Download PDF | (Conway Lectures in Medieval Studies) Peter Adamson - Don't Think for Yourself_ Authority and Belief in Medieval Philosophy-University of Notre Dame Press (2022).
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The chapters of this book were written to be delivered as the 2019 Conway Lectures at the University of Notre Dame and the 2020 Carlyle Lectures at Oxford University. I would first therefore like to thank both institutions for the honor of being invited to give these lectures, and in particular Thomas Burman at Notre Dame and George Garnett at Oxford for issuing the invitations and offering splendid hospitality. I would also like to thank Megan Hall and Graham Lockey for their work in organizing these events and Stephen Little at the University of Notre Dame Press for his enthusiasm for the book project.
I had extensive discussions with students and staff at both Notre Dame and Oxford, and it would take pages to name everyone who gave me useful references, ideas, suggestions, and possible objections. But I would like to thank at least James Allen, Maria Rosa Antognazza, Robert Audi, Teresa Bejan, Suzanne Bobzien, Lesley Brown, David Burrell, Ursula Coope, Therese Cory, Stephen Gersh, Danielle Layne, Fiona Leigh, Anna Marmadoro, Christopher Melchert, Ebrahim Moosa, David O’Connor, Jose Andres Porras, Jenny Rallens, Gretchen Reydams-Schils, Denia Robichaud, Lydia Schuhmacher, Richard Sorabji, Wiebke Marie Stock, Cecilia Trifogli, Jan Westerhoff, Abigail Whalen, Jack Woodworth, and Johannes Zachhuber, all of whom helped make these two lecture series highlights of my academic career.
My work on the themes of the book has profited from reading seminars at the LMU in Munich devoted to some of the authors discussed here, like Plethon and al-Dawwani, and from conversations with colleagues there, including Hanif Amin Beidokhkti, Fedor Benevich, Matteo Di Giovanni, Rotraud Hansberger, Mareike Hauer, Andreas Lammer, Abdurrahman Mihirig, Michael Noble, and Alexander Reutlinger, all of whom discussed with me topics and texts tackled in the pages of this book. Bethany Somma went further still and made very useful, detailed notes on the whole manuscript. I also received generous and helpful feedback on a previous draft from Deborah Black and John Marenbon. Other colleagues with whom I had useful exchanges that influenced discussions in the book include George Boys-Stones, Charles Brittain, Susan Brower-Toland, Bérje Bydén, Amin Ehtashami, Frank Griffel, Dimitri Gutas, Dag N. Hasse, Katerina Ierodiakonou, Jill Kraye, Scott MacDonald, Cecilia Muratori, Robert Pasnau, Martin Pickavé, Peter E. Pormann, Sajjad Rizvi, Sarah Stroumsa, Richard C. Taylor, and Michele Trizio. I would also like to thank Oliver Primavesi and Christof Rapp for making the Munich School of Ancient Philosophy, which I run with them, such a congenial and stimulating center for the study of classical thought and its medieval reception. My gratitude also to Hani Mohseni for his work on the index to the volume.
For support of the research that lies behind chapter 7, I gratefully acknowledge the European Research Council (ERC), which has funded a project at the LMU under the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program (grant agreement No. 786762). My work on thinkers of the Islamic world has also been supported by the DFG under the aegis of the project “Heirs of Avicenna: Philosophy in the Islamic East from the 12th to the 13th Century.”
Finally, as always my greatest debt is to the members of my family: my brother, Glenn, who discussed this book project with me when it was only a gleam in my eye, my parents, and of course my wife, Ursula, and my daughters, Sophia and Johanna.
INTRODUCTION
This is that rare thing, a book on medieval philosophy that is in danger of being overtaken by events. It was written over about a year, from spring 2019 until early 2020. Then in early spring 2020, as I was finalizing the manuscript, came the COVID-19 pandemic, whose wider repercussions will no doubt still be unfolding as the book goes to press. As I explain in chapter 1, I wrote the book in part as a response to a seeming crisis of authority that has come to dominate the political scene over the past years. It’s impossible to say now what implications this most recent, and far more concrete, crisis will have for my theme. Perhaps our reliance on the expertise of health professionals and epidemiologists will lead to a renewed respect for expertise more generally. Or perhaps there will be a backlash provoked by the economic consequences of lockdown and social distancing. However things turn out, it seems even clearer now than it was when I started writing the book that a well-considered relationship to epistemic authority, an ability to make intelligent use of knowledge that lies beyond our own competence, is vitally important. Indeed it is a matter of life and death.
As it happens the pandemic has also given me an additional reason to reflect on one of my favorite texts from medieval culture, a text I was already planning to use to introduce the theme of the book as a whole. For it is a text set in a situation of radical social isolation and is in my view also centrally concerned with questions of authority and belief. Called Hayy ibn Yaqzan, it was written in the twelfth century by the Andalusian doctor and philosopher Ibn Tufayl.' It is an unusual, though as we’ll see in chapter 3 not unique, work of medieval philosophy in that it is written as a narrative tale rather than a discursive treatise. The title character, Hayy, finds himself on a lush island, having arrived there in one of two alternative ways: after being set adrift in a chest by his mother or having been spontaneously generated from the earth. He grows to adulthood without ever encountering another human being. Yet through native wit and observation of his island home and the heavens above, he becomes an accomplished scientist and philosopher, and ultimately a mystic. We see him work out the principles of medicine and natural philosophy, prove the existence of God, and discover the means by which divine providence is exercised. Finally another human arrives, named Absal. He has come from another island in search of solitude. Once the two learn to communicate, Absal is thrilled by Hayy’s wisdom and resolves to bring him home so that Hayy can share his learning with the inhabitants of the other island. But the people there fail to appreciate what he tells them, and he and Absal in the end return to a shared isolation on the island where Hayy has spent his life.
While Hayy’s philosophical discoveries are clearly based on the tradition of Hellenizing philosophy (fa/safa) in the Islamic world, it is less clear what the purpose of the narrative frame might be. I read it as, among other things, a rejection of the need for authority in belief formation. On this reading, Ibn Tufayl’s point in having Hayy start with a “blank slate” is to show that it would indeed be possible, in sufficiently ideal conditions and with sufficient talent, for a single human being to become an accomplished intellectual with no help apart from the resources of the natural environment. Those of us who did not grow up alone on a remote island depend on teachers and routinely take authorities at their word. But there is no absolute need to turn to other humans to achieve enlightenment. You can, quite literally, do it yourself. In fact, the ending sequence with the second island may suggest that you even might be better off on your own than in human society, at least if the society is in thrall to ignorant beliefs and incorrect values.”
This part of the work was potentially provocative, if it was taken to suggest that the second island was meant to stand in for Muslim Spain or Islamic societies in general. One author who was in fact provoked was Ibn al-Nafis, another doctor with philosophical interests. He wrote an answer to Hayy ibn Yaqzan in which the main character is instead called Fadil ibn Natiq.? Again the hero progresses philosophically while living alone on an island, but then a ship arrives and Fadil learns valuable truths of religion from its passengers. Lacking religious revelation and a community that could impart the teachings of the faith, Fadil could go only so far. These two works, then, represent antithetically opposed views on the need for what we might call “epistemic dependence.” For Ibn Tufayl and, as we’ll see, other medieval philosophers with Aristotelian leanings, the resources of reason given to each of us at birth make it possible for us to arrive at comprehensive and certain knowledge about the universe and the God who created it. For others, like Ibn al-Nafis, independent reason needs to be supplemented by some further resource. There is no shame in depending on others for one’s beliefs. To the contrary, this is just an inevitable feature of life as a religious believer and, indeed, as a human.
This book, then, is an exploration of how medieval philosophers dealt with the problem of epistemic dependence. In chapter 1, I look at a useful contrast that emerged in Islamic law and theology before being taken up by philosophers. The contrast is between what in Arabic was called ijtihad, judgment based on independent effort, and taqlid, acceptance of authority. The question whether tag/id is a bad thing admits of no simple answer. It will depend on, among other things, the status of the believer. On one view, trained scholars should not indulge in taqlid, whereas untrained peasants certainly should. But as we’ll see, this straightforwardly elitist account was not unanimously adopted. In chapter 2, I look at the consequences of refusing to engage in taqlid. The Aristotelian tradition brought with it ambitious promises of freeing its adherents from false belief and even from “belief” in general, if this is taken as a contrast to knowledge. In a scientific context, at least, the philosopher could and should achieve the certainty and comprehensiveness of understanding enjoyed by Hayy on his island. The problem, I argue, is that the philosophers’ aims were so ambitious, their promises so grand, that their project came to seem unfeasible. And this provoked skeptical worries. If knowledge as Aristotle and the other philosophers understood it cannot be attained, then do we really know anything?
Chapter 3 offers a way out of this problem, by suggesting that a lowering of expectations should give us a more plausible, and achievable, set of epistemic goals. Drawing on the Muslim theologian al-Ghazalt, I develop the notion of “justified taglid,’ in which one does follow authority rather than try to attain unassailable proof for everything, yet takes care not to follow authority uncritically. I then look at several texts that depict a choice between different belief systems. These model for us the idea of being critical and intelligently selective in religion and, by extension, in other epistemic contexts. From here, we move in chapter 4 to a different sort of confrontation between religions. Now, instead of imagining an impartial judge who needs to decide which belief system to adopt, we have partisans of one faith attacking its rivals. My particular focus is the question whether members of Abrahamic religions felt able to depend on pagan authorities in the context of interconfessional debate. So there is an intimate connection between this chapter and the next, chapter 5. There, I look at texts addressing the relative merits of the two leading pagan authorities, Plato and Aristotle. Again, we have here a concrete instance in which medievals were highly self-conscious about giving credence to a putatively authoritative teacher.
Finally, in chapters 6 and 7 we move away from the “epistemic elite” of philosophers, theologians, and jurists. First, I look at a class of humans that was routinely excluded from the intellectual milieu in medieval culture, namely, women. Women authors nonetheless found ways to take part in intellectual discourse and even to establish a kind of authority for themselves. I then end the book by looking at the contrast between humans and animals. This completes a story that runs throughout the book, in which I show how an epistemic elite of educated men defined itself in opposition to the unlearned, to women, and to nonhuman animals. In each case, we’ll see that the line between favored and disfavored group was constantly in danger of being blurred, so as to undermine the elite’s self-satisfied self-conception.*
That self-conception is eloquently expressed in another parable, one just as populated as Ibn Tufayl’s is unpopulated. It is found in The Guide of the Perplexed by the great Jewish philosopher Maimonides.* He asks us to imagine a palace and a king within, representing God. Wandering far from the palace are those who lack religion entirely. Maimonides says that these people are not fully human, since their irrationality places them between monkeys and humans in their mental attainment. These include far-flung peoples like the Kushites but also, says Maimonides, some in his own society. The second-worst group are those whose backs are turned to the palace, because through their own speculation or being misled by others, they have false doctrines. Then there are those who wish to enter the palace but have not managed to reach it; this is the situation of the common run of people. Circling the palace and closest to it without getting inside are people with true beliefs that they cannot prove to be true. Under this heading Maimonides mentions jurists of the Jewish tradition, but, as we’ll see, the Muslim philosophers (falasifa) had similar assessments of the theologians (mutakallimiin) who were their rivals for intellectual dominance in the Islamic world. Finally there are those who do attain proof and have knowledge of God to the greatest extent possible; they are represented in the allegory by those who are in attendance upon the king himself.
Tellingly, Maimonides’s image draws a parallel between scholarly expertise and proximity to political power. Of course, medieval scholars were often farther from the halls of power than they would have liked. Still, quite a few of them consorted with princes (al-Kindi tutored the caliph’s son), enjoyed patronage from various potentates (such patronage plays a significant role in Avicenna’s biography), or had significant political responsibility in their own right (Bonaventure was head of the Franciscan order). More generally, there is no doubting that the epistemic elite in this period, as in ours, was also a social and economic elite. So one could usefully extend the studies in this book to grapple more fully with the political implications of medieval epistemology. I do touch on political questions in what follows, especially concerning the predicament of oppressed groups like Jews, women, and the inhabitants of the “New World” once they were contacted by Europeans. But for the most part, when I speak of “authority” I mean by this being recognized as a reliable source of belief, not wielding economic or coercive power: think of Aristotle, not Alexander the Great.
And one final note before I begin. Aristotle and Alexander the Great are of course familiar names, but already in this introduction there may have been at least one name that is not familiar, Ibn Tufayl. And there are probably many more to come. As | explain in chapter 1, this book ranges widely in chronological and cultural terms. This was a conscious decision on my part. Of course my primary goal is to discuss medieval ideas about authority and belief, showing their surprising nuance and fruitfulness. But a secondary goal is to demonstrate the richness and diversity of medieval philosophy, using this one theme as an example. It may be rather surprising (or even annoying) that I have deemphasized the Latin scholastic tradition that usually occupies center stage in treatments of any theme in medieval thought. The most famous thinker of the medieval era, the scholastic Thomas Aquinas, appears as a significant voice only in chapter 7. This is not to issue any value judgment about Aquinas or scholasticism in general; I am fascinated by both. But I do hope that this book will convince you that medieval philosophy is a far broader phenomenon than just the output of Latin schoolmen. It included Christians working in the Byzantine and Islamic empires; it included Jews and Muslims; it included intellectuals of Africa and central Asia; it included women.
The downside of this approach is that the book involves a cast of many characters, some of whom get starring roles, with many others making cameo appearances. Since it would have been distracting and needed much additional space to introduce each thinker properly, I have made no effort to do this here. I would instead take the liberty of referring readers to my podcast and book series, A History of Philosophy Without Any Gaps. It provides detailed overviews of all the philosophers mentioned here, and many more besides. At the end of this book, I offer some guidance for further reading on individual thinkers and movements, but readers are also referred to the chapters’ notes for a more detailed bibliography.
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