Georg 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 Gedancken von Ehre is no exception, being a discussion of honour or respect.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Martin 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 Systema causarum efficientium seu commentatio philosophica de commercio mentis et corporis per influxum physicum explicando.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Georg Friedrich Meier: Figure of a critic (1745)

We’ve just seen Meier describe an ideal figure of a philosopher, and in the very same year he also published a work (Abbildung eines Kunstrichters) 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Odyssey, 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 Poetics. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 je ne sais quoi, but in a more intellectual evaluation such impreciseness would not be accepted.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Spirits as part of moral universe

Crusius’ 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Christian 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Christian 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.

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 Empfindung - 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 (Geist). Even God could be called spirit, since God can think and will, although not move.

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.

Christian August Crusius: Draft of necessary truths of reason, in so far as they are set opposite to contingent ones - Laws of movement

In 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.