a just life, in the sense that there is a distinction between having such rules and implementing them in real-​life situations. Kilwardby illustrates this with the example of a seal and water, whereby the form of the seal remains only while the seal is present on the surface of the water. In the same way, he says, a colored thing can only be seen while the light illuminating the air is present. This illumination is made possible by the existence of certain dispositions in the medium, in this case air.111 The lesson he takes from these examples is not so much the existence of a process of manifesting forms as the existence of an aptitude that allows for the reception of those virtues. This last idea seems to be that it is the attention drawn toward the incoming impression that makes the reception possible.112 In other words, there is a required degree of conformity and appropriateness between the impressing and the being impressed. By following or adopting the rules of righteous living, defined according to those principles of justice, virtue assimilates the mind to God.113 “Justice”

Believing  227 and “virtue” (or virtuous living) seem to be synonyms, because virtue in this context is defined as the adherence to the art of living righteously.114 It has been shown that God is able to impress virtues like justice on the soul. The same is true of grace. Grace is the result of God’s action, which makes grace united in a certain way with the soul.115 But grace is not created and infused, like the individual rational soul; instead, grace is a quality added to this already constituted individual soul, as its perfection.116 Kilwardby insists on the importance of this point: there is a basic distinction between on the one hand the creation of the principles of things—​ like those of form and matter, which constitute an individual (composite) substance—​and on the other the addition to an already constituted individual a qualification or mode of being that helps determine, but not produce, the individual himself in which that qualification inheres. Grace is not made out of nothing—​as a thing in its proper sense—​but is made in something; its purpose is not to replace but to perfect the capacity of a given being to do as well as his abilities allow. Despite the fact that grace is an absolutely free divine gift, a human being can contribute to its action by adopting a virtuous life, in accordance with the rules of living in good order, determined by both natural and divine law. The gratuitous action of God complements the disposition that prepares the reception of his action, if such action takes place (as it is absolutely free, one should keep in mind). Humans’ job, therefore, is to be prepared. The best way to do that is to know and love the principles of righteous living. In order to illustrate this, Kilwardby gives this example: a fixed stake is immobile, whereas a membrane [skin] is mobile and fluid, so that if it is not supported it falls to the ground. If we, however, glue it to the stake, it becomes steady and does not fall, because of the stake to which it is glued. There are two [beings] assisting in gluing [the membrane] to the stake: one is a dwarf and the other is a giant. Both can glue the lower part of the stake but only the giant can [glue] the upper part [of the stake], as the dwarf cannot reach it. That part can only be glued by the giant. Adapted [to the question]: the stake is the unchangeable art of righteously living, the membrane is the affective part of reason, the giant is God, the dwarf is man, and the glue is love.117

In this remarkable illustration, Kilwardby makes it clear that he conceives of a virtuous life as a joint venture in which humans are assisted by God but which depends also on us and our efforts in living according to the precepts

228  Robert Kilwardby of rectitude and on the basis of love. It seems clear that it is not enough to merely follow the principles of righteous living out of obligation: that self-​ caused love for God and for the right way of conducting one’s life is essential to the constitution of the disposition for receiving the virtue of grace. A problem with this way of formulating the issue is that it seems to give human dispositions precedence—​with a causal undertone—​over God’s action, thus violating an essential principle in the theology of grace, which is that grace is absolutely gratuitous: it is a free gift from God. As Kilwardby himself points out in his discussion of one of the possible objections to this argument,118 if human beings were capable of autonomously developing this disposition, then they would be able to bring grace upon themselves and thus to determine, of necessity, God’s action. Kilwardby takes the middle ground and prefers to emphasize the role both agents have in the development of grace: human beings can make themselves properly disposed to grace by adopting the principles of virtuous living, namely, via charity (caritas). Moreover, God contributes by maximally supplementing this dispositional effort. For Kilwardby, all the theological virtues belong to the affective part of the soul and are subsumed under the virtue of charity.119 Kilwardby clearly stresses that God’s action should be understood as “complementing” human effort.120 That should not be taken to mean, however, that human beings have claims about grace as being the result of their own deeds, such as meriting grace on the basis of justice (ex condigno). What they can do is to make themselves available and fit for grace, which is then given to them by divine mercy. The general point seems to be that although grace is a free gift, it does not diminish humans’ aspiration to behave in the way that is expected of us; that need not be considered a merit, in the sense that in doing it we must nevertheless be granted assistance from God. Instead, we should understand this complementation as meaning that the two things come together: if I am the kind of person who is genuinely charitable, I am also the kind of person who is gifted grace from God. This conception entails no necessity vis-​à-​vis God’s grace-​giving action but provides a sense of human effort in becoming properly disposed to be on the receiving end of that action. In other words, by behaving fittingly, one makes oneself a potential receiver of grace without necessarily meriting it. God is in no way compelled to bestow grace as the result of human action. The suggestion has been made earlier that love has a role to play in this process. In this context, Kilwardby talks about two kinds of love: (1) the love we are naturally capable of, which includes love for the rules of

Believing  229 virtuous living, and (2) unconditional love for God, oneself, and all created things.121 The first kind of love is not sufficient for salvation, because it lacks the power of being meritorious in itself. Only by means of God-​given grace can a human being be elevated to transcend the limitations of her own loving faculty.122 Kilwardby makes it plain that this happens to those humans who manifest that natural disposition for love, but not as the direct consequence of showing this development—​the point being that God may reward, if he so wills, the human contribution to salvation but is under no obligation to do so. What this question also makes clear is that a human being is capable, within the limits of the natural power of her loving faculty, of developing on her own this disposition for love—​and, accordingly, for virtue.123 As elsewhere, Kilwardby emphasizes this double mode of acting, which is for the agent to act properly and for the receiver to dispose himself to the reception of something from that external agent. By doing so, one participates in the causal story that brings about actuality to oneself. That is also the case with divinely caused grace, to which individual human beings can contribute by fighting against sinful temptations, turning their wills away from perversity, and working toward justice.124 After examining what Kilwardby had to say about grace in isolation from its effects on the human mental functions, I must now turn to considering the effects it has, if any, on the free choice of the will. By examining this aspect of grace, Kilwardby brings the focus of his theological inquiry to bear on the role of evil and the nature of sin.

Gratis: Sin and Evil Kilwardby starts by pointing out that we can resist everyday temptations on our own by means of our virtues but eternal salvation depends on divine grace.125 The main reason for this is that human beings are born into sin. Now, whereas it is a principle of Christian theology (which Kilwardby adopts) that most sins are the result of wrong use of the free choice of the will, there is one sin that is not the result of our individual choice—​that is, original sin. A major consequence of original sin consists in “the lack of original justice owed to human beings.”126 Following a trope of Augustinian theology, Kilwardby remarks that the corruption introduced by original sin and transmitted by means of the flesh has a twofold aspect:  penalty and mortality.127

230  Robert Kilwardby The punishment for original sin, which assumes the form of guilt, is transmitted from human parents to their children. This is the case even if at the moment of transmission the parents themselves are no longer culpable of original sin, due to the sacrament of baptism. Baptism restores a human being to the condition of being able to direct the cognitive part of the soul to the cognition of divine truth.128 The reason why the transmission occurs from “parents free of original sin” is that original sin does not exist in the parents qua individuals but qua human beings; it is transmitted with the transmission of human nature.129 In a sense, human beings do not receive the original sin but the whole of human nature that sinned in Adam. As this idea could suggest that there is collective responsibility but not individual responsibility, Kilwardby notes that human nature, qua universal, cannot sin, but any individual (supposito singulari) who instantiates that nature does. The statement that the whole of human nature sinned in Adam should thus be taken in a distributive sense. That is why it is fair to say that all human beings receive punishment because each of them is guilty. (To say otherwise would mean that God punishes unfairly.) Augustine is thus right, Kilwardby notes, when he says that both just and sinful parents generate sinful children. Original sin resulted in the corruption of human nature, which is then transmitted (traducta per propagationem) from parents to children, causing the children to be born sinful, just as children inherit other properties from their parents, like skin color.130 One of the main sources of the contamination and corruption of the will by sin is concupiscence, that is, the inability to live according to virtue.131 That effect of sin does not go away with baptism but is proper to humans’ existential post-​Fall condition.132 As shown earlier, for Kilwardby, to live righteously is proper to the optimal human being, and it includes, above all, the ability to direct oneself toward God and to autonomously love that precept as well. What characterizes the fallen human soul, though, is precisely the difficulty (impotentia) of bringing oneself to achieve this task. Concupiscence is then this general state of incapacity to act in such a way as to achieve the goals of a proper human life. In fact, one of the points Kilwardby seems intent on making is precisely that there is no ambiguity regarding what constitutes this optimal human life (as defined by the precepts of the art of recte vivendi). The impotence or lack of strength in bringing one’s own actions in line with the rules of virtuous living originates in the lack of the owed justice that belongs to human beings in

Believing  231 the ideal state.133 There is a distinction between “the natural aptitude to concupiscence and the aptitude to an inordinate act of concupiscence,”134 which is a punishment for original sin. Insofar as it is an inclination to act, concupiscence is not a disposition that leads to sin, because an ordered (sensory) concupiscence is a normal thing. The concupiscible appetite is only a problem when it fails to be ordered or temperate (i.e., pursuing what is appropriate for it to pursue) and when it fails to be under the control of reason. Concupiscence becomes a disposition that leads to sin when it is inordinate, that is, when the overwhelming and intemperate inclination for sensuous pleasures (immoderatus appetitus voluptatis carnalis) affects one’s rational decision-​making processes. This aptitude toward inordinate acts is not a positive feature but rather the lack of one, or ineptitude (ineptitudo), a failure of temperance in the face of excessive leaning toward physical goods. A question that is left unanswered is whether the concupiscence is the origin of sin or sin is the origin of concupiscence. Kilwardby takes concupiscence in its inordinate rational version to be a consequence of sin, whereas the sensual version is that which disposes one to sinful actions.135 In a harangue in the style of Augustine, Kilwardby lashes out against the inherent resistance of the body and the sensuous concupiscence with respect to the soul: it is called the law of the flesh and of the limbs by opposition to the law of the mind or reason, and this is especially said of the flesh because it is caused by the corruption of the flesh. In the same way, [it is said] of the limbs because the limbs compel [us] to obey them against the free choice of the will and the law of the mind. It is called a tyrant because it often compels [us] to evil [deeds]. . . . And this shows in what way the original guilt is the law of the limbs and the law of the flesh and why such a tyrant is thus named.136

The law of the flesh takes the form of sensual concupiscence, which drags the rational concupiscence with it, by providing the necessary disposition. It is from this process that ordinary sin follows and with it humans’ everyday sinful experience. In fact, to be more precise, it is from this process that vice follows and, consequently, humans’ noted inability to live in accordance with the rules of virtue, which were proper to human nature prior to the Fall. Here I have briefly touched on the issue of the transmission of original sin from parents to children and noted how this constitutes a hot topic in medieval debates on original sin. Until this point I have only considered

232  Robert Kilwardby Kilwardby’s concept of the effects of original sin and what part of the soul it primarily affects or contaminates, so I now need to consider in more detail the mode of transmission. Propagation of sin is a difficult issue because it raises concerns of fairness, such as why infants inherit the penalties of a sin they were not responsible for. It also raises the issue of the ontology of punishment: what sort of entity is the guilt that is transmitted from parents to children? The former is a theological question, but the latter is a metaphysical one: in what part of that which I receive from my parents is this punishment transmitted? As human beings are composite substances of matter and form, this transmission must take place either in the body or in the soul (secundum animam an secundum corpus).137 That there is no transmission at all is an option that must be dismissed, because the alternative hypothesis is that God directly creates the individual rational soul with sin, which would mean that God is the cause of any individual human being’s sin. The initial option, for which there seems to be enough scriptural and patristic evidence, is that this transmission happens through the body, namely, that it is caused by the libido that accompanies procreation.138 Kilwardby goes a long way to explain and refute this view. He starts by noting that as the consequence of Adam’s sin, his flesh received a double principle of corruption: first, a penalty that made his soul passible (i.e., able to be affected), and second, the infliction of viciousness to the soul. Both of these properties of Adam’s soul were transmitted by him, and from parents to their children, in the process of generation. As a result, the original incorruptibility of the human body gained the characteristic of mortality, which made human life resemble animal life, with all of its consequences. Sin thus contracts the human rational soul to the corrupted body,139 resulting in a keener inclination to its corporeality and the bodily desires and needs.140 That is made possible by the natural inclination of the soul, qua the form of the body, that is, “from the natural appetite, by which it is bound to the body as its form and act, as it constitutes a natural unity.”141 Kilwardby argues that the guilt (culpa) that follows from original sin is first received in the power of the soul. Original sin can be said to be either an infection or an infection that takes the form of guilt. As the former, it is said to be in all the powers of the soul and only through this mediation is received in the substance of the soul.142 As the latter, it is said to be only of the rational will. In that sense, it exists in the lower powers in an inchoate state and is found in its full-​blown form only in the will. So the real consequence of original

Believing  233 sin is found in the penalty of guilt, which affects the optimal functioning of the will. What makes this situation even more devastating for human ambitions is the fact that it unsettles the balance between those parts of the soul that are responsible for vivification and sensation on the one hand and reason on the other, leading to the latter having difficulty exerting its control over the former. Mortality is thus the most defining consequence of original sin and is also transmitted from parents to children.143 Returning to the original question, Kilwardby is now ready to deny that libido has any causal role to play in the transmission of original sin (or its consequences). Instead he argues that libido is better considered a concomitant aspect of this transmission.144 It does, however, remain a vice in human existence,145 which raises the further issue of how exactly the body causes this vice in the soul, insofar as these two stand at different levels of the ontological hierarchy. The explanation, according to Kilwardby, is that this is due precisely to the natural appetite or desire of the soul to be united with the body, which makes the soul subject to the deficiencies of the body: “being bound to the body due to a natural appetite, and because the body is vitiated, it manages to vitiate the soul. Therefore, because the soul is not vitiated except due to its union with the body by means of the action of the natural appetite, this appetite and action cause in a certain way the vice in the soul.”146 The action of the soul in the body is to vivify and perform the operations that are proper to it, so that it is “contaminated” by the corruption of the body in the sense or to the extent that it is naturally inclined to the body. That is only the case with the human soul, for the animal soul—​ by which I mean the soul of nonrational animals—​cannot contract original sin. In order to further specify this point, Kilwardby notes that things can act on other things in three ways: 1 . When a contrary overwhelms or overrides its contrary. 2. When the heavens influence sublunar things. 3. By means of connection (per colligantiam), as in the union of two things with one another; it happens when one of them brings the other to its nature by communicating to it its properties and dispositions.147

It is in this third way that the body affects (inficit) the soul and communicates its corruption, making the soul weaker in its action. But immediately thereafter, Kilwardby makes the point that this does not mean that there is an actual transmission of something from the body to the soul, because this

234  Robert Kilwardby is contrary to the general Augustinian thesis enunciated in many places, like the De musica and De Genesi ad litteram, according to which “the body does not make anything in the soul.”148 This last claim is important, and Kilwardby continues his attempt of explaining how the soul is “contaminated” by the corruption of the body and at the same time not affected by the body directly. The justification relies on the consideration of whether absence of action is evidence for limitation of power. At the core of Kilwardby’s account is the notion that the root (radix) of the penalty inflicted on the human being is the mortality of the body. The consequences this fact bear on the form and act of the body, which is the soul. The natural colligantia of the soul with the body explains why the soul is affected but not how it is affected, especially in view of the fact that the body seems to be unable to affect the soul, at least not directly.149 Such a thesis is at the core of not only Kilwardby’s epistemology but also his theological anthropology. It is essential, therefore, to understand how this happens. The basic structure of the argument seems clear:  the rational soul has a natural inclination to be united with the body. One of the consequences of this union, which Kilwardby calls colligantia, is that the affections of the body somehow have an effect on the soul. But the whole account rests on how this “somehow” is further specified. Kilwardby notes that this scenario is the case for both the sensitive soul and the rational soul, and he further illustrates this with an example concerning vision. Seeing, he notes, is different when the sense organ (the eye) is healthy and when it is ill. In the same way, a sick body behaves in a different way from a healthy one. The claim is thus that the state of the body is significant in terms of the way the soul is able to perform its cognitive functions, such that the debility of the body and perturbations in bodily spirits have consequences for the way one sees or perceives in general. In Kilwardby’s words, “in the same way as sight in an injured eye does not see in the same way as it does in a healthy one, also the senses in a sick body do not sense in the same way as in a healthy one. But the body is always ill” (emphasis added).150 As the result of humans’ sinful condition, we usually perceive in less than optimal conditions. What causes these less-​than-​optimal conditions is the soul’s debility due to the sensual appetites. But there are levels of this debility, of course, which correspond to the levels of subordination to those desires: the more one subjects oneself to them, the closer one is to the animalistic instincts; the more one resists, the closer one is to the ruling and control of reason. By turning to the senses and the sensuous

Believing  235 appetites, one is in fact turning away from what makes one human, which is humans’ capacity to ascend from the cognition of corporeal things to the cognition of spiritual things. A deficit in cognizing translates to faulty action. So those especially who are ignorant of the rules of virtuous living, such as young people, miss the proper dispositions that are necessary for grace; thus, they remain impotent in terms of their spiritual reach and fully subject to guilt. In adults, the same can happen. In order for that to be avoided, it is necessary to persevere in moving from the knowledge of sensible things to intelligible ones and to prepare oneself in terms of habituation to the rules of righteous living.151 These are, therefore, the two conditions of sinful existence—​the soul’s ignorance and the body’s mortality—​that prevent one from experiencing a better life. However, Kilwardby has yet to offer a solution to the original question, that is, how the body affects the soul, its ontological superior. His answer is that the body does so in a way that involves an infection by means of a defect rather than by positively causing a change in the soul. In other words, “the body does not affect the soul by emitting or imparting something, just as an external body emits species to the senses and to reason; rather, its defect makes the soul, to which it is united, defective.”152 He further illustrates this with the example of an artificer who has an injured hand and as a result is unable to carry out his work in a proper fashion. Just so, due to the faulty body, the soul is prevented from acting to its fullest potential. The action of the body is one of resistance (actio per resistentiam), and as Kilwardby has already formulated, that is the normal condition of the postlapsarian body: the body is always ill.153 In the genuine sense of action, only the soul acts on the body, as Augustine makes clear in his De musica, Kilwardby concludes.154

On Sacraments Like any good medieval theologian, Kilwardby takes sacraments to be essential for salvation, as they are part of the spiritual fabric of the Church. In order to assess his sacramental theory, though, I must start from the beginning, which means to start from simple questions: what is a sacrament? What kind of sacraments are there? How many are there? In his Quaestiones in Librum Quartum Sententiarum (QLIVS), Kilwardby argues that sacraments have a double function, as they are both signs and remedies:  they both signify and are efficacious. But whereas sacraments

236  Robert Kilwardby would signify even if human beings had not sinned, they are efficacious only because there was sin. Once sin is committed, it remains an important force in human life; its force is expressed functionally by the continual need to show penance for it. The role of sacraments is to mediate between guilt and grace.155 Kilwardby makes this point clear when he argues in his SDP that humans’ nature is infected by sin, meaning that it infects every singular part of us, even our powers. This in turn means that we are affected from the outset in our capacity to exhibit and perform the original justice we have been divinely endowed with.156 The question that follows is whether sacraments, in their efficacious role, are appropriate to the postlapsarian period in the history of humankind, in particular during the period of the “natural law” (tempus legis naturalis). Here Kilwardby is appealing to the important theological division of human history into three periods that Hugh of St. Victor proposed in his treatise On the Sacraments: (1) the time of the natural law, from Adam to Moses (tempus legis naturalis); (2) the time of the scriptural (or old) law, from Moses to Christ (tempus legis scriptae); and (3) the time of grace (also called new law), from Christ to the end of times (tempus gratiae).157 One of the first questions of theological import about the sacraments is what their purpose is in a period when they have not been codified into scriptural law. The answer for Kilwardby is to argue that there is a difference between the obligation to follow the dictates of natural law and the ability to follow sacramental precepts.158 As noted earlier, in the postlapsarian state, human beings find themselves carrying guilt as the consequence of original sin, while being offered the possibility of restoring their primordial glory and dignity. Kilwardby suggests that human beings have the capacity to act according to their better judgment in a way that promotes their salvific outlook, rather than that outlook simply being determined by nature. But he also makes clear that human efforts appear to not be enough, on their own, for that restoration. Because the human postlapsarian condition is one of ignorance (ignorantia) and debility (impotentia), human beings need all the advice (consilio) they can get in order to procure their redemption.159 The sacraments come to the succor of humanity by indicating how one should behave. That is the inspirational aspect of the sacraments, as well as their internal justice.160 Without them, human beings are in a precarious, even if not impossible, situation with regard to their salvation. Sacraments are necessary for the remission of sins and for assisting that salvific effort.

Believing  237 The role of sacraments is to make public, by means of visible signs, the workings of our internal spiritual grace.161 A  sacrament is a sign by divine institution, signifying internal obedience and charity.162 To say that sacraments are signs is precisely to refer to their function of making present (or designating) the justification they award, be it of faith or justice,163 just as good works are, qua effects, signs of the faith and charity that constitute their cause.164 When followed, the sacraments signal that one has humility in regard to understanding one’s own condition and that one trusts in the divine mercy (misericordia). Kilwardby affirms the importance of the external visible form of the sacrament, remarking that this is an essential part; when it is missing, the internal invisible grace does not perfect its performer or receiver. The main thesis here seems to be that the interior act is that in which faith and charity find expression, whereas the external actions are a display of obedience to the law. Of course, the simple external display means nothing on its own if it is followed out of fear; to have meaning, it is essential that it be motivated by devotion.165 Obedience is a sign of respect and especially a sign of meritorious and justificatory behavior, thus justifying justice being conferred on the obeyer. For Kilwardby, both the internal and external aspects of the sacrament are necessary for the full realization of sacramental effect, an effect caused by divine institution.166 Sacraments have a clear function as a ritual to ask for God’s mercy while showing a commitment to him, in the form of faith and devotion, and to the precepts of his religion. Sacramental rituals are not simply for inner dedication but also for external communication of this love of God and his word. By means of these, human beings show the humility and good exercise of honest behavior that are essential for salvation. In addition, by means of some sacraments, like baptism and penance, humans find their guilt removed, so that their inclination to the good can be fulfilled.167 This is made possible by God’s generosity in promising salvation for postlapsarian humankind, if individual human beings show faith and merit.168 It is in the context of this contract (or “covenant”) between God and humanity that the doctrine of the sacraments in particular and the precepts of faith in general need to be understood. Justification (i.e., the conferring of grace, so that one is being conformed to the righteousness of God) resides not in the reception of the sacrament but the entity of the sacrament (in re sacramenti): the faith that designates it.169 This does not mean, however, that there is a radical distinction between that which is signified by the sacraments and the sacrament’s conferring of grace, at least in what concerns the sacraments of

238  Robert Kilwardby the new law. Kilwardby wants to show that there is a relative connection between the two, a kind of proportionality. But he also seeks to reveal the difference between the sacraments of the new law, which are both efficacious in conferring grace and capable of signifying, and those of the old law, which were only significative but had no conferring value, precisely because of their lack of performative aspect.170 In other words, the sacraments of the new law (i.e., after Christ) confer justice in addition to signifying it, whereas the sacraments of the old law only signified it.171 “Justice” is here defined as “assimilation to the divine will.”172 Even the conferring of the salvific outlook can be taken in two ways: in the first, the gift of sanctification is received in the one who completely lacked it, and in the second, it delivers an increase of an existing sanctification. In the first (but not the second), the grace conferred by the sacrament is necessary for salvation. This divine assistance is required for the remission of sin, the softening of the flesh, and the good operation of both intellect and will.173 Of particular concern is the remission of original sin. Here the issue is whether a sacrament like circumcision is sufficient. Kilwardby argues that above all, it is faith that has that power, even though it is accomplished by God’s will; that is, the making visible of the sacramental rite does indeed have an impact on the mind of the sinner.174 The argument is then that the removal of one part of the human body indicates this willingness to be fully committed and, as such, it removes the original sin. Kilwardby examines at length the sacrament of circumcision, but here it suffices to focus on what he has to say about it that is applicable to sacraments in general (for instance, the consideration of sacraments from the point of view of effects and signification). The sacrament has an effect on the body by means of distinguishing the believers from the nonbelievers in an immediately discernable way, whereas the effect on the soul is the justification of sin. Together, the sacrament signifies the internal commitment to faith and the external and visible observation of the legal religious ritual.175 Kilwardby takes this a step further when he asks whether the rite (or ceremony) has an efficacious role in the sacrament or whether it is just the occasion for its efficacy. His reply is that the justice of a rational creature is its assimilation or conformation to the divine will; thus, insofar as the rite sub lege scripta contributes to that conformation, it does play a role in the justification because “the highest kind of justice is to obey God.”176 Therefore, primacy goes to those sacraments instituted to be performed by

Believing  239 means of consecration (i.e., a priest visibly performs a certain instituted rite of the Church through which the spiritual gift is exercised).177 Returning to the issue of the sacrament of circumcision and the one that replaces it, baptism,178 Kilwardby argues that whereas circumcision removes the sin by removing part of a shameful part of the body, baptism effects grace and justification for the soul. By washing the whole body, the act designates the full grace imparted that is sufficient for salvation. The prescriptions of sacramental theology were consecrated in the written law, and there is a justification for the need of such an institution of the moral commandments: it is necessary to codify these precepts in such a way that they are accessible to all. It is by defining what is allowed that one is able to understand when the line between legitimate and illegitimate, or between prevarication and not, is crossed. That does not mean that prior to the written law there was no law to be crossed but that that law was inscribed in the hearts of human beings, as the law of nature (lex naturae). The written law makes that explicit and clearly demarcates its boundaries.179 In both cases, however, crossing the line represents a transgression, and God is present to judge each human being’s sins. Sacramental efficacy also requires a real commitment, as Kilwardby explains with respect to a number of sacraments: in the case of adult christening, it only has an effect if the subject displays genuine rather than fake contrition; for confession, it does not work if the sinner does not display visible signs of distress and, internally, have faith and devotion.180 There is a clear connection between the divine institution and the rite through which the sacrament is effected.181 It also involves the internal motivation or state of mind of the receiver, which must be properly disposed to this reception. Kilwardby explains this with the analogy of the tongue or the foot, which performs its action if there is an internal motivating principle; when that principle is prevented, no talking or walking takes place.182 In the end, as noted earlier, what makes religious rituals a justification of faith is the sign of obedience to God that one displays and that, in turn, represents willingness to obey the principles of justice. But it is also important to note that Kilwardby does not want to go so far as to say that the ritual itself is responsible for the efficacy of the sacrament. Thus, he argues that a ritual provides justification per accidens: rituals are the occasional cause of justification.183 It is God who effects the justification of grace carried by the sacrament, rather than the saying or the ritual in itself.184

240  Robert Kilwardby One aspect worth considering is the nature of justification, in particular its cause. Kilwardby approaches this issue from the point of view of efficient and formal causality by arguing that the cause of justification is the efficient cause of formal justice. He illustrates this by means of an analogy of heat:  fire heats air by emitting the form of heat, but it is the form of heat that constitutes heat (and heated air). There is thus a distinction between being the efficient cause and being the formal or constitutive cause. God is the efficient cause of justice and justification, whereas justice—​as in the justice of actions—​is determined by the form of justice constituting them, even though justice as such is caused by God.185 Returning to the question of the importance of rituals vis-​à-​vis the efficacy of sacraments, for Kilwardby the ritual presents an occasion or causa sine qua non that offers the opportunity for the justification originating in God, but it is not the efficient or even formal cause of that justification. The formal cause of justification is the sacrament.186

Faith The French scholar L.-​B. Gillon starts his article on the structure and genesis of faith in Kilwardby with the question “Is faith really a virtue?” The question is worth asking because the essential aspect of any theory concerning the voluntariness of human acts, including those mental acts concerned with belief, rests on that qualification. The end of the act of faith is the vision of God, and faith seems to be directed toward that main act. The question, though, is what the nature and structure of that act of faith are.187 In his commentary on the Ethics, Kilwardby is quick to note—​and insist—​that there is something in the human soul that makes it naturally and universally disposed to live in accordance with the immutable divine law, and that this must be thought of as part of the human rationality: “the unchangeable law or art of correct living is always present to the rational soul.”188 Kilwardby insists that this is the case even for those who do not live such a life and opt for a life of sin, which is to say that the unchangeable law of correct living cannot be erased by sin of any kind. What matters is that in the composition of human rationality, this universal and immutable law, which allows human beings to distinguish between good and bad, is present in such a way that it does not depend on contingent factors (i.e.,

Believing  241 the conditions and circumstances of the individual human life). As the text continues, Kilwardby further notes that to love is to subordinate oneself to that unchangeable law, so that the cognitive part of the soul assimilates itself to the affective part of the soul and to the object of this affection: “this art or law of righteous living in community directs the whole human life in all of its actions and passions, and [furthermore] it contains certain special laws or arts or rules directed to special actions. Among these is the rule or law of righteous believing or assenting to that which one does not see, so man can be directed to believe.”189 In fact, Kilwardby argues, the whole soul is assimilated to the good. This creates an affective habit that makes righteous living easier (for instance, to control the passions and desires, and to believe and obey the sacred Scriptures).190 This assimilation is only accessible to the just one, however, and to that degree it is made possible only by an act of grace. The question thus remains whether or not this curtails the freedom of believing, if one necessarily possesses this law and cannot not believe in it. That is even more difficult in the case of the Scriptures, as their testimony is of a kind that warrants unequivocal epistemic assent. The fact that the Scriptures deal with salvation just makes this warrant an even more pressing one. Kilwardby is unequivocal in what concerns the value of the Scriptures, noting that in them we find the maximal truth because it expresses the truth of God.191 Kilwardby argues that the truth of the Scriptures and of the eternal immutable law inscribed from the outset in the human mind can be understood yet not assented to, because for this assent we need the habit of faith:192 “faith is a certain spiritual impression made passively in the rational mind by the affective part from the immutable law of righteously believing, to which the mind adheres by means of love, and as the result of which the affective part inclines the cognitive part [of the mind] to assent to that which it does not see.”193 The essential element in this account is the fact that it is the affective part of the soul that, informed by the law, directs the cognitive part in a way that inclines it to assent to what is to be believed. This results in a form of assimilation or impression or adhesion (assimulatio vel impressio vel illustratio) to the loved object. The informed affectus inclines the aspectus (i.e., directs and instructs it to assent to this object).194 The act of faith is precisely to believe (credere) and to assent (assentire),195 but it is not limited to these; it also directs and converts the cognitive part to that assent.196 Moreover, the point is precisely that the act of faith inclines the cognitive part, despite it not having reasons to believe

242  Robert Kilwardby and even when it has reasons not to believe. In fact, the more one assents to that which one does not know the reason for, or that is against the reason but in which one believes, the more virtuous is the act.197 This is grounded on that immutable law that is found in the human soul from the outset, so that by means of the action of love and grace, the whole soul comes to love, and becomes assimilated to, the (maximal) good and true:198 the good that is loved and the true that is believed. In that state, the soul is ready for believing. Faith is then an assent and conformation, with which cognition and affection jointly cooperate. It is important to note that Kilwardby in another, still unedited work, the De conscientia et synderesi, claims that the role of the conscience is precisely to inform the will about the rules of righteous living, so that it can make its free decision.199 There are two aspects to this process: the apprehension of what the righteous thing to do is and the act of assenting to what the right thing to do is. Now, Kilwardby does remark that it is important to compare knowledge and faith in terms of what concerns certainty. He claims that the soul adheres more strongly to an article of faith than it does to a conclusion of a demonstration.200 The reason why he raises this question is that certainty of belief is not simply a matter of being justified but a matter of merit: to believe firmly even in what one cannot see or understand requires a kind of strength that is superior to merely grasping that a conclusion follows from a set of given premises. Of course, one can always say that, in a sense, certitude gained from knowledge is superior (certior) because it is necessary (i.e., it cannot be otherwise), which is not the case with an article of faith.201 But because the certitude of faith transcends the conditions of this life and belief in an article of faith trumps any argument, it has a higher standing of certainty. In this hierarchy, the certitude of faith only loses to the certitude of beatific knowledge (scientia patriae), because that admits no doubt and no imperfection.202 The motivation for this claim is the idea that what is to be believed is the highest truth; thus, to accept this truth is not simply to recognize its epistemic value. The end of what is believable because it is true is not simple contemplation but a means for salvation. Kilwardby here differentiates between “naked truth” and “salvific truth.” The latter requires an assent that is not merely of the cognitive part of the soul but of the whole soul: the cognitive together with the affective.203 One does not believe simply because it is true but because it is true and loved. The habit of faith is thus instituted in the affective part of the soul, and it is by means of this that conformity to the

Believing  243 law is made possible. Once one tries to inquire what makes it such a special case, the answer harks back to the original starting point: that which is the object of love—​belief and knowledge, as the highest good and truth—​is present in humans from the outset, imprinted as it were in our reason as a condition of intelligibility and direction. It is, in a sense, a primordial gift no sin can erase—​even if sin can make it more difficult for us to grasp after, to direct our actions toward, and to achieve the state of perfectly exercising the successful pursuit of this object—​in case we are left exclusively to our own psychological devices. God’s grace is essential for our success in this respect also. But God is also at the start of the process, being the source of the eternal immutable law and the principle of justice that works as the initial disposition for belief and assent. It is on that initial general law, qua disposition, that the remaining partial and specific laws or rules for righteous living are grounded, so that these rules can—​and do, in fact—​certify that which must be believed, which can therefore be accepted as true. I have shown that Kilwardby specifically focuses on the theological virtue faith, but in his QLIII2S he considers the other theological virtues hope (spes) and charity (caritas), as well as the cardinal virtues prudence (prudentia), temperance, fortitude (fortitudo), and justice (justitia), from the point of view of their origin, nature, and order. He also examines the theological gifts wisdom (sapientia), counsel (consilio), piety (pietas), knowledge (scientia), and fear (timor), concentrating on questions about their nature, origin, number, and order, and how these compare to those of the virtues. Before returning to conclude what he has to say about faith, Kilwardby argues that the object of the theological virtues is God. Accordingly, God is the ultimate object of the rational human nature, comprising both its cognitive and affective aspects. From the cognitive aspect, there is faith, which moves us to God; from the affective aspect, there is hope, which keeps the irascible part of the soul under control. In addition, there is charity, which redirects the concupiscible inclinations to a better purpose. The main difference between political and theological virtues is that the latter are informed by grace whereas the former are not. In that sense, political virtues are imperfect virtues, while theological virtues are perfect.204 Faith is peculiar among these, because one can believe on the basis of reasoning or out of sheer love for the immutable law of righteous living; in that sense, it is not a theological virtue but an intellectual one. In a set of striking remarks, Kilwardby points out that this kind of belief can be based on the testimony of authorities (experti) or even on existing and verified

244  Robert Kilwardby evidence, rather than love and belief in the supreme truth. He says: “not by love for the supreme truth but by conjectural or scientific reason”;205 this is the case even when the object of that belief is the resurrection and beatitude of saints. He then indicates that even theological facts can be rationally believed on the basis of experiential and testimonial (if credible) evidence. The theological habit of faith also includes two aspects: on the one hand the acquisition of a material disposition to receive the habit of faith by means of humility of heart and meditation and prayer and on the other the existence from the outset, impressed in the human soul, of the immutable law of righteous believing, to which the mind can adhere and conform itself.206 Human effort is never sufficient on its own, though, because that would mean that human actions could punch above their weight (i.e., necessitate divine reward).207 Instead, the habit of faith is gratuitously dispensed from above. It is that origin, but also the nature of the virtue itself, that explains the superiority of the theological virtue of faith with respect to the intellectual virtue of faith, because the former elevates man from his natural realm and allows him even to believe in what is not seen—​and thus even to believe what is contrary to reason. This leads to the important question of what the primary object of faith is. According to Kilwardby, that is a simple object:  God. But because of having God as the primary object, all those things that connect to God and that constitute the principles of the Christian religion are necessarily taken as secondary objects of faith. Among these are belief in the resurrection, the doctrine of the sacraments, and so on. Kilwardby illustrates this idea with examples of other kinds of knowledge that have primary and secondary objects: in demonstrations, for example, the middle term is apprehended prior to the conclusion, as it is the grasping of the middle term that allows for an understanding of the relation of entailment that is made explicit in the conclusion.208

Notes 1.  Kilwardby, QLIS 1, 5. 2. “Sustentatur tota spiritualis machina Ecclesiae”; Kilwardby, QLIS 10, 26. 3.  On Kilwardby on theology as a science, see Biffi (1992). 4.  Kilwardby, QLIS 2, 8.

Believing  245 5.  Kilwardby, QLIS 4, 12. 6.  Kilwardby, QLIS 4, 13. 7.  Kilwardby, QLIS 4, 13. 8.  Kilwardby, QLIS 4, 13. 9.  Kilwardby, QLIS 4, 13. 10.  Kilwardby, QLIS 3, 10. 11.  Kilwardby, QLIS 7, 18. 12.  “Item certior est . . . quia haec scientia prodiit immediate ab auctoritate primae veritatis”; Kilwardby, QLIS 8, 20. 13.  “Est scientia simplicis notitiae tantum quae radicatur in consensu aspectus nudi ad ratiocinationem aliquam vel visionem; et est scientia notitiae amantis quae radicatur in consensu affectus per amorem rectum. Prima est in philosophicis, secunda in theologicis”; Kilwardby, QLIS 8, 20. This is a particularly difficult passage to translate, as it appeals to a distinction between affectus and aspectus, here translated as affective and cognitive parts of the soul. 14. “Item verior est cognitio per divinam inspirationem ubi nequit esse falsitas, quam per humanam investigationem ubi potest esse falsitas”; Kilwardby, QLIS 12, 30. 15. Kilwardby quotes Augustine as saying:  “every true knowledge perceived by the mind is scientia” (“secundum Augustinum omnis veri notitia animo percepta est scientia”), Kilwardby, QLIS 12, 31. 16.  Kilwardby, QLIS 13, 33. 17.  Kilwardby, QLIS 12, 31. 18.  “Deus semper uno mentis ictu omnia videt, et quodlibet nude et immediate in propria ratione videt, et haec simul semper et distincte”; Kilwardby, QLIS 91, 290. 19.  Kilwardby, QLIS 10, 25. 20.  Kilwardby, QLIS 10, 26. 21.  Kilwardby addresses this issue in the lengthy QLIS 35–​36. 22.  Kilwardby, QLIS 35, 81; QLIS 36, 94; QLIS 36, 98. 23.  Kilwardby, QLIS 36, 103. 24.  Silva (2012). 25.  “Potentia qua maior cogitari non potest”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 1, 3. 26.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 1, 5. 27.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 1, 6. 28.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 1, 7. 29.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 1, 7. 30.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 2, 10. 31.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 2, 10. 32.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 3, 12.

246  Robert Kilwardby 33.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 3, 12. 34.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 3, 14. 35.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 45, 192. 36.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 4, 17. 37. Kilwardby, QLIIS 3, 16. See Anselm, Proslogion, in Anselm of Canterbury (1946). 38.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 5, 21. 39.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 5, 22. 40.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 62, 178. 41.  “Forma enim corporis dans materiae extensionem, ut longitudinem et latitudinem, praecedit omnes formae elementares”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 61, 173. 42.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 62, 178. 43.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 63, 179. 44.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 63, 179. 45.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 63, 179. 46.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 6, 23. 47.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 7, 26. 48.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 33. 49.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 7, 24–​25. 50.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 52, 153. 51.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 52, 153. 52.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 160, 443. 53.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 8, 34. 54.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 51, 152. 55.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 50, 151. 56.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 9, 37. 57.  “Plura enim bona sunt in homine ex unione quam essent sine unione animae cum corpore”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 9, 38. 58.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 60. 59.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 45, 193. 60.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 68, 189. 61.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 75, 209. 62.  Kilwardby, DNR 25.03. 63.  Kilwardby, DNR 22.01. 64.  Kilwardby, DNR 27.04. 65.  Kilwardby, DNR 21.03. 66.  Kilwardby, DNR 24.01–​02. 67.  Kilwardby, DNR 21.05. 68.  Kilwardby, DNR 22.01. 69.  Kilwardby, DNR 21.01.

Believing  247 70.  Kilwardby, DNR 25.03. 71.  Kilwardby, DNR 25.01. 72.  Kilwardby, DNR 25.02. 73.  Kilwardby, DNR 26.05. 74.  Kilwardby, DNR 27.05. 75.  Kilwardby, DNR 27.07. 76.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 126, 324. 77.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 329. 78.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 326. 79.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 327. 80.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 329. 81.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 327. 82.  “Iudicium enim rationis ostendit appetitive quid appetat, et elective quid eligat rationaliter”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 328. 83.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 329. 84.  “Dicendum ergo quod licet ratio et voluntas sint diversae potentiae secundum quod distinguuntur per diversa obiecta et per diversas actiones speculandi verum et agendi vel elegendi vel appetendi bonum, tamen secundum quod constituunt unum liberum arbitrium, cedunt in unam potentiam electivam et activam rationaliter, et sicut una est potentia, sic eius habitus est unus”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 128, 332. 85.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 127, 328. 86.  “Cum igitur se se similiter habeant ad invicem potentia rationaliter arbitrandi et potentia ex arbitrio eligendi et earum actiones, etiam patet quod convenienter constituunt unam potentiam quando se se concernunt et earum actiones convenienter unam totalem actionem. Et his videtur quod ratio et voluntas se se concernentes congrue constituunt unam potentiam quae liberum arbitrium dicitur et est”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 335. 87.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 335. 88.  “Quod autem non sit hoc inconveniens, scilicet quod ratio et voluntas concernentes se invicem constituent unam potentiam quae liberum arbitrium dicitur, patet sic”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 334. 89.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 334. 90. “Ad primum contra ubi quaeritur quomodo ex duabus potentiis efficitur una, dicendum quod hoc non est inconveniens quod ex duabus quarum una ordinatur ad aliam, fiat uma totalis. Sicut enim ex materia et forma sit substantia composita quae revera est una quamvis non sit ita simplex ut materia vel forma per se, et sicut ex genere et differentia sit species quae est una, etsi non ita simplex ut alterum componentium, sic et ex ratione et voluntate fit liberum arbitrium quod revera unum est, quamvis non sit ita simplex ut ratio sola per se considerata”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 335.

248  Robert Kilwardby 91.  “Quae omnia sunt actiones unius potentiae cognitivae, habentes tamen inter se ordinem et procedunt a diversis potentiis partialibus inter se ordinatis quae aggregantur in una potentia cognitiva et in uno aspectu”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 335. 92.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 337. 93.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 339. 94.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 338. 95.  “Et isto etiam modo voluntas potest esse impossibilium. Sed liberum arbitrium nequaquam est talium”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 129, 339. 96.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 130, 340. 97.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 131, 345. 98.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 131, 346. 99. “Sic in proposito potest de libero arbitrio facere non liberum arbitrium per sublationem libertatis et ita mutando naturam et sic cogere. Sed manente libertate non potest. Hoc est enim naturae suae liberum esse. Sed libertas et coactio non stant simul in eodem”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 131, 346. 100.  “Essentialis enim differentia voluntatis ab appetitu brutali est quod per se volendo velit et eligat quidquid sibi placet, ut velit absque limitatione ad alterutram partem”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 131, 346. 101.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 131, 346. 102.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 133, 351. 103.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 132, 348. 104.  “Est enim gratia gratis dans et haec est Deus, et gratia gratis data et haec est aliquid in mente rationali factum”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 136, 358. 105.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 136, 358. 106.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 138, 366. 107.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 144, 387. 108.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 138, 366. 109.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 151, 415; see also QLIIS 159, 440. 110.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 143, 385. 111.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 138, 369. 112.  “Numquam amitteretur impressio voluntatis vel dispositio suscepta nisi ipsa se sponte primo averteret”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 138, 370. 113.  “Virtus enim est ipsa assimilatio mentis Deo secundum regulas recte vivendi et hoc est secundum iustitiam”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 140, 378. 114.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 141, 381. 115.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 138, 370. 116.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 138, 370–​371. 117.  “Item aliud exemplum sensibile. Palus fixus immobilis est, membrana fluida et mobilis, nec a se sustentatur quin cadat in terram. Si autem agglutinetur palo, firma est et stabilis non cadens, et hoc habet a palo cui adhaeret. Assistant

Believing  249 igitur duo qui agglutinent eam ad palum. Alter nanus, alter gigas inferiorem partem simul poterunt palo agglutinare, sed superiorem partem nanus attingere non poterit. Illam igitur solus gigas agglutinabit. Adaptatio patet:  palus ars incommutabilis recte vivendi, membrana affectus rationalis, gigas Deus, nanus homo, glutinus amor”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 144, 387. 118.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 144, 386. 119.  Celano (2013), 350. 120.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 144, 386–​387. 121.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 145, 393. 122.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 144, 388. 123.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 144, 388. 124.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 146, 400–​401. 125.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 147, 403. 126.  “Nuditatem originalis iustitiae humanae debitae haberi”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 153, 423. 127.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 15, 57. 128.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 155, 426. 129.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 147, 406. 130.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 147, 406–​407. 131.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 155, 426. 132.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 151, 412. 133.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 151, 416. 134.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 151, 417. 135.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 151, 418. 136.  “Dicitur autem lex carnis et membrorum per oppositum ad legem mentis sive rationis, et ideo specialiter dicitur carnis, quia a corruptione carnis causatur; ideo membrorum quia membra cogit sibi oboedire contra liberum arbitrium et legem mentis. Dicitur autem tyrannus, quia compellit in malum aliquando, quia non renatos in malum culpae mortalis, renatos autem in actum culpae venialis. Et sic patet quodmodo originalis culpa est lex membrorum et quomodo lex carnis et quomodo tyrannus et quare sic nominatur”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 151, 419. 137.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 150, 409. 138.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 157, 430. 139.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 160, 443. 140.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 157, 433. 141.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 160, 443. 142.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 150, 410–​411. 143.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 157, 433. 144.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 157, 436. 145.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 159, 440.

250  Robert Kilwardby 146.  “Alligatur autem corpori unde natura est appetitu naturali, et quia corpus est vitiatum, accidit ut vitietur et anima. Quia igitur non vitiaretur anima nisi uniretur corpori actione naturalis appetitus, aliquo modo causatur vitium animae ex hoc appetitu et actione. Quia tamen intentio naturae non est nisi ad corpus unde natura est, non unde vitiatum est, ideo occasionaliter et accidentaliter est causa eius, sicut volens aedificare fodiendo invenit pecuniam”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 160, 443. 147.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 160, 445. 148.  “Non facit aliquid corporis in spiritum”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 160, 445. 149.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 161, 446. 150.  “Sicut enim visus in oculo infirmo non ita limpide videt sicut in oculo sano, sic sensus in corpore infirmo non ita bene sentit sicut in sano”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 161, 446. 151.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 161, 448. 152.  “Non enim afficit caro animam aliquid immittendo aut impartiendo sicut cum corpus immittit sensui et rationi speciem suam ab extra, sed ex defectu suo defectivam faciendo animam quae ei colligatur”; Kilwardby, QLIIS 161, 449. 153.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 162, 450. 154.  Kilwardby, QLIIS 162, 450. 155.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 2, 8. 156.  “Primum horum liquet ex premissis, quia iste homo predictus est esse nostra natura ut est lege peccati infecta; que cum inficiat singula membra, tam interioria quam exterioria, et singulas potencias, patet quod membra huiusmodi hominis sunt membra nostra infecta et ad originalem iniusticiam,” SDP 105. 157.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 3, 9; 4, 24. See Hugh of St. Victor, De Sacramentis I.8.11. 158.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 3, 10. 159.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 4, 16–​17. 160.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 4, 25. 161.  “Et si queris, ad quid etiam modo necessaria sunt sacramenta, cum res ipsa iustificationis nostrae perfectae sit exhibita, patet ex praedictis, quia ad hoc, ut per signa visibilia exterius transmitteremur ad intelligendum gratiam spiritualem interius in nobis operatam”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 3, 12. 162.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 31, 130. 163.  Here “justification” refers to the cleansing of guilt and the penalty of sin; it accompanies the reception of grace. 164.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 10, 4. 165.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 31, 121–​122. 166.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 31, 130–​131. 167.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 1, 4–​5.

Believing  251 168.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 4, 19. 169.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 7, 36. 170.  “Quia illa fuerunt tantum ad significandum illas res, ista moderna ad significandum et conferendum”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 7, 37. 171.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 11, 49. 172.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 39, 205. 173.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 12, 51. 174.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 15, 55. 175.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 27, 100. 176.  “Summa enim iustitia est Deo oboedire”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 32, 136. 177.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 5, 29. 178.  “Cum duo sint sacramenta temporibus suis determinate instituta in remedium originalis peccati, scilicet tempore legis scriptae et baptismus tempore gratiae”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 16, 63. 179.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 28, 104. 180.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 31, 131. 181.  “Institute sunt enim ut iustificent, si rite suscipiantur”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 31, 131. 182.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 31, 132. 183.  “Caerimonialia . . . sunt causa occasionalis iustificationis”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 32, 138. 184.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 32, 137. 185.  Kilwardby, QLIVS 32, 139–​141. 186. “Sic igitur sacramenta, quia assimilat hominem divinae voluntati, iustificant, sed non ut causa efficiens, sed ut formalis”; Kilwardby, QLIVS 32, 206. 187.  For a very detailed and contextualized analysis of Kilwardby’s philosophy of religious faith, see Piché (2017). 188. “animae rationali, ex parte mentis semper presens est lex vel ars incommutablis recte vivendi”; Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 5. 189.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 6. 190.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 5. 191.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 6. 192.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 6. 193.  “Fides est quaedam spiritualis impressio passio facta in mente rationali ex parte affectus ab arte incommutabili recte credendi cui mens adhaeret per amorem, per quam ab affectu inclinatur aspectus ad assentiendum ei quod non videt”; Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 6. 194. “Affectus inclinans aspectum facit ipsum assentire”; Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 7. 195.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 4.

252  Robert Kilwardby 196.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 7. 197.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 5. 198.  “Quando autem humiliat se et convertit se ad illam per affectum et adhaeret illi arti vel legi per amorem, iam assimulatur illi mens tota secundum aspectum et affectum”; Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 6. 199. “Notitia recte vivendi super merito et demerito liberi arbitrii instructiva, et ejusdem de facto suo commendativa vel reprehensiva, factique ejus memoriter retentiva. Vel adhuc expressius sic:  Conformatio mentis secundum cognitivam practicam legi recte vivendi sibi presenti, super merito et demerito libri arbitrii instructiva, etc. ut prius. Conscientia vero approbans sic describi potest: notitia recte vivendi eorum que ad humanum meritum et demeritum pertinent contentiva, bonum naturaliter approbans et ad illud inclinans”; Chenu (1927), 325. 200.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 9. 201.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 9. 202.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 10. 203.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 1, 7. 204.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 2, 11. 205.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 2, 12. 206.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 3, 14. 207. “Natura non potest supra limites proprios elevari nisi a superiori adiuta”; Kilwardby, QLIII2S 3, 14. 208.  Kilwardby, QLIII2S 5, 18–​20.

• 7

Incarnating

In the same way that the virtues and sacraments are at the heart of faith, Christ is an essential part of the foundations of the Catholic Church. At the heart of medieval theological thought is Christology, because Christ is not just the founding block of Christianity, he is also an expression of the ideal human believer. Some of the most important and debated issues in medieval theology concerned the nature of the Incarnation, whereby the son of God, Christ, assumed a human nature. In this chapter, I will approach this topic from two points of view: first, that of anthropology, about the assumption of the human nature and the way human nature and the divine nature coexist in the person of Christ, and second, that of philosophical psychology, that is, on what concerns (1) the knowledge and (2) the passions of Christ. One of the important aspects of this discussion is how it compares Christ’s attributes to those of ordinary human beings:  for instance, how Christ’s knowledge differs from or is similar to human knowledge. These three aspects correspond to a division found in Peter Lombard’s Sentences, which Kilwardby is commenting on. This chapter is thus divided into three distinct sections concerning the three topics under scrutiny.

Robert Kilwardby. José Filipe Silva, Oxford University Press (2020) © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190674755.001.0001

254  Robert Kilwardby

I Assume The main issue about the doctrine of the Incarnation is how two natures, divine and human, that are so distinct can be united in one human person. One of the pressing concerns is how the divine nature can have in itself this property of unitability in a way that does not entail divine changeability. The worry is that the divine nature changes as the result of the Son coming to have this property. The other concern is about the nature of that which is constituted by those two natures, namely, whether it is a mixture of the two or a third (kind of) entity. Kilwardby’s answer is to affirm this union and to proceed to explain in what terms it is possible. The first consideration concerns how something becomes or is made similar to another. Kilwardby considers two options: the first is the acquisition of a disposition in oneself and the second is the acquisition of a disposition in another. Only in the first case is there a change in the thing that is made similar. In the latter case, the thing is not changed; the change occurs in the other, to which the thing is assimilated.1 Another way of understanding this is to say that unitability can be conceived of as being accidental or essential. Something is essentially united with another if it is somehow dependent on it: that is the case of the soul and its immediate union with the body, as well as the case of the body, which is mediately united with the soul by a disposition or form.2 On the other hand something is united with something else accidentally if nothing in it depends on this union, but this union is nevertheless part of what that thing is capable of. God does not have to be united with the creature, yet he is capable of being united, and the creature has a disposition to be united with God. What characterizes this unitability then is the existence of a certain order to this union from the point of view of the creature: human nature can be united as the passive receiver of that union. It is important to note that this kind of union is distinct from that which one finds in natural things, because, in their case, there is a mutual inclination of things to be united, so that some are perfections and others are that which is perfected. This is not the case with the human and divine natures, in the sense that neither of these has that inclination for perfection and being perfected. They are, as it were, self-​contained realities, but they can be united in the Incarnation on account of a special kind of justification. The justification for the Incarnation is found in the fact that it is necessary for the restoration of humanity. Divine mercy is not sufficient for

Incarnating  255 the reparation of original sin, as it requires justice. The basis for justice seems to be entailed by human actions that will take place as the result of the example of Christ’s sacrifice.3 Only God can justify (i.e., remove the guilt and the consequences of sin), but this justification seems to be partially accounted for by the nature of human actions following this example, namely, by righteous living. The need for the Incarnation is grounded in its providing the example and the path for human restoration. This immediately raises the question of whether the necessity of the Incarnation is absolute or is contingent on the human Fall and subsequent restoration. Kilwardby takes the field to be split into two main views. According to the first, if there were no sin, there would be no need for restoration, and thus there would be no Incarnation.4 According to the second, there would always be the need for the Incarnation, even if it were not for the sake of human restoration. According to the latter view, the assumption of the human flesh is related to the corruptible nature of human flesh after the Fall. As stated earlier, Kilwardby defends the view that all human beings sinned in Adam by being “materially” present in him and that original sin was transmitted to them by means of natural propagation.5 Kilwardby then points to the important claim that all individual human beings share the condition of a sinful existence. The example of Christ Incarnate in one individual is enough to exemplify salvation because, by being present in one, he is present in the whole Church.6 That explains why human nature is the appropriate nature to receive the divine person of the Son: because the sinful nature is associated with the condition of embodiment, the embodied nature must play a role in the restoration of the human race.7 Spiritual creatures like angels fail in this requirement. The Incarnation is the assumption of a body by the divine nature, together with the human nature. The question is whether the divine nature incarnates or only one of the divine persons incarnates. Kilwardby approaches the issue from two points of view: Incarnation as an action and Incarnation as a passion. As an action, Incarnation is something that the divine nature as a whole does, whereas as a passion it is only in the person of the son.8 One line of reasoning goes as follows: “the son incarnates; the father does not incarnate; therefore, God does not incarnate.” But this is false, because what is said of one person does not have to be said of the divine essence or nature as a whole. As I discussed in the section “The Divine Trinity” in c­hapter  6, what distinguishes the persons are their relative

256  Robert Kilwardby properties, so that what applies or is said of any of the persons does not apply immediately and directly to the divine essence and, thus, to the other persons. In other words, to say that the Incarnation is something that agrees with the person of the Son does not entail that it agrees with the person of the Father.9 There is, however, a more logical form of dealing with this argument, which is to consider it from the point of view of advancing a negated predicate in either an absolute or a relative sense. According to the absolute sense, we should take “God is not incarnate” as meaning that God is that with which “incarnate” does not agree; in this case, the predicate “incarnate” is absolutely denied of God. One can, however, take this (i.e., “God is not incarnate”) to mean something else, namely, that God is someone or some person who is not incarnate. In this case, the whole predicate is not denied in an absolute sense but for that person in God who is not incarnate.10 It is in the latter sense that we should take it. Kilwardby next targets an argument that aims at thinking in analogical terms between the two parts of the rational soul, superior and inferior, and the persons of the Trinity. This idea is based on Augustine’s two faces of the soul, one (the superior) turned to the intelligible objects, and the other (the inferior) turned to sensible things. The thrust of the argument is that there is something in the lower part of the soul that binds or connects the soul to the body. Kilwardby objects to this by saying that what explains the connection is an inherent appetite or inclination of the whole rational soul to be united with the body.11 It is not the case of a lower versus higher part of the soul but simply of the rational soul as such that is inclined toward this union. This is certainly not the case with the divine persons, because there is not in the divine persons or in the divine nature any such inclination. Were it the case, we would have to admit that there was an unrealized inclination in God prior to the Incarnation—​and after it. The problem remains, however, in that Incarnation is a passion that belongs only to the son. In the same way, the divine nature does not assume the human nature, but the person of the son assumes the human nature in the unity of the Incarnate Christ. If there is no particular reason why it is that divine person who incarnates, then there is no particular reason why no other divine person could not also incarnate. In this case, the different divine persons would assume the same humanity, resulting in several instances of Incarnation in one human being. Yet one and the same creature cannot be united with different divine persons; this would constitute

Incarnating  257 an absurdity, as one human being would be several persons and diverse distinct persons would be one in number.12 Such a nature can be said of the divine but not of the human kind; rather, when assumed, this nature is individuated by a divine person. The same subject is the assumed individual human being and the assuming divine person. What Kilwardby means by this is that the assumed humanity is not personal or individual without the individuation by the divine person.13 But this divine person cannot assume several different human persons because that would mean that all those individuals would be one and the same.14 What the argument proves, according to Kilwardby, is that the individuation of the Incarnation is not dependent on the individual human being but on the individuation of the divine person. Thus it cannot be the case that all divine persons incarnate but that Incarnation is of one divine person, the son. After having shown that the Incarnation is of one divine person, Kilwardby considers the way this comes about by considering whether Christ assumes the human nature by assuming the body and soul, or first the soul and then the body, or first the body and then the soul. It is clear that the son of God is united with humanity by being united with the body and soul,15 but the order matters. In a sense, the difference is between the processes respectively described as “humanization” (humanatio) or “animation” (animatio). The solution Kilwardby proposes is to say that the order of incarnation follows the order of nature, which is to say that the divine nature is first united with the rational soul and then to the flesh.16 But he makes the interesting qualification that this mediation of the soul in the assuming of the flesh is just like that of light present in the air and passing through a piece of (transparent) glass: light behaves just as if there was no glass but simply air. That is the manner in which the divine person takes on the human flesh;17 it looks direct but is mediated. The significance of the example is that it tries to explain how there is something in the flesh that explains why it is apt to be taken by a divine person and ordained to immortality. This “ordination to immortality” is not found in the flesh on its own but is due to its being vivified by the rational soul, which is immortal. Through this kind of mediation by the soul with respect to the flesh, the mode of Incarnation is then said to be by “congruency” rather than by “connection.”18 Next, Kilwardby considers the issue of whether Christ in his union is in the state of grace. The reason why the question matters is that if Christ is not

258  Robert Kilwardby in such a state, then he must contract original sin, just like any other human being after Adam. Were that the case, sin would be in God and God would be mortal as the result of assuming human nature—​mortality being one of the consequences of original sin, as examined already. Can a divine person be united with human nature without grace and without sin, or must he be united without grace and with a disposition for sinful actions?19 It seems to follow basic intuition to say that God cannot be damned or infected with the principle of injustice. Kilwardby replies to this question by saying that in accordance with God’s absolute power, he could have assumed human nature without being endowed with the habit of grace, that is to say with a permanent disposition for being saved. On the other hand from the point of view of what Kilwardby calls the “power of congruency,” it depends whether one takes this assumption to entail the whole human rational soul or simply the “nature” part of the rational soul. With the latter, Kilwardby seems to mean, following tradition, the intellectual part of the rational soul to the exclusion of the power of the will. If one takes the assumption to include both intellect (or “reason as nature”) and will, then the habit of grace needs to be part of the assuming process.20 Otherwise, the final result would be an incarnate human person who was both just and unjust, the assumption being that the divine will is contaminated by the human will without the habit of grace coming to its rescue. If on the other hand the will were to be excluded from this assumed state, then there would be no need for the habit of grace. Kilwardby concludes, however, that the assumption in potentia congruitatis (in contrast with that in potentia absoluta) entails the assumption of the whole rational soul and, therefore, requires the habit of grace, shielding the divine nature from human corruption. In the previous pages, I  have examined how Kilwardby understands Christ’s assumption of human nature, but I  have remained mostly silent about whether there is a difference between that and the assumption of the human person. Kilwardby considers this issue at length. In his mind, this question can only be answered once one makes clear what one means by “nature”—​because it is clear what assuming an individual human person means:  assuming a rational soul and a body. In the case of nature, however, one can take it in itself (i.e., in a conceptual sense as abstracted from any instantiation) or in a concrete sense (i.e., in rebus). If the latter, one can still divide it into nature as common to many (species) and nature as individuated in a particular instance of the species. In other words, “nature

Incarnating  259 can be considered in abstraction or concretion, according to the essence or according to existence.”21 For Damascene, an authority on this question, the nature in dispute in the case of Incarnation is that which is found in the individual human being (i.e., atomus in specie, as an atom in the species). The problem is that this is not specific enough, because nature qua an atom can refer either to what is constituted of the principles of matter and form or to those constituting principles themselves. For Kilwardby, it is the latter; that is, by assuming those constituting principles the son of God assumes the human nature.22 Taking as the starting point the definition of “person” of Richard of Saint Victor as “an individual existence of a rational nature,” Kilwardby considers the question of Incarnation from the perspective of individuation. The cause of individuation is “matter and form designated by the last designation,” which means that what constitutes a person—​or, better, what constitutes the property of being a person (personalis proprietas)—​is “the actual existence determined or designated by itself.”23 So a person is an individual of a rational nature because the rational soul is what determines the kind of thing that thing is, by completing its species. For Kilwardby, that definition brings other requirements. It means that such an individual cannot be naturally conjoined (or even be able to be conjoined) with something else in order to constitute a third thing and cannot be joined with something more noble.24 That these requirements are necessary is justified by the fact that to be an individual means precisely to be able to exist on one’s own.25 But that is not the case with a nature, and the human nature at that, because a nature is capable of being united with something that is nobler when it is assumed by a divine person in the Incarnation. In the end, the divine person assumes the individual nature of the human species rather than that of a human person, which is an individual thing existing on its own in that regard. To conclude, Kilwardby adds: “the Word assumed a human nature, not a [human] person.”26 When this human nature is assumed by the divine person, the divine person—​who was simple prior to the Incarnation—​becomes complex or composite, because he now includes both the human nature and the divine nature, while remaining one person.27 Kilwardby also notes that composition can be expressed in two ways:  the first concerns those things that are constituted by different components that have a certain inclination to each other, so as to constitute something above and beyond the constituting

260  Robert Kilwardby elements (“a third one”); the second concerns something that is made up of different elements that together make a whole. The latter case is that which applies in the case of the human person of Christ; it is best defined as a “unity,” or union, rather than as a composite.28 It would be better to say, however, that the person of Christ is not composite in the sense of being made of many different elements but is one in many, because it is one person (and thus not composite) with two natures (and as such is composite). The person qua person is simple.29 The person of Christ has his being from the Father—​prior to and independent of the union with the human nature. This human nature does not contribute anything to Christ’s personhood but is subsumed under the divine person.30 That is why Kilwardby concludes by saying that the person of Christ is not of a different kind from the divine nature and thus is perfectly simple. There is a radical difference between the divine nature, in which there are several persons, and the plurality of natures in Christ, which does not bring about a plurality of persons. The human nature can be predicated of the person of Christ substantively in an abstract sense, not a concrete one: “Christ is a person of human nature.”31 One important point to keep in mind is that the assumption of the body and soul takes place all at once rather than in a successive manner. Furthermore, it is not the case that the divine person assumes a human nature insofar as it corrupts an individual of the human kind already existing. Rather, the assuming by the divine person takes place all at once (simul in eodem instanti) with the making of the assumed human being.32 In other words, “there was no [existing] person prior to the assumption because [the existence of] a person requires an actual existence, which is distinct by itself from others, not only in nature but also in being and continuity in time.”33 Kilwardby further elaborates on this question, because he deems it necessary to provide an accurate account of how two natures and two persons can be combined, so as to realize the Incarnation in a way that escapes the accusations of the two Christological heresies. Recall what these were: the first is Nestorianism, which claimed that there were two persons in the Incarnated Christ, and the second was Monophysitism, which claimed that there was just one person and one nature in Christ. The conclusion, as shown earlier, is that the human is assumed in the unity of person. But what does this mean? According to Kilwardby, there are three options: first, the divine person is taken over by the human person; second, the divine person takes over the

Incarnating  261 human person, who ceases to be; third, the two persons, human and divine, somehow constitute one person while remaining independent. Kilwardby promptly moves to dismiss the first option, because in the constitution of any one thing what determines and denominates that thing is the superior constituting element, not the inferior one. It would be problematic to say that the divine nature is determined by the human counterpart. Likewise, the third option must be eliminated because it would make no sense to say that there is no unity in Christ but two persons (and two natures) remain. Both options must be wrong, because the result cannot be either the existence of two persons in the Incarnated Christ or the existence of one nature only. The most serious candidate is then the second option, according to which no human person remains in the Incarnated Christ, but the divine person is united with the human nature.34 That unity (of divine person with human nature) gets its denomination from the highest element, the divine, in this composite.35 That divine person is like the root in which the two natures concur, so that there is only one suppositum or hypostasis for those two natures.36 In a sense, one can say that this union is accidental because it is gratuitous (i.e., not necessary), but insofar as it does exist, it does not happen by accident but is intentionally caused by God.37 When it is said, without further qualification, that God assumed man, Kilwardby notes that this must mean that he assumed human nature.38 But again, this may mean either that he assumed human nature materially or formally:  materially, that he assumed only the constitutive principles of an individual human being (flesh and rational soul), or formally, that he assumed the composite of those constituting principles (the whole, rather than the parts taken in isolation), so to speak. Either way, he assumed human nature. The two conceptions can be put to different uses. Thus, we can say that this man continued to exist in the triduo (the three days between his death and his resurrection) because his matter and his form continue to exist: that is why Peter Lombard states that Christ in the triduo was a man and Kilwardby agrees.39 There is yet another way to go about the question of the unity of the Incarnated Christ. That is according to the rules of predication. One can say that Christ is two in two different ways: either by using masculine and adjective terms or by using neuter and substantive terms. If the former, one cannot say that Christ is two; if the latter, this can be further divided

262  Robert Kilwardby into in recto predication or in obliquo predication. That Christ is two is false in the case of direct (in recto) predication, but it is true in the oblique case, meaning that what is signified by this is not that Christ as such is two but that Christ is one from two or in two. What is signified by the two in “Christ is two” are his natures rather than Christ himself qua person.40 The other issue concerning predication is whether or not the terms “God” and “human” can be mutually predicated, like “man” and “musician” can, in that they stand for one and the same thing: Christ is both man and God. The solution seems to be applied to the aforementioned distinction between direct and oblique predication. According to Kilwardby, a concrete noun can have a primary significate, which is the form by and from which the name is imposed (that is, the in recto mode of signification), and a secondary significate, which is that on which the noun is imposed (that is, the in obliquo mode of signification).41 In the latter sense, an indefinite noun signifies in an indeterminate sense; that is to say, it stands for something indeterminate. The noun “man” (homo), as in “God is a man” (“Deus est homo”), signifies a man indeterminately, because it signifies humanity in some being (in aliquo). In the case of saying of the Incarnated Christ “God is a man,” the terms “God” and “man” differ in their primary signification (i.e., in the form by and from which the noun is imposed, one as a substance and the other as an accident), but they agree in their secondary signification, as both terms stand for the same thing (having the same suppositum).42 Christ is not a man in the same way other men are because he does not belong to the same kind but to another. So it is possible in the end to mutually predicate man and God of one another because they agree on the same subject; in other words, “saying ‘God’ I mean something in which divinity inheres, and saying ‘man’ I mean something in which humanity inheres.”43 As one and the same subject is that about which both things are said, one can say that God is a man and that a man is God (Deus est homo et homo Deus), provided that one clarifies that one uses these terms in their secondary or in obliquo signification. To be “humanized” is said of God but always in an accidental sense, because that is the way humanity is related to the Word. The idea here is that God the Son existed before being incarnated, and he will continue to exist after this incarnated state, and therefore he cannot be said to be “humanized” in an essential way. Otherwise, he would not be what he is when not in that state, and he would lack a perfection when not in the incarnate state.

Incarnating  263 That raises the question of whether the predication of “man” to both Christ and Paul, say, is equivocal and univocal (i.e., whether the predicate is said in the same way of the two). Kilwardby elaborates on this in QLIII1S, where his main argument is that there are two aspects in predication: on the one hand there is saying out loud, which is the mind’s expression of the combination (or separation) of the terms constituting the predicative sentence; on the other hand there is the union of the significates in the thing itself, outside the mind. The latter is the foundation for the former, meaning that it is the way things signified by the terms are in the world, which makes the combination or separation by and in the mind true or false. From the point of view of the mental combination, there is no difference between “God is a man” and “Paul is a man”; but from the point of view of union or the identity of the extramental thing, an affirmative predication is only true when it corresponds to the way the things signified by the subject and the predicate are in the extramental world. Applied to the different cases of Paul and of Christ, this means that when I say that Paul is a man, the nature of “human being” is that which Paul is; thus, there is no essential difference between the individual thing—​ the suppositum or hypostasis—​and its nature. On the other hand in the case of Christ, the hypostasis is accidentally related to the divine nature of Christ because Christ remains of a divine kind beyond his incarnated human nature. In other words, despite possessing a human nature by assumption, Christ is not simply (or even primarily) human. The difference then is between a substantive predication in the case of Paul and an adjectival predication in the case of Christ: one can say that Christ is humanized (Christus humanatus), but one cannot say the same about Paul, because Paul is essentially a man.44 The same reasoning applies when considering the question of how to interpret the thesis that “God is made a man,” which applies to the Incarnation. There are many ways of interpreting this, but only one makes the cut for Kilwardby. He thinks that the best way is to take this to mean that “God made himself a man by assuming his flesh.” Of course, this in turn requires interpreting “making himself” in a metaphysical sense, because it seems to entail that God was changed in the process (i.e., that he became something that he was not before), which presents a problem to the central claim of divine immutability. If something becomes white, that is because it was not white before, which means that it now has a property that it previously lacked.

264  Robert Kilwardby The way Kilwardby solves this is by focusing on two core ideas: first, by taking this as a “Cambridge change”: what has changed is that we now predicate something that was not being predicated before, rather than something in God having changed. The only change is in the assumed human nature, not in the assuming God. This is just as if I were to say that Peter comes to be at the right of Clement, when it is Clement who changed places. In this case, the only change is in Clement, not in Peter.45 From this point of view, the change is that of man, being essentially related to God, whereas God is only accidentally related to his creatures.46 The second way to understand this is by focusing on the different perspectives of human and divine: human beings see the world from a temporal point of view, whereas God has an atemporal point of view, because he sees things from outside time (i.e., ab eterno, from eternity). When we see that God decided to assume and then did assume human nature, we identify this as a change; but God willed from eternity that it take place when it occurred. Therefore, the assumption is taken in terms of God and the eternal perspective.47

I Know One of the characteristics that makes Christ unique is the fact that his soul has immediate access to all that exists in the mind of God, as they are one and the same essence. The question, however, is whether Christ shares in that knowledge even when existing in the Incarnated state, that is, whether or not the assumed human nature bears certain restrictions vis-​à-​vis the power of the divine nature. Kilwardby formulates this in terms of whether Christ’s soul is able to understand as much as it sees in that vision of God, because there is a basic distinction between “to see” (videre) and “to understand, grasp” (comprehendere).48 As in D43Q, what Kilwardby emphasizes is the distinction between the infinite of power and the infinite of objects. In the case of human beings, we are limited to a finite power, whereas the divine mind is infinite. But the question is whether that is allowed by the simplicity of its being. To this Kilwardby replies by saying that there are different levels of simplicity of minds, just as there are different degrees of cleanness of the eye lens, which allows for better or worse cases of seeing color.49 In terms of the divine mind, it is better to say that it is infinite in the sense of power than to say in

Incarnating  265 the sense of quantity, as that is a property better applied to material things whose quantity can be measured. In that latter sense, the power of the divine soul is infinite. As to the power to see an infinite number of things, that would seem to suppose that the soul of Christ, qua human and thus finite, would be able to know an infinite number of things.50 Kilwardby presents three views on this issue, namely, those identified by the editors of Kilwardby’s text as belonging to Albert the Great, Odo Rigaldus, and the Summa Halensis. I will consider the first and the third of these views as Kilwardby understands them. According to the first (Albert’s view), there are two types of knowledge in God: simple knowledge and approved knowledge, of which the first is the knowledge of all there is, good and bad, whereas the second kind of knowledge is only of what is good. The second type of knowledge is of what both is—​which is finite in number—​and what can be—​which is infinite. According to this view, the knowledge of Christ is identical to that of God himself in what concerns knowledge of actually existing things but not in what concerns possible but not yet existing things.51 According to the third account, found in the Summa Halensis, the soul of Christ can be considered either in itself or as united with the mind of God. In itself Christ’s soul is not able to consider the infinite, but it is able to do so when participating in the mind of God. Kilwardby objects to this view because he does not understand how it is possible for the same soul to first lack the power to know when separated and then to gain it when joined to the divine mind. Either that soul has the power to know or it does not, and what the soul is able or capable of knowing cannot change according to that with which it is united.52 To add something to an incapable power does not make it suddenly capable of knowing what it did not know before. For Kilwardby, the only way a finite power is capable of knowing the infinite is by privation, that is, by knowing that it does not have a limit (per finis privationem).53 It is conceivable that a finite mind is capable of understanding that something lacks limits but not to know what it is to be limitless. God on the other hand knows everything in that positive sense of knowing by means of an infinite power the infinite of what there is and what could be. Does that mean that Christ has a mode of cognition that is similar to humans’? The answer is that it depends what kind of cognition one is talking about. According to Augustine, there are three modes of cognition, described as three types of vision: corporeal, spiritual or imaginative,

266  Robert Kilwardby and intellectual. These three modes can, however, be reduced to two: one mode of knowledge requires the mediation of species, which represent the object or a feature of the object to the cognitive subject; the other does not require the existence of species but is rather achieved by direct contact with the object of knowledge. But some things can be known both by means of species received in the senses and by means of a direct vision of them in the Word. This raises the question of whether Christ really needs to have these two kinds of species, those acquired via the senses and those his soul had from the outset. The only reason would be if his knowledge could be increased by the newly received species, but that would go against the view that he knew everything (omnia) already from the outset. At the same time, this reply would seem to suggest that the Incarnated Christ would have no use for the sensitive part of the soul and thus would also not know by means of abstraction, which would make him a very different kind of human being.54 Indeed, this ends up being Kilwardby’s answer:  because Christ does know all things from the outset, his knowledge cannot be said, in a strict sense, to improve or increase; instead it depends on the way one understands “knowledge.” Knowing can be considered in two aspects: quality and quantity. From the point of view of quality, one can know with different levels of certainty, and the kind of certitude involved in how Christ knows cannot increase. From the point of view of quantity on the other hand one can know more or fewer things, and Christ’s knowledge can increase in the number of things it comprehends.55 This is easily understood if one considers that Christ started by knowing all things from an intellectual perspective, whereas by existing under an assumed human existence he also came to know things from a sensory perspective (sensualiter). What he knew before as abstract he later came to know by means of things being present to him.56 However, there is a sense in which one can say that his knowledge did not increase. This is true in that from the outset he already had knowledge in a more complete way, namely, knowledge of the cause qua “ideal reason” (ratio idealis); by contrast, the knowledge (of the effects) acquired from the senses is knowledge for us normal human beings. So one is justified in saying that Christ gained knowledge, even if it was not “new” knowledge in a strict sense.57 Here Kilwardby is making a very general point about there being no higher kind of knowledge than the knowledge of something as an idea in the mind of God, because everything that comes to exist is causally

Incarnating  267 dependent on that idea. As a result, when one knows the species of a thing affecting one’s senses, one knows that thing in a way that is removed—​it is described as a “trace” (quoddam vestigium)—​from its primary causal reason and true being in the mind of God.58 That kind of being and knowledge is appropriate to humans but not to God and his incarnated son. No aspect of the thing remains hidden in that idea, although it does so in the species, through which it affects humans’ senses and from which we abstract its intelligible content. Even that falls short, it seems, of the “ideal” knowledge Christ has access to in the Word.59 That is not to say that Christ does not receive information, in the form of species, from two sources; in fact, he does. I have noted that Christ receives the species from the senses, a view Kilwardby justifies by appealing to an increase in terms of quantity: the amount of things Christ knows, knowing them as particulars made present to himself. But how about the intelligible content? One way to unpack this way of knowing is by considering the process of abstraction. One of the previous arguments had it that if it were not the case that Christ had any use for knowledge proceeding from the senses, then his soul would likewise have no use for abstraction. Kilwardby argues, however, that Christ abstracts just as humans do, but whereas in our case we get the data to be abstracted from below and from the outside (i.e., from external objects via the senses), in the case of Christ his data comes directly—​and thus abstracted already—​from above and from the inside, just as in the case of beatific vision.60 Another way of putting this is to consider Christ’s way of knowing as having “morning knowledge” (cogitione matutina) from the “accounts” (rationes) of things impressed in it from the outset and having access to a form of “evening knowledge” (cognitione vespertina) as the result of the threefold vision through which physical things are cognized.61 Christ does know everything human beings know, even if he acquires that knowledge in different and even concurrent ways. He does know via the senses, although in a partial way that is compensated by knowing those things already from the outset. He seems not to know them as particulars, or at least as present, which seems to indicate that Kilwardby takes the knowledge of something as present to bring something new to the knowing subject. It seems unclear what this is, precisely because he also takes Christ’s knowledge, acquired in this way, not to be knowledge in a stricter sense and to be impoverished in comparison with the kind of knowledge he already possesses. At the same time, it also seems clear that Christ’s human

268  Robert Kilwardby soul operates in a different way, because it does not abstract intelligible objects but receives them from above. Even then, the basic idea seems to be that Christ is generally aligned with human beings in terms of his cognitive processes, even if he has more insight into what any thing is by having access to the divine mind. Furthermore, redundancies seem not to matter: like a thing illuminated from two light sources, Christ’s soul knows by means of different sourced species.62 That just seems to speak for the kind of being he is. An objection is put forward that targets this notion of one and the same soul having several different species of the same thing from different sources. That means accepting, Kilwardby reckons, that the sensory species somehow makes its way through from the senses to the intellect. Instead, it is better to follow Augustine’s view that the soul makes in and of itself the images of those things that are made present to its senses. That also happens in the case of the soul of Christ, such that “it is not necessary that it [Christ’s soul] receives new species from outside through the senses but that, in some way excited by those [species] that are in the senses, it turns itself to those [species] while cognizing those [others] that it has in itself.”63 The difference from the human soul is that it lacks those other species, which exist in Christ’s soul from the outset; the incoming species either are matched to them or simply provide an occasion for knowledge. Kilwardby’s refusal to accept that such species exist in human beings allows him to defend a full-​fledged empiricism in what concerns physical things. But that is not a requirement for what concerns the soul of the son of God.

I Suffer Kilwardby does not spend much time considering either the knowledge or the passions of Christ. In fact, the texts are quite brief on these points, with the exception of an important question in the third book of the Sentences, which concerns the passions of Christ, and which I will now examine. In this question (no.  46, running twenty-​three pages in the critical edition), Kilwardby asks whether Christ’s passions are of the sensitive part of the soul or the rational part; in this way he cuts to the heart of the matter. He starts by presenting a number of reasons why one should say that the soul of Christ suffered passions in its sensitive part and then in its rational part. After this, Kilwardby takes particular care to consider the views of

Incarnating  269 other theologians on the matter, first and foremost that of Peter Lombard. According to Kilwardby, Lombard’s view was that Christ suffered only a sensual passion but not a rational one,64 as shown in distinction 17 of the Sentences, where “he teaches that the soul of Christ, according to the affective sensitive part, was afraid and prayed that the chalice of the passion was passed on, but according to the affective rational part, [it] willed to suffer and did not will to pass on the passion from himself.”65 Peter Lombard claims that Christ showed fear in the sensitive part of his soul but his reason welcomed his suffering and did not shy away from death. Kilwardby identifies the same view in Hugh of St. Victor and interprets a number of passages from his work in this way: Christ suffered the pain of the body, but he remained impassible, due to the pure joy that is found in his divine mind.66 Interestingly, Kilwardby remarks: “very few in this day would support this view”;67 but scholars have convincingly shown that this was the dominant view.68 Kilwardby presents two other views as alternatives to Lombard’s position. According to the first view, the rational soul is affected by passions (the emotions of fear and sadness) but not the whole soul; in the second view, the whole soul is subjected to passions. The first is the view attributed by the editors as that of the Summa Halensis, and the second is identified as being that of John of Damascus. By presenting the core theses of both views, Kilwardby is reporting firsthand on an important theological debate that took place around the mid-​thirteenth century. Therefore, I must pause and examine in some detail his report of the views being disputed.69 According to the first position, the rational soul is constituted by a plurality of forms, some that are essential forms of the soul and others that supervene on these, like free choice and the will. Crudely but accurately put, there are the rational soul qua nature and the rational soul qua will. This view has it that only the former type (i.e., the rational soul qua nature) is affected by passions: only it, and not the rational soul qua will, felt fear and pain. Thus, it is not the case that the whole soul of Christ suffered passions: non tota patitur secundum substantiam.70 As interesting as this view may be, Kilwardby has serious objections about its merits. Perhaps the most important is that it seems to separate what should be unified, that is to say, the affective and cognitive parts of the rational soul. For Kilwardby, the aspectus and the affectus parts are one and the same, so that the whole rational soul, which is at the same time cognitive and affective, is either affected or not affected.71 In other words, “I don’t understand in what way the rational

270  Robert Kilwardby power considered in itself can be afraid or in pain or be afflicted, except if the whole substance were in pain or afraid or afflicted.”72 By separating the two affective and cognitive parts as part of an explanatory strategy, this account has lost its explanatory value. Kilwardby points out that fear, for instance, is a natural passion to have, because it is connected with the desire to continue existing, so that it is triggered by those things that threaten this existence. But if perceivers do not have access to those things that are present to them by means of the cognitive powers, they cannot also desire or be afraid of those things.73 In the case of Christ, he knows everything. For example, he knows what caused a terrible noise during Gethsemane; thus, his soul registers the event, but his will does not succumb to the fear itself. The alternative theory claims that the whole soul is affected by the passions. According to this view, the rational soul is divided into two distinct parts:  one is turned to the contemplation of eternal truth, whereas the other is turned to the body and material things. When Christ’s soul is affected by the passions of the body, it suffers these maximally in the lower part and minimally in the higher contemplative part.74 So when Christ suffers fear and sadness, those are felt in the lower part of reason but not in the higher part; on the contrary, these passions are willed by the higher part of reason.75 It is this reading that allows one to hold that Christ suffered his passion willingly from the point of view of the higher part of reason. That is possible and appropriate, because that part of the soul is directed to the contemplation of God, and thus it rejoices in what fulfills his wishes, whereas the lower part of the rational soul is directed to the body and thus suffers from its affections. Interestingly, Kilwardby here uses Augustine’s idea of intention to describe the way the two parts of the rational soul are turned to and present in this process of being affected. As the lower part of reason is intentionally turned to and present to the body, it suffers the passions connected with the flesh and sensuality.76 In Kilwardby’s own words, “therefore, because sensuality tends to the flesh in a complete way, it is affected and suffers completely from the lesion of the flesh. And because the inferior [part of] reason completely tends toward sensuality and the flesh, it is completely affected by and suffers with them; but the superior [part of] reason, which tends elsewhere, neither suffers nor is affected by the affected lower [one].”77 Despite a certain understanding of the views under dispute, Kilwardby sticks to his own view, whereby in Christ there are only passions of his sensory soul, not of the rational one. Kilwardby goes

Incarnating  271 on to say that two opposite motions, such as those of being sad and joyous, cannot coexist in the same soul regarding the same thing, just as the heart cannot both contract (due to fear or sadness) and expand (due to joy). It is either one or the other, not both simultaneously. The main motivation for his view is what he takes to be a difference in nature between the sensitive soul, which is by and of itself the principle of life of the human body, and the rational soul, which is so by means of the intermediacy of the sensitive soul. He notes: “the intellect is not,” as Aristotle puts it in the De anima, “the actuality [actus] of any body part.”78 Thus, the sensitive soul can be affected by the suffering of the body, which the soul vivifies and protects for the purpose of its well-​being, but the rational soul of Christ remains impassible. Even when the sensitive soul suffers in the body, reason reigns over this passion and remains concentrated in its tranquility on God.79 Kilwardby sees no objection as to the capacity of the soul to hold contrary emotions in different parts of the soul, an argument William of Ockham will use later for the plurality of souls in the human composite, insofar as one dominates the other.80 One important point of contention is the argument that the whole human nature sinned in Adam, meaning that the whole of humanity must be punished for this original sin. But if that is the case and Christ assumed this human nature, then Christ must have assumed the consequences of sin, just as any human being. Kilwardby, like many of his contemporaries, contested this view. He argued instead that Christ does not share in the infection of sin like other human beings, although he contributed to the effort of restoration to the human original condition by dying for humanity. This was his way of purging our sin, not his, Kilwardby claimed.81 However, human restoration only happens via grace, for which a preparatory effort is made by us. By not being affected by the penalty resulting from original sin, the soul of Christ is not subject to the same compulsions. It is true that the soul of Christ, like any rational soul, is united with the body and the sensitive part of the soul, which vivifies the body. However, insofar as he is not subject to the disordered desires of the human soul, Christ is able to have full control over the sensual affections and the body and therefore is able to will or not will to subject himself to its affections and passions. The resulting picture is that “in the same way as reason does not desire out of necessity what the flesh or sensuality desires, also it does not reject out of necessity what those [flesh or sensuality] reject, and therefore [it] is not

272  Robert Kilwardby punished because what is not against the will of reason is not a penalty.”82 In the case of Christ, contrary to what is the case in all human beings, there is freedom from the penalties of sin and thus a perfect control of the desires of sensuality. Thus, Christ cannot be under the compulsion of his lower desires, because they have no effect against his reason and his will. It now becomes clear why Kilwardby was so adamant about insisting that only the sensory part of Christ’s soul suffers the passions, not his rational part. A counterargument for this view is the natural inclination the rational soul has to be united with the body, an inclination that, as shown earlier, is motivated by the natural perfection of the soul, which desires to know everything, including material things, and thus requires the use of the senses. The senses can only operate by means of the bodily sense organs, which means that the rational soul desires to be united with the sensitive soul, which vivifies the body, and through the sensitive soul is united with the body, so that to be separated from the body is against its nature. I take it that the full argument Kilwardby is developing here is two-​pronged: on the one hand the claim is that if Christ’s rational soul desires to be united with the body, like any other human rational soul, his soul is less free than the previous argument claimed it to be: it is, rather, tightly united with the body, so that it seems conceivable that it is affected by that union and whenever the body is affected. On the other hand the implication seems to be that if Christ’s soul is naturally inclined to union with the body, it will hate to be separated from it; hence the awareness that it is going to be separated from it (for example, by dying) will be painful to it. In his reply, Kilwardby emphasizes the special character of Christ’s soul: whereas the inclination of the human soul is justified, because there is no other way it can acquire information about sensible objects, the rational soul of Christ from the outset has all the knowledge there is. In other words, if his soul is not connected to the body, he does not miss anything essential that he cannot get by his gaze toward the divine mind. That Christ’s soul is like a created soul in a beatific state is not to say that Christ does not want to assume the human body and, with it, access to the sensory world; it is simply the case that he is not constrained to do so. Otherwise, he would miss something essential. Not having those kinds of constraints means that his freedom is safeguarded. The second prong of the argument targets a sort of separation anxiety motivated by the awareness that he is going to die and, thus, not being united with that which is proper for the soul to be

Incarnating  273 united with. Kilwardby takes this to mean that such separation must be understood as a sort of punishment that afflicts the soul in the disembodied state. He reckons that the nonfulfillment of this natural inclination should not be understood as a penalty but as another state of the soul, in which it has access to knowledge that comes directly from above and is more complete (and much more certain). Thus, instead of taking this separation that results in not sensing as a penalty, one should rather think that the real penalty would be to lack the inclination to sense.83 The reasoning is simple: by lacking the inclination to sense, the human soul would lack something essential to it, because its perfection as a knower would be affected. But in the disembodied state the soul still has that inclination; it simply senses by other means than being united with the body. In the same way, the human rational soul continues to have the power to perform some operations after the resurrection; moreover, it does not exercise some of these powers (e.g., the power of generation). Not exercising power and not having the body through which power is exercised does not need to mean anything radical. In fact, Kilwardby argues: “moreover, because the sensitive [soul] is made so that it can sense in the body, when separated it cannot sense as it was born to do while perfecting the body; thus, it is not a penalty that it cannot sense when it is separated from the body. But as it perfects the bodily [sense] organ, the penalty would not be that it could not sense, as when separated, but that it did not have the aptitude to sense.”84 The idea seems to be that, at least in the disembodied state, the inclination is toward the sensing, not toward the body, and that as such, there is no terrible loss in foreseeing not being thus united. Thus, as a human, Christ has nothing to fear. In other words, not to be able to sense in the disembodied state is not a punishment but simply one of the states the soul can be in. A very significant penalty would be to completely miss the capacity to sense, but that is not what is at stake here. Returning to the question of what part of the soul of Christ the passions affected, Kilwardby has adopted, as seen before, Lombard’s view, according to which only the sensitive part of the soul was affected. In fact, Kilwardby extends that account and defends the view that in Christ, the sensuous appetites and affections are under the absolute control (the imperium) of reason.85 When confronted with the textual evidence from Damascene—​an important source for the debate, according to which Christ displayed conflicting emotions and desires (for instance, the desire not to die and, in other

274  Robert Kilwardby places, the desire to die)—​Kilwardby notes that the conflict itself is evidence of the control that the human will, in concomitance with the divine will in Christ, exerts over the other powers, namely, sensual desire. But that does not mean that these lower powers are not able to make their inclinations manifest. Control is not exclusion. So despite the fact that the divine will willed what the human will willed (the passion) and willed against what the sensual desire desired (to avoid the passion), the two desires get a physical expression in the embodied human Christ.86 The Scriptures report those bodily manifestations.

Notes 1.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 1, 4. 2.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 1, 4. 3.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 2, 7. 4.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 2, 8. 5.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 2, 11. 6.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 2, 11. 7.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 2, 12. 8.  “Propterea aestimo, ut praedictum est, quod unio, acceptio, susceptio secundum quod dicunt actionem, conveniunt naturae, secundum quod passionem, personae”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 3, 21. 9.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 3, 14. 10.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 3, 20. 11.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 3, 16–​17. 12.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 4, 24. 13.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 4, 24. 14.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 4, 25. 15.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 5, 27. 16.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 6, 30. 17.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 6, 30. 18. “Anima enim non est medium colligationis sed congruentiae”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 6, 30. 19.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 7, 33. 20.  On this distinction, see Vaura (2017). 21.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 8, 38. 22.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 8, 39. 23.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 8, 39.

Incarnating  275 24.  Kilwardby repeats these conditions later in QLIII1S 8, 47. 25. Kilwardby cites Boethius as saying that the definition of a person includes three conditions: singularity, incommunicability, and superior dignity (QLIII1S 8, 40–​41). Incommunicability here means the property of an individual person to be deprived of something common that can be predicated of many; rather, it can only be said of one (QLIII1S 10, 52–​53). 26.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 8, 40. 27.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 8, 41. 28.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 14, 67. 29.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 14, 68. 30.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 14, 68. 31.  “Christus est persona humanae naturae”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 15, 71. 32.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 12, 65. 33.  “Non tamen erat persona ante assumptionem, quia persona requirit actualem et distinctam existentiam ab aliis per se, non solum in natura, sed etiam in esse et permanentia temporis”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 12, 65. 34.  “Restat igitur secundum stare, scilicet quod persona humana cedat et persona divina fiat persona humanae naturae, si in unitatem personae assumitur ad Deum persona humana”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 9, 45. 35.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 9, 46. 36.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 9, 48–​49. 37.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 12, 61. 38.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 12, 64. 39.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 12, 65. 40.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 15, 71. 41.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 16, 74. 42.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 16, 74. 43.  “Dicendo Deum, dico aliquem cui inest deitas, et dicendo hominem, dico aliquem cui inest humanitas”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 16, 75. 44.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 17, 80. 45.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 18, 83. 46.  On this topic, see Silva (2012). 47.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 18, 83. 48.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 42, 175. This is a point Kilwardby had explored in D43Q about the senses, in which the power of the intellect can be said to be infinite; see Silva (2007). 49.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 42, 177. 50.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 43, 180. 51.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 43, 181. 52. “Item non video quomodo ipsa unita, secundum quod talis, potest infinita scire potius quam seorsum considerata”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 43, 181.

276  Robert Kilwardby 53.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 43, 184. 54.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 187. 55.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 188. 56.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 188. 57.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 188. 58.  “Valde diminutam respectu idealis rationis”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 188. Later on, he talks about the connection between the intelligible species (species intelligibilis) and the exemplar reasons (rationes rerum exemplares) that exist in God’s mind and thus in Christ’s own rational soul (QLIII1S 44, 191). 59.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 188. 60.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 189. 61.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 191. 62.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 189. 63.  “Anima igitur Christi in se species rerum omnium, non oportet quod recipiat novas ab extra per sensum, sed ut excitata quodammodo per illas quae in sensu sunt, convertat se super illas intuendas quas in se habet”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 44, 190. 64.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 198. 65. “Quod autem Magister videatur hoc ponere, ostendit potest per distinctionem 17, ubi docet quod anima Christi secundum affectum sensualitatis timuit et oravit a se transire calicem passionais, sed secundum affectum rationis voluit pati, nec secundum illum voluit transire passionem a se”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 198. 66.  QLIII1S 46, 199. 67.  QLIII1S 46, 199. 68.  On this, see Vaura (2017). 69.  On this issue, see Madigan (2007). 70.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 207. 71.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 208. 72.  “Non ergo invenitur quomodo rationalis potentia secundum se ipsam considerata, possit timere vel dolere vel affligi, nisi tota secundum substantiam doleat vel doleat vel affligatur”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 208. 73.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 209. 74.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 209. 75.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 211. 76.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 214. 77.  “Quia igitur sensualitas totaliter carni intendit, totaliter et patitur et compatitur carni laesae. Quia etiam inferior ratio totaliter intendit sensualitati et carni, totaliter patitur et compatitur illis, sed superior ratio quae intendit alibi, non compatitur neque patitur inferiori patiente”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 214.

Incarnating  277 78.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 215. 79. “Imperavit enim ibi ratio per omnia sensualitati, ipsa manens in dispositione sua placida et tranquilla apud Deum”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 215. 80.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 216. 81.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 200. 82.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 201. 83.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 203. 84.  “Item. Quia sic facta est sensitiva, ut in corpore possit sentire, separata vero non possit sed sentire nata sit, cum perficit corpus, ideo non est ei poena, cum separatur, non posse sentire. Sed sicut cum perficit organum corporale, poena ei esset non posse sentire, sic cum separatur, poenale forte aliquo modo esset non habere aptitudinem sentiendi”; Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 203. 85.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 204. 86.  Kilwardby, QLIII1S 46, 206.

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Index

For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages.    absolute prime matter, 20–​21 animation, 257 abstraction, 116–​17, 119 Anonymous, 171 accidents,  88–​89 Anonymous Aurelianensis III, 14 activity Anselm,  212–​13 active potencies, 31–​34 appetite,  175–​76 how things can act on other Aquinas, Thomas, xi, 1–​2, 9–​10, 18–​19, things,  233–​34 41–​43, 51–​52, 60–​61,  171 of human soul, 190–​91 criticisms of, 48–​49 Kilwardby on attention and Oxford Prohibitions (1277), 9–​10, 34, activity,  105–​12 41–​43, 44, 47–​52, 57 moral action, 190 Paris condemnations (1270), 56–​57 voluntary action, 193–​97 supporters, 49 acumen or solertia,  125–​26 Vercelli’s questionnaire to, 56–​57 affections (passiones), 140–​42,  191–​92 Aristotle, ix Albert the Great, xi, 1–​2, 9–​10, 14, 17, on being, 31, 36, 62–​63 125, 171 Categories, 14, 63–​65, 75–​80, 128–​29 Vercelli’s questionnaire to, 56–​57 classification of sciences, 150 analogical-​unity view,  19–​20 De anima, 9, 270–​71 angels,  214–​18 Ethics, 3–​4, 6–​7, 9–​10, 171, 172–​80, animal generation, 29–​31 208,  240–​42 animal life, 179–​80 first principles, 135

295

296  Index Aristotle (cont.) on happiness, 171–​72, 179 On Interpretation, 14, 75, 79–​85, 112–​13, 128–​29,  139–​40 on knowing, 95–​96, 100–​1, 109–​12, 135, 150, 206–​7 Metaphysics, 9, 26, 208 Physics, 9, 59, 62, 63–​65 Posterior Analytics, 14, 75, 112–​13, 125–​29, 132, 133–​35,  139–​40 Prior Analytics, 14, 75, 77–​78, 112–​13,  128–​29 theory of demonstration, 135 wax seal analogy, 109–​12 astronomy,  154–​55 attention and activity, 105–​12 Augustine on being, 36, 62–​63 De Genesi ad litteram, 98–​100, 102–​3,  233–​34 De musica, 98–​100, 233–​34, 235 faces of the soul, 256 on Incarnating, 270–​71 on knowing, 95–​96, 101–​2 The Spirit and the Soul, 54 Auvergne, William of, 5–​6, 51–​52 Averroes on being, 18, 62–​63 monopsychism, 113–​15,  117–​18 axioms, 136    Bacon, Robert, 7–​8, 48–​49 Bacon, Roger, 17 barbarism,  82–​83 Barthelemy of Tours, 10 beatific knowledge (scientia patriae), 242 beatitude (beatitudine), 172–​73, 174 behavior, 171 moral action, 190 voluntary action, 193–​97 being, 3, 16 belief, 204 Blund, John, 5–​6, 61

Boethius,  97–​98 Book of Divisions, 75 classification of sciences, 150 Bonaventure, xi, 7–​8, 17 Book of Divisions (Boethius), 75 Book of Six Principles (Anonymous), 75 Breakspear, Nicholas, 10    Cambridge change, 264 Categories (Aristotle), 14, 63–​65, 75–​80, 112–​13,  128–​29 Catholic Church, 253 Catholics,  172–​73 Celano, Anthony, xiii–​xiv, 3–​4 celestial motion, 57–​62 change Cambridge, 264 creation as a kind of, 210–​15 choice, 194–​95,  219–​25 Christ, 209, 253 Incarnate, 254–​55, 256–​58, 260–​62,  265–​74 knowledge of, 265–​68 person of, 259–​60 soul,  272–​73 suffering of, 268–​74 unity of, 261–​62 Christianity, 253 Christian theology, 229 Divine Trinity, 209–​10 doctrine of Incarnation, 44, 253 doctrine of Transubstantiation,  44–​45 sacraments,  235–​40 Christologie (Kilwardby), 101–​2 Christology, 253, 260 Cicero, 116 circumcision,  238–​39 civil doctrine (civilis doctrina), 177 classification of sciences, 8–​9, 150–​51,  152–​54 cognition, 96–​97, 100–​1,  112–​25

Index  297 cognitive soul, 95–​96 Commentary on the Liber Sex Principiorum (Kilwardby), 26, 58,  59–​60 Commentary to Priscian Major, 11 concupiscence,  230–​32 confused universal, 120 congruency,  257–​58 Conti, Alessandro, xiii–​xiv, 3–​4 continuous quantity, 119 corporeity,  213–​14 correlatives, 89 creation as change, 210–​15 theories concerning, 211–​12 creator and creatures, 218–​19 Curzon, Robert, 10    Damascene, John (John of Damascus), 258–​59, 268–​69,  273–​74 De anima (Aristotle), 9, 270–​71 De anima (Blund), 61 De conscientia et synderesi (Kilwardby),  240–​42 definitions, 120–​21, 136–​37,  145–​49 causal, 147 in demonstrations, 146–​47 nominal, 147 De Genesi ad litteram (Augustine), 98–​100, 102–​3,  233–​34 deliberation, 195 demonstration(s), 125–​26, 128–​31, 132–​33, 135,  138–​39 conditions for, 139–​40 first principle of, 147–​48 middle term of, 147–​48 types of, 144–​45 types of definitions in, 146–​47 what can be demonstrated, 142–​45 De musica (Augustine), 98–​100, 233–​34,  235 De natura relationis (Kilwardby), 32–​33, 85–​86,  218

De ortu scientiarum (Kilwardby), 8–​10, 18–​21, 59–​60, 80, 84–​85, 150–​51, 154–​55,  172–​73 desire,  194–​95 De spiritu fantastico (Kilwardby), 98–​101,  106–​7 De tempore (Kilwardby), 62–​65 Didascalicon (Hugh of St. Victor), 8–​9,  152–​53 discipline(s),  149–​54 discovery,  153–​54 discrete quantity, 119 dispositions (habitus),  191–​92 divine mercy (misericordia), 237 divine science, 151 Divine Trinity, 209–​10 Dominican Order, 10, 48 Chapter of Paris, 48–​49 English Province, xii General Chapter, 49 Viterbo convent, 10    Ebbesen, Sten, 14 Échard, J., 11 empiricism, 136 epistemology, 115, 125 Epistola Roberti Kilwardby ad Petrum de Confleto, 11, 18, 20–​21, 28–​29, 39, 47,  51–​52 ethics definition of, 174–​75 Kilwardby’s ethical doctrine, 197 Kilwardby’s works on, 12 as the science of happiness, 172–​80 Ethics (Aristotle), 179, 208 first surviving Latin commentaries on, 171 Kilwardby’s commentary on, 3–​4, 6–​7, 9–​10, 171, 172–​80,  240–​42 “old and new Ethics” (ethica nova et vetus) version, 171 Translatio Alexandrina, 171 Eustrasius, 171

298  Index evening knowledge (cognitione vespertina), 267 evil,  229–​35 experiment(s), 132, 134–​35    faith, 207–​8,  240–​44 felicitas, 172–​73. See also happiness first principles, 135–​37 Fishacre, Richard, 7–​8, 48–​49 form(s) Kilwardby on, 26–​28, 32–​33, 213–​14 plurality of, 16–​28 unity of, 41–​46 formal truth, 84 Franciscans: Summa Halensis, 264–​65,  268–​69 freedom, 188 from another, 225 of choice, 219–​25 as power, 225 Friedman, Russell, 7    Gauthier, R. A., 171 Geoffrey of Aspall, 11 geometry, 84–​85,  154–​56 Gillon, L.-​B.,  240–​44 God. See also theology action of, 224–​25, 228 creation of, 210–​15 as creator, 218–​19 definition of, 209 Divine Trinity, 209–​10 image of, 217–​18 love for, 228–​29 omnipotence of, 210–​11 types of knowledge in, 264–​65 good, the, 175–​76, 180–​85 external types, 184 general good, 182 internal types, 184 partial types, 182 grace, 216–​17,  225–​29 new law, 235–​36, 237–​38

grammar, 12, 14, 81–​85 Great Dispersion, 5–​6 Great Medieval Thinkers, x–​xi greatness, 1 great ontological principle, 98–​100 Grosseteste, Robert, 14, 125, 126–​27, 171 guilt, 230, 232–​33, 236    habits, 191–​92, 197 Hanagan, John, 86 happiness, 171, 182–​83, 184 cause of, 185–​87 definition of, 188 felicitas,  172–​73 science of, 172–​80 heaven’s grace, 225–​29. See also grace Hermann of Corinth, 171 Hugh of St. Victor, 150, 268–​69 Didascalicon, 8–​9,  152–​53 On the Sacraments,  235–​36 human beings, 216–​17 humanization, 257, 261–​62 human justice, 225–​27 human nature, 230, 259–​60 human sciences, 152–​53 human soul, 214–​15 activities of, 190–​91 Augustine’s two faces of, 256 cognitive,  95–​96 as ignorant, 235 as image of God, 217–​18 intellective, 55, 95–​96, 188–​89 Kilwardby on, 34–​41, 52–​56, 95–​96 potentiae in, 28–​29, 33–​38, 39–​40, 41–​43, 49–​50, 52–​53,  54–​55 rational, 217–​18, 234–​35, 269–​70,  272–​73 sensitive, 95–​96, 188–​89,  234–​35 in the Sentences,  52–​56 types of metaphysical entities in,  191–​92 unity of, 37–​41 ways to perfection, 184–​85

Index  299 human virtue, 188. See also virtue(s) hylemorphism, universal, 16 hypotheses,  136–​37    imagination, 131 Incarnation, 44, 253 as assumption of a body by divine nature,  254–​64 justification for, 254–​55 as knowledge of man by God, 264–​68 as suffering, 268–​74 individualization,  122–​23 individual property, 124–​25 individuation,  124–​25 inductive reasoning, 126 instantiation,  118–​20 intellective soul, 55, 95–​96, 188–​89 intellectual processes, 112–​25 intellectual virtue(s), 188, 197 intellectus,  125–​26 intelligence, 98 Isagoge (Porphyry), 26–​27, 75, 121–​22    judging,  153–​54 justice, 228 highest,  238–​39 human,  225–​27 justification, 240    Kilwardby, Robert, xi–​xii, 1 on active potencies, 31–​34 on angels, 215–​18 on animal generation, 29–​31 as archbishop of Canterbury, 48 on attention and activity, 105–​12 on behavior, 171 on being, 16 on being logical, 75 on believing, 204 on celestial motion, 57–​62 classification of sciences, 150–​51,  152–​54 on cognition, 100–​1, 112–​25

commentary on the Ethics, 3–​4, 6–​7, 9–​10, 171, 172–​80,  240–​42 commentary on the Sentences,  7–​8 on conditions for predication, 139–​40 on creation as a kind of change,  210–​15 on creator and creatures, 218–​19 on definitions, 145–​49 on demonstration, 128–​31, 142–​45 on the disciplines, 149–​54 on the Divine Trinity, 209–​10 ecclesiastical career, 10, 48 empiricism, 136 ethical doctrine, 197 on faith, 240–​44 on form, 26–​28 on the free choice of the will, 219–​25 on the good, 180–​85 greatness,  1–​2 on happiness, 172–​80, 182, 184–​87,  188 on heaven’s grace, 225–​29 how things can act on other things,  233–​34 on human soul, 34–​41, 52–​56, 184–​85 on Incarnating, 253 on individuation, 124 interpretation of, xiii on knowing, 94 letter to Peter of Conflans, 28–​52 life,  5–​10 on matter, 16–​25 on motion, 56–​65 on nature, 27–​28 on perception, 94 philosophical-​theological project, 3, 27–​28, 205–​8,  229 on preexisting knowledge, 131–​35 on principles, 137–​39 on representing and instantiating,  118–​20 on sacraments, 235–​40 on scientific knowledge, 125–​28, 138

300  Index Kilwardby, Robert (cont.) significance of thought, 1–​2 on signs of affections, 140–​42 on sin and evil, 229–​35 on subalternation, 154–​57 syllogistic theory, 128–​31 on theology, 3, 27–​28, 205–​8, 229 on thinking, 113–​18 on time, 62–​65 on universality, 120–​25 Vercelli’s questionnaire to, 56–​57 on the virtues, 188–​97 on voluntary action, 193–​97 on what can be demonstrated,  142–​45 works, 11–​14 (see also specific works by title) works on Old Logic, 3–​4, 14, 75 Knapwell, Richard, 49 knowledge, 3, 88–​89, 94, 206–​7 beatific, 242 of Christ Incarnate, 265–​68 demonstrative,  132–​33 evening, 267 morning, 267 preexisting,  131–​35 scientific, 125–​28, 138, 149–​57 theological,  207–​8 true, 131 types in God, 264–​65 universal, 133 about virtue, 190 Knuuttila, Simo, xiii–​xiv    Langton, Stephen, 10 language Kilwardby on, 75–​80, 82 study of, 82 law of the flesh, 231–​32 Lewry, Patrick Osmund, xiii–​xiv, 49 libido, 233 linguistic expressions, 75–​80

logic, 125–​26,  153–​54 being logical, 75 Kilwardby’s works on logic and grammar, 12, 14 New Logic (logica nova),  128–​29 Old Logic (logica vetus), 3–​4, 14, 75,  128–​29 Lohr, C., 11 Lombard, Peter: Sentences, 7–​8, 52–​56, 204, 209, 210–​11, 225–​27, 253, 260–​61,  268–​69 love, xiii, 3, 228–​29    Malabranca, Latino, 10 matter,  16–​25 absolute prime matter, 20–​21 natural prime matter, 21–​22,  24–​25 mechanical sciences, 152–​53 mercy, divine (misericordia), 237 metaphysics argument against monopsychism, 115 of plurality, 16–​28 Metaphysics (Aristotle), 9, 26, 208 Michel of Ephesus, 171 Middle Ages, x military science, 177 moderation or temperance, 190–​92 “modes of things” (expression), 84–​85 Moerbeke, William of, 28 Monophysitism, 260 monopsychism, 113–​15,  117–​18 epistemological argument against, 115 metaphysical argument against, 115 Monumenta Ordine Predicatorum Historica, 11 moral action, 190 moral agents, 191 moral doctrine, 178–​79 moral science (moralis), 173–​74,  175–​79

Index  301 moral virtue(s), 188, 197 morning knowledge (cogitione matutina), 267 mortality, 232–​33, 235 motion,  56–​65 celestial,  57–​62 natural, 59 voluntary, 194    naked truth, 242–​43 names,  81–​84 nativism,  225–​27 natural law, 235–​36 natural motion, 59 natural philosophy, 12, 151–​52 natural prime matter, 21–​22, 24–​25 nature divine,  254–​64 human, 230, 259–​60 Kilwardby’s philosophy of, 27–​28 reason as, 257–​58 new law (grace), 235–​36, 237–​38 New Logic (logica nova),  128–​29 Notulae super librum Porphyrii (Kilwardby), 26 Notulae Super Librum Praedicamentorum (Kilwardby), 18–​19, 85–​86,  119 Notule Libri Posteriorum (Kilwardby), 22–​23, 120, 128, 130–​31, 143,  156–​57 Notule Libri Priorum (Kilwardby),  9–​10 Notule super librum Peryermenias (Kilwardby),  80–​81    old (scriptural) law, 235–​36 Old Logic (logica vetus), 3–​4, 14, 75,  128–​29 On Interpretation (Aristotle), 112–​13,  128–​29 Kilwardby’s commentary on, 14, 75, 79–​85,  139–​40

On the Fantastic Spirit or on the Reception of the Species (De spiritu fantastico seu de receptione specierum) (Kilwardby), 94–​95 On the Sacraments (Hugh of St. Victor),  235–​36 ontology,  98–​100 opinion, 128 optics,  154–​55 Orford, Robert, 49 original sin, 214–​15, 229, 232–​33,  271–​72 Oxford Prohibitions (1277), 9–​10, 34, 41–​43, 44, 47–​52, 57 instigation,  47–​48 sample articles, 49–​51    Paris, France condemnations (1270), 56–​57 Dominican Chapter of Paris,  48–​49 Pecham, John, 11 perception Kilwardby on, 94 signs of affections, 140–​42 person(s), 209 personal property, 209–​10 Peter of Conflans, 28, 29, 39–​40 Kilwardby’s letter to, 28–​52 Philip the Chancellor, 38–​39 philosophy, natural, 12, 151–​52 Physics (Aristotle), 9, 59, 62, 63–​65 Pignon, L., 11 Plato on happiness, 179 Kilwardby’s criticism of, 180–​81 on the soul, 188–​89 on thinking, 116 on universals, 156–​57 plurality: metaphysics of, 16–​28 political virtues, 243–​44 Porphyry: Isagoge, 26–​27, 75, 121–​22

302  Index Posterior Analytics (Aristotle), 112–​13,  128–​29 Kilwardby’s commentary on, 14, 75, 125–​28, 132, 133–​35,  139–​40 postulates,  136–​37 potentiality, 35 active potencies, 31–​34 potentiae in the human soul, 28–​29, 33–​38, 39–​40, 41–​43, 49–​50, 52–​53,  54–​55 powers (or potentiae partiales), 35,  191–​92 predication: conditions for, 139–​40 Price, H. H., 121 prime matter absolute,  20–​21 natural, 21–​22,  24–​25 principles,  137–​39 Prior Analytics (Aristotle), 14, 75, 77–​78, 112–​13,  128–​29 Priscian, 77 privation, 22–​23, 32–​33, 265 property individual,  124–​25 personal,  209–​10 Pseudo-​Peckham,  171 Pullen, Robert, 10 Pythagoreans,  181–​82    Quaestiones in Librum Primum Sententiarum (Kilwardby), 82,  84–​85 Quaestiones in Librum Quartum Sententiarum (Kilwardby), 235–​36 Quaestiones in Librum Secundum Sententiarum (Kilwardby), 17, 20–​21, 36, 52, 109–​12, 118–​19 Quaestiones in Librum Tertium Sententiarum (Kilwardby), 101–​2, 243, 263 quantity continuous, 119 discrete, 119 Quétif, J., 11

rationality,  188–​89 rational soul (aspectus), 217–​18, 234–​35, 269–​70,  272–​73 Raymond of Meuillon, 48 reason(s),  188–​89 demonstrative, 128 inductive reasoning, 126 as nature, 257–​58 seminal reasons, 213–​14 relation,  85–​89 representation Kilwardby on, 118–​20 wholeness of, 117–​18 Responsio de XLIII questionibus (Kilwardby), 37, 59–​60, 264–​65 rhetoric, 177 Richard of Saint Victor, 259 righteous living, 227–​28, 230–​31 rituals, 239 Roland of Cremona, 48–​49 Rosier, Irène, 82 Rufus, Richard, 7–​8    sacraments,  235–​40 salvific truth, 242–​43 Schneider, Johannes, 7 science or scientific knowledge, 125–​28, 138, 154–​57,  184–​85 beatific knowledge (scientia patriae), 242 classification of, 8–​9, 150–​51, 152–​54 disciplines,  149–​54 divine, 151 of happiness, 172–​80 human,  152–​53 mechanical,  152–​53 military science, 177 moral science (moralis), 173–​74,  175–​79 special science (scientia speciali), 149 speculative, 151, 152–​53 subalternation,  154–​57 of theology, 206 true knowledge (uerissime scientia), 131

Index  303 scientia (term), 125–​26 Scot, Michel, 171 scriptural (or old) law, 235–​36 Scriptures,  240–​42 seal, wax, 109–​12, 225–​27 self-​productive principle,  101–​2 seminal reasons, 213–​14 senses, proper, 131 sensible species, 95–​105 sensitive soul, 95–​96, 188–​89, 234–​35 sensual concupiscence, 231–​32 Sentences (Lombard), 204, 209, 210–​11, 225–​27, 253, 260–​61,  268–​69 human soul in, 52–​56 Kilwardby’s commentary on, 7–​8 Sermo in dominica in Passione (Kilwardby),  235–​36 Sharpe, R., 11 signs of affections, 140–​42 Silva, José Filipe, xi sin,  229–​35 original, 214–​15, 229, 232–​33, 271–​72 Socrates, 116 solecism,  82–​83 solertia or acumen, 125–​26 Somercote, Robert, 10 Sommer-​Seckendorff, Ellen, 2 Sophistical Refutations,  112–​13 soul, 34–​41, 52–​56,  95–​96 angelic,  216–​17 cognitive,  95–​96 human, 34–​41, 52–​56, 184–​85, 190–​ 92, 214–​18, 234–​35, 256 intellective, 55, 95–​96, 188–​89 rational, 217–​18, 234–​35, 269–​70,  272–​73 sensitive, 95–​96, 188–​89,  234–​35 types of metaphysical entities in,  191–​92 special science (scientia speciali), 149 species, sensible, 95–​105 species specialissima,  145–​46 speculative science, 151, 152–​53 speech, 175

“spirit,”  94–​96 The Spirit and the Soul (Augustine), 54 spiritual lights (lumina spiritualia),  100–​1 Stams Tabula, 11 subalternation,  154–​57 substance, 79 suffering,  268–​74 Summa Halensis, 264–​65,  268–​69 Super Ethicorum (Kilwardby), 172–​73,  184–​85 Sutton, Thomas, 49 syllogism(s), 128–​31,  138–​39 conditions for predication, 139–​40 demonstrative, 133    temperance or moderation, 190–​92 Tempier, E., 56–​57 Themistius,  148–​49 theological virtues, 228, 243 theology,  205–​8 Kilwardby’s works on, 12 sacramental, 239 things how things can act on other things,  233–​34 Kilwardby on words, thoughts, and things,  75–​80 “modes of things” (expression),  84–​85 thinking, 75–​80,  113–​18 Thinking and Experience (Price), 121 Thomism, 37 Thörnqvist, Christina Thomsen, 14 thoughts,  75–​80 time,  62–​65 Toledo, John of, 10 Topics,  112–​13 Tractatus contra Fratrem Robertum Kilwardby, 11 transcendental relation, 86 transcendent terms, 85 Transubstantiation,  44–​45 true knowledge (uerissime scientia), 131

304  Index truth formal, 84 naked,  242–​43 salvific,  242–​43    unity analogical-​unity view,  19–​20 of form(s), 41–​46 of human soul, 37–​41 of Incarnated Christ, 261–​62 universal hylemorphism, 16 universality confused universal, 120 Kilwardby on, 120–​25 universal knowledge, 133 University of Oxford: Oxford Prohibitions (1277), 9–​10, 34, 41–​43, 44, 47–​52, 57    ventricles,  95–​96 Vercelli, John of, 56–​57, 59–​60 vices, 233 Vigouroux, John, 48 violence,  193–​94

virtue(s), 175–​76, 179–​80, 184–​85, 188–​97,  225–​27 acquisition of, 190 definitions of, 192–​93 as habit, 197 intellectual, 188, 197 knowledge about, 190 love for the rules of virtuous living,  228–​29 moral, 188, 197 political,  243–​44 theological, 228, 243 virtuous life, 227–​28 in voluntary action, 193–​97 voluntary action, 193–​97 voluntary motion, 194    wax seal analogy, 109–​12, 225–​27 will: free choice of, 219–​25 Wood, Rega, 7 words, thoughts, and things, 75–​80    youth, 178–​79