tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24102881841781846482024-03-20T11:26:39.560-07:00The rise and fall of German idealismIlmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.comBlogger253125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-77856120710366682412024-03-20T11:25:00.000-07:002024-03-20T11:25:51.121-07:00Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Not yet livingFrom dead Wolff turns to those not yet living. Just like with the former, Wolff notes first that future generations do not have any rights and hence cannot acquire any property. This lack of rights extends, according to him, even to foetuses that are still in the uterus. Thus, if I say that I transfer some right to an unborn foetus, this isn’t literally true. Even so, Wolff adds, my statement still creates an obligation that I will transfer the right to the baby when they have been born.<br /><br />More generally, Wolff thinks that although the unborn cannot have any proper rights, they can have some sort of quasi rights in the sense that they will acquire rights when they are born. Thus, there can be an agreement that a certain right will be passed on to the descendants of the person who currently has that right, after this person died, even if these descendants do not yet live. In the case of a foetus in the uterus, this quasi right cannot be removed and it has an equal juridical status as a promise that is supposed to be fulfilled if some condition occurs. Thus, if a thing is given to an unborn child and then delivered in my possession, I am expected to hand the thing over to the child, once they have been born.<br /><br />An interesting case occurs, when a person relinquishes a right that was supposed to pass on to some unborn people. Wolff insists that such a renunciation is impossible, if the unborn person in question is already a foetus, but possible, if they are not even that. Furthermore, Wolff notes, the renunciation could also be done in such a manner that the quasi expectation of receiving the right when born would remain with the unborn people.<br /><br />Wolff thinks that we also have some duties toward future generations, and indeed, that we should love and care for the generations to come. Such duties include that we must make sure that scientific truths and arts discovered by us are received by future generations by spreading new knowledge. Moral virtue is also something Wolff thinks should be transferred to future generations, for instance, by writing down examples of virtuous behaviour and teaching them to young people. Finally, Wolff suggests also that the happiness of future generations should be taken care of by e.g. planting fruit trees.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-12613906122323710242024-02-26T23:37:00.000-08:002024-02-26T23:37:12.949-08:00Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Bury your deadNext topic Wolff discusses concerns the rights of dead humans. His first verdict is that the dead have no rights: as soon as a person dies, they lose all their rights, and at the same time, all their obligations vanish. This means particularly that the dead cannot own or possess anything, so that all things they had cease to be theirs.<br /><br />The obvious question now is what happens to the things the dead person owned, and more extensively, to all the rights they had. Wolff notes that if the right in question was personal – something only they could have, such as when their neighbour allowed them to borrow a horse occasionally – this right just vanished at the time of death. On the other hand, other kinds of rights and particularly all property can be transferred from one owner to another. Thus, a person can decree that at the time of their death these rights and things will be transferred to a certain person. Sometimes the transfer happens even automatically, for instance, when the dying person owed something to another, what was owed should after the death naturally pass to the other. Only in the case that the dying person did not own enough for covering this debt, is it at least partially annulled. Furthermore, Wolff clarifies, while the rights and the property can change owner at the event of death, debt does not, that is, if you inherit something from a person, you are not obligated to pay what the dead person owed to someone else.<br /><br />Although the dead do not have rights in some sense, Wolff continues, they do have rights in the sense that people still have obligations concerning them. For instance, if the dead deserve some praise, they should be praised even after their death. More generally, any good things they have done should be returned in some manner, for example, by doing good to people they had loved. This duty, Wolff thinks, should be followed especially by those who benefited from the deeds of the dead person, including those who inherited something from them.<br /><br />What then of the dead who have done things that go against all morals, such as murderers? Wolff thinks that it would be best that such acts would be simply forgotten, so that no one would be influenced by these examples. If the deeds are well known, then they could be discussed, but only with the intention of instructing people not to do such things. Thus, bad deeds of the dead should be excused, as much as possible.<br /><br />In Wolff's opinion, every dead person deserves some respect just due to their humanity and should thus be treated with some respect, even if they were our enemies. This respect concerns even the dead body or the corpse, which should not be treated like dead animals, Wolff insists. All dead bodies should be removed from the sight of the living, since corpses transmit diseases, but they should not be thrown to dogs or left rotting. Wolff underlines that human corpses should especially not be eaten, except in extreme necessity.<br /><br />Wolff admits that there’s a number of appropriate ways to dispose of a dead body, such as cremation. Still, he thinks that the most convenient and thus the preferred way to deal with the corpse is burial, where the dead body is covered in soil. Right of burial is thus a universal right of all humans, and to show our respect to the dead, we should attend the funeral ceremonies where the dead are buried.<br /><br />Where the dead can be buried, then? Wolff notes that in the natural state, the dead could be buried anywhere, but after the introduction of ownership, it requires the permission of the owner of the land. Thus, there arises a need for cemeteries or places where people are customarily buried.<br /><br />Memory of the good and illustrious deeds of the dead should remain alive, Wolff notes. For this reason he recommends raising monuments, not just at the place where the remains of the dead are buried, but even in other places (these are particularly called cenotaphs). Other means include making funeral orations and inscribing epitaphs at monuments.<br /><br />Funerals are not just about the simple fact of burying the dead, Wolff adds, but they often include ceremonies and rituals that are not strictly necessary for the sake of the burial itself. One such ritual is that people are not buried in nude. Wolff explains that this should be a universal custom, since it helps us to further separate dead humans from dead animals. Then again, he adds, there is no general rule whether the corpse should be wrapped in linen or whether the dead person should just wear regular clothing, but this must be decided by the circumstances. In any case, if the clothing symbolises the love and gratefulness toward the dead person, Wolff considers it appropriate that the clothed body is exposed to the eyes of the people in the funeral, for instance, by opening the coffin before lowering it to the grave.<br /><br />We usually feel sad, when people dear to us have died. Thus, Wolff says, it is just natural that we show some external signs of sadness, such as crying. Furthermore, he adds, it is quite appropriate that we voluntarily choose to show further signs of mourning, such as a certain style of dress we wear.<br /><br />Wolff concludes the chapter with a question controversial for a long time: is it allowed to dissect human bodies in order to learn about anatomy? He notes that dissection is essential to understand what makes humans healthy and what causes sickness. Furthermore, he adds, knowing the structure of the human body lets us also glimpse to the mind of its creator or God. Hence, Wolff sees no reason why bodies could not be dissected, as long as it is not done to living humans and as long as the dissected bodies are given a decent burial.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-23602380372537240922024-02-20T23:14:00.000-08:002024-02-20T23:14:47.574-08:00Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Right of necessityOne of the major topics of Wolff’s earlier volumes of <i>Jus naturae</i> was the distinction between the primaeval community of things and the later introduction of private ownership. Wolff considered the move toward the latter a good thing, but now he reveals that the ownership is not an absolute thing: there is a tacit assumption that if a person is bereft of necessities of life, they can even use things owned by another to satisfy these necessities. This right he calls a residual right remaining from the primaeval community.<br /><br />This residual right, Wolff continues, is but an example of the more extensive class of rights of necessity (<i>jus necessitatis</i>). By this he refers to any right to do something that is usually not allowed, for the sake of some indispensable obligation that could not be otherwise satisfied. In other words, a right of necessity occurs in cases where several laws collide with one another. Indeed, he adds, all natural laws have tacit exceptions that they need not be followed, if some inevitable necessity prevents this. For instance, although we are usually obligated to help people in danger, the case is different if we are also in danger and have to first and foremost save ourselves.<br /><br />While duties toward others can be overridden by right of necessity, Wolff insists, duties toward God cannot. In other words, Wolff thinks God should be worshipped, no matter what the necessity. Immediately after saying this, Wolff notes some exceptions. We should worship God internally, but we cannot do this, if we happen to be out of our mind – still, even in this case, Wolff notes, the obligation to worship exists, but it has just been suspended until we come back to our senses. In case of external worship, such as going to church, on the other hand, there might be some other duty that requires immediate satisfaction and thus prevents us from going to church for the time being.<br /><br />Wolff goes into more detail investigating various cases where a right of necessity holds. One very classical example is that of shipwreck, with people trying to save themselves by using a boat that cannot carry all the passengers. Wolff thinks that, in general, first come is first served, and if all enter the boat at the same time, the stronger ones can just throw away the weaker ones. The case is somewhat different, he thinks, if the owner of the boat is present, as they have the right to decide who is to board the boat.<br /><br />An example particularly relevant to rights remaining from the primaeval community occurs when a person is starving, but cannot obtain food by purchase, work or even begging. In such a state, Wolff says, the person is allowed to just take what they need from others, if necessary, even by using violence, and this is not to be seen as theft or robbery. More generally, if a person necessarily requires the use of a thing they cannot otherwise obtain, they can use such a thing belonging to someone else: for example, we are allowed to use weapons of another person, if we are threatened by an assailant and have no means of our own to defend ourselves. Even so, Wolff adds, the thing in question should be returned to its original owner, if possible. If not, for instance, if the thing is consumed by its use, like a piece of food, similar thing or at least something of equal worth should be returned.<br /><br />A case that intrigues Wolff very much is that of a common danger making it necessary to destroy the property of a person, say, when an impending shipwreck necessitates throwing some cargo in the sea or when preventing the spread of fire requires wrecking some building. The basic principle is simple – if the destruction is necessary, it can be done, but the damages are to be compensated – but the more intricate question is who is to contribute in each case. In the case of cargo thrown from the ship, Wolff suggests that the compensation should be the duty of the owner of the ship and of everyone who had cargo that was not thrown in the sea, and to determine how much each is to contribute, the value of the destroyed and the saved cargo and of the ship with all instruments is to be estimated. To make matters even more complicated, Wolff adds that passengers and the payment they have contributed should also be taken into account, as well as the weight of various pieces of cargo and even of the passengers (e.g. if someone has thrown away lighter, but more expensive cargo, they should be more responsible of the damages). And of course, if the ship sinks, even if cargo was thrown in sea, no contribution is required.<br /><br />In the case of the house destroyed because of raging fire, Wolff explains, the owners of the buildings that the fire could have reached should first and foremost contribute to the compensation for the damages. Wolff makes two important exceptions: firstly, those whose buildings were not saved, but burned down, need undoubtedly not contribute, and secondly, if the destroyed building was already being burned to ground, no one has to compensate for anything. Finally, if there was a certain person who was responsible, either through deliberate choice or through negligence, of the fire, this person is solely responsible for the compensation.<br /><br />Wolff argues that the rights remaining from the primaeval community also go further than mere <i>jus necessitatis</i>. This is the case with what Wolff calls <i>res innoxia utilitas</i>, that is, something that we can use to our advantage without harming anyone, not even the owner of the thing, An example Wolff provides is a river: its owner is not hurt in any way, if someone draws water from it. A perhaps more important case of <i>innoxia utilitas</i> is that of using other people's lands. Passage through those lands and their rivers, roads and bridges should be allowed for both people and their merchandise, unless there is reasonable fear for damages, Wolff insists, although the owners might ask for a fee to provide for the maintenance of the road network. Wolff even thinks one is allowed to remain for a time in the lands of others for just reasons, and homeless people should even have the right of perpetual habitation. People should even have a right to acquire things they need for living for a fair price, which requires the maintenance of inns for travelers.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-9130505104620403612024-01-30T02:10:00.000-08:002024-01-30T02:10:34.033-08:00Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 - How to read contracts?After various types of contracts, Wolff considers the more general problem of how to interpret them, that is, how to decide what the persons making the contract have wanted to say with the words in it. In other words, the question is of the intentions behind the linguistic expressions.<br /><br />Wolff at once notes that interpreting contracts involves something very different from interpretation in general. Usually, it is all just about clarity. If the words have a fixed meaning and the writer or speaker is known to express their intentions sufficiently, no further interpretation is required. If the words or their meanings are not clear, we can then just simply ask the writer or the speaker to explain them further, since they know best what they intended to say.<br /><br />In case of contracts, Wolff points out, there is something that interrupts this simple scheme: obligations. Now the person promising to do something is not the best person to ask what they meant by their words, since they might wish to deny some obligations they had promised themselves to. Similarly, the person who the promiser is obligated to is also not fit for interpreting the words, because they might want to have the promiser provide them more than was accepted.<br /><br />The interpretation of contracts, Wolff concludes, should then happen through certain rules that can be accepted by all parties involved. In the best case, he adds, these rules could be demonstrated as being the correct ones. When the rules and the corresponding right interpretation have been decided, the obligations are now determined.<br /><br />To make interpreting easier, Wolff notes that people making the contract should speak in such a manner that they can understand one another. More particularly, they should use the words in such a manner that makes their speech understandable – Wolff calls this using the proper meaning of the words. More generally, they should use all terms in the received sense and they should not knowingly and willingly depart from this. From the standpoint of interpretation, Wolff continues, the words should be presumed to be received in their proper meaning and terms in their received sense, unless some urgent reasons to the contrary appear. In other words, interpretations should mostly follow the common use of words.<br /><br />Wolff takes into consideration that the contracts are sometimes interpreted much later than they have been made. In such cases, he notes, the interpretation should use meanings that the words had at that earlier time. Then again, he adds, the interpretation should not follow what he calls the etymological meaning of the words, that is, the supposed original meaning of the words, from which the later meanings have evolved.<br /><br />Wolff observes that if the persons making the contract have expressly said how the contract should be understood and the contract has only common words with clear meanings, the interpreter should follow the common meaning of the words closely. More generally, if it becomes evident, what sense of the words agree with the intentions of the people making the contract, it is not allowed to suppose any other intentions behind the words. If the contract contains some technical terms, they should be generally interpreted by definitions common in the discipline in which they are used.<br /><br />Wolff also considers homonymy, where the same word has different meanings, and amphiboly, where the same expression consisting of many words has different meanings. Obviously, homonymy and amphiboly cause difficulties for interpreting contracts. Wolff notes that in some cases different occurrences of the same word or expression might have to be interpreted in different manners. Generally, he adds, if homonymy or amphiboly make the intention of the contract obscure, the meaning agreeing best with the topic in question should be preferred.<br /><br />A strict rule Wolff endorses is that any interpretation leading to something absurd should be rejected. This rule is to be followed, even if it would mean ignoring the proper meaning of the words. In particular, contradictions should be avoided.<br /><br />Contracts are often long pieces of text, and while some passages might be transparent, others might still be obscure. In such cases, Wolff notes, the obscure parts are to be interpreted in a manner that agrees with the clearer passages. More generally, he continues, the different parts of the text should be usually interpreted in such a manner that they agree with one another, unless it is evident that e.g. later parts of the text change what was said in earlier parts.<br /><br />Since the contracts are the expression of the volitions of the persons making it, interpreting them often involves studying the intentions of those persons. Thus, Wolff says, if we know the reason why the persons behind the contract wanted to say what they say in the contract, the words of the contract are to be interpreted in such a manner that they agree with this central reason. If there were many different reasons that all in conjunction made the persons to do the contract, the interpretation should agree with the sum of these reasons. Then again, if we know many alternative reasons that could have been behind the contract, the interpretation should agree with these reasons in separation.<br /><br />Wolff notes that contracts often have what could be called favourable and burdensome parts. Favourable in contract is, Wolff defines, what cares for the common good of all sides of the contract, while burdensome is what burdens one side more than the others – an example of latter would be penalties attached to a contract. In interpreting the favourable parts, Wolff insists, words should be understood in the most extensive sense they can be, unless this interpretation would lead to some absurdities or unless a stricter reading would be more useful for all participants of the contract.<br /><br />On the other hand, Wolff thinks, when interpreting the burdensome parts of the contracts, words are to be taken in a stricter sense, although even a figurative understanding of the words is admitted, if this helps to avoid great burdens. In the particular case of punishments, this rule implies that placing guilt upon a person would require stricter definitions, so that there would be more reasons not to punish anyone. Similarly, if a person has promised something quite liberally, a more lax interpretation is to be avoided if such would burden the person who promised too much.<br /><br />Another general rule Wolff suggests is that interpretation should be made in such a manner that the speaker or writer would have interpreted it, if they were present and knew all relevant circumstances that had become common knowledge after the contract has been made. Thus, if the sufficient reasons behind the persons making the contract were known, the same interpretation could be extended to cases which literally are not included in the terms of the contract, but would agree with these sufficient reasons.<br /><br />Continuing with the negative case, Wolff adds that if some case would literally agree with the terms of the contract, but would somehow contradict the intentions of a person in the contract, the interpretation should restrict the meaning of the words. Similar exceptions to terms of a contract can be made, according to Wolff, when following the strict meaning of the words would contradict natural law or would be too burdensome to some person involved in the contract.<br /><br />An interesting case occurs when two contracts contradict one another and some exception has to be made. Wolff notes that because a contract contains promises and therefore causes obligations, it can be handled similarly as laws. Thus, following what he has said in a previous part of his study on natural law on collision of laws, he notes that if one contract e.g. permits or even orders something that another contract forbids, the forbidding contract is to be preferred. More generally, contracts involving stronger obligations trump contracts with weaker obligations. Thus, a contract with an oath or a penalty attached to it is to be preferred to a contract without them. If no reason for choosing one contract over the other is found, the decision can be made by agreement of all persons involved or even by lot.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-86104905380938941692024-01-10T12:47:00.000-08:002024-01-10T12:47:46.181-08:00Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Feudal relationsIn the second chapter, Wolff continues with a special case of the <i>dominum utile</i>, namely, <i>feudum</i> or fief – we are now speaking of legal relations that work as the basis of feudalism. What differentiates <i>feudum</i> from other kinds of <i>dominum utile</i> is that both participants of the feudal contract – the owner and the vassal – agree to provide to one another fidelity, in other words, some duties that are further determined in the contract: for instance, the vassal might agree to provide military service to the owner, while the owner might then agree to protect the vassal.<br /><br />Otherwise, the properties of the <i>feudum</i> are simply those of a <i>dominium utile</i>, for example, the vassal can use the feudal thing as they want, as long as they don’t do anything to harm its very substance, which is the property of the owner. The vassal can improve the feudal thing, unless even such changes have been explicitly denied.<br /><br />The paragraphs above would really be all that can be said of a <i>feudum</i> in general, that is, Wolff says, its substantial determinations. Yet, when agreeing on the <i>feudum</i>, the owner and the vassal can add further conditions that lead to further rights and obligations. For instance, the owner can set a price or an annual payment for <i>feudum</i> or it could be contracted only for some period of time or e.g. for a certain family line (Wolff mentions the possibility that the <i>feudum</i> could be inherited by both sons and daughters or even only by daughters, but in every specific example he speaks only of sons, which was, of course, historically the most common option).<br /><br />A feudal contract is usually valid, when the owner and the vassal agree on its conditions. Yet, Wolff adds, they may also agree that a certain formal document called the letter of investiture is written. He thinks that such a written document agrees well with the law of nature, since it makes the conditions of the contract explicit.<br /><br />A condition Wolff considers most extensively is whether the feudal contract allows the vassal to transfer the <i>feudum</i> to someone else, that is, to donate or to sell it, and if it is allowed, whether the consent of the owner is required for this. In case this is allowed, the <i>feudum</i> must be similarly structured as it originally was, except if the feudal contract adds some additional conditions to these (for instance, the owner might demand a further payment from the new vassal). Still, if the original contract determined e.g. a certain type of service from the original vassal, the new vassal must also provide it to the owner.<br /><br />Usually the owner does not need to ask the vassal, if they want to transfer their ownership to someone else – the <i>feudum</i> just remains valid, with the same conditions as originally. Still, the owner and the vassal can also agree, Wolff notes, that the owner cannot donate or sell the feudal thing at all or not without the consent of the vassal. If such a condition holds and the owner still does transfer their ownership to someone else, the vassal is not obligated to provide any services determined in the feudal contract to the new owner.<br /><br />What kind of things can then be given as <i>feudum</i>? The historically most obvious example is, of course, some piece of land, but Wolff thinks that the feudal thing can be anything that is not consumed by its use, like a piece of furniture. Things consumed by use – say, a portion of wine – cannot be made a feudal thing. Yet, even such consumables can be indirectly made into a feudal thing, Wolff suggests, that is, by making a right to such consumables into a <i>feudum</i>. As an example Wolff gives what is called <i>feudum de caneva </i>(literally, a fief from cellar), where the vassal gains a right to e.g. use a certain portion of wine from the owner’s provisions during the vassal’s life.<br /><br />Making a <i>feudum</i> of a right to some consumable things is one way to involve these consumables into a <i>feudum</i>, but Wolff notes also a more direct manner. That is, if a person gives some consumable – usually, a portion of money – to another, who provides as a surety something else (say, a house), we can think of the money, or whatever the consumable is, as something not consumable. With such surety in place, the owner of the money can then give the right to use the money to another person, in the sense that this other person can attempt to use the money to make more money through business deals or by loaning it with some interest. This is then a new kind of <i>feudum</i>, which Wolff calls both <i>feudum pecunia</i> (literally, fief on money) and <i>quasi feudum</i>, implying that this is a sort of extension of the proper sense of <i>feudum</i>.<br /><br />Assuming it hasn’t been explicitly forbidden in the feudal contract, the vassal can create to their <i>feudum</i> a new <i>feudum</i>, which is then called <i>subfeudum</i>, Wolff points out: so, if the vassal has a right to use a certain piece of land, they can then hand a right to use a part of this land to someone else. What holds for any <i>feudum</i> obviously holds for any <i>subfeudum</i>, but the latter always has the further condition that the subfeudal contract someone makes with the vassal cannot contradict anything in the original feudal contract that the vassal made with the owner. The process can obviously go indefinitely further and a <i>subfeudum</i> can have a <i>subsubfeudum</i> etc.<br /><br />Often a <i>feudum</i> runs in a family, so that when the original vassal dies, one of their descendants becomes the new vassal (usually the oldest son). Now, it may well happen that some family dies out, so that no one to have the <i>feudum</i> exists anymore. In such a case occurs what Wolff calls <i>apertura feudi,</i> which means simply that the feudal thing returns fully to its owner; in this case all possible <i>subfeudum</i> expire also. The same relation does not hold the other way around, that is, if the owner happens to die without any heir, the vassal does not become the owner – unless, of course, the feudal contract says so.<br /><br />Wolff has already spoken of the possible selling or donating of a <i>feudum</i>, but a case of pawning requires more discussion. Of course, if the <i>feudum</i> cannot be sold or donated without the consent of the owner, it cannot also be pawned without this consent. The vassal can pawn the use of the <i>feudum</i> or its products, and this is what they must have understood to have implicitly pawned, if they pawn the <i>feudum</i> without the consent of the owner. Yet, Wolff adds, if the <i>apertura feudi</i> is near, that is, if the <i>feudum</i> is about to return to the owner, since the vassal has no heirs, pawning is forbidden even with the consent of the owner. Furthermore, even if the vassal has heirs and the owner does consent to the pawning, the heirs do not have to. Then again, only the right to use and the products of the <i>feudum</i> are pawned, and once the vassal has died, the heirs of the vassal are in no way obligated to provide anything else to the debtor of the vassal.<br /><br />Another concept Wolff investigates is <i>revocatio feudi</i>, where the person who has the power to do so asks to retrieve the feudal thing. This does not usually mean the owner asking the vassal to return the <i>feudum</i>, since the owner does not have such a right, unless the feudal contract says that the owner can do so whenever they want. The more usual case is when the vassal has sold or donated the feudal thing without the consent of the owner or heirs, who then can ask the new holder of the thing to return it to them, once the vassal has died. In that case, the owner or the heirs need not refund the price of the feudal thing to its holder.<br /><br />Another question Wolff considers is whether the vassal can refute the <i>feudum</i>, that is, to reject the right to use the feudal thing and to be freed of all the obligations involved in the feudal contract. In refuting the <i>feudum</i>, the vassal can either want to return the right to use the feudal thing to the owner or then to transfer it to someone else. In the prior case, the vassal can refute the <i>feudum</i>, unless this is against the rights of the owner, for instance, when the refutation is done, because the vassal wants to escape military service that the owner requires from the vassal according to the feudal contract. Furthermore, although the vassal has returned the right to the feudal thing to the owner in refuting the <i>feudum</i>, the heir of the vassal can later demand its return, when the vassal has died.<br /><br />When the vassal refutes the <i>feudum</i> and intends to transfer the feudal thing to someone else, the important question is whether this intended new vassal is some heir of the vassal or just any outsider. In the latter case, the refutation of the <i>feudum</i> would simply mean its donation, which Wolff has already considered. In the previous case, the refutation can simply happen if the <i>feudum</i> is to go to the immediate heir of the vassal. Then again, if it should go to some other heir – say, a grandson, instead of the son – the immediate heir can insist the restoration of the <i>feudum</i> to them, once the original vassal has died.<br /><br />An interesting case arises, when the vassal refutes the <i>feudum</i> and wants it to go to their immediate heir, who then at once wants to transfer the <i>feudum</i> to their heir. In that case, Wolff says, the important question is whether the vassal wanted the <i>feudum</i> to go specifically to the immediate heir or whether they just wanted to get rid of it. In the prior case, the <i>feudum</i> returns to the original vassal, in the latter case, it goes to the second heir.<br /><br />The last thing Wolff investigates of <i>feudum</i> is the possible breaches against the obligations of the feudal contract. Obviously, any duties left unfulfilled mean a breach, such as if the owner does not provide the agreed protection to the vassal or the vassal the agreed military service to the owner. Wolff does note an exception to the latter case: if the owner is engaging in an unjust war, the vassal does not need to help them, even if the feudal contract would say so.<br /><br />More serious breaches occur, if the substantial determinations of a <i>feudum</i> are broken, for example, if the vassal does not show any fidelity to the owner. This would happen, if the vassal does not want to avert damages to the owner or promote their advantage, when they can, and even more so, if the vassal causes damage to the owner or wants to do something against their health or in any manner conspires to do something like this. Thus, the vassal breaches the feudal contract, if they threaten the life of the owner, plan an ambush or enter into a destructive agreement with the enemies of the owner. They even commit a breach, if they desert the owner in battle or other hazard or do not help them.<br /><br />Wolff notes some exceptions. If the vassal and the owner are in a common danger and the vassal prefers to save their own life over the life of the owner, no breach occurs. Similarly no breach happens, if the vassal kills the owner when the owner has first attacked the vassal with superior force and the vassal could not avoid being killed or mutilated, unless by killing the owner first.<br /><br />Whatever the breach is, Wolff says, it does not lead to the vassal losing the <i>feudum</i> or to the owner losing their ownership, unless it is particularly agreed so. Even if such an agreement exists, the one behind the breach can still pay for their crime. In case of the vassal committing the breach, if they do not make any amends, the <i>feudum</i> would still continue in the sense that their heirs have a right to ask the <i>feudum</i> to be given to them, once the original vassal has died.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-19760938480990534092023-12-25T11:54:00.000-08:002023-12-25T11:54:57.622-08:00Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 (1746)The sixth volume of Wolff’s <i>Jus naturae </i>seems like the same kind of mishmash without any common theme as the previous one. Thus, Wolff merely begins with a new type of contract, this time, <i>dominium utile</i>, which means simply a right to use and enjoy freely something, where the substantial part of that property – the so-called <i>dominium directum</i> – belongs to someone else. In effect, the <i>dominium directum</i> is the more superior form of ownership, since the person with it can donate or sell the thing, although the person with the <i>dominium utile</i> would still retain their right to use and enjoy the thing. Both forms of ownership must have been constituted by a person who has previously had a full ownership of the thing in question: they might have either disposed of the <i>dominium utile</i> and <i>dominium directum </i>to two different persons, or they could have retained for themselves either the <i>dominium utile </i>or the <i>dominium directum</i>.<br /><br />Now, Wolff goes through various types of <i>dominium utile,</i> first of which is called <i>emphyteusis</i>. In <i>emphyteusis</i>, the property in case is immovable (e.g. a piece of land), and the holder of<i> dominium directum</i> is provided an annual payment called <i>canon</i> by the holder of <i>dominium utile</i> or <i>emphyteuta</i>: in effect, this is the case of renting something for use. What this <i>canon</i> is can be determined freely by those making the contract – it can consist of money, but it can also consist of wheat, fruits, wine, eggs or really anything. Furthermore, the quantity of <i>canon</i> can be determined freely and it need not be proportional to the usefulness of the property for <i>emphyteuta</i>. The important point is that it must be paid, no matter of the financial situation of <i>emphyteuta</i>: for instance, if the case is of land, it must be paid, even if the harvest had been meagre. Of course, Wolff admits, it would be a decent thing to do, if the the holder of the <i>dominium directum</i> would let <i>emphyteuta </i>pay less or even not pay at all during bad years.<br /><br />Now, Wolff continues, the contract at the base of <i>emphyteusis</i> can give the <i>emphyteuta</i> the right to hand over the property in question to another person, who then becomes the new <i>emphyteuta</i>. The contract might also specify that the holder of <i>dominium directum</i> is to be given what is called <i>laudemium</i> or honorary payment by the new <i>emphyteuta</i>, whenever this <i>emphyteuta</i> is changing. Then again, the person who has the <i>dominium directum</i> can hand over this ownership of the thing without asking <i>emphyteuta</i> anything.<br /><br />Wolff notes that <i>emphyteusis</i> can have further conditions, for instance, it can last for some predetemined time or be granted to a certain group of persons (e.g. a family line). Naturally, when the time in question has elapsed or if there are no persons left that are specified in the contract, the <i>emphyteusis</i> is cancelled and the full right to the property is returned to the holder of <i>dominium directum</i>. On the other hand, if the holder of <i>dominium directum</i> dies without any heir, the <i>emphyteuta</i> does not get full rights, unless this has been expressly agreed upon in the contract. Instead, no one has in this case the <i>dominium directum</i> anymore. Then, Wolff explains, anyone would have the right to take this <i>dominium directum</i> and make it their own. If the person who does this happens to be <i>emphyteuta</i>, then the full rights return to them and <i>emphyteusis</i> ends.<br /><br /><i>Emphyteusis</i> is a contract that can be repeated in the sense that if a person has acquired a right to use and enjoy some immovable property, they can sell or donate a further right to use and enjoy this same property to someone else (think of a renter of land renting a portion of this land to another person). This further contract is then called <i>subemphyteusis</i>. Largely the same considerations as concerned <i>emphyteusis</i> concern also <i>subemphyteusis</i>, but there is also the further condition that <i>subemphyteusis</i> cannot contradict what has been agreed concerning <i>emphyteusis</i>.<br /><br />While in <i>emphyteusis</i> the original owner retains the primary ownership to a thing, which he then just, as it were, leases to someone else, the case is completely opposite in what Wolff calls <i>contractus libellarius</i>. Here, the original owner forfeits the ownership of a thing to someone else, but only on the condition that the new owner will provide an annual <i>canon</i> or payment to the original owner. <i>Contractus libellarius</i> has also a clause stating that after a certain period of time the new owner must renew the contract for a certain price. If the new owner fails to do this or fails to provide the annual payment, the thing in question is to be handed to a yet new owner, who then has to follow the same conditions for annual payment – unless, of course, the ownership of the thing returns to the original owner, which means then end for the <i>contractus libellarius</i>. Still, because the <i>contractus libellarius</i> means actual change of ownership, the new owner can otherwise use the thing as they want and even donate or sell it to someone else<br /><br />Quite similar to <i>contractus libellarius</i> is <i>jus censiticum</i>, by which Wolff refers to a right of annual income that one has from immovable property that belongs to someone else. The similarity is even more marked in the case where this right is what Wolff calls <i>census reservativus</i>, where the owner has sold an immovable thing to someone else on the condition of annual income, the only differences being that <i>census reservativus</i> concerns explicitly immovable property and that there need not be any time limit attached to it. The other form of <i>jus censiticum</i> or <i>census constitutus</i> happens when a person buys or accepts as a donation for themselves <i>jus censiticum</i> to something.<br /><br />The final type of <i>dominium utile </i>Wolff considers in this first chapter is <i>jus superficiei</i>, which concerns particularly property on someone else’s grounds. Usually, it means a right to have a building owned by oneself on the land of another person, but the right might also concern something else, like a garden or a forest. <i>Jus superficiei</i> must be conceded by the owner of the land – it can be freely determined whether the right is donated or sold or conceded for an annual payment. The building in question can already exist on the grounds or it might be constructed after the contract has been made. Furthermore, if the building burns down or is otherwise destroyed, the owner of the building, called also <i>superficiarius,</i> has the right to build a new one. <i>Jus superficiei </i>also extends to the use of the pathways the <i>superficiarius</i> has to go through when accessing the building. Since the building in question is owned by the <i>superficiarius</i>, they can naturally do with it anything that an owner can do, provided it does not break the rights of the landowner – they can e.g. donate, sell or rent the house to someone else.<br /><br />The final thing Wolff deals with in the first chapter concerns the possible annual payments involved in any <i>dominium utile.</i> These payments, he notes,can be <i>pensiones promobiles</i>, that is, there might be a further condition that if the payment is not made on time, the required sum continues to increase.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-41462503296769435682023-11-22T00:20:00.000-08:002023-11-22T00:20:41.414-08:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on honour – When to fear disrespectThe final chapter of Meier’s work concerns duties concerning disrespect. Meier notes that he can be quick about this topic, since matters concerning disrespect can in most cases be easily deduced from what we know about respect. Furthermore, he thinks it is on the whole better not to think as much about disrespect and related imperfections as about respect and perfections. Indeed, he notes, fear of disrespect should not be greater than love of honour, since an overdeveloped shame prevents all action.<br /><br />Still, Meier continues, we can at least say that we are obligated to avoid being truly disrespected, as much as it is in our power. Meier justifies this by pointing out that our honour is diminished, if we are truly disrespected. True, we can be both respected and disrespected at the same time, still, our honour is greater, if we are not disrespected. Furthermore, Meier adds, we are obligated to avoid imperfection and true disrespect not just presupposes that we are imperfect in some manner, but also adds to our imperfection, because those who disrespect us are wont to harm us. Besides, we should imitate God, who is never disrespected. Fear of disrespect also helps us to avoid vice – another obligation we have – because vice is disrespectful. Finally, Meier notes, we have a natural feeling of shame that makes us want to avoid being despised or disrespected.<br /><br />Of course, Meier admits, we are obligated to avoid being disrespected only insofar as it is possible. Here possibility means absolute possibility – we humans must always have some imperfections – but also hypothetical possibility – none of us can be universally honoured, so someone must disrespect us. What about the third type of possibility or moral possibility? Meier insists that it can never be morally required to be truly disrespected. Thus, all disrespect we cannot morally avoid must be mere apparent disrespect.<br /><br />We are obligated to avoid disrespect, and in Meier's opinion this can happen only if we fear disrespect. Fear, on the other hand, requires representing something vividly as evil. Thus, we are obligated to evaluate disrespect correctly. Furthermore, since all our fears must be perfect, we are obligated to evaluate disrespect as clearly, correctly and vividly as possible.<br /><br />In order to know whether we are disrespected as vividly and distinctly as possible, we should direct our attention to possible faults in our honour. Still, Meier warns, we should not direct too much attention to them, since defects in honour are not the greatest evil and so do not deserve too much of our attention. Then again, we shouldn’t also direct too little attention to these defects, since they are a great evil. Still, he emphasises, we should not let the faults in our honour prevent us from considering more important matters, like our higher duties, truth and virtue, our future honour and means to remove the defects of our honour. Meier advises us to pay more attention to our current defects than to our current honour, but less attention to our future defects than to our future honour. An obvious point is also that we should pay more attention to greater defects than to smaller ones: for instance, it is more important to know whether more honourable persons disrespect us than whether lowly people do so.<br /><br />If we want to know the faults in our honour as correctly as possible, Meier instructs, we should not confuse apparent or undeserved disrespect with true one or confuse being ignored with being disrespected – we should understand that being ignored is a smaller evil than being disrespected. We should also not ascribe to ourselves greater or smaller defects than we actually have. Furthermore, Meier continues, we should not think defects in our honour to be the smallest nor the greatest evil and we should correctly estimate every kind of defect. Finally, we should understand that avoiding defects is partially, but not completely down to us.<br /><br />If we want to be as certain about the defects in our honour as possible, Meier states, we shouldn’t consider the defects in our honour doubtful or improbable, if we can be convinced of them certainly or probably. Then again, we should not consider defects in our honour undeniably true, if they are just uncertain or even improbable. According to Meier, we should be more certain about greater defects of honour – for instance, whether God disrespects us – and we should also be more certain of current defects in our honour than of current honour, but more certain of future honour than of future defects in our honour.<br /><br />Although we should know the defects in our honour as vividly as possible, Meier clarifies, we should not be too anxious of them, because a too strong feeling of anxiety doesn’t help anything. Still, we should also not completely ignore our defects. More precisely, Meier teaches, the whole anxiety over defects in our honour should not rise higher than the whole satisfaction with honour. Furthermore, anxiety over defects should never be so strong that it prevents us from finding and using means for getting rid of them.<br /><br />Meier concludes from previous considerations that we are obligated to make a representation of disrespect a motive for avoiding vice and sins and for purifying ourselves from despicable imperfections as much as possible. This means that we err when we make disrespect the greatest, strongest or even only motive for avoiding evil actions, because there are more important and higher motives, but also when we do not use disrespect as a motive at all.<br /><br />If we follow the previous rules, Meier says, we avoid all faults in our honour, but we also do so perfectly. We still have to make our actions proportional. In other words, we should not avoid defects in our honour too much, because it is not our greatest evil, but also not too little, and the nastier the type of defect, the more it should be avoided.<br /><br />Correct avoidance of defects of honour should have a proper object, Meier says. This means, firstly, that we should never avoid apparent despise, which is actually true honour. Furthermore, we should never avoid defect of honour that we cannot hinder with all our forces. Indeed, Meier explains, we are obligated to understand that people will ignore and despise us without our being able to do anything. Finally, we shouldn’t avoid despise for such imperfections that we cannot avert: for instance, Meier points out, it would be a sin to be ashamed of natural ailments of one's body.<br /><br />Just like with honour, Meier notes that the fear of disrespect must arise from obscure and from confused and from distinct representations, that is, we should follow our natural and inborn shamefulness, sensuous dislike of disrespect and free and distinct decision to avoid disrespect. Of these three, the natural drive by itself is to be used only for avoiding the most insignificant types of disrespect, sensuous dislike for more significant types and distinct decision for most significant types. Then again, even in the more significant cases, the less perfect forms of representation can help to strengthen the determination to avoid disrespect.<br /><br />Meier thinks that we are obligated to prove our fear of disrespect also through works and thus to act according to it. We should avoid all despicable imperfections and actions, as much as it is in our power, for instance, we should avoid disgraceful actions and acts against rules of justice. We should not continue, but stop despicable things we have already done and replace them with respective honourable perfections. We should even apologise for disrespect we do not deserve, Meier insists, if it is otherwise worth it to apologise and if higher duties do not obligate us to entirely ignore apologising.<br /><br />According to Meier, we are obligated to make use of all things, and this means also any disrespect afflicting us. In other words, if we are despised, we must take it as an opportunity to improve ourselves, that is, we should purify ourselves from imperfections for which we are disrespected. We should even thank our despisers for opening our eyes and giving us a motive for improving ourselves. Indeed, we should avoid mean persons, who think that the greatest good is to be found in a state of being ignored, because no great soul does not choose such phlegmatic way of life, but is not afraid, even if their first actions in the world caused some disrespect.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-21185811561589907752023-10-28T12:56:00.002-07:002023-10-28T12:56:23.865-07:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on honour – What should we do for honourIf the aim of the previous chapter was to show that honour is good, the aim of this chapter, for Meier, is to investigate what does this obligate us to. The first, and the most obvious, obligation or duty is that we should try to gain honour. Meier justifies this from the more general duty that we should try to perfect ourselves, firstly, as an end in itself, and secondly, as means to other ends. As we have just noticed, Meier thinks that honour is good and thus makes us more perfect. Furthermore, he says, being honoured helps us to motivate other humans to reach perfection and it also makes others appreciate works of God more. Thus, honour works also as means for other goods.<br /><br />Meier argues for the duty of gaining honour in another manner. The most sublime duty for us humans, he says, is to imitate the highest being or God: humans are supposed to be mirrors of divine majesty. Now, he continues, God is in themselves the most honourable being and also is to be honoured through their external works. Thus, Meier concludes, being honoured makes us resemble God more. Furthermore, as an imitation of God, striving for honour is, Meier thinks, a religious action and so service to God. According to Meier, we are obligated to make our free actions an unbroken service of God, where gaining honour then helps.<br /><br />Meier also notes that we are obligated to act virtuously. Therefore, we are obligated to everything, which makes virtuous actions easier. Now, virtue is one reason for being honoured, hence, setting honour as one’s goal motivates acting virtuously. New motives increase our capacities, Meier continues, and so honour makes virtuous actions easier. Furthermore, he adds, the noblest or heroic virtues require ignoring many other conveniences of life – indeed even very life itself. Such virtues, Meier assumes, especially require honour as their motive.<br /><br />In addition to virtue, Meier also uses satisfaction as a justification for taking honour as an obligated end. Life without satisfaction is no life, he begins, so we are obligated to find true satisfaction. Because honour gives us true satisfaction, we are obligated to find honour.<br /><br />All duties, beyond the highest, have their restrictions, since our capacities are limited, Meier thinks. He has argued that honour is not the highest good for humans and thinks that therefore we should try to reach honour only insofar as it is possible for us. By possibility Meier means, firstly, absolute possibility. In other words, we are obligated to find honour only in such a measure that does not overreach human capacities.<br /><br />In addition, Meier is referring to physical possibility. In other words, we are obligated to strive for honour only in such a measure that agrees with our own individual capacities. This means that the obligation to gain honour concerns only those persons who have the capacity to gain honourable perfections: if they don’t do so, they are despised for wasting their talents. Then again, those without any talents have a privilege to not follow this obligation. Furthermore, Meier adds, everyone is obligated to reach only for such quantities of honour which are possible for their capacities.<br /><br />The final meaning of the possibility for Meier is moral possibility. Thus, we are obligated to gain honour only insofar as it does not contradict higher duties. If it does contradict, it stops being duty and becomes a sin. Meier gives as an example of breaking this rule a person who just writes philosophy, ignoring his family and friends, and who even forgets eating.<br /><br />All our duties are free actions, while freedom, Meier explains, is a capacity to desire something that we represent distinctly as good and to avoid something that we represent distinctly as bad. Thus, we are obligated to desire an object we should reach, but also to represent it in as perfect a manner as possible. This means that we have two further obligations concerning honour. Firstly, we should desire honour as strongly as possible – although not too much, since it is not our highest duty. Secondly, we are obligated to determine our desire for honour with the most perfect cognition of honour. In other words, we should represent honour as clearly, correctly, certainly and vividly as is possible for us.<br /><br />Now, clarity of cognition, Meier says, depends on our attention. Therefore we are obligated to turn our attention towards honour and to represent it as vividly, distinctly and completely as befits the honour and as other duties requiring our attention allow. Meier notes some consequences this duty implies. Firstly, he begins, we are obligated to not concentrate our attention too much on honour, since honour should not be our only nor the greatest object of our attention. Secondly, we should take care that attention toward honour will not prevent us engaging with more important matters, such as religion and our inner perfections. Particularly, Meier thinks, we should remember to take care of our imperfections.<br /><br />A further consequence Meier notes is that we should care for different kinds of honour only insofar as they deserve. This means that we should mostly look for being honoured by God. We are also, Meier continues, obligated to pay more often and stronger attention to more useful types of honour. Since he thinks that future honour we are just hoping for is the most useful in comparison with current honour or honour we have already enjoyed, we should especially strive for the honour after death.<br /><br />When we desire honour, Meier says, we are obligated to represent honour as correctly as possible and to avoid all errors in evaluating it, since these errors might turn our road toward honour sinful. Thus, we are obligated not to confuse apparent honour with true honour. Furthermore, we are obligated not to think of the honour we possess or hope for as being greater than it actually is. Then again, since we cannot have correct mathematical cognition of the quantity of our honour, we should be modest in ascribing honour to ourselves. Because most people are not capable of honouring us correctly, we should particularly avoid the error of evaluating our honour according to the number of people who honour or even just flatter us.<br /><br />A further consequence of our obligation to represent honour correctly, Meier insists, is that we should not ascribe to our honour more or less worth than it has the right to. Thus, we should value every kind of honour according to its merits, for instance, taking honour given by God as the highest possible. In addition, we should be aware that honour varies from time to time. Indeed, we are obligated to think of honour as a good that is not completely in our control.<br /><br />We should not ascribe to ourselves honour in general or some kind of it, before we are convinced of it with certainty or at least with high probability. Now, Meier thinks that only our being honoured by God can be known by full, demonstrative certainty. In all other cases, we must then always fear that we are not honoured. Meier sees this fear as a positive thing, because it makes us serve the world more. Then again, Meier says, not every kind of honour needs to be as strongly convinced of as others. We should especially try to convince ourselves of higher kinds, thus, we should be more convinced of being honoured for virtue than of being honoured for external matters, like beauty. In addition, we are obligated to be more certain of our future than of our past or current honour and most certain of our honour after our death.<br /><br />We are also obligated to know our honour as vividly as possible, that is, we have to feel its goodness and enjoy or be satisfied about it. Meier thinks that the most difficult thing regarding this duty is to keep the enjoyment in its proper limits, not too strong and not too weak. Just like with certainty, enjoyment of honour should always be proportional to the kind of honour, for instance, satisfaction from future honour should be stronger than satisfaction from past or present honour.<br /><br />Vivid cognition of honour leads to desiring it, which leads to making it the goal of our actions. Thus, Meier concludes, we are obligated to make the honour a goal of our actions, as much as it is possible. We should avoid not taking honour at all or only very little as our goal, like some scholars who either disdain honour or want it only for the sake of providing economic benefits for them. Then again, we should also not take it as our only or highest goal. Our primary goal, Meier says, should be the glory of God and religion, and after these, the general good of the whole world. Next on the proper hierarchy of goals is our own happiness and well-being of other people and especially those in our own country. Only at this point comes the place of the honour, which means, Meier notes, that the honour should also be taken as a means for serving God, the world, humankind, the country and ourselves. Furthermore, lower kinds of honour should serve the goal of reaching higher kinds of honour.<br /><br />Our goals are motives for our actions, in other words, we should take honour as a motive for our actions. Just like with goals, Meier suggests that we should refrain from not taking the honour as a motive at all or taking it only as a minuscule motive, but also not take it as a too strong motive. In addition, we are obligated to take honour as a motive of our actions in as perfect a manner as possible, which requires knowing it as clearly, correctly, certainly and vividly as possible. We should also, Meier continues, make the best kinds of honour stronger motives of our actions than worse kinds. As it should be obvious by now, Meier thinks that the honour given by God should be our highest motive, future honour should be a higher motive than past or present honour, and honour for the sake of virtue and science should be a higher motive than honour for the sake of external perfections.<br /><br />All previous duties lead us to desire honour, thus, Meier concludes, we are obligated to desire honour. This means that we are obligated to desire honour in its most perfect form. In other words, the perfection we try to reach should be worthy and excellent, but we should also strive for this perfection in a perfect manner. This perfection of desire is generated, Meier thinks, when we see it is a consequence of best possible cognitions. Thus, we are obligated to desire honour according to the best possible cognition. In other words, our desire for honour should be determined through strictest mathematical cognition of honour. Hence, we are obligated to not desire honour more strongly or weakly than it is worth. If we desire it too strongly, we ignore God, ourselves and other people, but if we desire it too weakly, we do not reach the honour our perfections would deserve.<br /><br />Meier thinks that we should desire honour in proportion to different kinds of honour. Thus, we are obligated to desire future honour stronger than current honour. This implies, Meier says, that flattery should be distrusted at all costs: completely reasonable people would honour each other silently – or at least use only as much words as the case necessitated. Further consequences Meier lists are that we are obligated to desire honour for the sake of virtue and truth more than other kinds of honour and that we are obligated to desire honour given by God more than honour given by humans. He also suggests that it is probable that beyond humans there are higher and more excellent happy spirits that we will come to know after our death and that we are therefore obligated to strongly desire honour given by these spirits.<br /><br />In addition to true honour, Meier insists, we should not desire any other honour, because it is a sin to desire apparent honour. More specifically, pretentious honour must be completely despised, while erroneous honour is in some sense good, but we should not just cause it. In addition, Meier continues, we are obligated to desire only such honour that we are justified to believe that we will receive, because we shouldn’t hope for something we cannot achieve. Finally, we are obligated to desire honour only for such perfections that we know we are capable of possessing, or otherwise we would desire apparent honour.<br /><br />All desires can arise from obscure, confused or distinct concepts. Meier thinks that all these kinds of concepts should be involved in our desire for honour. Desire for honour arising from obscure concepts Meier calls a natural drive to honour. This natural drive is very strong, and according to Meier, it should not be weakened, because nature should usually be followed: although natural drives are most imperfect of the types of desire, they are still very useful to us humans, since they are stronger than desires generated by clear and distinct concepts. If nature has not implanted a drive for honour in us, we should try to awaken it. Meier says that this is difficult, but can be done if we just often think clear, distinct and vivid concepts of honour: they will eventually sink into our mind as vivid and obscure concepts.<br /><br />When the drive to honour has awakened, Meier continues, we are obligated to strengthen it. Yet, he warns the reader, we should not desire honour not merely through this natural drive, because we are obligated to to desire it according to our best knowledge. Indeed, Meier emphasised, it is vitally important to link our natural drive only to true honour, because obscure concepts often lead to error. We are obligated to use this drive especially to desire the most insignificant kinds of honour that we must desire, because these kinds would not gain anything from clarity of concepts. Then again, we are obligated to use the drive to honour to strengthen our clear and reasonable desires to the best and highest kinds of honour.<br /><br />We are obligated to desire honour according to confused cognition. Like with natural drive for honour, Meier emphasises that we should not desire honour merely through confused concepts and that we should link this confused desire only to true honour, because confused concepts easily lead to error. Particularly, we should verify our confused desire for honour through correct taste or philosophical demonstration. Furthermore, Meier continues, we should especially desire confusedly such kinds of honour that are too important to be desired with obscure concepts, but not important enough to be desired with distinct cognition. Finally, we use the confused desire to strengthen the reasonable desire for the best kinds of honour.<br /><br />If our confused cognition, from which sensuous desires are generated, is very strong, Meier explains, this generates a pleasant affection called joy. In the case of honour Meier calls this joy the love of honour. Thus, we are obligated to love honour and we should not weaken this affection: like natural drives, Meier insists, affections are a gift of nature, which will not lead us astray, if we just link them to true honour. We are obligated to enjoy past, present and future honour, and of these, the hope of future honour should be the greatest. In other words, we should hope for honour more strongly than enjoy any honour. Meier notes that it is ridiculous to enjoy current honour, if it is not weakened by concern for our imperfections, and too strong enjoyment of past honour is as ridiculous as when a nobleman who has no other current merits, but keeping the countryside clear of foxes reminisces of his past actions.<br /><br />Finally, Meier says, we are obligated to desire honour through our freedom or through distinct concepts. Best kinds of honour should be desired reasonably: these include, as always, honour given by God, honour beyond death and honour for the sake of virtue and truth. In Meier’s opinion, the reasonable desire for honour must be the guide and leader of all other desires for honour. Since drive to honour and love of honour must follow the reasonable desire for honour, we must weaken our drive and love for apparent honour.<br /><br />Mere desire for honour is not enough for reaching honour, Meier says, since honour is an external good requiring numerous actions, which use even the body as a tool. Thus, we are obligated to do all such external actions, without which the honour cannot be reached. In other words, we are obligated to act according to our desire for honour – of course, it should not be our only or greatest task. Furthermore, Meier adds, we are obligated to direct our whole external condition in such a manner that it corresponds in the best way possible with the measure of our honour, because correspondence of everything in us makes us more perfect and because we are obligated to show our honour to the whole world.<br /><br />We are obligated to grow in honour, Meier thinks. This implies, firstly, that we should not reach for new levels of honour, before the earlier ones are firmly in our possession. Furthermore, we should particularly take care that our honour does not end before our life. Indeed, if we too suddenly obtain a very great level of honour, we are put in a precarious position where the growth of our honour becomes impossible or at least very difficult. Thus, we should not desire nor accept too sudden a swelling of honour, such as the <i>wunderkinds</i> often have.<br /><br />Meier notes that it is a common weakness of all humans to find faults in others. Thus, no matter how honourable and honoured we are, people will question our honour. Since we are obligated to retain our honour, we should defend it against all opposition. This means, firstly, that we should defend our good name against all attacks with all the means allowed by natural and civil right, because such civil honour is one condition of internal honour. We should also defend our internal honour directly, and the best means for this is to ignore all the attacks and just act toward the eyes of the world in such a manner that proves we deserve honour. Yet, Meier admits, the best means requires time, and sometimes we need to act more quickly. In such situations, we can use words, but even then we should avoid any boasting and give the appearance that we are unwilling to speak of our perfections. Two false means for saving honour are to be avoided, Meier cautions the reader. Firstly, we should nor insult our despisers, because then we would try to retain honour through sin, and secondly, we should avoid duels and court proceedings, since no one cannot be forced to honour us.<br /><br />If duties contradict one another, the lesser obligation should be discarded. Since obligation to honour is not our highest duty, Meier argues, we should ignore it, if it contradicts a higher obligation: for instance, we are to discard honour, if we are despised because of piety, virtue or duties toward our soul or homeland. Similarly, if different kinds of honour contradict one another, we are obligated to ignore lower kinds, e.g. we should ignore honour given by humans if it would prevent us being honoured by God.<br /><br />Meier notes that it is a common conceit that we ascribe to ourselves perfections that are not due to us. This can happen also with honour, since it depends on us only partially. We should especially, Meier insists, recognise that we have not merely through ourselves created our honour, but honour, like all good, is also dependent on God, who has given us perfections and maintains them. Indeed, he concludes, honour should be seen as a gift from God. Furthermore, we should also be thankful of people who honour us, since without them we would not have honour.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-45503886855896395512023-10-22T12:54:00.000-07:002023-10-22T12:54:56.048-07:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on honour – Is honour worth seeking?One might think that Meier’s study of honour has been rather practical, since he has already given, for instance, good practices on how to gain honour. Yet, Meier refers by the epithet practical not to tips for good practices, but to questions of what one should do. In other words, it is only when we ask whether honour is worth seeking that we are doing practical philosophy.<br /><br />On Meier’s terms, the question appears to have a rather easy answer. Honour has already been defined through various perfections: the person honoured must have true perfections, and the person honouring should have a clear, correct, certain and vivid understanding of these perfections. Meier admits that like all things human, honour must already imply some imperfections, but as these are due to human nature and not to anything essential to honour itself, these imperfections do not matter: otherwise, all science would be imperfect. Thus, as an effect of various perfections, honour itself must be a perfection.<br /><br />Meier argues for the perfection of honour from another angle, also. Just like good causes prove the perfection of honour, so do its good consequences. Honour gives the honoured person the power to motivate others and thus endows them with a capacity to benefit humankind by making countless other people more perfect. Honour also benefits the honoured person, because it motivates everyone honouring to serve them, because those honouring love those honoured. Finally, honour makes honoured persons satisfied in a manner reminiscent of the satisfaction of God.<br /><br />Previous arguments concern only the honour in this life, but Meier thinks that honour after one’s death is also valuable, since it is essentially similar honour as that before one’s death. Honour after one’s death indeed greatly expands the merits of a person, because it enables them to serve people even beyond their death. Furthermore, Meier thinks that happiness consists largely in hope and therefore hope of honour after death satisfies honourable persons even when they are living. Finally, Meier goes so far as to suggest that honour can give many personal advantages in the afterlife, picturing Saint Paul being served by his admirers in heaven.<br /><br />Now, we could really end the text here, but Meier still has to consider all the objections against honour. With a decent <i>ad hominem</i> Meier suggests that many of these objections come from mean people, who despise honour, because they do not have any themselves. If we ignore this and look at the objections instead of the objectors, Meier notes that often human honour is disparaged as taking attention away from God, whose honour, on the other hand, is so great that nothing human can be compared with it. Meier notes that these are just excuses, since the honour of God and the honour of humans do not contradict one another and because humans do have their honourable perfections even if they are not as great as God’s.<br /><br />Often honour is opposed with mere rhetorics, like when it is compared to a pleasant dream or mere nothingness. Meier thinks that anyone saying that honour isn’t anything real has no understanding what real means – such things are said by people thinking their own stomach is the most real thing. Then again, he adds, if you think eating, drinking and gold give you satisfaction, doesn’t honour make us more perfect than these external goods?<br /><br />Meier notes that some people think honour as such is shameful and suspect people will just go on endlessly striving for more and more honour. He answers them that such supposed bad consequences of honour are actually consequences of its misuse. Indeed, he adds, all goods can be misused, even religion. Meier thinks that the drive for honour is not bad, if it stays in its proper limits. Besides, he admits all earthly goods leave humans wanting for more, even religious enjoyment, because finite can never be completely perfect.<br /><br />Honour is good, Meier can then conclude, but how good is it compared to other goods? It isn’t the greatest good, Meier notes, since that place he reserves for religion. After religion, the hierarchy of goods, he says, starts with moral perfections and continues with all other perfections of higher mental capacities, including truth and science. Below these come all other mental perfections and then all other internal perfections. The lowest rung of the hierarchy of goods is reserved for all external perfections, which include also honour. Yet, Meier insists, it is on the higher scale of these external perfections, because it has the greatest good of a human being as its consequence and it makes a person more perfect than any other external good. Honour is then a true and important good, thus, Meier argues, both being ignored and being despised must be really bad. Indeed, he continues, if you are ignored, you won’t have great perfections, and if you are despised, you will have great imperfections.<br /><br />The final question Meier considers here is whether apparent honouring or despising are truly good or bad. He begins by noting that both apparent honouring and apparent despising arise out of mistake or pretence. If a despicable person is honoured with pretension, Meier says, this is just ridicule and therefore no true good. Then again, if a despicable person is honoured because of a mistake, the honoured person appears to be served by this mistake, but the erroneous foundation causes more harm. If we change the despicable to an honourable person, pretentious honouring is not as great an evil, but it is still an evil, because pretentions are bad. Even less of an evil the case becomes, if the apparent honouring is based on error. Moving to apparent despise, Meier thinks that an erroneous despising of an honourable person is not as great an evil as despising someone for good reasons, but it is still an evil. Finally, pretentious despising of an honourable person is actually no real evil, but works more like a bitter medicine for avoiding hubris.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-71517707060854320302023-10-11T12:29:00.000-07:002023-10-11T12:29:23.403-07:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on honour – How to gain honourAfter determining what honour is and how to measure it, the next task Meier takes up is to give advice on how to gain honour. But first he has to decide whether one can have any say on whether one is honoured. Meier notes that being honoured has three conditions: one has to have honourable characteristics, other people must perceive these characteristics and these other people have to recognise the characteristics as honourable. Of these three conditions, the final one is such that the person seeking honour cannot themselves guarantee it – we cannot make others recognise what is honourable. Still, the first two conditions can be affected: one can make one’s characteristics honourable and one can show others these characteristics.<br /><br />Starting from the first task, Meier notes that one should begin with a firm decision of improving one’s character: the road to honour is full of hardship and retaining honour is also difficult. A more concrete advice is to increase one’s potential for having many and great good characteristics. By potential, Meier says, can be meant, firstly, physical possibility. Physical possibility, then, increases when one gains more capacities to do things and refines capacities one already has. Thus, one has to first make an inventory of what capacities one has, either by nature or through practice. After that, one should augment the deficiencies in one’s system of capacities.<br /><br />Some potential is connected to external circumstances, like one’s lifestyle or profession, Meier notes. Thus, one should aim for an honourable way of life, especially if one has not been born into one. Indeed, Meier continues, one should do more and choose a way of life that opens up new possibilities for improving one’s character and that best corresponds to one’s capacities.<br /><br />Final way to understand potential, Meier says, is to think it refers to moral possibilities. In other words, Meier wants us to especially improve our capacities for good actions and to make our way of life agree with morality. It is then no wonder that Meier thinks piety to be the most important ingredient of honourable life.<br /><br />Potential is still not enough, Meier adds, but one should also just gain many of these great potential characteristics. Of course, he explains, they have to be potentially reachable characteristics, because otherwise trying to reach them is just shameful. Because honour cannot be the price of many persons, Meier notes, one should try to gain more good characteristics than most people, especially people in the same life context, and in the best case, more than anyone else has.<br /><br />Still, mere quantity is not enough, Meier warns, but one should also try to gain just the most fruitful and astounding characteristics. Again, the quality of these characteristics should top the characteristics of most other people, or in the best case, those of all people. But before one can do that, one should try to learn about the world, in order to know how great characteristics other people have had. Meier also suggests that one cannot really acquire good characteristics that would go against one’s nature: for instance, Cicero would have just been a bad poet. One good characteristic that everyone should acquire, Meier thinks, is obviously virtue.<br /><br />Meier thinks that one should especially prefer to acquire such characteristics that are of advantage to other people. Persons ignoring this rule are often ignored and forgotten themselves, no matter how great they would be otherwise. Still, this does not mean that one should just blindly follow the taste of other people, unless their taste happens to be correct in its decisions.<br /><br />Individual good characteristics are still not enough, Meier says, but they should be combined in a perfect manner. In other words, he explains, one should choose a single, especially useful characteristic for particular refining and then try to acquire such characteristics that aid in refining one’s central perfection. For this to work, one should try to know causal chains occurring between different characteristics.<br /><br />It is not enough to have great characteristics, Meier insists, but one should also try to constantly improve those one already has. He notes disparagingly that only few scholars follow this rule, rest being satisfied with the status of the rabble of the scholarly world. In addition to acquiring good characteristics, Meier concludes, one should try to avoid bad characteristics, particularly such that could harm many people.<br /><br />Now that one has honourable characteristics, these characteristics have to be made known to other people. Meier admits that some people might think this as vainglory, but being silent about one’s good qualities is just childish, he adds.<br /><br />No one can be honoured by everyone, Meier emphasises, thus, once should try to choose the audience to which one markets oneself. Of course, he agrees, no one can foretell who might be interested in them in the future. Still they should at least try to pick a specific group of people from which to start, since it is easier to convince a small group of people of one’s honour. Furthermore, Meier reminds the reader, not all kinds of audience should be seeked: instead of flatterers, one should try to show one’s good qualities to virtuous people.<br /><br />The most important rule Meier gives for showing one’s honourable characteristics is to help the world through the use of one’s talents: people who have been of most assistance have been honoured most. Meier notes that some glory seekers try to circumvent this rule by using money as a surrogate for true help, but this strategy brings only fame that lasts as long as some money remains.<br /><br />It is not indifferent in which order one reveals one’s characteristics, Meier says. The order itself should be beautiful, in other words, one should try to be most useful with one’s main good characteristic. Furthermore, he adds, one should reveal one’s talents bit by bit, because otherwise one quickly has nothing to show anymore.<br /><br />Meier admits that gaining honour is often down to luck. Even the opportunities to show one’s good characteristics may occur unexpectedly, thus, it is important to take advantage of all such possibilities. Furthermore, Meier notes, it is also important to avoid all situations which might have a cause to make someone despise you. For instance, Meier advises, one should not begin a task one cannot complete.<br /><br />Road to honour is very difficult, Meier concludes, and one must work hard for the sake of it. Retaining honour is also an endless task and it just requires more and more every day. Furthermore, Meier advises not trying to use any shortcuts, like self-praise, which lead to no true honour.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-45049737625831549362023-09-21T11:25:00.003-07:002023-09-21T11:25:54.914-07:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on honour - How to measure itA common feature of philosophical studies from the so-called Wolffian school is the desire to quantify the concepts they investigated. Mathematics was seen as something that complements the bare philosophical method. Thus, it is no wonder that Meier would dedicate a whole chapter to the question of how to quantify honour.<br /><br />Meier begins by noting that because different people look at the same things from different perspectives, different people honouring the same person see different things to commend in them. Thus, the more people honour a person, the more honourable the person is. Meier immediately adds that he is speaking of humans honouring a person. God also can honour a person, he thinks, and this is the greatest honour imaginable. He leaves undecided whether there are any other beings beyond God and humans that could honour someone.<br /><br />The number of honouring people, Meier notes, need not be limited to contemporaries, but can include future human beings. Indeed, he says, honour received after death is even greater than honour received while living. Thus, he concludes, it is rational to strive for eternal honour.<br /><br />Although honour given in the future is greater than honour given by contemporaries, Meier remarks, a great number of people honouring one now can still make honour great. This happens especially, if the people honouring you include such that are not close to us or live somewhere else – it is no great feat if a king is honoured by his subjects.<br /><br />Although the number of people honouring you is one factor determining the quantity of honour, Meier says, it is not the only factor. Thus, someone desiring honour should not just spend their time gathering followers. Still, he points out, it is a factor, and therefore it is foolish to think less followers would mean greater honour.<br /><br />It is impossible that all contemporaries or future generations would honour the same person, Meier notes. Many contemporaries ignore a greatly honoured person, but many even disrespect them, because people have a tendency to find faults in others. Often this overtly critical stance is caused by envy, Meier explains. Sometimes it is caused by pride, which makes one underestimate others, while sometimes the cause is an excessive desire to ridicule things.<br /><br />Continuing with the topic of disrespect toward otherwise greatly honoured persons, Meier notes that some people want to build their reputation on the ruins of others, thinking there can be only one greatly honoured person. Furthermore, some misanthropists are not pleased with the perfections of humans. Finally, a common reason for such disrespect, in Meier’s opinion, is that people are often more inclined to think of the evil in the world than what is good, because evil is actually rarer and strikes us more forcefully.<br /><br />It is not just how many people honour, but who honours you that matters, Meier continues. Great people are able to perceive the worthiest features, while small-minded people enlarge insignificant details. Thus, Meier concludes, the greater the people honouring you, the greater the honour received.<br /><br />The greatness in question can be internal, that is, the great person can have all the capacities for recognising the greatest perfections in someone. These capacities include, Meier says, both cognitive and volitional capacities. A clear consequence of this is one Meier has already noted, that is, that honour by God is the greatest kind. Furthermore, if there are beings, beyond God, who have greater understanding and will than humans, honour given by them is greater than that given by humans.<br /><br />No human is perfect in all aspects, Meier points out. Thus, honour is greater, if the persons honouring you are themselves internally great in the same sense as you are. For instance, a soldier knows best when to honour other soldiers. On the other hand, sometimes we tend to belittle people who are perfect in a sense different from ours.<br /><br />Greatness can also be external, by which Meier means an appearance of greatness, insofar as this appearance is well founded, that is based on inner greatness. What this external greatness adds to internal greatness is a great number of followers, which then magnifies also the honour bestowed by externally great people. Thus, Meier notes, honour given by princes is great, assuming that the princes are also internally great (no one wants to be honoured by Nero). Again, since God is honoured by everyone, honour received from them is the greatest.<br /><br />An interesting corollary Meier notes is that maximising greatness of people honouring you is not compatible with maximising the number of people honouring you. That is, since there are not that many really great people, if you want to be honoured only by the greatest, you can be honoured only by a few people.<br /><br />If the first two factors of honour concerned the people honouring, the next two consider the person honoured, and more precisely, the perfections ascribed to them. Firstly, Meier explains, the number of perfections affects the honour of the person having them. Honour of a person is greater, if they have more types of perfections or more perfections of the same type: for instance, a writer is honoured more, if in addition to being eloquent they have deep ideas.<br /><br />Supposing a person does not have some perfections, even if they could have these, lessens their honour, Meier thinks. If they in some sense could not have these perfections, the effects on their honour depend on what this sense is. If we are speaking of absolute impossibility, Meier explains, then of course such lack will not take away from one’s honour: indeed, it might even be considered foolish to reach for such absolutely impossible perfections. If it is a case of physical impossibility, that is, a lack of capacities necessary for reaching a perfection, honour is reduced if and only if such a lack is shameful: it is dishonourable to understand nothing, but not to not understand religious mysteries. Finally, a lack of morally impossible, or as we would say, morally bad perfections is even a boost to one’s honour, at least if such perfection would really be morally bad (for instance, Meier notes, being educated does not take away one’s moral purity).<br /><br />Although more perfections means more honour, Meier warns the reader not to reach for excessively many perfections. No human being is able to reach all human perfections, and indeed, some perfections might even be morally detrimental to a person, depending on their life context. Then again, Meier adds, one should not try to cultivate an excessively small number of perfections: for instance, a soldier trying to become a mere expert killer seems like a mere beast.<br /><br />In addition to the number, Meier continues, one should also consider the greatness of the perfections ascribed to a person. Indeed, he adds, it is more honourable to have a few great, instead of many insignificant perfections. True honour, Meier thinks, requires more than just a run of the mill perfection. A perfection worthy of honour should not be simple, but a synthesis of many perfections. It should be noble and fruitful, in other words, it should have many great and important consequences. Finally, Meier adds, perfections caused by something great are noble are also worthy of honour, since effects equal their causes.<br /><br />Types of perfections can also be compared to one another, Meier notes. Thus, moral perfections are greater than physical (a good character is more honourable than beauty), internal perfections are greater than external (richness is not a great perfection), perfections of soul are greater than perfections of body, perfections of the higher capacities of soul are greater than perfections of lower capacities (science is more honourable than poetry), and perfections of freedom or virtues are highest of them all.<br /><br />While the first four factors of the quantity of honour concern the content, the next ones concern the form of honour, Meier clarifies. In other words, they relate to the cognitive state on which the honour a person receives from someone is based on. Thus, clarity of this cognitive state adds to the honour, letting the person honouring see more of the person honoured. For honour to be really great, the person honouring must know the sum of all honourable perfections as a whole, and they must find and distinguish many and great perfections in that whole, and they must see their order and connection. This means, again, that God is the best one to honour you, because God knows a person in the most detailed and systematic fashion.<br /><br />What then gives a cognitive state or concept more clarity? In case of honour, Meier begins, perfections of the honoured person should not be dimmed by imperfections of the same person. Thus, the honour will be great, if the person honouring sees nothing but the perfections and ignores all the imperfections of the person honoured (no one honours you more than your own mother) or if they see these imperfections only dimly, like good friends, or if the person honouring regards the perfections of the honoured person so strongly that this suppresses all ideas of imperfection (this is how members of a sect honour their leaders).<br /><br />Clarity is also strengthened by perfections of the honoured not being dimmed by perfections of other persons, Meier continues. Thus, the honour will be great, if the person honouring honours no one in addition to the honoured person (like students honour their teacher, because they know no other scholars), if the person honouring honours other only in smaller degree or if the person honouring honours the honoured person so strongly that all ideas of perfections of others are darkened.<br /><br />Attention is the source of all clarity, Meier emphasises. Thus, the honour becomes clearer and greater, the more attention the honouring person can give to the perfections of the honoured person. Honour becomes stronger, when the honouring person concentrates more on observing the merits of the honoured person, it becomes more extensive, when the honouring person observes very many perfections of the honoured person, and it becomes more enduring, when the honouring person observes the perfections very long immediately after one another.<br /><br />Especially three things make attention very great, Meier adds: curiosity, where everything new awakens attention, wonder or intuitive cognition of novelty and captivation or being conscious of something in so great a measure that other concepts are obscured. Thus he concludes, honour becomes clearer and greater, if the honouring person thinks about the perfections of the honoured person with great curiosity, as something new and extraordinary, if the honouring person wonders about the honoured person or if the person honouring is captivated by observing the merits of the person honoured.<br /><br />Most important facet in the quantity of honour, according to Meier, is the truth of the cognition it is based on: the more correct is the judgement of perfections, the greater the honour. Truth of honour, Meier explains, is to be evaluated like truth of cognition and judgements in general.Thus, honour is more correct and greater, the less perfections are ascribed to the honoured person that they do not have and the more those that they do have, the less errors of quantity are discovered in the judgement of honour, so that perfections would not be evaluated too highly, and the more correctly the person honouring thinks about the order and connection, in which perfections of the honoured person are discovered.<br /><br />Meier notes that judgements turn often false, when they are derived from preconceptions. Thus, he concludes, honour is more correct, if the honoured person is judged through the lens of preconceptions. This means that honour should be based on impartial judgements. For instance, honour bestowed on us by our friends is not always false, but it often is greater than is deserved. On the contrary, enemies honour us too little, but therefore honour bestowed by them is that much more valuable. More generally, honour given with reproach is more correct than honour without reproach.<br /><br />In addition to truth, the certainty of cognition or judgement is also important: uncertain honour is weak like dreams, Meier compares. Humans are convinced of truth of a judgement in three manners, Meier says: by deducing it from more general truths, by basing it on their own experience or by hearing of experiences of others. The first route or a priori deduction is closed for us, Meier thinks, since we cannot know honourable perfections of humans from mere arguments. Experiences of others can reach at most moral certainty, so the only way to complete certainty is observation. Thus, the more the person honouring personally observes perfections of the honoured, the more certain and the greater is the honour (for instance, Homer is best honoured by a person who has read his works). Of course, Meier adds, experience can be deceptive, and therefore honour becomes certain only after a repeated observation of perfections.<br /><br />When the person honouring merely hears about the perfections of the honoured person, the judgement of honour is generally uncertain, but this uncertainty has different degrees, Meier explains. The most extreme degrees in this continuum of honour are an honour based on well attested testimonies of first-hand witnesses and an honour based on stories that have travelled through many persons.<br /><br />According to Meier, the liveliness of the cognition or judgement also affects the honour. The livelier the experience of the perfections, the greater the honour, and only lively honour fills the person honouring with the idea of the honoured. Great honour requires, hence, intuitive knowledge of the perfections. Thus honour based on mere words (e.g. a title) is a small honour.<br /><br />What a lively cognition of perfections does, Meier continues, is that it causes pleasure. We are especially pleased about perfections that we are interested in, that we take part of and that are useful for us. If this liveliness is strong enough, it leads to desire and to pleasure. Thus, the more the perfections of a person please, the livelier and greater the honour. Since love is pleasure over someone’s perfections, Meier notes, the more the honoured person is loved, the greater the honour. We can love without honouring, like parents love their children, and we can honour without loving, like we honour Alexander the Great, but honour without love is infinitely smaller than honour with love, Meier insists.<br /><br />Beyond the quality of cognition, the duration of the honour is a facet of its greatness. If the honour lasts longer, the greater it is, and the degree of honour can go up and down through its duration. If honour is very great from the start, it cannot be augmented, while small initial honour can be improved easily.<br /><br />An important concept Meier introduces is the notion of fixed honour, where a person has reached so high a degree of honour that it becomes impossible for them to be despised or ignored. Although honour would be fixed, it can still change, because in an honoured man faults are so noticeable. Another reason for the change is that the clarity, truth, certainty and liveliness of cognition might be very variable, because of the nature of soul and human cognition in general, because of a too strong a desire for novelty and love of change or because the cognition of topics is determined by their desires and inclinations.<br /><br />Honour of long length, Meier says, gains special strength if it isn’t interrupted by periods of disrespect. Honour can be regained after interruption of disrespect, but such regaining is much more difficult than original gaining of honour.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-10897512900347640632023-09-02T12:33:00.001-07:002023-09-02T12:33:37.949-07:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on honour (1746)Meier’s philosophical work has provided plenty of examples of something we’ve otherwise rarely seen in German philosophy in the first half of 18th century: applied philosophy, that is, application of philosophical concepts and theories to often very concrete questions of practical nature. His <i>Gedancken von Ehre</i> is no exception, being a discussion of honour or respect.<br /><br />Although Meier’s final object lies then in practice, he begins his study with a theoretical part. Quite plausibly, we have to first know what honour is, before we can say, for instance, how much honour we should try to gain for ourselves. Furthermore, Meier adds, theoretical investigation of the notion of honour might awaken in us a desire to do honourable things.<br /><br />Meier defines honour as the sum of all representations and judgements made by others of one’s perfections. More precisely, this sum, if it is unexpressed, can be called internal honour, while the expression of this internal honour through words and other signs is the corresponding external honour. An important detail is that the honour must be bestowed by others and so no one cannot honour oneself - not even God.<br /><br />Meier notes that there is also another sense in which we can talk of external honour, that is, when we are speaking of compliments that people are forced to give because of some law. This law can be natural law - and then we are speaking of a good name of someone - or a civil law - for instance, when a person must be bestowed a title. Such external honours, Meier warns, are not really honours in his sense, which requires much more than mere following of a law.<br /><br />The opposite of honour - dishonour or disrespect - and the corresponding internal and external dishonour can be defined by just replacing perfection with imperfection, Meier notes. From a lack of dishonour cannot be deduced the presence of honour, he adds, because between the two lies a state where other persons do not have any conception whatsoever of one’s perfections or imperfections. Indeed, most people are regarded in such an indifferent manner by persons not close to them<br /><br />Because Meier defines honour through notions of representations and judgement, he can apply logic and psychology in his investigation. Thus, he notes that since judgements can be affirmative or negative, honour can be also given for a person not having certain imperfections. He immediately explains that in the latter case the lack of imperfection must imply the presence of perfection, since it is not yet an honour to be no murderer. Indeed, he adds, the concept of honour should be reserved to only those cases where the perfection of a person is exceptionally great, since otherwise every person would be honoured.<br /><br />An important epistemological detail Meier points out is that honour should be based only on true representations and judgements. Thus, even if a person would compliment another, say, for being a great scholar, it would be no real honour if the person giving the compliment would have no idea what being a great scholar really means. All forms of flattery are then ruled out as not bestowing true honour. Then again, since an honour can remain unexpressed, lack of compliments does not either imply a lack of honour.<br /><br />Honour is then clearly something else than mere fame, which means just people knowing someone, but not necessarily knowing them for a perfection - even murderers can be famous for being murderers. Even if the reason for one’s fame would be something good, that is, even if they would have a good reputation, this would still not guarantee that one is honoured, if the person in question would have no exceptional perfections.<br /><br />Honour is also dependent on the context in which the person is evaluated, Meier emphasises. Thus, a soldier’s leadership skills can be honoured in the context of a small regiment, but not in the context of the whole army. Honour is also dependent on who does the honouring, and small-minded people can never really honour anyone, Meier insists, because they can never have a notion of what truly great perfection is.<br /><br />What perfections can then be honoured? Meier thinks that practically anything. Some people think that e.g. beauty is not something that can be honoured, since one has no say on whether they are beautiful. Meier thinks that this argument fails, since even such perfections that seem to be up to us - say, our diligence - are ultimately decided by God. Thus, Meier sees no reason why things like beauty could not also be honoured.<br /><br />Possible objects of honour are thus infinitely varied and similarly also possible objects of dishonour, Meier explains. Indeed, one person can have both perfections and imperfections and even most honoured people can have their dark side. In other words, if someone is respected, they can also be disrespected, just for different reasons.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-81932405651445926882023-08-09T23:38:00.002-07:002023-08-09T23:38:52.422-07:00Martin Knutzen: System of efficient causes, or a philosophical commentary on explaining the interaction of mind and body by physical influx (1745)If there was one mainstay in pre-Kantian German philosophy, it was the question of the interaction between soul or mind and body. Thus, it is no wonder that we find Martin Knutzen, best known as the teacher of Kant, also tackling the question in his <i>Systema causarum efficientium seu commentatio philosophica de commercio mentis et corporis per influxum physicum explicando</i>.<br /><br />The setting of the question is clear. We find that certain states of our mind correspond to certain states of our body. This is evident in case of sensations, when e.g. a visual experience corresponds to our eyes receiving light rays. Similar correspondence happens in some cases with emotions, for instance, when a feeling of rage is connected to rapid movement of heart. Finally, often our volitions (like me wanting something to eat) correspond to bodily movements (me moving toward the kitchen). Such correspondence asks for an explanation, Knutzen says, and it is the duty of philosophers to come up with such explanations.<br /><br />As is familiar, three possible explanations were provided for the correspondence: firstly, the theory of physical influx, according to which mind and body really act upon each other, occasionalism, according to which God in each individual case arranges mind and body to change their state accordingly, and pre-established harmony, according to which mind changes its state according to its own laws and body according to its own laws, but God has ordered these changes to harmonise, when designing the world.<br /><br />Knutzen does not add any further type of explanation, but suggests that these three explanations were the only ones possible. Explanation, he suggests, requires finding the cause for the correspondence. Such a cause can be either intrinsic to a human being as a combination of mind and body or extrinsic to it. If it is extrinsic, then we are suggesting, in the vain of occasionalism, that some entity outside the human being makes e.g. an arm move, whenever a certain type of volition occurs in the human mind. If the cause is intrinsic to a human being, Knutzen continues, then either one part of the human being (mind or body) affects the other part – this is obviously what the theory of physical influx says – or mind and body form closed causal chains, states of mind affecting further states of mind and states of body affecting only further states of body. In the latter case, the correspondence or harmony of mind and body is just a brute fact, which must then be further explained, as in the theory of pre-established harmony, by God fixing the causal chains of mind and body to harmonise with one another.<br /><br />How then to decide between the three systems? Knutzen notes that the question cannot be decided by experience, since we cannot literally perceive mind and body acting on one another or God intervening in the causal chains, not to mention God making before the creation of mind and body a decision to harmonise them. What we are then left with is to find some reasons why we should prefer one system over the others.<br /><br />Knutzen’s strategy is to ground his reasoning in the philosophical paradigm in Germany of his time, that is, Wolffian philosophy, by making references to Wolff’s works, whenever possible. Thus, Knutzen begins by pointing out that mind or soul is a simple substance, which has both intellect and free will and particularly has representations of its own body. As a simple substance, he continues, the mind is immaterial, while the body is a composite of many parts. Then again, even bodies must ultimately be composed of simple substances or elements, since otherwise a body would have an infinite amount of parts, which Knutzen thinks an absurd idea.<br /><br />Knutzen goes on by defining what an action means: a thing acts, when it has in itself a reason why something else exists or changes. The reason in question is called a force, which is thus a tendency to act or generate and change things. Furthermore, Knutzen adds, force is always a sufficient reason for acting, that is, if no obstacle prevents, force generates an action, no matter what.<br /><br />Following Leibniz’s relational definition, Knutzen takes space to be an order of coexisting things. A place of a thing is then just a definite mode of being in that order or of relating to other things. Thus, at least finite substances cannot exist in the same place at the same time. Motion, furthermore, is a change of place: thing changes its relation to other things. Because this change affects only the relations of a thing, it does not intrinsically affect the moving thing. The motion is still based on something more substantial, Knutzen says, namely, the motive force making a thing move.<br /><br />All existing things must be determined in every manner, Knutzen says. Particularly, their relations to other coexisting things must also be determined, in other words, they must exist in some definite place. This truth, Knutzen continues, holds also of simple substances, such as the elements of the bodies. Furthermore, since bodies move, elements must also move. Then again, they do not fill a space or have an extension, since they have no parts, of which they would consist.<br /><br />Two things cannot occupy the same place at the same time, which means, Knutzen suggests, that a thing resists the other taking its place. When a thing moves, it takes the place of another thing, in other words, it must overcome this resistance through some force. Particularly, Knutzen concludes, the elements of the body must use force to overcome this resistance of other elements and push them away, thus, the elements truly affect one another. Since a cause can be known from its effect (an accepted truth in Wolff’s ontology), we could even say that through changes caused by other elements an element represents or perceives other elements.<br /><br />If elements act upon another, we can thus say that some simple and perceiving things interact with each other. This raises the probability of the mind also interacting with its body, Knutzen suggests, since the mind would interact with the body by interacting with the elements, of which the bodies consist. Of course, there is still a possibility that a mind would be different from elements on this point: perhaps interaction with elements of matter is somehow an imperfection that would not befit the status of a mind. Yet, Knutzen points out, God is thought to act on elements, and as God is absolutely perfect, the interaction with elements cannot be an imperfection.<br /><br />In addition to showing the probability of the system of physical influx or real interaction of the mind and the body, Knutzen adds some further points to convince the reader the choose this system over the others: occasionalism is based on God doing constant miracles, while the system of pre-established harmony cannot explain why the bodies should be created in the first place. Furthermore, Knutzen also tries to directly prove the truth of the interaction. Just like other simple substances, a human mind must exist in some place, and indeed, it exists in a place where it is constantly together with its body. Thus, the mind must move with its body. Either it is passively moved by the body – and the interaction is real – or mind moves itself – and then it must be able to push other simple things around it, in other words, to interact with them.<br /><br />Opponents of the physical influx had often stated that such an influx is just an empty word that has no meaning. Knutzen thinks this is a false accusation, since we have a perfectly good explanation of what physical influence means: real interaction of a mind and its body. Then again, he admits we cannot completely comprehend what the physical influx is like, since an interaction of simple things is something we cannot fully understand: we humans require distinctions in our cognition, but such an interaction can only happen instantaneously and no distinctions can be made in instantaneous changes. This is still no detriment to the truth of physical influx, since there are many things, Knutzen says, we can know to be true, although we cannot intuitively grasp them.<br /><br />A further common objection to the system of physical influx was that it breaks the law of nature which states that the quantity of the motion in the universe cannot be changed: when I will my hand to move, I create new motion. Knutzen’s answer is that this supposed law is based only on observations of material objects and their interactions and that we need not suppose that it is correct for the interaction of the mind and the body.<br /><br />Knutzen also considers the objection that we really cannot derive a force for moving material objects from a force of representing things, which should be the essence of a human mind. Knutzen thinks such a derivation is fairly simple. A force of representation, he explains, does not mean just a passive capacity to represent things, but active striving to try to represent things. Since representations of the mind correspond to the states of the body, the force of representation must also involve a force to change the body and its place in the universe.<br /><br />Finally, Knutzen answers some objections that suggest physical influx would degrade the worth of a human mind. Firstly, he says, physical influx does not make the mind completely passive and dependent on the body, since the mind can also affect the body and does also have activities beyond interaction with the body.<div><br /></div><div>Furthermore, Meier continues, physical influx does not contradict the immortality of the mind. Such a denial of immortality was based on the supposition that since the theory assumes sensations to be caused by the body, the destruction of the body would lead to a life with no sensations and thus without any consciousness. Knutzen notes that there is no reason why we shouldn’t get new bodies after our death. In addition, even if we did not get a new body, we might have sensations of other kinds, such as direct experience of other minds. Finally, Knutzen concludes, even if we wouldn’t have any sensations, our mind could still do a lot of things, such a abstract reasoning, which would entail consciousness.</div>Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-6625298192609752342023-08-03T23:22:00.001-07:002023-08-03T23:22:48.407-07:00Georg Friedrich Meier: Figure of a critic (1745)We’ve just seen Meier describe <a href="https://thegermanidealism.blogspot.com/2022/04/georg-friedrich-meier-figure-of-true.html">an ideal figure of a philosopher</a>, and in the very same year he also published a work (<i>Abbildung eines Kunstrichters</i>) meant for describing an ideal figure of a philosopher. Just like in his figure of a philosopher, Meier draws heavily on the work of his teacher, Baumgarten. Difference is that in the case of a critic, Meier can only use his own lecture notes on Baumgarten’s aesthetics, since the latter had not yet published anything on the topic.<br /><br />Meier’s intended audience is particularly the German speaking world. German philosophy and sciences are already respected, he states, but the same cannot yet be said of its taste. True, there are a lot of German critics, but without a model of what a critic should be like we cannot really say whether they are particularly good critics.<br /><br />Meier begins with a short history of criticism, starting from the Renaissance, when scholars wanted to learn what wisdom was to be found in the texts of ancient authors. Before they could get to the actual content of these texts, the scholars had to discern what the words and expressions of the authors had meant. With this philological interest began the study of evaluating a text based merely on the words and expressions in order to see, for instance, whether some scribe had added things to the original work.<br /><br />Later this study or critique was extended more generally into evaluation of all works of art. The purpose of critique was to find out what is perfect and what is imperfect in them and how to avoid the imperfections. Yet, Meier says, critique could be extended even further to evaluation of all finite things, because all things are perfect in some manner, whereas all finite things are in some measure imperfect. This means that absolutely anything, with the exception of God, can be evaluated by critique, even such seemingly frivolous things as wigs.<br /><br />Critique or the art of evaluation can be divided into two parts, Meier notes. The theoretical part contains rules by which we can recognise perfections and imperfections in general, but doesn’t consider any particular kinds of objects. The practical part, on the other hand, tries to discern what is perfect and imperfect in particular kinds or even in individual objects. In other words, practical criticism takes an individual object, like Homer’s <i>Odyssey</i>, and evaluates it according to some given rules. Practical critique developed faster than theoretical, since e.g. Homer was evaluated long before Aristotle had written his <i>Poetics</i>. Then again, insufficient theoretical critique is bound to lead to bad practical critique, and therefore it is especially theoretical critique Meier is eager to develop in his work.<br /><br />Theoretical critique should begin, Meier insists, what he calls instrumental critique or logic of critique that studies the very concepts of perfection and imperfection and the various methods of evaluating them. According to Meier, the logic of critique divides into two parts. The first part describes the methods for knowing perfections and imperfections distinctly, reasonably and philosophically. This is done by what he calls the intellectual capacity of evaluation. This intellectual capacity should be based on a distinct understanding of what is perfect and what imperfect and it should work in close conjunction with the reason.<br /><br />The second part of the logic of critique, on the other hand, concerns taste, which gives rules for evaluating perfection and imperfection of things in a sensuous manner, that is, as beauty and ugliness. Just like the intellectual capacity of evaluation worked in conjunction with reason, taste should work in conjunction with the senses, for instance, when a musician can hear whether a melody is beautiful or not. Despite taste using non-distinct methods for its evaluations, it also can be perfected, Meier thinks. Furthermore, he continues, since many of our sensuous representations are not distinct, while all our distinct representations have some connection to what is sensed, taste must always provide the raw material for the judgemetns of intellectual evaluation. Thus, Meier concludes, improving the taste of the people is of utmost importance even from the perspective of the intellectual capacity of evaluation.<br /><br />In addition to the logic of critique, theoretical critique also studies the perfections and imperfections of things. This study, Meier says, divides into two parts. The first part is more general, being like metaphysics of critiqued, because it studies, firstly, perfections belonging to all possible things, secondly, imperfections common to all finite things, and finally, perfections and imperfections belonging to highest genera of things. The second part, on the other hand, studies the further species of things and their perfections and imperfections. This second part has no clear boundary with the practical critique and could extend indefinitely, for example, to evaluation of general perfections and imperfections in comedies.<br /><br />With these preliminaries in place, Meier can finally proceed to create his figure of a critic, by which he means a person capable of evaluating perfections and imperfections. Meier notes that his definition also covers critics who use only taste, but not the intellectual capacity of evaluation. This means that not all critics can explain why they evaluate things in the way they do.<br /><br />The first characteristic of a good critic, Meier says, is that they should be able to evaluate, and even more, they should actually evaluate as many things as is possible for them. The possibility in this statement is not a mere empty expression, but points to clear limitations on what the critic should attempt to evaluate. Firstly, Meier points out, there are things no human being could evaluate. Furthermore, every individual human being has things they particularly cannot evaluate. Finally, Meier notes that moral possibility should also be taken into account: evaluating certain things could break a higher duty, while a critic could be obligated to evaluate other things.<br /><br />Beyond these limitations, nothing as such should in principle limit the extent of what a critic should evaluate. Indeed, they should be ready to use their evaluating capacities in all walks of life and in all arts and fields of knowledge. Of course, Meier admits, there are physical limitations as to how much and how extensively a person can do evaluating work. Thus, it is reasonable for a critic to find a certain field of expertise, where to especially use their talents.<br /><br />Since there are limits to what a critic can evaluate, Meier argues, they should especially concentrate on evaluating as great things as is possible for their capacities. By greatness Meier does not mean just quantitative greatness, although that is one possible way to choose the topics of evaluation. Instead, he says, things also have their own inner worth, depending on how much they support virtuous behaviour. In addition to such intrinsic worth, a thing can have worth due to the variety and worthiness of its consequences. Meier notes that neither the intrinsic worth nor the worth of the consequences should be left for the common people to decide, since even such a seemingly impractical study as philology can be worthwhile, because it teaches us to read and understand things.<br /><br />When a critic has finally decided what to evaluate, they should try to discover as much perfections and imperfections in what is evaluated. Of course, there are limitations as to what can be found in a thing and also how much to put attention to a single thing - one should not put too much effort into evaluating wigs, Meier jokes. Still, even within these limits there are many perfections and imperfections to be found, since everything can be regarded from many angles - the intrinsic characteristics of things, their relations to other things, laws governing these relations etc. For instance, when evaluating Homeric poetry, one should surely contextualise it to the religious background of ancient Greeks, Meier points out.<br /><br />When considering perfections and imperfections of a thing, Meier continues, a critic should concentrate on the greatest the thing has. This does not mean that a critic could not pay any attention to small details, but only that the attention should not be unproportionally great. Hence, when studying a tragedy, a critic should mainly concentrate on the question whether it fulfils the central purpose of all tragedies, that is, of inciting feelings of horror and compassion, and less on things like whether the costumes of the actors look realistic.<br /><br />Thus far, Meier says, we have outlined the figure of a critic, but now we should paint it, in other words, we should not just say what a critic is to evaluate, but also how they should do it. The first rule Meier points out on this account is that a true critic should evaluate things with as great clarity as possible. As should be expected, Meier again points out that clarity has its limitations, since human beings do not have divine omniscience. Thus, again, the clarity used for evaluation should be in proportion to the worth of the thing evaluated. Furthermore, a critic should be ready to gradually increase the clarity of their evaluations.<br /><br />A critic can use both an intellectual capacity of evaluation and taste for their evaluations, and both have their different forms of clarity: judgements of taste are more vibrant or lively, but judgements of the intellectual kind are more distinct. Meier notes that in any case taste must be used, but the intellectual capacity should be especially reserved for things deserving a more refined evaluation. The two capacities have also different criteria for a sufficiently clear evaluation: while using only taste, a critic can often merely say that the thing evaluated has something <i>je ne sais quoi</i>, but in a more intellectual evaluation such impreciseness would not be accepted.<br /><br />The most important perfection of a critic, Meier says, is that of making as correct evaluations as possible. This means, mostly, that a critic should avoid errors as much as is possible. Of course, Meier admits, humans cannot avoid all errors, since they are just finite beings. In some cases this is not crucial, if the error is of no significance. Still, in many cases errors would be important. Thus, a true critic should be more inclined to abstain from evaluation and admit their ignorance than to make guesses without any good evidence. Even if a critic is convinced of the correctness of their evaluation, they should be prepared to correct their opinions later.<br /><br />Although Meier spends considerable time to describe how to avoid error - mostly by getting rid of false presuppositions, such a person thinking their own skin colour should please everyone else best - he does also mention that correctness or truth comes in many grades and that for higher grades something more is required than just a lack of errors. This higher grade of truth consists essentially of integrating one’s evaluations to a system, where one can see, e.g. rules of evaluation ordered into a hierarchy of more and less important rules.<br /><br />Closely connected to the demand of correctness is Meier’s insistence that a critic should be as certain as is possible of their evaluations. He notes that certainty comes in two different types, corresponding to the two types of evaluating capacity. In the intellectual evaluation, we have philosophical certainty, which is based on proofs. These proofs can be demonstrations, which conclude with fully certain statements, but they can also be just probable proofs, which can still create at least e.g. moral certainty. Here the probability can also be increased with a number of different proofs used to justify the evaluation.<br /><br />An intellectual evaluation should always be backed up with taste. Thus, Meier argues, critics should be more than logicians and strive also for aesthetic or sensuous certainty. Sensuous certainty is based on immediate experience, which makes an evaluation sensuously plausible. Furthermore, because taste could be used in cases where intellectual evaluation is not possible, sensuous certainty is sometimes the best a critic can achieve.<br /><br />If a critic is not convinced of their evaluations, they should not persuade others of their certainty. This does not mean that they should constantly try to give perfect justifications of their evaluations, Meier adds, because sometimes they just don’t have time for a proper proof, while at other times they have nothing but their taste to rely on. Even so, Meier notes, they should at least try to justify why they trust their taste and be prepared to find their evaluations shaken.<br /><br />Sometimes intellectual evaluation and taste of a critic can be at odds with one another. Such contradictions obviously make their evaluations uncertain and should thus be avoided. Meier thinks that usually it is the intellectual capacity of evaluation that should be preferred, because taste is based on confused ideas and is hence prone to make more mistakes. Thus, Meier thinks that the statement that matters of taste cannot be disputed is proven false, because intellectual evaluation could well show the incorrectness of an evaluation of taste.<br /><br />Evaluating things should not be just dead speculation, Meier thinks. Instead, evaluations should cause pleasant or unpleasant feelings in the critic and thus motivate them to action. Here the role of the sensuous capacity of evaluation or taste is especially important, Meier says, since intuitive understanding of things affects us more deeply than mere symbolic cognition.<br /><br />A seasoned critic, Meier continues, knows how to do all the things described with incredible ease, being able to evaluate on a moment’s notice things they have never before even heard about, even if they are at the same time occupied by distracting thoughts. This seasoned ease, he states, is something that can be practised, for instance, by improving one’s cognitive skills in general.<br /><br />Evaluation of a critic is usually not just something they make in their head, but also something they present to others, whether in oral or written fashion. Meier notes that not all evaluations should be presented at all. While truth as such is always a positive thing, its effect on people could be harmful. Of course, Meier admits, it is not the case that a critic should remain silent, if it causes some harm to someone: truth can have its martyrs. Still, it requires careful consideration whether expressing certain evaluation in public will do more harm than be of use.<br /><br />If a critic decides to make their judgement known, they should present it in a manner that shows the critic to have followed all the previously mentioned rules of evaluation. Furthermore, a presentation of evaluation should also follow good morals. Meier ponders the question whether certain styles, like satire, should be allowed in critical evaluations. He comes to the conclusion that such are allowed, if the style matches the content.<br /><br />The figure of the critic has been completed, Meier states, but few details have to be added. Thus, a good critic should make fair evaluations, which are proportional to the perfections and imperfections of the evaluated thing and impartial. They should also be prepared to become authorities in the field of criticism, who inspire others to imitate them, but not try to gain such authority by merely fulfilling the irrational wishes of the public audience. Furthermore, they should try to maintain balance in the realm of criticism, so that all critical authorities would have a chance to state freely their opinion, within the limits prescribed by customs and the law of the land, and so to balance their tastes. Finally, they should avoid a gloomy disposition and seek more for perfection in the things evaluated.<br /><br />Critics should constantly try to improve their capacities of evaluation. Still, Meier concedes, these capacities will eventually diminish, when the critic turns into their second childhood. While an ageing critic can slow this process down with constant practice, this cannot go on forever. It would be best if the critic would then completely abstain from evaluations, but since we cannot expect rational behaviour from people in their second childhood, Meier suggests, the younger critics should just respectfully ignore the silliness of what an elderly critic says.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-8420667332039899242023-06-28T22:52:00.000-07:002023-06-28T22:52:41.014-07:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Spirits as part of moral universeCrusius’ work culminates on the question of properties that free spirits have because of their moral attributes. He notes that such properties are essentially based on the infinite perfection of the divine will. Particularly important in this context are the divine holiness, the divine goodness and the divine righteousness. Since God necessarily has these properties, Crusius argues, free spirits must also necessarily have the properties based on these divine properties.<br /><br />The properties Crusius is speaking about fall roughly into two categories. Firstly, since God wants the whole world to be perfect, Crusius begins, he also wants that free spirits would act in accordance with the rules of perfection, that is, that they would act virtuously. Of course, Crusius adds, this does not mean that God would force them to act virtuously, because then they would not be free beings. What God can do is to ensure that virtuous spirits will be happy and that those violating laws of perfection will be punished. All free spirits are thus necessarily subjected to the divine law, which God expects the free spirits to follow obediently.<br /><br />In addition to this subjection to divine law, Crusius speaks of one other property, that is, immortality. He adds that it is not enough that a spirit is indestructible, in order for it to be immortal, but it must also be constantly alive and conscious of its own state. Thus, a free spirit is not by its essence immortal, even if we ignore the fact that God could annihilate even free spirits, because even hostile conditions of bodies can make spirits unconscious. Hence, Crusius concludes that we must show that God wants to prevent all the obstacles that could hinder the immortality of free spirits.<br /><br />Crusius is particularly adamant that the Leibnizian notion of a pre-established harmony of souls and bodies does not in any way justify the immortality of free spirits, even if it would be true, which Crusius obviously does not accept, because he believes that souls and bodies do interact with each other. Indeed, he continues, since Leibnizians have to assume that before its harmonisation with a body the soul could not yet represent anything, it would be analogously plausible that the soul would lose all representations after this harmonious correspondence was over after the death of the body.<br /><br />Crusius’ own justification of the immortality of free spirits is ultimately based on their being the main purpose in God’s plans for the world. In addition to freedom, God has given free spirits abilities to reason and abstract, consciousness and drives toward perfection, communion with God and virtue. All these attributes, Crusius argues, contribute in free spirits aiming for an indefinitely extended life in constant pursue of evermore perfect stages of virtue, which in fact should be the highest purpose of the world. If free spirits would not be immortal, God would have given these abilities in vain and the main purpose of the world would be defeated.<br /><br />Crusius still considers the possibility that only some spirits would be able to reach immortality, while others would only serve as means for the blessed immortals to reach their goal. Crusius thinks this possibility is unbelievable, since God would not have given freedom to such beings that were only means for other beings. Indeed, Crusius points out, even spirits who have acted morally wrong have to be immortal, so that God can punish them for the whole eternity.<br /><br />A more difficult problem Crusius faces when he considers the fate of babies who die before they could have developed their reason and thus their ability to act freely and make moral choices. Although he does not have even a very probable argument to back it up, Crusius does suggest that these children will probably continue living, even if their life after death will probably be less perfect than with those who have reached the maturity of moral beings.<br /><br />Crusius is also uncertain what the life after death will be like. We might need no body anymore or we might receive a new kind of body or one exactly like the one we used to have - or we might go through all of these stages at different stages of our life after death. Crusius does insist that the life after death won’t include long periods of sleeplike condition, while waiting resurrection, as some Catholic thinkers had suggested. Crusius reasoning is that such long periods of passivity make us lose our abilities, so it would probably be harmful to our consciousness also.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-13928242999952942652023-03-09T10:26:00.002-08:002023-03-09T10:26:34.051-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - What is spirit like?If in the previous chapter Crusius intended to explain the essence of spirit, in this chapter he wants to outline the basic features of a spirit. In effect, he has to describe in more detail the two basic capacities that distinguish spirit from mere matter, that is, understanding and will. <br /><br />Starting with understanding, Crusius says that every idea a spirit has cannot be something passive. If there was a passive idea, he justifies his statement, it would have to be caused either by an external or by an internal activity. If an idea was caused by an external activity it would have to be either movement or caused by movement, because external interaction occurs only via movement. Both possibilities, of course, contradict the very immateriality of a spirit, Crusius notes. On the other hand, if an idea was caused by an internal activity, it would again be caused by movement or by some other activity belonging to the spirit. The former possibility is again an impossibility for Crusius, while the latter possibility he rejects, because ultimately all spiritual activities presuppose ideas.<br /><br />Although ideas are always activities, Crusius continues, they can be directly generated by God, who supposedly does not act through movement. Furthermore, he adds, ideas can be modified by other activities of spirit and their generation, forcefulness and duration can be connected to external conditions.<br /><br />Furthermore, Crusius notes that while all spirits have understanding or capacity for thinking ideas, only some spirits have reason, that is, an understanding so developed it is able to consciously know what is true. To have a reason, it is not enough that a spirit can have ideas, but these ideas must also be able to continue for a while. In addition, a spirit with a reason must be conscious of itself and it must be able to make abstractions. Finally, Crusius concludes, a finite spirit cannot have reason, unless God has given it the capacity to think, distinguish and combine ideas in a manner that it can recognise signs of truth in them by imitating divine understanding.<br /><br />Crusius emphasises that if a finite spirit is capable of reasoning, its capacity of understanding is not derived from a unique force, but from a sum of many fundamental forces. The only other option, he points out, would be that the fundamental force would be the general force for thinking or knowing truth. Crusius rejects this possibility, because our ideas are so multiform that they cannot all have the same source. He especially points out that it is a very different matter to have an idea and to be conscious of this idea, because one can e.g. be angry without being aware of being angry.<br /><br />If Crusius defined understanding as a capacity to have ideas, he defines will as a capacity to act according to one’s ideas. Every spirit must have a will, he adds, or otherwise its understanding would have no purpose. Every act of will presupposes an idea and therefore, Crusius insists, will as such is called a blind force.<br /><br />Crusius is adamant that will requires fundamental forces distinct from those required for understanding, because otherwise will would be just a modification of understanding, which he has already denied. He especially objects to the idea that will could be understood as deriving from a representation of goodness, because good wouldn’t even be a meaningful concept without will. He does admit that the representation of goodness can awaken our will, but he doesn’t think this would yet reveal what will is. Crusius doesn’t even accept the Wolffian idea that the representation of goodness together with conatus or innate striving toward goodness would be enough to define will, simply because Crusius regards conatus as an unfamiliar manner of referring to will.<br /><br />Every will must will something, Crusius points out, that is, it must be directed by specific ideas, which the will then strives to achieve by action. When such striving continues for a longer period of time, Crusius calls it a drive. Will must then have drives, and even, Crusius says, some fundamental drives, from which other drives are derived. Actions caused by the same fundamental drive can have various grades and directions, thus, Crusius concludes, only few fundamental drives are required for manifold variations in actions. Since a state of a spirit can be in accordance with a fundamental drive, in opposition to it or neither, we can speak of pleasant, unpleasant and indifferent states of mind or feelings. A reasoning spirit, Crusius adds, is also conscious of its state being pleasant and unpleasant, which makes it possible to speak of pleasure and pain. For animals, on the other hand pleasant and unpleasant sensations act then as mere physical causes.<br /><br />Crusius notes that all animals should control their body and so they must have drives concerning the body and therefore also an idea of their body. Reasoning spirits, he continues, should also have fundamental drives that serve their moral perfection. Such fundamental drives include a drive for perfecting one’s essence, a drive to love other spirits and a drive to fulfil obligations toward God or conscience.<br /><br />In addition to fundamental drives, Crusius insists, at least reasoning spirits must also have freedom. Even freedom, Crusius admits, does not do things completely without any reason, but it has to be guided by motives. These motives just do not determine the free will to do anything, but just make it inclined to something, leaving the will the final choice whether to pursue these inclinations. Free will can also boost smaller inclinations against stronger inclinations. Yet, Crusius notes, free will of finite spirits must also be finite and can thus be overcome by strong motives.<br /><br />Activities of a spirit form a clear hierarchy, Crusius says. For instance, movement is the lowest kind of activity, which serves both understanding and will: Crusius again emphasises that the spirit should be able to move its own substance. Of the two other activities, on the other hand, understanding is subservient to will. This does not mean that e.g. laws of truth should be dependent on arbitrary choices of the will. Instead, it means that understanding ultimately does what the will wants, and indeed, for this reason we can speak of the moral perfection of understanding: e.g. a failure to develop one’s understanding could be taken as morally evil. With free spirits, Crusius concludes, freedom is the highest activity, which the fundamental drives should serve.<br /><br />Crusius notes that there is a certain ambiguity in the concept of a purpose, which he defines as something that a spirit wills. He explains that we might be speaking of a subjective purpose or our own activity of desiring something, of an objective purpose or the object which we specifically desire, and finally, of a formal purpose, by which he means a relation between the subjective and the objective purpose. Purposes form a hierarchy, Crusius explains, since one purpose could be desired because of another purpose. He is convinced that such a series of purposes cannot continue indefinitely, but there must be one or several final purposes, which are desired for their own sake and not to fulfil another desire.<br /><br />It is common knowledge that we often cannot directly achieve our purposes and so have to use some means to do this. Crusius notes that actually means is an ambiguous concept: it might refer to material means or the mediating cause used for furthering the purpose, but it could also refer to formal means or the activity of using the material means. Crusius also remarks that means can be divided into means in the proper sense, which are active causes that have in itself the power to further the purpose, and mere conditions, which do not have the power to further the purpose, but are still required by other causes to further the purpose. In order to be a proper means, Crusius adds, means must, firstly, make something happen to further the purpose, when so directed by a spirit, secondly, bring about something that the spirit wants before wanting to use the means, and finally, be used by spirit because of desiring the purpose. Thus, if a spirit doesn’t intend to use something because of a purpose, but for a completely different purpose, and this something happens to further the purpose, spirit hasn’t used it as a means for the purpose, but it has been a mere accidental intermediary cause for the purpose.<br /><br />The notion of spirit is closely connected to that of life. Crusius defines life as a capacity of substance which enables it to be active from an internal ground in many, qualitatively different ways. The seemingly innocuous demand that activities enabled by life should come in many different forms actually implies that these activities cannot be distinguished by mere quantitative means, like spatiotemporal terms or grades of strength. Thus, these activities, and so also life, cannot be based on mere motion and can therefore belong only to spirits. Crusius notes that his concept of life excludes plants, which do not have spirit or soul. In fact, he adds, only spirits really have life, while animal bodies have life only in the sense of being connected to a spirit or a soul.<br /><br />Crusius also notes that life is more of a continuum, with some substances being more alive than others. Thus, while one substance is alive in the sense that it has all the capacities required for living, another would be alive in a stronger sense, if its capacities of life are truly active. This higher phase of life begins, Crusius suggests, when the will of the spirit becomes active. Depending on the perfection of the will, life can then be also more or less perfect, and the highest type of life is the life of a free spirit.<br /><br />While God can be alive and still have only one fundamental force, a finite living being must have several, in order to create a qualitative manifold of activities, Crusius insists. These fundamental forces must then be interconnected in the sense that one force is a condition or an object of an activity based on another force. Such an interconnection of forces then modifies the activities enabled by these forces and thus creates the manifold of activities required of a living being. These interconnections are then, Crusius concludes, controlled by laws, some of which describe interactions of spiritual activities, while others describe their interactions with the body and the material world.<br /><br />Crusius goes through several of these interconnections of spiritual activities. Thus, he notes that force of will is dependent on the force of understanding, and especially, free will requires an ability of abstraction and consciousness of oneself. Other examples include when a drive for some purpose awakens a drive for the corresponding means or when thinking a certain idea activates also some other ideas through association.<br /><br />An important type of interconnection connects the higher powers of the spirit to its capacity to move. These connections enable external sensations, in which ideas are not literally caused e.g. by our substance moving because of external objects, Crusius notes, but they still are conditioned by the presence of such a movement. Such an external sensation can even be an occasion for a substance becoming alive in the stronger sense, that is, for the substance activating its powers of life. The connections with the capacity of movement also explain why movements of the body can hinder our thinking and why spirits can finally return to the same inactive state in which they were, before having the first sensation. Although such interconnections are then possible, Crusius points out that a finite spirit can also be independent of the movement of its substance, which means that it would be constantly alive.<br /><br />As an important instance of interaction with external things, Crusius points out that in order to interact with one another, spirits should be able to communicate with one another. With mere animals, this communication can happen through expressions, while spirits with reason are also capable of languages using words that express abstract thoughts. Both kinds of communication use the material world and its movement, but Crusius thinks that God is capable of a more direct sort of communication, in which thoughts are awakened straightaway in the other spirit.<br /><br />Although activity of one power of spirit would be a condition for another power becoming active, it is still not necessary that when the first power stops its activity, the second should also stop: in some cases it might do this, in others not. This distinction between the behaviour of the powers is important for Crusius especially in cases where external sensations are a condition for the spirit becoming alive in the stronger sense. Some spirits might be passive in the sense that their activities both begin when certain sensations occur and end when these sensations stop. Other spirits, on the other hand, might be capable of independent activity in the sense that while their activities are awakened by sensations, these activities can still continue even after the corresponding sensations have stopped.<br /><br />With a spirit capable of independent activities, these activities can then continue for a long period of time. Crusius emphasises that such continuing activities are not free choices, which always endure only for an instant. An enduring activity can then be strengthened by new sensations awakening similar activities and this strengthening makes it more probable that the activities lead to effects. In effect, Crusius says, such repetition of activities makes them habits. With human beings, some of these habits might have even been generated, when the human was still a foetus, and could thus be called inborn habits.<br /><br />Crusius notes that spirits of the world can now be divided into four different classes. The two first classes consist of passive and independently active spirits, that is, firstly, a) spirits that live in the proper sense of the words only while they have sensations, and secondly, b) spirits that are awakened by sensation, but continue to live even after the sensations have stopped because of their inner activities. Both of these classes consist of spirits that do not always live, but must be awakened to life. The two other classes consist then of spirits that do live, even without the help of external sensations. These two classes are then distinguished from one another by c) one still having external sensations, d) the other class not.<br /><br />Whatever the class a spirit belongs to, Crusius says, it is always a simple substance and thus immaterial. Crusius does admit that God could give a partless element of matter capacities to think and will. This wouldn’t still mean that God would have created a material spirit, but only a transformation of matter to spirit.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-13284469736103539192023-03-04T09:48:00.002-08:002023-03-04T09:48:59.181-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - What is a spirit?The final part of Crusius’ metaphysics consists of what he calls pneumatology, that is, a study of finite substances that can not just move, but also think and will. Crusius notes that no matter what the world is like, it must contain such substances - they are supposed to be the purpose of the world - thus, pneumatology should be included in a metaphysical cosmology. Once again, pneumatology should study only the necessary properties of these substances, not those dependent on the contingent features of the world.<br /><br />Despite emphasising the apriority of pneumatology, Crusius begins with an empirical study of activities we find in our mind. We perceive in us thoughts, he starts. Some thoughts we have while we are awake and they represent what is immediately present to us: these are what is in German called <i>Empfindung</i> - a word that could be translated, depending on the context, as sensation or as feeling. Whatever the translation, Crusius classifies these sensations or feelings into external - those representing a thing outside us with the help of sense organs - and internal - those representing the thing that thinks in us. Through the inner sensation or feeling, Crusius states, we are conscious of ourselves, of our thoughts and of our state of mind.<br /><br />Crusius goes on describing further capacities of thinking we have. These include memory – a capacity to return to thoughts we once had and thus represent things we sensed, although they are now absent – imagination – capacity to move from one thought to another – abstraction – capacity to divide thoughts into their constituents, for instance, to think of a subject without its properties – capacity to make propositions, that is, to note relations between thoughts, and a capacity to make deductions. These capacities, Crusius notes, are all explained in terms of thoughts or representations, which is a fundamental concept that cannot be explained further.<br /><br />In addition to thinking, Crusius continues, we find in ourselves something else. We are pleased when we achieve something we want, and we feel pain when we face something we wanted to avoid. We also note that we can control our thoughts, our body and even our desires. All of these, Crusius says, show that we have will, that is, a force of acting according to our representations. Willing presupposes thinking, since we need to have representations, before we can will, Crusius adds, but mere thinking is still not enough for willing. Willing is hence something more than thinking, but this something more cannot be defined.<br /><br />In addition to thinking and willing, we also have a notion of moving, Crusius says, since we can both see things outside us move and we can move ourselves and our body. Furthermore, he at once adds, we immediately know that movement is something different from thinking and willing and cannot be even their cause. This basic fact, guaranteed by very clear inner feeling, Crusius insists, is the only proof we need against materialism: thinking and willing are not mere movement of matter. No matter how fine the matter is, Crusius states, it can never think or will anything.<br /><br />Crusius suggests that the central confusion that makes one believe in materialism is that the word “representation” suggests that a thought is like a concrete picture in the brain. He notes that the same confusion can be found also with anyone endorsing Leibnizian pre-established harmony, which states that any representation in the soul corresponds to a material idea in the brain. Crusius argues that a machine could not change pictures as rapidly as we change from one thought to another. Furthermore, he notes that no machine could store pictures for as long a time as our memory does. Indeed, he adds, the brain would soon be filled, if we had to insert pictures in it any time we have thoughts. Abstract ideas especially appear to be such that could never be represented materially. And if no other argument works, Crusius concludes, we can always note that materialism would destroy the freedom of our will and thus make morality and religion impossible.<br /><br />In addition to this fundamental confusion, Crusius considers other arguments of materialists that he considers fallacious. Most of these involve the obvious fact that the body appears to affect our state of mind, for instance, that a physical sickness makes it difficult to think. Crusius’ answer is that these effects can as well be explained by the close interaction of the spirit and the body.<br /><br />Crusius notes further that materialists apply arguments involving biology: they state that supposedly thinking and willing beings (e.g. worms) can come out of rotting meat and that parts of worms can still continue their movement when cut apart. The first argument Crusius deals very quickly: worms are not spontaneously generated by the rotting meat, but very small eggs of worms just grow faster, when coming in contact with the warmth and moisture of rot meat. In the case of the second argument, Crusius just points out our ignorance on why the worms can do this - perhaps the movement of a dissected worm is just a mechanical reflex that does not require free will.<br /><br />In addition to speaking so fervently against materialism, Crusius is eager to state that it is not materialistic to assume that thinking and willing substances can move things. Thinking and willing substance can be spatial and impenetrable, because these characteristics do not form the essence of material things. Some things in the world - like stones - have only a capacity to move, while we humans can move, but also think and will.<br /><br />Thinking and willing are characteristic not just of humans, Crusius says, but other organic bodies appear also to move as guided by a thinking and willing substance. These organic bodies must also have such a guiding substance or soul, Crusius insists. Together, the soul and the body form an animal, and we humans are then the most perfect animals. Crusius is certain that thinking substances, both those of humans and those of other animals, can exist without being connected to a body. Then these substances just shouldn’t be called souls, but spirits (<i>Geist</i>). Even God could be called spirit, since God can think and will, although not move.<br /><br />We have already noted that a willing substance must think, but must every thinking substance also have a will? Crusius admits that this is technically a possibility. Yet, from a wider perspective, such merely thinking substances cannot exist. God does nothing without purpose, and what purpose would such a non-willing thinker have? In other words, Crusius appears to say, thinking is done in order to help willing – for instance, in choosing the right means for achieving what we want – and mere thinking by itself would not be enough.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-4806216983340108172023-02-03T09:29:00.000-08:002023-02-03T09:29:16.493-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Laws of movementIn every world, Crusius notes, things interact by moving, thus movement is a topic that should be studied in cosmology. More precisely, he continues, the topic of movement can be approached with three questions: what is movement, how it can be measured and what laws govern it. Of these three, Crusius explains, the first one is clearly cosmological, while the second one was dealt in ontology. The third one, Crusius concludes, is partially cosmological, because some laws of movement can be deduced from the very essence of movement, although some laws of movement must be proven empirically and thus belong to physics.<br /><br />Crusius then defines movement as a state of a substance that changes its place. Its opposite is rest or a state where a thing does not change its place. Crusius notes also that some movement is only apparent, when a thing does not change its absolute place, but only its place in relation to some other thing. True change, where a thing changes its absolute place, he further divides into external change, where the whole thing is moving, and internal change, where some actual parts of a thing change their places so that their positions in relation to other parts of the whole are changed. Crusius points out that these two classes are not mutually exclusive, since there can occur situations where a thing moves, while its parts change their place in relation to one another.<br /><br />What then could move in these different ways? Crusius notes that a simple substance cannot at least move internally, since it doesn’t have any actual parts. Then again, infinite things (or from Crusius’ perspective, God) cannot move externally, because there is nowhere where such an infinite thing could move as a whole. Furthermore, he adds, everything that is finite, can move at least externally, whether it is simple or complex.<br /><br />Crusius divides external movement into total external movement, where the whole substance moves completely from one location to another, and partial external movement, where actual or ideal parts of the thing change their place: once again, the two classes are not mutually exclusive. While the notion of total external movement seems clear enough, it might be difficult to see how partial external movement differs from internal movement. One example of a partial external movement that is not internal nor total, Crusius says, is such where a simple substance grows and thus its ideal parts change their places, since this involves no change of actual, distinct parts of the substance. Another example would be rotation of a sphere: the sphere as a whole does not go from one location to another and the relative positions of its parts remain the same, but the parts of the sphere do change their absolute positions.<br /><br />Crusius derives some simple consequences from his definition of movement. Movement, as he sees it, has always a definite direction, and indeed, a start and end point. It also has certain characteristics: velocity and strength by which it withstands resistance. Furthermore, Crusius notes that movement of a complex substance is defined by the movement of its parts.<br /><br />Movement, Crusius emphasises, is a positive change and thus requires a positive cause. Rest, on the other hand, is for Crusius just a lack of movement and does not therefore require any cause. In other words, a thing rests, Crusius says, if it has no reason to move, and if the cause of the movement vanishes, the movement must also cease. A direct consequence of this is that increase in the velocity of movement requires a similar increase in the cause of the movement. Crusius also thinks that change of the direction of the movement must also have a cause, which would make the Epicurean idea of atoms swerving without a reason ridiculous.<br /><br />Because motion always requires some cause, Crusius continues, state of movement cannot be indifferent to the matter. By this Crusius means that a moving cause has to at first overcome an inherent resistance in moving a piece of matter. This inherent resistance is, of course, inertia. More precisely, Crusius calls it metaphysical inertia, distinguishing it from physical inertia, where the resistance is not just an inherent property of matter, but also involves a force, although one that is, as it were, dead, that is, suppressed by the moving force. Beyond inertia, motion can be resisted also by a living force, that is, a force that truly can resist the moving cause.<br /><br />Crusius notes that a finite cause of movement cannot really affect a thing more than the thing resists the movement. Of course, the cause can have more force, but it only uses as much force as is required for overcoming the resistance. Thus, Crusius thinks he has justified the law of action being equal to reaction. Although a non-empirical proof, Crusius clarifies, we still require empirical observations to determine how much a finite cause acts at a given situation.<br /><br />It is an essential feature of substances that differ from God, Crusius says, that they cannot penetrate one another. Thus, when a finite substance, whether matter or spirit, tries to occupy the same place as another finite substance, it will drive away the other substance, that is, pushes it. Crusius adds that pushing is just an existential effect, in other words, it doesn’t require any force, but the mere presence of one substance trying to occupy the place of the other.<br /><br />Pushing a substance makes it move: Crusius calls this a communicated movement. Indeed, he says, communicating movement is the only way finite substances can affect one another. Series of communicated movements cannot go on forever, he immediately adds, and such series cannot all derive from God’s miracles, because that would be against the purpose of the world. Thus, Crusius argues, there must be some finite substances that can move their own substance through their inner activity - such movement he calls original. The inner activity causing original movement can be constant or conditional striving, inherent to some elements of material things, or it can be free willing. Because even the activity of elements is ultimately derived from God, Crusius concludes, all movement is generated by some spiritual activity that is not movement.<br /><br />Communicated movement, Crusius notes, need not always be just an effect of the impenetrability of finite substances, but can also involve an inner activity of a substance. He is thus against the Cartesian idea that interactions of material things would have to be explained solely through geometric properties: God can give material things some inner activities. Crusius faces the possible objection that such activities are what were disparagingly called occult qualities by noting that we can know such activities as well as finite creatures can, when we can distinguish them from one another and deduce their existence from their effects.<br /><br />Crusius progresses then to describe several rules involved in the communication of movement, such as parallelogram rule and behaviour of elastic substances. I will not follow him to these details, but I shall take a look at a few conundrums concerning movement that Crusius considers. First of these involves the question of the quantity of movement in the world: is it always constant? Crusius’ answer clearly has to be negative, because this would preclude the possibility of spirits to interact with the world. He even denies the weaker assumption that the world would have a constant amount of moving force, because spirits should be able to choose how strongly they move other things.<br /><br />Another conundrum concerns the question whether all the matter in the world is moving constantly. A reason for upholding such an opinion would be that a constant movement is required for explaining why shapes of things remain stable: without the constant movement of the surrounding matter, a thing could just change willy-nilly its shape. Crusius does not find this argument convincing. The shape of a complex thing is determined by the shape and position of its parts, while the shape of a simple thing is either chosen by God, with or without any reason, or caused by themselves or by external forces - where is the need for movement here?<br /><br />The answer to the question, Crusius concludes, belongs to physical, not metaphysical cosmology. He does state that the ultimate limits of the world cannot move and similarly all things that God has determined to rest. Other things, then, probably at least strive to move, whether through their own inherent activity or through being spurred to movement by things outside them.<br /><br />Finally, Crusius ponders the question whether movement of one material thing necessarily sets all other material things in motion. He notes that if the world contains spaces void of any finite things, movement of one thing could go through this void without communicating movement to other things. Furthermore, he continues, even if there is no void, certain material things could also just switch places without affecting other material things.<br /><br />Crusius also thinks that these arguments disprove the idea endorsed often by Wolffians that from state of any substance in the world could be determined the state of all other substances. This proposition of Wolffians was explicitly based on the supposed continuous causal nexus of all the parts of the world, where movement of one piece would eventually affect all the other pieces. If this nexus fails, as Crusius deems very possible, the states of the substances in the world would not be as closely interlinked, although they would be really connected.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-44931260652201075182023-01-26T10:12:00.000-08:002023-01-26T10:12:34.059-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - The essence of the worldAfter going through what can be known about God, Crusius continues with the question of the world. His aim is to do metaphysical cosmology, that is, to describe what any world in general must be like and what we can know about this necessary essence of worlds without any help of prior experience. Thus, metaphysical cosmology in Crusius’ sense is not a physical endeavour and does not aim to describe our actual world.<br /><br />Crusius faces the problem that since we do not even know our actual world completely and certainly don’t know what all the possible worlds are like, it seems impossible for us to know what worlds would necessarily be like. He admits that metaphysical cosmology must be incomplete. Firstly, he says, only God could know all the possible characteristics a world could have. Secondly, we are unsure even of many features of the actual world whether they are necessary: for instance, should every possible world have colours?<br /><br />Despite these misgivings, Crusius thinks that we can still know some important truths of metaphysical cosmology. Firstly, all possible worlds are also things and thus must have characteristics that ontology has shown all things to have. Secondly, natural theology also implies things in cosmology, because any world would be God’s creation and would thus reflect their essential properties. Finally, he concludes, the very concept of the world must imply what a world must be like.<br /><br />Furthermore, Crusius notes that we do not need to observe different possible worlds in order to form a distinct concept of a world - we just have to be able to distinguish a world from anything that is not a world. Firstly, Crusius distinguishes the world from God: the latter is necessary, the former is not. Secondly, a world is not an individual creature, but a sum of creatures, although, Crusius admits, God could have created just a single creature.<br /><br />Not all collections of creatures are worlds, Crusius emphasises. Some collections are just connected by the observer, but a world should truly be a unity, not just in someone’s thoughts. Finally, Crusius notes, a world should be a real whole, not a part of something larger. Crusius’ final concept of the world is then that world is a real combination of finite things that is not again a part of another, to which it would belong through a real combination. <br /><br />As a combination of things, Crusius says, every possible world must be spatial. In addition, because a world is particularly a combination of finite things, it must necessarily be of finite size. Crusius is especially keen to point out that although mathematics speaks of infinite spaces, this is just an abstract fiction that is not truly possible in a world. God, on the other hand, should exist wherever the world is, but God is not limited by the limits of the world. Crusius also accepts the possibility of world having void spaces in it - that is, spaces void of finite creatures, because God would exist even within void.<br /><br />In addition to being spatial, Crusius continues, a world must also be temporal. He adds that because a world is created by God, it must have not existed at some point in time. World also could not exist by itself, even after creation, but must be sustained by God. Crusius appears to assume that God does not create anything else in the world after the first creation, but he does admit the possibility that some part of the world might have been isolated from another part for a while, while the two parts would later come in contact with one another. Thus, he suggests, the physical law of the constant quantity of forces is not as such necessary, because we cannot be sure that the world does not contain such isolated, unknown forces.<br /><br />Crusius also emphasises that God has created the world for some purpose. As he has pointed out earlier, the purpose of creation has to serve especially the free creatures with the ability to reason. Thus, other things in the world must be either means for that purpose or then necessary consequences of creating and arranging the world to serve the purpose. Whatever the purpose of a particular possible world is, the world must be good, because its creator is also. Then again, no world can really be the best possible world, because all worlds are somehow imperfect and could be improved.<br /><br />An interesting question Crusius considers is what belongs to an identity of a world: how much a world can be changed before it becomes a different world? Obviously, one could take the primary constituents of a world - simple substances - and reorder them in a different manner. Yet, this answer concerns only the ultimate metaphysical subject of what makes a world and ignores the intriguing problem of whether a world has some inherent structure that differentiates it from any other world made out of the same substances.<br /><br />Crusius outlines next his criterion of a world’s identity: a world remains same, as long as it still serves its fundamental purpose and in particular no individual things, their combinations, laws governing them and their essential actions change in a manner that would change this inherent purpose or any means required for the fulfilment of that purpose. Any change that does not do this, he continues, merely changes the state of this world. Indeed, he points out an important type of change that does not change the identity of a world. A world is created for the sake of free creatures and for enabling their free actions. Thus, he suggests, whatever persons do freely should not affect the essence of the world they inhabit, because that would mean the very purpose of a world could contradict itself.<br /><br />Because things in the world are combined, Crusius insists, they must be able to interact with one another. In these interactions some things must be active or affect one another, but Crusius notes that there can be passive things that do not have any force to affect other things, but at most enable something through their existence. Both active forces and inactive abilities can combine things into more complex wholes.<br /><br />Furthermore, Crusius continues, interactions that combine things are governed by physical laws that should hold independently of our thinking of them. Crusius notes that there are also laws of understanding that merely say what propositions follow or are possible in certain circumstances, but these differ from real physical laws. Similarly, he distinguishes physical laws from moral laws, which say what should be done according to commands of some lord.<br /><br />Now Crucius defines nature as the sum of all substances in the world, together with the physical laws governing their combinations. Natural is then something that happens through the fundamental forces of created substances, while God does nothing else, but sustains these substances and fundamental forces. Supernatural, on the other hand, is something caused immediately by God. Because at least the sustainment of the substances and their fundamental forces is an immediate effect of God’s action, Crusius concludes that every world has something supernatural in it.<br /><br />Crusius thinks that we can conceive no other interaction between finite things than interaction through movement. Since we are dealing with finities, he continues, we can invoke the principle that this non-conceivability reveals a true dependence relation: finite things can affect one another only through movement. Thus, when a finite substance affects another, it either forces the other to move by its own impenetrability or then its motion awakens some other activity in the other substance.<br /><br />This other activity that can be awakened by motion, Crusius insists, is either thinking or willing, which we know are not movement. He then distinguishes two kinds of substances in the world: material substances, which can only move, and spiritual substances, which move, but also think and will things. Furthermore, he divides matter into two further subclasses: metaphysical or inactive matter that has only a passive capacity for movement and physical or active matter that has also some active force.<br /><br />Crusius has noted that the world has been made for the sake of free spirits, thus, the world must, undoubtedly, have spirits in it. One important consequence of the existence of free spirits is that Crusius’ world cannot be completely deterministic. A world need not have matter, on the other hand, but matter can exist in it. Then again, Crusius notes, because everything in the world must somehow serve its purpose or free spirits, matter and spirits must be able to interact: why else would God have created it? Crucius brushes aside the old Cartesian worry that spirit could not affect matter, because they are two different types of substances: dogs and humans share characteristics and still are of different species. Crusius sees no problem in accepting that spirits are also impenetrable, like matter, and can thus move and be moved by material objects.<br /><br />Crusius is unsure about the Leibnizian principle that there are no two things that cannot be distinguished from one another. He does admit that no two spirits can be completely similar, because everyone of them perceives the world from a somewhat different perspective and perceptions change their inner state. The case is different with material substances, Crusius says. The principle itself cannot be justified without experience, he insists and thinks that all supposed proofs of the principle have been sophisms: if God would have wanted, two different and still completely similar material substances could have been created. True, he admits, experience appears to show that seemingly similar things often differ in some manner. Yet, there is no assurance that at least some of the simplest parts of matter wouldn’t be completely similar. Still, Crusius suggests, God has probably created at least many different kinds of simple material substances, because this would provide more means for helping the world to fulfil its purpose.<br /><br />Whatever the ultimate elements of matter are like, they can be combined into more complex substances or bodies. Indeed, Crusius says, matter as a whole probably has to be dispersed into distinct bodies, because this better helps to achieve the purpose of the world. Crusius distinguishes physical from mathematical bodies, which are mere possible divisions of space. Physical bodies, instead, are not united just because we think of them as united, but through something real that separates them from other bodies. Crusius suggests three kinds of such unifications. Firstly, parts of a body can be held together by inactive, unmoving substances surrounding it. Secondly, parts of a body can be held together by moving substances surrounding it, such as the vortexes in Cartesian physics. Finally, parts of a body can be held together by an elastic matter, that is, matter that has an innate tendency to return to a certain shape.<br /><br />No other ways to unite material things into bodies exist, Crusius insists. He is especially keen to deny any attractive or cohesive forces that would hold parts of a body together, because all explanations why material things stay together should be reducible to fundamental forces. Cohesive force cannot be a fundamental force, he adds, because cohesion is just another name for material parts staying together and so merely describes the phenomenon without explaining it. Then again, Crusius denies the existence of attractive force, because such an action in distance breaks the requirements of what a force and causal interaction should be like. Finally, Crusius also denies that parts of bodies would stay together because of common feeling, since feeling is something he allows only spirits to have.<br /><br />However the bodies are held together, they then interact with one another and with the spirits. Despite the interaction between the two types of substances, Crusius notes, these different classes can also be regarded in abstraction from one another. Thus, spirits of the world, in separation from material things, form a spiritual world, while matter as such forms a material world, and when regarded as separated into distinct bodies, a bodily world.<br /><br />The bodily world particularly, Crusius says, can be seen as a machine - that is, as a body of its own, combined from parts that are shaped for some purposes in such a manner that these purposes can be actualised with the aid of the shape and the position of these parts. This is not true, he adds, of the whole world, because this also includes spirits that cannot be parts of a body. Furthermore, he notes, although the bodily world is a machine, all its parts are not, for instance, a stone is just a body, but not a machine. Finally, Crusius points out that the bodily world is a rather peculiar machine, because part of its driving force comes from actions of free spirits.<br /><br />Although spirits are not machines, they can be combined with naturally produced machines. Crusius is obviously speaking of organic bodies, combined to which spirits are called souls. Crusius suggests that it is not completely necessary that worlds contain animals or combinations of souls and organic bodies. Animals do make a world more perfect, but finite spirits should be able to affect the bodily world even without the help of a body of their own.<br /><br />For Crusius, the world is not a deterministic whole, because it also contains spirits capable of free actions. God’s interactions with the world provide further reasons why determinism does not work. We’ve already seen Crusius to note that God has a constant supernatural effect on the world, for instance, in sustaining the world and all the substances in it. In addition to such constant effects, Crusius also thinks that God can occasionally have quite sudden effects on the world, that is, God might do miracles.<br /><br />Some of the miracles can be hidden from us humans - they are done merely, because God thought it best to do things in such a manner. At other times, God might choose to reveal that a miracle has been done - in these cases, Crusius adds, God must want humans to know that some event was a miracle. Sometimes the miracle might appear to be a work of a person following God, but even in these cases it is God who actually gives the person a power for doing such miracles. In these cases, Crusius explains, it is futile to try to make experiments whether this person truly can consistently make miracles, because God can at any point just choose not to grant that power to the person anymore.<br /><br />How then to know when some event has been a miracle? Crusius points out that because of the possibility of hidden miracles, we can never be sure that something hasn’t been a miracle. Yet, he also gives a general criteria for recognising miracles: something is a miracle, if it could not have happened in a natural manner generally or at least in these specific conditions. He also adds that we are sometimes very able to distinguish supernatural from natural events, because we are so familiar with what naturally happens: for instance, we know trees don’t usually talk. Crusius also points out that we do not need mathematically certain proofs to accept something as a miracle, but a lower grade of conviction is usually enough. Finally, he emphasises that miracles also have a moral aspect, that is, we shouldn’t think of something with immoral consequences as a miracle.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-48430416407608077072023-01-13T09:30:00.000-08:002023-01-13T09:30:09.809-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - What God doesThe final part of Crusius’ natural theology is dedicated to the question of what God does, that is, what effects the divine activities produce. The obvious first answer for Crusius is that God has created the world, that is, the world that earlier was not has become existent. In the strictest sense, Crusius adds, creation refers to the generation of simple substances and their fundamental forces. In addition, God has also ordered these simple substances, but this is not something that only God could do.<br /><br />God has not just created the world and everything in it, Crusius continues, but they also sustain all these things. Why couldn’t God just have created the things in such a manner that they would keep on existing without the help of God? Crusius’ answer is that this would have been impossible. Because the created things are contingent, their current existence is no reason why they would continue existing and thus they require the help of God for their continuous existence or otherwise they might as well just blink out of existence.<br /><br />In addition to sustaining the existence of the things in the world, Crusius states, God also sustains the very order of the world. The threat here is not that the world would be completely wiped out of existence, but only that it would collapse into chaos. This threat is real, Crusius adds, because by themselves, material things would quickly move and change any given order.<br /><br />Crusius adds that in some cases God sustains the actuality of certain things, but when free choices are involved, God can only sustain their possibility, while the actuality is then left for the decision of free beings. Thus, Crusius explains, God is not responsible for evil actions of free creatures, but merely sustains the possibility of such actions, which the action of a free person then makes real.<br /><br />God does not just sustain the world, Crusius continues, but they direct the world in accordance with certain purposes. Original guidelines of this divine providence, he clarifies, are God’s fundamental desires, while what God attempts to achieve must have something to do with creatures capable of free actions, not with the mechanism of the material world. God is, as it were, building a kingdom, where the divine will morally obligates free creatures to do certain actions.<br /><br />Crusius divided divine providence into such where God uses the course of nature to make something purposeful happen at appropriate time and such where God uses miracles or personally acts on the worldly things to make something happen. Since free spirits cannot be forced to do anything by natural causes, he points out, miracles must be especially used with them. Thus, particularly if there are plenty of evil free creatures, God has to do miracles, in order to assure the fulfilment of divine purposes. This still doesn’t mean that we should see miracles everywhere, since God can well use less miracles to produce more effects. In addition, Crusius notes, God need not make miracles obviously visible, unless the explicit purpose of the miracle is to be noted by human beings.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-38461193226123189142022-12-20T23:38:00.003-08:002022-12-20T23:38:33.142-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - What God isIt is one thing to say that something is, another to say what it is. Thus, it is no wonder that Crusius considers the question on the attributes of God, in addition to attempting to prove their existence. Yet, he also has to at first argue that we can speak reasonably about God. After all, as he himself admits, God should be so far above all finite things that we cannot ever really comprehend their essence.<br /><br />One common way to describe God is through metaphors taken from human life, for instance, when we say that God hears or sees all things. Crusius accepts such anthropopathies, assuming that they are not understood in a too literal manner that would imply God's finity - this would be anthropomorphism.<br /><br />Yet, Crusius is also keen to find out more literal attributes of God, in order to alleviate all accusations of humanising God. He notes that anthropathies can still provide an inkling of such literal attributes, if one can just remove the metaphorical element from them.<br /><br />In fact, Crusius adds, all things can provide hints of what God is like. Firstly one can concentrate on how things are perfect and then assume that God is eminently more perfect. Secondly, one can pay attention to the fact that God must be able to create everything in the world. Beyond these two roads, Crusius suggests we have only a third route of describing God - negative one.<br /><br />Well, Crusius does admit also a fourth, that of revelation. He especially refers to the notion of God as a Trinity, which he considers as the closest we come to knowing God's essence - or at least knowing an attribute that is not either an infinitised attribute of finite things or a relation. Indeed, Trinity - that of being a substance composed of three individuals - is something completely unique to God.<br /><br />The other, non-revelatory attributes of God Crusius divides into non-active and active attributes, depending on whether the attributes involve any action or a capacity to an action. Foremost of the non-active attributes is infinity. This means, Crusius says, that God cannot have any imperfections. Furthermore, it implies that God has majestity, that is, that he is infinitely removed from all finite beings and inconceivable to them.<br /><br />Although Trinity, Crusius insists, God is still simple. That is, the three persons of Godhead are in themselves incomplete, although they can e.g. have different actions. Furthermore, the simplicity of God implies that God is not material and that human souls are not a part of God.<br /><br />Crusius is also convinced of the uniqueness of God, although he is not satisfied with many of the proofs suggested for this position. For instance, Crusius does not think that one could prove the uniqueness of God from the supposed impossibility of distinguishing infinite things, which would have all the same attributes - he points out that this distinction could still happen through relations or spatio-temporal characteristics. Neither does he approve the attempt to prove the uniqueness from the necessity of God, since there is nothing to show that there are only necessary things. Instead, Crusius favours a rather idiosyncratic proof: gods exist in space, and if there are several gods, they must exist in the same or different space, but in the latter case they would be finite, while the former is impossible.<br /><br />In addition to these rather general attributes, Crusius’ non-active attributes for God contain also attributes related to what he calls the abstractions of existence or space and time. Here the case of time is perhaps easier to understand, since it just means that God is eternal or exists at all times (he does make the interesting suggestion that Trinity explains what God did before creation of the world: the three persons interacted with one another somehow).<br /><br />The case of space is quite analogous, although Crusius’ result seems unusual: God is immense or they cannot be limited by anything. Crusius notes that this does not mean that God would consist of parts - the usual objection against God’s spatiality. Crusius explains himself by saying that the space of God is a mere abstraction and mere abstractions cannot be really broken into parts.<br /><br />The active attributes of God refer, then, to those attributes of God that involve an action or a capacity for an action. On a general level, these attributes include that of God having an infinite force, that is, a force that can do everything that just happens to be possible. Some of the actions resulting from God using this force are a necessary part of their essence. Yet, all of them cannot be necessary, Crusius insists, and must be such that God can begin and stop doing them, because otherwise God would be less perfect than humans, who can do this. <br /><br />Crusius also divides God’s actions into immanent actions that belong merely to the inner state of God’s essence and transient actions that either create a new substance or change the condition of a substance different from God. But can God create something different from itself, if God exists everywhere? Yes, Crusius asserts, as although two gods cannot occupy space, apparently God and a finite creature can.<br /><br />Crusius notes that there are three kinds of actions: movement, understanding and will. Of these, God really cannot move, because as has been noted, God is everywhere. Then again, Crusius notes, God can definitely understand or think things - denying this would be implicit atheism, because otherwise God would be just a blind mechanism.<br /><br />God’s understanding, Crusius says, should be infinite. This means, firstly, that God knows all there is and all there could be. Secondly, it means that God’s knowledge of actualities and possibilities must be perfect. For instance, God cannot take impossibilities as possibilities, God must know everything as distinctly as possible and therefore God definitely cannot know anything through sensations or deductions.<br /><br />Crusius points out that God knows different things in a different manner. Some things, like possibilities and God’s own existence, God would know even if the world did not exist. God also has an encompassing vision of the world: its past, present and future. This vision includes, Crusius insists, also the actions of free creatures - we cannot understand how God can know them, but it is not contradictory. Between the two types of knowledge, Crusius states, God has also a third type: knowledge of what would happen, if a free person chose to do something.<br /><br />In addition to understanding, Crusius assures us, God also has a will. Just like with divine actions, some of God’s volitions are necessary - these are God’s fundamental desires. With humans, Crusius recounts, fundamental desires include drive toward perfection, drive to share perfection to others, drive of conscience and bodily drive. The two latter cannot really be divine drives, but the two others can. God thus always desires to be perfect, and because they are, God is always infinitely happy or blessed.<br /><br />God also desires perfection in things created, Crusius says, and this means that the world, if such exists, must form a moral system, where choices of free creatures can reflect divine perfection and all the other things can serve free creatures in fulfilling this purpose. Acting in accordance with divine perfection, Crusius suggests, means especially that free creatures must understand their dependence on God. God must thus give the free creatures laws that must be obeyed, and if the laws are not obeyed, God must punish the sinner. Crusius goes even further and insists that God can never really end the punishment, because this would mean that transgression would ultimately be forgotten and justice would not be served. He does concede that this might not mean that God would put sinners in an eternal torture, but only that a sinner is prevented from reaching the highest state of happiness possible.<br /><br />Why did God then allow sinners to exist in the first place? Crusius’ first line of defence is that sinners were not created as sinners, but they freely chose to be such. Yet, this line of defence seems inadequate, since God still knew that the sinners would sin. Crusius’ second and rather cruel defence is that God had to be shown as a stern and righteous judge, since righteous punishment of sinners is a perfection.<br /><br />In addition to punishing the sinners, God’s righteousness demands also rewarding the virtuous. Yet, God has also further reasons for this, since the second fundamental drive of God, Crusius says, is a desire to do good and show love to free creatures. Thus, God’s dice are loaded toward mercy and charity. Still, Crusius says, God won’t just hand out maximal amount of goodness to every creature, since this is ultimately impossible: there is no maximal goodness for finite creatures, since their goodness can always be increased.<br /><br />In addition to these fundamental desires, God also has freedom, Crusius insists, that is, God can begin actions that otherwise wouldn’t have happened. This does not mean that even God’s free actions would be completely against their fundamental desires, in other words, that they wouldn’t satisfy God's desire for perfection and goodness. It is more that God has a complete freedom of not creating such a world at all, but has freely chosen to create it. Furthermore, Crusius emphasises, world could also have been otherwise, since God could have chosen many different means to fulfill the perfection of the world.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-5540834034223392662022-12-04T10:52:00.002-08:002022-12-04T10:52:52.480-08:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Proving God’s existenceDiverging clearly from the Wolffian order of metaphysics, Crusius proceeds after ontology to natural theology. His justification is that while knowing the properties of things in the world requires knowing the properties of their creator, natural theology presupposes only a general concept of the world as a sum of all things, of which we we perceive a part and of which we ourselves are a part, and additionally some individual truths about souls.<br /><br />Crusius’ first task in natural theology is to prove the existence of God, that is, an intelligent and necessary substance, which differs from the world and is the effective cause of the world. Crusius’ strategy is to throw everything at the wall and see what happens to stick, as he is willing to provide a whole bunch of different proofs, deeming the topic so important that it must be decided by any means necessary - the various proofs convince different people and corroborate one another. Crusius doesn’t even provide any other systematisation of this hodgepodge of proofs, except a classification based on the supposed strength of them.<br /><br />The most certain proofs, Crusius says, are demonstrations that are ultimately based on the three principles of human cognition and of course principles derivable from them, such as the principle of sufficient reason and the principle of contingency (things that can be thought not to exist are contingent). Crusius presents altogether five of these demonstrations, all of which can be regarded as modifications of the cosmological proof in the Kantian classification. I will not go in detail to these proofs, but merely note their prominent features:<br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Crusius bases the existence of complex things on the existence of simple things, which they consist of. Then he uses the principle of contingency to show that simple things in the world are contingent and so require God for their existence.</li><li>Crusius argues, as we have seen, that there are no infinite series of changes. This means, he insists, that the world must have been created by a substance that has existed eternally before creation.</li><li>Crusius notes that all series of movements must be ultimately derived from an action of an infinite force.</li><li>Crusius also uses the principle of contingency to directly conclude that the world is contingent.</li><li>Crusius insists that plant and animal species must have originated from single individuals, which due to their well ordered nature must have been created by God.</li></ul>The last of the demonstrations provides also a sort of link to what Crusius calls an infinitely probable proof of God’s existence. This proof is basically the old argument from the order in the world to someone creating it in an orderly fashion. Crusius insists that it is not just a question of teleology - it is a question of plants, animals and other things having a well ordered structure and not just them being mere means for human purposes.<br /><br />Crusius admits that it is possible that this order would have been fashioned from blind chaos by pure chance, or as Crusius suggests some atheists said, by a revolution in the structure of the world. Yet, Crusius instantly counters, such a revolution would have required an infinite number of coincidences, making the only option or the existence of God thus infinitely probable. Indeed, he argues, this proof shows clearest why God would have to be an intelligent substance and not mere force of nature.<br /><br />The final or the lowest level of the proofs in Crusius scheme consists of such that result in finite probability. First two of those involve history. Crusius argues that the oldest history books (by which Crusius refers especially to the Bible and other myths) assume that the humankind has not existed forever and it is not probable that the first humans would have been created with natural means that do not work nowadays (e.g. humans being generated in the bowels of the earth). Furthermore, Crusius emphasises that during human history all nations have believed in some divine being or beings and asserts the improbability of a so widely spread deception.<br /><br />Third of the merely probable proofs is based on the supposition that all humans have a conscience or a natural propensity to know what is right and what is wrong. Crusius argues that the universal existence of such a propensity cannot be a mere coincidence, generated by lucky circumstances, but must have been planned by the creator of humankind to help humans to decide what to do and what to avoid doing.<br /><br />There is a conspicuous absence in Crusius’ battery of proofs - the ontological, or as it was then often called, the Cartesian proof. I noticed in an earlier post that Crusius would have accepted the proof in his ontology, but his theology clarifies that this is not the case - no proof of God’s existence can be based on a mere principle of contradiction, but some consideration of causality must happen. Crusius’ justification is evidently inherited from Hoffmann: although we cannot think the most perfect being without accepting its existence in our thoughts, this does not tell whether the most perfect being has existence outside our thoughts. If it would be a valid, Crusius adds, we might as well prove that the most perfect man and woman must exist, although the existence of men and women altogether is contingent.<br /><br />What the Cartesian proof does say, according to Crusius, is that if God’s existence has been guaranteed otherwise, we can say this existence is necessary. This strategy is not that far from Wolff’s, who first proved God’s existence through a cosmological argument and then proceeded to show through an ontological argument why God must exist (because God is the most perfect being).<br /><br />The main target of Crusius’ proofs are atheists. Crusius includes under atheists also people who doubt God’s existence. Such doubting atheists attack only the supposed weaknesses in the proofs of God’s existence, for instance, they might reject proof from the order in the world by pointing out imperfections in the world. Crusius’ answer to this particular objection is that what is imperfection from a limited point of view can actually contribute to the perfection of the whole world.<br /><br />Another point the doubting atheists make, Crusius says, is that humans cannot really have a perfect conception of God and therefore it is as reasonable to deny as to accept God’s existence. Crusius insists that we do not need such a fully adequate concept of God to speak about their existence, but we have to just be able to distinguish God from other things. God is no empty word, Crusius assures, although we as finite things can know God mostly through negations or through God’s relations to other entities.<br /><br />The more strict atheists, Crusius says, deny outright the existence of God. Some of these atheists are materialists, like ancient atomists, who consider even thinking and willing to be mere movement of matter and who do deny the existence of all simple intelligent substances. Other atheists Crusius groups under the title of universalists. Universalists he divides into those like Anaximander, who suppose that the final cause of the world can lie in the simple substances of the world, which may be intelligent, and those like Spinoza, who think of world as a unified simple substance, with things in it as mere properties of the substance. All of these forms of atheism, Crusius thinks, fall short in that they have to assume an infinite series of causes.<br /><br />Crusius ends the discussion of the existence of God by noting that atheism is not the only erroneous view on theological matters. There are also deists, or as he also calls them, virtual atheists, who do not deny the existence of God, but only that of God being a moral lawgiver and judge. This is a topic he leaves for the next chapter on the attributes of God.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-33332203957774334312022-09-22T12:06:00.000-07:002022-09-22T12:06:41.872-07:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Good and perfectCrusius concludes his study of ontology with the notions of perfection and goodness. He is especially eager to reject the Wolffian notion of perfection as a harmonious unification of a manifold. Instead, he suggests, by perfection we can, firstly, mean the sum of positive reality ascribed to a thing. He clarifies the definition by noting that this positive reality refers to the causal powers of the thing or effects that become possible or actual through it. Secondly, Crusius adds, perfection can also mean an individual aspect of the thing contributing to this sum of positive reality.<br /><br />Just like causal power, Crusius notes, perfection can also be either infinite or finite, and in case of finite perfections, there are always higher and lower levels of perfection. In a sense, any perfection beyond the infinite is lacking something, but even finite things can be perfect in their kind, Crusius assures. Furthermore, he adds, perfection can be either essential, that is, presupposed in the essence of a thing, or contingent, that is, aspects increasing the perfection of the thing, but not presupposed by its essence. It is the essential perfections that make a thing perfect in its kind, while contingent perfections by themselves cannot do this - a mirror that reflects poorly is an imperfect mirror, no matter how costly frames it has.<br /><br />How then to decide what belongs to an essence of a thing, and consequently, to its essential perfection? Crusius says it all comes down to purposes they are made for. In case of things generated by natural causes, he notes, we might not be able to say what the original purpose of the creator was for them. In this case, we can try to determine their purpose and thus their perfection from what we have experienced of them and their parts.<br /><br />Just like with many concepts earlier, Crusius notes that perfection can be either ideal or real. By ideal perfection he means a property of a thing, by which understanding can perceive more truth, order and relations in it. He especially considers the notion of order, that is, an arrangement of things in a manner that appears to have been done according to an idea or a model. Depending on the model, order can be better or worse, but generally, Crusius says, it is better the more diverse things are arranged harmoniously. Order can be based on similarity, but not necessarily, for instance, letters of very different sort are ordered in words.<br /><br />Real perfection, on the other hand, makes possible something else than mere knowledge of order. In other words, real perfection is for Crusius either an active cause generating something actual or an existential ground making something possible or determining something.<br /><br />In addition to the division of real and ideal perfections, Crusius also mentions a division into external and internal perfection. Here, external perfection means something we can sense, while an internal perfection is to be found in an inner essence of a thing. Interestingly, Crusius notes that a thing that is externally and internally perfect is by definition beautiful.<br /><br />Crusius lists various signs that something can be taken as perfection. For instance, any part of an essence can be taken as perfection, thus, understanding is a perfection. Furthermore, anything serving purposeful sustainment of the essence is perfection, like health, as is anything that makes a thing capable of securing more of its purposes or surer or easier to do so, such as prudence or science. Perfections include also anything that forms a main purpose of a thing or is a required means for it, such as virtue and care for one’s well being. Finally, the class of perfection contains anything that is an unavoidable consequence of a perfection, such as despising unfounded gossip, and also anything showing perfection, like art.<br /><br />Not all that seems perfect truly is so and vice versa, Crusius clarifies. For instance, looking at mere ideal and external perfections, such as beautiful book covers, might confuse us to think that the thing in its essence is also perfect, when it is not. On the other hand, what is imperfect from a partial perspective could be perfect from a larger perspective, for instance, if the main purpose of the thing requires such a partial imperfection. Thus, while lack of light is usually an imperfection in a room, it is not, if the room in question is cellar.<br /><br />Crusius ponders the question whether perfection belongs to things necessarily. Since the infinite substance has only necessary properties, its perfection should also be clearly necessary. Crusius also insists that all the things dependent only on the choice of the infinite substance must be perfect in their own kind. This still leaves the cases where free choices of finite substances are involved, and it is this freedom that brings about the possibility of imperfection.<br /><br />From perfection Crusius turns to the notions of purpose - what a person wants - and means - what a person uses to achieve a purpose. A purpose is good, Crusius says, if it agrees with the essential volitions of the person, while a means is good, if it agrees with the purpose it should serve. The latter notion of agreement, particularly, has many different subtypes: a true means really helps to obtain the purpose, a certain means generates it always or regularly, a sufficient means can do it without any other help and a strong means generates the purpose exceptionally well or for a long period of time or for many persons.<br /><br />Goodness is then for Crusius a concept necessarily linked with the concept of a purpose, but different notions of goodness arise depending on whose will the purpose is supposed to depend on. Thus, a finite thing is metaphysically good, if it corresponds to a purpose set by God on the natural chains of events, and physically good, if it corresponds to volition of finite persons. These two types of goodness can be defined also in terms of perfection, Crusius adds, because e.g. a thing is physically good if it makes some person more perfect. Still, all varieties of goodness cannot be reduced to perfection, Crusius notes and refers especially to a notion of moral goodness, which is especially a property of free persons and their actions: the condition of a person is morally good, if it agrees with the law willed by the infinite substance.<br /><br />Finite things can be good, but the infinite substance must be good, Crusius emphasises. Indeed, the infinite substance is good in many ways. It is essentially good, because it is the only possible source of goodness for finite things. Then again, it is also good as showing kindness toward finite things. In addition, the infinite substance is also good also without any regard to finite things, because it is constantly what it can be.<br /><br />Just like goodness, evil comes also in many varieties, Crusius says. A thing can be physically evil, if it is in conflict with desires of a finite person. Secondly, a state of a person can be morally evil, if it contradicts the divine law. Finally, a thing can be metaphysically evil, if it is not fit for achieving those effects, which should be possible through it according to divine purposes. Crusius notes that things depending on mere natural chain of events cannot be metaphysically evil. Thus, metaphysical evil always requires the intrusion of a free choice and is thus a species of moral evil.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-58323345947510360672022-08-29T11:03:00.001-07:002022-08-29T11:03:45.961-07:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Measuring quantitiesA common topic in ontologies of Crusius’ time, not that usual in modern ontologies, is quantities - back then, general philosophers were keen to explain what mathematics is all about, while nowadays this question is more and more left for special branch called philosophy of mathematics. Crusius follows the tradition and starts by defining quantity as such a property of a thing, by which something is posited more than once.<br /><br />Crusius notes that at least complex concrete things naturally have a quantity - they consist of many things. Furthermore, even simple concrete things have quantifiable features - they have forces, and even though they are indivisible, they still are spatial and thus have some magnitude. Then again, some abstractions are not quantifiable, Crusius says: there are no levels of existence, but all existing things exist as much as others. Crusius also notes in passing the possibility of infinite quantities, but at once declares that we finite beings cannot really know anything about them.<br /><br />Quantities come in different types, Crusius continues, for instance, quantity of a force differs from a quantity of an extension. The difference between these types becomes important, when we start to measure the quantities. Measuring, Crusius says, involves determining a relation of a quantity to some known quantity. As such, this kind of comparison is possible only between quantities of the same type (there’s no sense in measuring weight with a ruler). Still, Crusius admits, quantities of different type can be compared indirectly. Firstly, we can compare them through relations of quantities - for instance, we can say that punishments should be proportional to the crimes punished. Secondly, the comparison can be done through causal links, for example, the resistance of a body can be compared with the striving of a soul, because one has the effect of hindering the other.<br /><br />To determine a quantity perfectly, Crusius says, we must represent its parts distinctly. This requires expressing the quantity as a number of distinctly thought units. These units might be naturally distinct - for instance, when we count things distinguished by natural limits, like cows - or arbitrarily chosen, for example, when we compare length of a thing to a measuring stick. Since a given quantity might not be expressible as a number of arbitrarily chosen units, Crusius also introduces fractions (no mention of irrational numbers, though).<br /><br />An extreme case of natural units, for Crusius, is naturally provided by simple substances. Crusius admits that measuring complex substances by their simple parts is impossible, since we do not perceive these ultimate constituents. Still, he continues, understanding the nature of these simple parts can help us in picking suitable units for measurement: for instance, when we note that movement should be ideally measured by checking how many simple substances move through smallest measures of space, we can surmise that movement could be measured by checking how many things move through a certain space.<br /><br />Crusius spends the majority of the rest of the chapter discussing a hotly debated topic of the time, namely, the so-called question of living forces. The point of the debate, at least as conceived by Crusius, is how to measure the quantity of an action, such as movement. Crusius’ take is that while abstractly taken this quantity can be expressed as a multiple of the strength of the action (in case of movement, mass of the moving object) and its velocity, we must also account for the resistance encountered by the action and thus use the square of velocity to determine the action.Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2410288184178184648.post-5340410579730080382022-08-09T11:22:00.000-07:002022-08-09T11:22:27.885-07:00Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Finite and infiniteA key pair of ontological concepts in traditional metaphysics has been that of infinity and finity, thus, it is no wonder Crusius investigates them also. Simply put, finite is that which has limits, while infinite is that which has no limits. These definitions leave it still unclear what having limits actually means. Crusius explains that limit means an end to that where thing is thought, that is, something where the essence of the thing cannot continue to a higher grade, cannot spread into larger space or cannot have a longer duration. This definition implies, Crusius says, that a limited or finite thing can be multiplied in grade, space or duration, in other words, something greater than it can be thought.<br /><br />Infinite in some aspects, on the other hand, is such that greater of it cannot be thought. Crusius continues that there are then three types of infinity, as there are three aspects involved with every existing substance. Firstly, every substance has an essence, which is ultimately based on its fundamental forces: here, infinity means that a substance is capable of all possible actions. Secondly, in addition to essence, substances exist in space and time, both of which have their own types of infinity: immeasurability, where a substance occupies all possible spaces, and eternity, where the duration of a substance has no beginning or end.<br /><br />Crusius also notes that none of the three types of infinity should be confused with what could be called infinity of progression, which is no true infinity, but a mere series of ever greater things, which still always remains finite. For instance, a thing generated at some point of time could continue existing without any end and still its duration would always have been just finite. Crusius suggests that such an infinity of progression is the only way we humans can think also the infinity of the past: we set out a past moment, then a still further past moment etc.<br /><br /><div>Interestingly, while Hoffmann rejected the so-called ontological - or as he called it, Cartesian - proof of God’s existence, Crusius appears to accept it. He starts with the notion of a substance with an infinite essence, that is, with capacity to do anything - such a substance has then an infinite grade of perfection. Now, Crusius continues, if a substance should be capable of everything, it should be capable of ensuring its own existence, or existence belongs to the perfection of the infinite essence. This means, he concludes, that a substance with infinite essence must necessarily exist everywhere and at every time.<br /><br />Crusius argued earlier that necessary things can only be simple - otherwise they could be broken - and this must then apply also to an infinite substance. Its simplicity then implies that an infinite substance cannot be reduced. In fact, he points out, there can be no quantitative relation between the infinite substance and finite substances. In fact, nothing could be added to a finite substance to make it infinite, and finite and infinite substances differ by their essence.<br /><br />Crusius makes the remark that one might think as an infinite force a determined capacity for doing a certain type of action in as great a magnitude as possible. Force of an infinite substance is not of this sort, he clarifies, but a general capacity to do anything whatsoever, even what any of these determined infinite forces could do. Indeed, an infinite substance should have only one force, which it can then apply in different manners. Of course, Crusius admits, the infinite substance cannot do anything impossible, but this is more of a clarification than any real limitation. The infinite substance does not then need any instruments for its actions, but if it so chooses, it can use them. In fact, since no effect of the actions of the infinite substance could be the highest possible, it can freely choose the magnitude of its effects.<br /><br />Infinite substance should be able to do anything that just is possible. Crusius argues that creation of all finite simple substances is one of the things the infinite substance has done. True, he admits, it is inconceivable to us mere humans how an infinite substance has done this, but as contingent they must have been created by something, and since a finite mind cannot apprehend an infinite substance, it is understandable that we cannot fathom everything it could do. Crusius notes that there is also nothing contradictory in finite substances creating finite simple substances, although it is again inconceivable how they could have done it. Still, he assures the reader, we should not assume any finite substance to have such a power, because this assumption would undermine our ability to investigate natural causality, which is based on the premiss that finite substances can only bring about something by combining existing substances or by dividing existing combinations.<br /><br />Crusius also considers the question, whether there could exist at the same time an infinite amount of things. His first point is that we certainly can always think of a number greater than any given number, thus, we shouldn’t be able to think any infinite number (of course, nowadays mathematicians do think of infinite numbers or cardinalities, but since they also form a never ending series of infinities, these would not actually be infinite in the sense Crusius means; still, this is a distinction that we can ignore when speaking of what Crusius had in mind).<br /><br />Now, although we cannot think of an infinite number, this might not imply anything for the possibility of an infinite amount of real things. Here the crucial question is, Crusius suggests, whether this infinite amount is meant to be added up from actually different, perfect things. If it is, Crusius insists, we should be able to divide this amount into two groups. Since neither subgroup is the greatest, they are both of a finite amount, but then an infinity would be made up of two finities, which contradicts the idea that an infinity cannot be quantitatively compared with something finite.<br /><br />Then again, Crusius notes, the previous argument works only if it is really distinct things that are added up and divided into groups. Thus, God might be able to think at once an infinite amount of possible things, since these possible things are not really distinct. We finite beings cannot comprehend how God can do it, but this does not restrict God’s capacities.<br /><br />A far simpler question, Crusius thinks, is that of an infinite series of causes and effects, because Crusius smells a contradiction in that notion. In a series of causes and effects, he argues, all terms are either generated or not. If not, the series has a first cause and is therefore finite. Then again, if they all are generated, then the individual members have all not existed at some point and therefore the whole series has not existed at some point and has thus a beginning. Key part of this argument is clearly the move from all parts of a whole to the whole itself. Crusius notes that this move does not work in all cases - if parts of a whole weigh 1 kg, then the whole will definitely not weigh 1 kg. He unconvincingly tries to argue that usually and in this particular case this move is guaranteed by a principle of non-contradiction, because whole just is parts taken together.<br /><br />Whatever the validity of the argument, Crusius believes he has shown that a series of causes and effects cannot be really infinite. He does admit it can have an infinity of progression, that is, it could have more members. These members could also be added to the beginning of the series, that is, we could think that the series began from an earlier point than it does, but this just means that it is completely arbitrary where such a series begins.<br /><br />Because all series of causes and effects are thus finite, Crusius says, the essence of an infinite substance cannot consist of such a series of changes. Even more, he insists, the infinite substance cannot go through any series of changes, because it would undermine its eternal perfection. Crusius might be arguing here against the idea that God could be persuaded by a series of reasons to do something. In any case, he notes that an infinite substance should be immediately everything it can be.<br /><br />The lack of changes in the infinite substance means according to Crusius, firstly, that all the actions of the infinite substance must be fundamental, free actions. Secondly, the infinite substance cannot be affected by a finite substance, at least not directly. Crusius does admit that finite substance could hinder actions of the infinite substance by not fulfilling certain conditions the infinite substance has placed for its own action. Furthermore, finite substance could resist finite effects generated by the infinite substance.<br /><br />Although Crusius speaks against the idea of an infinite series of causes and effects, his attitude toward an infinite duration is quite the opposite. Indeed, he is committed to the idea that the first, uncaused cause has existed an infinite amount of time or eternally. One might argue that Crusius’ commitment should fall to the very same argument he himself used against the infinite series of causes and effects, creating then a dilemma reminiscent of Kant’s third antinomy, where we cannot accept either that there is an uncaused cause nor that there isn’t. Crusius’ solution is once again to differentiate between actual and merely possible. A series of causes and effects involves an actual succession of things, while an infinite duration consists only of possible succession of things, whereas nothing really changes during the existence of an eternal substance.</div>Ilmari Jauhiainenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01655841880034965950noreply@blogger.com0