Surprisingly late in Wolff’s career appeared yet another part of his Vernünftige Gedancken -series. Yet, Vernünftige Gedancken von der nüzlichen Erlernung und Anwendung der mathematischen Wissenschaften was not a book specifically planned for the series, but actually a case of Wolff’s earlier book, originally written in Latin, translated to German by Balthasar Adolph von Steinwehr. I have not managed to ascertain what the original Latin work was called, so I am satisfied with reading this translation.
The book itself is not an independent treatise, but more like a study guide, meant to accompany Wolff’s earlier work on elements of mathematics. The most philosophically relevant part of the book is the first chapter, where Wolff outlines three different grades of knowledge. The first and lowest grade consists of understanding what is held to be true by others: Wolff calls this in some places also historical knowledge. This sort of knowledge requires first and foremost, in the case of mathematical sciences, studying definitions, theorems and solutions to problems, but does not hinge on proofs for the theorems or solutions.
Wolff points out many pedagogically important points for gaining historical knowledge of mathematics. Some of these points pertain to the order of study, for instance, that the definitions should be learned before theorems using those definitions, and within definitions, those required for understanding other definitions should be learned first. Wolff also notes that human understanding requires sensuous aid and thus points out the importance of examples. He also emphasises that the idea of examples is not to teach that e.g. this particular figure is a square, but to make the student learn how to recognise squares.
In addition to examples, Wolff underlines that especially in the case of arithmetics, a well planned presentation of the mathematical symbols is important in making the student follow what they are taught. Indeed, he insists, the very symbols themselves make us quickly understand what concepts are being spoken of (e.g. 3 + 3 + 3 + 3 = 12 tells a seasoned reader instantly that this is a question of combining a certain number of threes and that the = indicates the result of this combination).
Furthermore, Wolff adds, it helps us to comprehend intricate theorems, if we investigate what they mean in case of concrete examples. In the case of solutions, this means especially making calculations with specific numbers or drawing real figures. Such a repetitive practice of solutions ascertains that we have a capacity to use them in real life.
The second grade of knowledge, Wolff defines, comes about in being convinced of something. In mathematics, this requires going through proofs or demonstrations, and because demonstrations cannot be followed without understanding what is proven, the second grade of knowledge presupposes the first one. Demonstrations, Wolff says, consist of chains of reasoning or syllogisms, good grasp of which presupposes capacity in making judgements and concepts, but also in lower faculties of sense, imagination and memory. Thus, he suggests as a mediating step for students not yet able to follow demonstrations using mechanical proofs, in which e.g. a geometric figure is drawn and the theorem is ascertained through measuring devices and other instruments. Wolff immediately adds that such mechanical proofs tell us only that a theorem works in this particular case, but does not give us universal assurance.
The proper demonstrations, Wolff notes, can also be aided by sensuous means. In geometry this can be done by an image showing what kind of points, lines and figures are being discussed about. In case of arithmetic, a similar effect can be reached by using actual numbers, instead of letters, as long as the numbers are selected in such a manner that they themselves do not have properties that might simplify the proofs too much. Furthermore, the proofs themselves can be set out in such a manner that the student grasps easily what deductive moves are being made and how what is assumed is used in the proof. Finally, Wolff points out that in case of problems, it is helpful to turn their solutions into theorems, when following the proofs of these solutions.
The third and highest grade of knowledge, according to Wolff, is one in which we can use our knowledge to discover new, still unknown matters. He suggests that the way proofs are set up in mathematics is also helpful for learning how new truths are discovered – we just assume that the theorem is not known beforehand or turn these theorems into problems. Since all proofs are based on definitions and previously known propositions, the more one knows these, the more truths one is able to find out. Furthermore, Wolff adds, the earlier mentioned mechanical proofs can help us to discern unknown truths in individual cases, although we then have to learn to prove them universally.
The reason why Wolff goes through these three grades of knowledge is that often the student of mathematics is not learning a mathematical discipline just for the sake of the information, but also for generally improving their own understanding. Indeed, Wolff suggests that mathematics is especially suited for this task and that all students should therefore start by learning mathematics. If this is the motivation of the student, the first grade of knowledge will not be enough, since it at most trains our attention and faculty of conceiving, and indeed, a student just learning mathematical truths will forget them eventually, if they do not use them daily, like engineers do.
The true worth of mathematical studies, then, lies in second and third grades of knowledge or skills of understanding and making one’s own demonstrations. Wolff insists that these skills should not be then left unused, but applied also in other disciplines. He is eager to point out that his own philosophical works provide ample opportunities for this, since they are presented in the form of demonstrations. Indeed, Wolff emphasises, the philosophical method is precisely the same as the mathematical method.
In the rest of the book, Wolff goes painstakingly through the various parts of mathematics and suggests what parts of his mathematical work students with different ambitions and purposes should especially concentrate on. He points out that all students should have at least some grasp on arithmetics and geometry, since the rest of mathematics is essentially based on them. Furthermore, he instructs a student especially interested in discovering new truths to learn algebra, since it is a convenient tool for finding solutions to problems. In case of more applied fields of mathematics, he especially emphasises the importance of astronomy, since many important practical topics hinge on being able to calculate the apparent movements of stars.
tiistai 3. joulukuuta 2024
tiistai 24. syyskuuta 2024
Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on the condition of the soul after death – Against Israel Canz
The final chapter of Meier’s work is dedicated to a reading of Israel Gottlieb Canz’s 1741 book Überzeugender Beweis aus der Vernunft von der Unsterblichkeit sowohl der Menschen Seelen insgemein, als besonders der Kinder-Seelen (roughly: Convincing proof by reason of the immortality of both human soul in general and particularly child souls). Even judging from the title of the book it is obvious that Canz is attempting to do what Meier has deemed impossible. Meier himself considers Canz’s attempt more worthy of a closer look than those of other contemporaries. In addition, Canz represents a Wolffian of an earlier generation compared to Meier, thus, it is of interest to see what Meier particularly criticises in Canz’s ideas.
Canz begins his work with preliminary discussion about what the immortality of the human soul actually means. He particularly suggests that, if the human soul merely slept eternally after its death, this would be equal to destroying the soul. Meier does not agree with this, since true destruction would mean that the soul could not at all interact with other substances in the world. Furthermore, Meier thinks, even while sleeping, the soul could still have obscure representations, thus, sensations, feelings and desires.
Canz first argues that the soul is a simple thing and won’t thus disperse at the time of death, like material bodies would do. Meier is not interested in this argument, since he thinks that simplicity of the soul has nothing to do with its possible immortality. He does contradict Canz’s statement that a materialistic reading of the human soul would imply that the soul is completely dispersed after death. Instead, Meier points out a materialist could think that the soul is a bodily atom and therefore indivisible and separable from the body.
Meier picks up the argument, when Canz tries to prove that the human soul will retain its consciousness after death. Canz begins by stating that as long as a substance endures, it will retain its force. Meier considers this to be a too vague statement. We could say, Meier notes, that an actual substance always has some force, but this force could change, if the substance is finite and contingent. By this Meier means that a substance might be unable to do something that it could do earlier: an old cherry tree might not anymore produce fruits, while an old animal loses its ability to reproduce and an old scholar their ability to demonstrate. Hence, Meier concludes, nothing says that the soul couldn’t lose its consciousness or ability of clear representations after its death. Thus, if Canz wanted to prove otherwise, he should prove that the soul retains not just its force, but the same grade of force.
Canz continues by insisting that the soul always has the same essence. Meier admits this, because he thinks that the essence of the soul consists of the internal possibility of the soul to represent the world according to the place of the human body and that the soul necessarily has this possibility. Yet, Meier objects that although the essence of the soul remains, the same does not hold of the nature of the soul and especially of its force to think, which is contingent and variable. If the soul is actual, it has the possibility to think, Meier admits, but because it is finite, not everything possible is actually in it. Thus, the soul can remain a soul without actually thinking: indeed, we are human souls even before our birth and while sleeping.
Canz tries to further his proof by denying that anything could change its species. Meier admits that this is true enough, when we say that elephants cannot become mice and canaries cannot become horses. Yet, Canz is trying to suggest that a soul that now has distinct representations cannot become such that would have only confused or even only obscure representations. Meier points out that an opposite transition happens to the human soul during birth, so he finds no reason to doubt that a soul might return to its prenatal state through death.
Canz thinks he has established the position that the human soul must have reason, if it just is actual, just because it is always in itself possible that the soul has distinct representations. Meier emphasises once again that Canz has not managed to prove this result, because despite possibly having distinct representations, the soul might still not have enough force to actually form them. Thus, Meier continues, it is not contradictory to assume that a soul had been a mere animal before birth, without a physical possibility to use reason, and only after birth received physical possibility of reason. Indeed, he adds, such a change would not require a leap, but only a gradual development of our capacity to represent. It could well be that death would gradually diminish our capacities and make us physically incapable to reason, just like often happens in old age.
Canz goes on to argue that the human soul does not just stay in the same class of things after its death, but will always rise to higher levels and thus will have greater reason in the future. He justifies this with an analogy by saying that the state of the human soul before its birth was just a means for the goal of this life and thus less perfect. Indeed, Canz insists that all natural creatures go through a similar development of becoming more perfect, unless human will meddles with this natural progression. Meier finds all of this unconvincing. Firstly, he challenges the idea that means are always less perfect than the goal. Instead, means are the cause of the goal, and the cause is usually greater than its effect. Thus, although a single means might be less noble than the corresponding goal, all means are not. Indeed, Meier points out, wisdom and goodness of God is means for the glory that God receives in creation through them, still, wisdom and goodness must obviously be much nobler than God’s glory.
Hence, Meier continues, even Canz’s analogy of souls’ becoming more and more perfect after birth falls apart, because only God’s decree can guarantee it. In any case, Meier points out that we see old animals and plants becoming more imperfect without any human interference. The same fate appears to hold for old humans, as their faculties deteriorate, when they approach death. In addition, Meier makes the final move, the notion of hell is hard to reconcile with the idea of continuous perfection of the human soul.
Canz also uses an argument where the route to the conclusion is somewhat opposite. Now, he speaks of a principle that nature has gradually, throughout generations, perfected the world. He goes on to suggest that the world couldn’t constantly be improved if nature wouldn’t have also arranged for the continuing improvement of human souls. Meier sees nothing convincing in this argument, since there is no reason why human souls couldn’t improve the world just during this life.
Canz next proceeds to refute the possibility that the human souls would just sleep eternally after their death. He compares human souls with the sun and notes that if the sun would be covered by great clouds that prevented it from warming the earth, it would not be able to fulfil its inner drive. The same would happen, Canz argues, if the human soul would just sleep after death, as it would not even live, since its central drive would be stilled. Meier objects that even if the human soul would sleep, it might still act and live in some manner that is, by having obscure representations or dreams.
Canz also argues that nature never makes means that are useless. This would happen, he thinks, if the human soul was just sleeping after death and was unable to fulfil its drive to think. Meier points out that Canz appears to confuse ability and drive to think. Even if the human soul had the ability to think, its drive to think might be stilled and become so weak that it would not make us think anymore.
Canz goes on to insist that the human soul must have eternally those characteristics it has independent of its body, such as conceiving, judging and deducing. He again compares the human soul with the sun and considers the body to be like a cloud hindering the sun, so that a lack of body would just help the soul to think more clearly. Meier is adamantly against this idea, since he considers one of the main discoveries of the current philosophy that the soul is so closely connected to a body that it must have one also if it continued living after death. Thus, he sees a body as not just a hindrance of thinking, but required for focusing our thoughts, since they always need some object.
Canz continues to imagine the future disembodied state of the human soul and insists that it won’t need any sleep, because the need for it is caused by nothing else than the body being tired. We have already seen Meier being against the idea that the soul could exist without a body – and he points out that even the Bible speaks of the resurrection of bodies. Furthermore, he notes, even if the human soul would exist by itself, it would require sleep, because every finite force, and therefore also that of soul, weakens with time and loses the clarity of its representations. For instance, scholars who tire from reading lose their mental, not physical strength.
Meier has not found Canz’s bag of arguments convincing and thinks Canz is on even shakier grounds when attempting to show that the human soul remembers its previous life. Indeed, Canz tries to prove this with the rather incredible suggestion that the human soul can remember its previous life, because it can deduce from its state after death what its earlier life must have been. Meier points out, quite correctly, that this is not what we usually mean by memory, which requires a stronger awareness of having lived through past events.
Canz next goes on to argue that the continued existence of the human soul must have been something that God intends to occur. Most of his arguments involve basically the formula that destroying the human soul would be against God’s wisdom or goodness etc., and Meier’s counterpoint is often just that God looks for the best of the whole world and we might not know what that means for the human soul.
An interesting difference lies in what the two philosophers appear to say about the constitution of the world. Canz says that the world consists of a certain set of simple entities, and destruction of any of them would destroy the world and create a new one in its place, which would make God look like they made an error and had to correct it. Meier, on the other hand, considers the world to consist of not just a set of simple entities, but also of their spatio-temporal ordering. Thus, even the past entities of the world are still part of the world, even if they do not exist at this moment of time, just like Cicero is part of our world, even if he died in the Roman days.
Canz finally considers the question what happens to souls of small children who died before they had the chance to develop their reason. He is convinced that they will turn into fully reasoning persons at the time of death, just like tiny starlets that can finally shine, when the clouds have dispersed. Meier notes that Canz’s arguments here are even more dependent on unproven conjectures. Furthermore, he notes that Canz has difficulties with the objection concerning the oddness of how a child with nothing else, but obscure representations could suddenly have clear and distinct representations after death, especially as nature abhors such sudden leaps. Canz’s only answers are, firstly, an analogy that similar thing happens when we wake up from a deep sleep, and secondly, the first awakening of Adam to a full use of his faculties. Of the first answer, Meier points out that the sleeper in question, unlike a little child, has already had clear representations, while the case of Adam was explicitly a miraculous event.
Canz begins his work with preliminary discussion about what the immortality of the human soul actually means. He particularly suggests that, if the human soul merely slept eternally after its death, this would be equal to destroying the soul. Meier does not agree with this, since true destruction would mean that the soul could not at all interact with other substances in the world. Furthermore, Meier thinks, even while sleeping, the soul could still have obscure representations, thus, sensations, feelings and desires.
Canz first argues that the soul is a simple thing and won’t thus disperse at the time of death, like material bodies would do. Meier is not interested in this argument, since he thinks that simplicity of the soul has nothing to do with its possible immortality. He does contradict Canz’s statement that a materialistic reading of the human soul would imply that the soul is completely dispersed after death. Instead, Meier points out a materialist could think that the soul is a bodily atom and therefore indivisible and separable from the body.
Meier picks up the argument, when Canz tries to prove that the human soul will retain its consciousness after death. Canz begins by stating that as long as a substance endures, it will retain its force. Meier considers this to be a too vague statement. We could say, Meier notes, that an actual substance always has some force, but this force could change, if the substance is finite and contingent. By this Meier means that a substance might be unable to do something that it could do earlier: an old cherry tree might not anymore produce fruits, while an old animal loses its ability to reproduce and an old scholar their ability to demonstrate. Hence, Meier concludes, nothing says that the soul couldn’t lose its consciousness or ability of clear representations after its death. Thus, if Canz wanted to prove otherwise, he should prove that the soul retains not just its force, but the same grade of force.
Canz continues by insisting that the soul always has the same essence. Meier admits this, because he thinks that the essence of the soul consists of the internal possibility of the soul to represent the world according to the place of the human body and that the soul necessarily has this possibility. Yet, Meier objects that although the essence of the soul remains, the same does not hold of the nature of the soul and especially of its force to think, which is contingent and variable. If the soul is actual, it has the possibility to think, Meier admits, but because it is finite, not everything possible is actually in it. Thus, the soul can remain a soul without actually thinking: indeed, we are human souls even before our birth and while sleeping.
Canz tries to further his proof by denying that anything could change its species. Meier admits that this is true enough, when we say that elephants cannot become mice and canaries cannot become horses. Yet, Canz is trying to suggest that a soul that now has distinct representations cannot become such that would have only confused or even only obscure representations. Meier points out that an opposite transition happens to the human soul during birth, so he finds no reason to doubt that a soul might return to its prenatal state through death.
Canz thinks he has established the position that the human soul must have reason, if it just is actual, just because it is always in itself possible that the soul has distinct representations. Meier emphasises once again that Canz has not managed to prove this result, because despite possibly having distinct representations, the soul might still not have enough force to actually form them. Thus, Meier continues, it is not contradictory to assume that a soul had been a mere animal before birth, without a physical possibility to use reason, and only after birth received physical possibility of reason. Indeed, he adds, such a change would not require a leap, but only a gradual development of our capacity to represent. It could well be that death would gradually diminish our capacities and make us physically incapable to reason, just like often happens in old age.
Canz goes on to argue that the human soul does not just stay in the same class of things after its death, but will always rise to higher levels and thus will have greater reason in the future. He justifies this with an analogy by saying that the state of the human soul before its birth was just a means for the goal of this life and thus less perfect. Indeed, Canz insists that all natural creatures go through a similar development of becoming more perfect, unless human will meddles with this natural progression. Meier finds all of this unconvincing. Firstly, he challenges the idea that means are always less perfect than the goal. Instead, means are the cause of the goal, and the cause is usually greater than its effect. Thus, although a single means might be less noble than the corresponding goal, all means are not. Indeed, Meier points out, wisdom and goodness of God is means for the glory that God receives in creation through them, still, wisdom and goodness must obviously be much nobler than God’s glory.
Hence, Meier continues, even Canz’s analogy of souls’ becoming more and more perfect after birth falls apart, because only God’s decree can guarantee it. In any case, Meier points out that we see old animals and plants becoming more imperfect without any human interference. The same fate appears to hold for old humans, as their faculties deteriorate, when they approach death. In addition, Meier makes the final move, the notion of hell is hard to reconcile with the idea of continuous perfection of the human soul.
Canz also uses an argument where the route to the conclusion is somewhat opposite. Now, he speaks of a principle that nature has gradually, throughout generations, perfected the world. He goes on to suggest that the world couldn’t constantly be improved if nature wouldn’t have also arranged for the continuing improvement of human souls. Meier sees nothing convincing in this argument, since there is no reason why human souls couldn’t improve the world just during this life.
Canz next proceeds to refute the possibility that the human souls would just sleep eternally after their death. He compares human souls with the sun and notes that if the sun would be covered by great clouds that prevented it from warming the earth, it would not be able to fulfil its inner drive. The same would happen, Canz argues, if the human soul would just sleep after death, as it would not even live, since its central drive would be stilled. Meier objects that even if the human soul would sleep, it might still act and live in some manner that is, by having obscure representations or dreams.
Canz also argues that nature never makes means that are useless. This would happen, he thinks, if the human soul was just sleeping after death and was unable to fulfil its drive to think. Meier points out that Canz appears to confuse ability and drive to think. Even if the human soul had the ability to think, its drive to think might be stilled and become so weak that it would not make us think anymore.
Canz goes on to insist that the human soul must have eternally those characteristics it has independent of its body, such as conceiving, judging and deducing. He again compares the human soul with the sun and considers the body to be like a cloud hindering the sun, so that a lack of body would just help the soul to think more clearly. Meier is adamantly against this idea, since he considers one of the main discoveries of the current philosophy that the soul is so closely connected to a body that it must have one also if it continued living after death. Thus, he sees a body as not just a hindrance of thinking, but required for focusing our thoughts, since they always need some object.
Canz continues to imagine the future disembodied state of the human soul and insists that it won’t need any sleep, because the need for it is caused by nothing else than the body being tired. We have already seen Meier being against the idea that the soul could exist without a body – and he points out that even the Bible speaks of the resurrection of bodies. Furthermore, he notes, even if the human soul would exist by itself, it would require sleep, because every finite force, and therefore also that of soul, weakens with time and loses the clarity of its representations. For instance, scholars who tire from reading lose their mental, not physical strength.
Meier has not found Canz’s bag of arguments convincing and thinks Canz is on even shakier grounds when attempting to show that the human soul remembers its previous life. Indeed, Canz tries to prove this with the rather incredible suggestion that the human soul can remember its previous life, because it can deduce from its state after death what its earlier life must have been. Meier points out, quite correctly, that this is not what we usually mean by memory, which requires a stronger awareness of having lived through past events.
Canz next goes on to argue that the continued existence of the human soul must have been something that God intends to occur. Most of his arguments involve basically the formula that destroying the human soul would be against God’s wisdom or goodness etc., and Meier’s counterpoint is often just that God looks for the best of the whole world and we might not know what that means for the human soul.
An interesting difference lies in what the two philosophers appear to say about the constitution of the world. Canz says that the world consists of a certain set of simple entities, and destruction of any of them would destroy the world and create a new one in its place, which would make God look like they made an error and had to correct it. Meier, on the other hand, considers the world to consist of not just a set of simple entities, but also of their spatio-temporal ordering. Thus, even the past entities of the world are still part of the world, even if they do not exist at this moment of time, just like Cicero is part of our world, even if he died in the Roman days.
Canz finally considers the question what happens to souls of small children who died before they had the chance to develop their reason. He is convinced that they will turn into fully reasoning persons at the time of death, just like tiny starlets that can finally shine, when the clouds have dispersed. Meier notes that Canz’s arguments here are even more dependent on unproven conjectures. Furthermore, he notes that Canz has difficulties with the objection concerning the oddness of how a child with nothing else, but obscure representations could suddenly have clear and distinct representations after death, especially as nature abhors such sudden leaps. Canz’s only answers are, firstly, an analogy that similar thing happens when we wake up from a deep sleep, and secondly, the first awakening of Adam to a full use of his faculties. Of the first answer, Meier points out that the sleeper in question, unlike a little child, has already had clear representations, while the case of Adam was explicitly a miraculous event.
sunnuntai 28. heinäkuuta 2024
Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on the condition of the soul after death – Heaven and hell
After pondering our physical condition in the hypothesised life after death, Meier turns to the question what is our moral condition. By this moral condition or state of the soul he means everything that is dependent on its freedom, including free actions and capabilities together with all consequences following from them, such as rewards, punishments, perfections and imperfections.
Meier begins by dividing all good and evil into two types. The first of these types consists of goods and evils that is from a closer standpoint not dependent on the freedom of the soul, but either belong to its nature in a physically necessary manner or occur in combination with external causes we are used to call luck. Meier names these physical goods and evils, while the second type consists of moral goods and evils. The latter are then dependent from a closer standpoint on the freedom of the soul. Examples of such moral goods and evils are good actions, sins, virtues and vices.
As long as a finite substance exists, Meier insists, it acts. Now, every action causes a change or an accident in the finite substance, by which the sum of its perfections either increases or decreases. As long as a finite substance exists in the world, it is in connection with all other finite substances, which affect it and thus either increase or decrease its realities. If the soul continues living after death, Meier explains, this increase or decrease will also continue. Because our immortality is uncertain, it is also uncertain whether our soul will be happy or unhappy. If it is more blessed after death than in this life, we say that the soul is in heaven; but if it is more corrupt, we say that it is in hell.
Heaven and hell require actions, virtues, sins and vices, Meier says, thus, heaven and hell can be ascribed only to substances performing free actions. If a soul goes to heaven or hell, it must then be able to use its understanding and live like a person after its death. In other words, the soul must continue living after its death, it cannot sleep eternally or live only in a sensuous manner, but it must be conscious of itself, think reasonably and perform free actions. According to Meier, none of these things can be proven from reason, therefore it is uncertain whether there is heaven and hell for humans. Still, Meier considers it certain that if the soul can use its higher capacities after death, it will become either more blessed or more corrupt than in this life and that it is necessarily either in heaven or in hell. Furthermore, he is convinced, because of the Bible, that heaven and hell exist. Meier is also quick to add that while he thinks their existence is uncertain, he doesn’t deny it, and indeed, considers that high probability of heaven and hell can be proven by reason.
Meier explains that his purpose is not to do an exegetical treatise on what the Bible says about heaven and hell. Still, he emphasises that while some theologians have declared explanations of heaven and hell, other than their own, blasphemous, interpretations of the Bible can be objected with good conscience. Even so, Meier quickly adds that he won’t use biblical expressions to declare something about the Bible, but only as shorthands.
Reason cannot give as stimulating a concept of heaven as God reveals in the Bible, Meier continues. The Bible, he thinks, says that all moral evil with its bad consequences will disappear in heaven and all its denizens will be so perfect, despite their finity, that they will not be disturbed by anything in their happiness. Reason, on the other hand, cannot ascertain that souls in heaven will not sin, since even the most virtuous have in this life a capacity to sin, so that mere divorce from the body seems not reason enough to assume that sinning will end. Such a change we could understand, if it happened gradually, while sudden disappearance of sin would be a wonder, which cannot be proven by reason.
Similarly, Meier suggests, reason cannot tell with certainty whether there will be no consequences for sin in heaven, such as guilt and punishments. Sin naturally has consequences, according to Meier, and death as such could not take away these consequences, because it shouldn't break the order of nature. Thus, by reason we should assume that punishments continue in heaven, but God could miraculously suppress the natural order. This is in line with what the Bible tells us about the Saviour, Meier says, but reason cannot prove the existence of Christ. Meier also thinks that reason cannot say souls living in happier parts of heaven will remain there eternally. In order to remain, they would have to continue living virtuously, but we cannot be certain whether they won’t sin again. The Bible, on the other hand, assures us God will strengthen the souls in heaven so that they will not sin again, but this is a miracle that reason cannot prove.
So far Meier hasn’t been able to find anything certain about heaven, but there are such things, he assures us. Souls in heaven will be more blessed than they are in current life, in other words, in heaven blessedness must be greater than the opposite imperfection. Now, blessedness is not possible without virtue, so that the blessed in heaven will do more morally good than morally bad actions. They will especially do their duties toward God, but also toward themselves and others. Thus, Meier concludes, they will have to have good understanding, and clearer, more distinct and livelier concepts than in this world. Nothing else can we say about heaven with the help of reason, Meier insists.
Meier considers the question whether heaven is a reward for virtuous actions in this world. He thinks it cannot be just that, for then there could be people in heaven who would not act virtuously anymore after death or who would sin in heaven. Thus, blessedness in heaven should be a consequence of good deeds in heaven, although it could also be a reward for virtuous deeds in this world. Reason can regard heaven with certainty only as a natural reward or consequence of good actions, although it understands the possibility of God freely choosing to share extra rewards.
Meier thinks that everything he has said of heaven could be applied analogously to hell. The Bible gives a detailed view of the hell that reason could not demonstrate. Philosophers cannot say whether the damned could still make good actions, although we can assume that people who were more vicious than virtuous during their life will probably continue in the same manner and will thus find themselves in hell. To reason it seems probable that the damned can still do good things. Indeed, since no finite thing can be completely imperfect, in Meier’s opinion, reason cannot think a damned person without any perfections, because they must still have their essence, force and actuality. Reason might even assume that the damned will receive some rewards in hell, even if the Bible says that cannot happen, because good deeds will have their natural rewards, and where is a human being who would never do any good deeds?
Eternity of hell and punishment cannot be demonstrated by reason, Meier says. If hell had no exit, there would be no improvement nor conversion and God’s mercy would be eternally deprived from the damned. Reason can prove neither of these with certainty, because the amount of vice is contingent and thus damned could become virtuous and leave hell: God might harden the hearts of the damned, but reason cannot know this.
The only thing reason can say about hell with certainty, according to Meier, is that damned are less blessed there than in this life, and indeed, their unblessedness weighs clearly more than their remaining perfections, and all their unblessedness is based on sin and vice. The damned will have to do free actions in hell, hence, they will do more and greater sins than morally good actions. Because all sins presuppose practical errors, Meier thinks, the damned will have to think about many good and bad things, and these thoughts will either be as a whole false or then be so weak that they cannot determine the will of the damned. Indeed, they will have to have some satisfaction, but just of wrong things. The damned will sleep and be awake, and this will increase their pain, since the occasional sleep will make the pain clearer. Reason cannot say that the hell would be punishment only of sins in this world, since the damned will continue sinning and these sins will lead to at least natural punishments. Just like in the case of heaven, reason cannot say whether God will decree to those in hell additional punishments beyond the natural punishments.
Are the souls of the damned in hell physically more perfect than in this life? Will they have greater and stronger forces, will their powers of cognition and understanding be greater, will they have clearer, more distinct, more correct, more certain and livelier concepts than in this life? Meier reminds us that earlier we saw that we cannot decide on the basis of mere reason whether souls in general will be physically more or less perfect, yet, he at once adds, this is a different question. If the souls of the damned would be less perfect, they would not be as conscious of what was happening to them. Therefore, if the damned are to be punished properly, they should be more perfect. The problem is how could their will still be imperfect. Meier suggests that the damned must be lacking in truth, that is, their practical cognition must be either erroneous or not lively enough.
Meier still considers the question whether a dying person can know just on the basis of reason whether they are going to heaven or hell. He denies this, since we cannot know with certainty whether we have been more virtuous than vicious. Indeed, he adds, self-love often makes us confuse our vicious actions with virtuous deeds.
Meier concludes the chapter by considering attempted proofs for the immortality of the soul that are based on the goodness, wisdom and righteousness of God. Starting from goodness, he states that to show that something is in accord with the goodness of God, we should not just show that it is good in itself, but that it belongs to the best world. Indeed, something can be good in itself, but might cause imperfections in connection with other things: perfection of a part might contradict perfection of the whole. Meier thinks that we can know that all that happens in the world must be part of the best world, but we cannot beforehand say what is in accordance with God’s goodness. Indeed, even such a surprising thing as the fall of humans must have been for the best. Thus, he concludes, we cannot know whether denying immortality from the soul might serve other things, even if it takes some perfections away from the soul.
Meier thinks that it is even more difficult to argue anything on the basis of God’s wisdom: we know that best in every case is in accordance with God’s wisdom, but what is best? The system of the divine goals in the best world is incomprehensible to finite spirits, Meier insists, and we cannot do anything, but to wait for God’s plans to unfold. We cannot therefore say with certainty that immortality of our souls is in accordance with divine wisdom. It might seem unwise to first create something and then destroy it, Meier admits, but this is actually something we cannot be certain of: maybe human souls are so insignificant to the overall good of the universe that it is best to just get rid of them. Of course, we can abstractly say that human souls play an important part in achieving God’s goal of the best world and that eternally living soul would serve this goal better than a mortal spirit, but in relation to the whole creation of God the answer might be different. As a further point Meier notes the analogy that from an abstract viewpoint a sinless soul is better than sinful, but God has still allowed millions of souls to fall to sin.
Many people want to justify the immortality of human souls from divine righteousness, Meier notes, because God must reward and punish souls proportionally. Meier admits this, but immediately adds that we couldn’t then just assume that rewards and punishments in this world were not enough. At least natural rewards and punishments in this world are always equal to their causes and thus proportionate, although not always remarkable. Thus, if a virtuous person appears to face bad luck, they are either justly punished for some sins or then we are dealing with mere apparent evil. Meier considers the final objection that the free actions at the final moment of life should also require rewards and punishments, which cannot be given anymore in this life. His answer is that humans lose the ability for free actions long before the final moment of their life.
Meier begins by dividing all good and evil into two types. The first of these types consists of goods and evils that is from a closer standpoint not dependent on the freedom of the soul, but either belong to its nature in a physically necessary manner or occur in combination with external causes we are used to call luck. Meier names these physical goods and evils, while the second type consists of moral goods and evils. The latter are then dependent from a closer standpoint on the freedom of the soul. Examples of such moral goods and evils are good actions, sins, virtues and vices.
As long as a finite substance exists, Meier insists, it acts. Now, every action causes a change or an accident in the finite substance, by which the sum of its perfections either increases or decreases. As long as a finite substance exists in the world, it is in connection with all other finite substances, which affect it and thus either increase or decrease its realities. If the soul continues living after death, Meier explains, this increase or decrease will also continue. Because our immortality is uncertain, it is also uncertain whether our soul will be happy or unhappy. If it is more blessed after death than in this life, we say that the soul is in heaven; but if it is more corrupt, we say that it is in hell.
Heaven and hell require actions, virtues, sins and vices, Meier says, thus, heaven and hell can be ascribed only to substances performing free actions. If a soul goes to heaven or hell, it must then be able to use its understanding and live like a person after its death. In other words, the soul must continue living after its death, it cannot sleep eternally or live only in a sensuous manner, but it must be conscious of itself, think reasonably and perform free actions. According to Meier, none of these things can be proven from reason, therefore it is uncertain whether there is heaven and hell for humans. Still, Meier considers it certain that if the soul can use its higher capacities after death, it will become either more blessed or more corrupt than in this life and that it is necessarily either in heaven or in hell. Furthermore, he is convinced, because of the Bible, that heaven and hell exist. Meier is also quick to add that while he thinks their existence is uncertain, he doesn’t deny it, and indeed, considers that high probability of heaven and hell can be proven by reason.
Meier explains that his purpose is not to do an exegetical treatise on what the Bible says about heaven and hell. Still, he emphasises that while some theologians have declared explanations of heaven and hell, other than their own, blasphemous, interpretations of the Bible can be objected with good conscience. Even so, Meier quickly adds that he won’t use biblical expressions to declare something about the Bible, but only as shorthands.
Reason cannot give as stimulating a concept of heaven as God reveals in the Bible, Meier continues. The Bible, he thinks, says that all moral evil with its bad consequences will disappear in heaven and all its denizens will be so perfect, despite their finity, that they will not be disturbed by anything in their happiness. Reason, on the other hand, cannot ascertain that souls in heaven will not sin, since even the most virtuous have in this life a capacity to sin, so that mere divorce from the body seems not reason enough to assume that sinning will end. Such a change we could understand, if it happened gradually, while sudden disappearance of sin would be a wonder, which cannot be proven by reason.
Similarly, Meier suggests, reason cannot tell with certainty whether there will be no consequences for sin in heaven, such as guilt and punishments. Sin naturally has consequences, according to Meier, and death as such could not take away these consequences, because it shouldn't break the order of nature. Thus, by reason we should assume that punishments continue in heaven, but God could miraculously suppress the natural order. This is in line with what the Bible tells us about the Saviour, Meier says, but reason cannot prove the existence of Christ. Meier also thinks that reason cannot say souls living in happier parts of heaven will remain there eternally. In order to remain, they would have to continue living virtuously, but we cannot be certain whether they won’t sin again. The Bible, on the other hand, assures us God will strengthen the souls in heaven so that they will not sin again, but this is a miracle that reason cannot prove.
So far Meier hasn’t been able to find anything certain about heaven, but there are such things, he assures us. Souls in heaven will be more blessed than they are in current life, in other words, in heaven blessedness must be greater than the opposite imperfection. Now, blessedness is not possible without virtue, so that the blessed in heaven will do more morally good than morally bad actions. They will especially do their duties toward God, but also toward themselves and others. Thus, Meier concludes, they will have to have good understanding, and clearer, more distinct and livelier concepts than in this world. Nothing else can we say about heaven with the help of reason, Meier insists.
Meier considers the question whether heaven is a reward for virtuous actions in this world. He thinks it cannot be just that, for then there could be people in heaven who would not act virtuously anymore after death or who would sin in heaven. Thus, blessedness in heaven should be a consequence of good deeds in heaven, although it could also be a reward for virtuous deeds in this world. Reason can regard heaven with certainty only as a natural reward or consequence of good actions, although it understands the possibility of God freely choosing to share extra rewards.
Meier thinks that everything he has said of heaven could be applied analogously to hell. The Bible gives a detailed view of the hell that reason could not demonstrate. Philosophers cannot say whether the damned could still make good actions, although we can assume that people who were more vicious than virtuous during their life will probably continue in the same manner and will thus find themselves in hell. To reason it seems probable that the damned can still do good things. Indeed, since no finite thing can be completely imperfect, in Meier’s opinion, reason cannot think a damned person without any perfections, because they must still have their essence, force and actuality. Reason might even assume that the damned will receive some rewards in hell, even if the Bible says that cannot happen, because good deeds will have their natural rewards, and where is a human being who would never do any good deeds?
Eternity of hell and punishment cannot be demonstrated by reason, Meier says. If hell had no exit, there would be no improvement nor conversion and God’s mercy would be eternally deprived from the damned. Reason can prove neither of these with certainty, because the amount of vice is contingent and thus damned could become virtuous and leave hell: God might harden the hearts of the damned, but reason cannot know this.
The only thing reason can say about hell with certainty, according to Meier, is that damned are less blessed there than in this life, and indeed, their unblessedness weighs clearly more than their remaining perfections, and all their unblessedness is based on sin and vice. The damned will have to do free actions in hell, hence, they will do more and greater sins than morally good actions. Because all sins presuppose practical errors, Meier thinks, the damned will have to think about many good and bad things, and these thoughts will either be as a whole false or then be so weak that they cannot determine the will of the damned. Indeed, they will have to have some satisfaction, but just of wrong things. The damned will sleep and be awake, and this will increase their pain, since the occasional sleep will make the pain clearer. Reason cannot say that the hell would be punishment only of sins in this world, since the damned will continue sinning and these sins will lead to at least natural punishments. Just like in the case of heaven, reason cannot say whether God will decree to those in hell additional punishments beyond the natural punishments.
Are the souls of the damned in hell physically more perfect than in this life? Will they have greater and stronger forces, will their powers of cognition and understanding be greater, will they have clearer, more distinct, more correct, more certain and livelier concepts than in this life? Meier reminds us that earlier we saw that we cannot decide on the basis of mere reason whether souls in general will be physically more or less perfect, yet, he at once adds, this is a different question. If the souls of the damned would be less perfect, they would not be as conscious of what was happening to them. Therefore, if the damned are to be punished properly, they should be more perfect. The problem is how could their will still be imperfect. Meier suggests that the damned must be lacking in truth, that is, their practical cognition must be either erroneous or not lively enough.
Meier still considers the question whether a dying person can know just on the basis of reason whether they are going to heaven or hell. He denies this, since we cannot know with certainty whether we have been more virtuous than vicious. Indeed, he adds, self-love often makes us confuse our vicious actions with virtuous deeds.
Meier concludes the chapter by considering attempted proofs for the immortality of the soul that are based on the goodness, wisdom and righteousness of God. Starting from goodness, he states that to show that something is in accord with the goodness of God, we should not just show that it is good in itself, but that it belongs to the best world. Indeed, something can be good in itself, but might cause imperfections in connection with other things: perfection of a part might contradict perfection of the whole. Meier thinks that we can know that all that happens in the world must be part of the best world, but we cannot beforehand say what is in accordance with God’s goodness. Indeed, even such a surprising thing as the fall of humans must have been for the best. Thus, he concludes, we cannot know whether denying immortality from the soul might serve other things, even if it takes some perfections away from the soul.
Meier thinks that it is even more difficult to argue anything on the basis of God’s wisdom: we know that best in every case is in accordance with God’s wisdom, but what is best? The system of the divine goals in the best world is incomprehensible to finite spirits, Meier insists, and we cannot do anything, but to wait for God’s plans to unfold. We cannot therefore say with certainty that immortality of our souls is in accordance with divine wisdom. It might seem unwise to first create something and then destroy it, Meier admits, but this is actually something we cannot be certain of: maybe human souls are so insignificant to the overall good of the universe that it is best to just get rid of them. Of course, we can abstractly say that human souls play an important part in achieving God’s goal of the best world and that eternally living soul would serve this goal better than a mortal spirit, but in relation to the whole creation of God the answer might be different. As a further point Meier notes the analogy that from an abstract viewpoint a sinless soul is better than sinful, but God has still allowed millions of souls to fall to sin.
Many people want to justify the immortality of human souls from divine righteousness, Meier notes, because God must reward and punish souls proportionally. Meier admits this, but immediately adds that we couldn’t then just assume that rewards and punishments in this world were not enough. At least natural rewards and punishments in this world are always equal to their causes and thus proportionate, although not always remarkable. Thus, if a virtuous person appears to face bad luck, they are either justly punished for some sins or then we are dealing with mere apparent evil. Meier considers the final objection that the free actions at the final moment of life should also require rewards and punishments, which cannot be given anymore in this life. His answer is that humans lose the ability for free actions long before the final moment of their life.
keskiviikko 19. kesäkuuta 2024
Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on the condition of the soul after death – Will we have bodies in the beyond?
Having just shown how uncertain the question of our immortality is, Meier continues by investigating what we could say about our condition after death, assuming we exist at all. He notes that this condition has two different aspects: our moral state or condition or what is based on our freedom and our physical state or condition or what is not based on our freedom of soul, in other words, all the inner contingent features of the soul that are caused by natural necessity. Meier starts with a study of the physical condition, leaving the moral condition to a later chapter.
Meier begins by considering the condition of the soul at the very moment of death. He notes that people feel fear at impending death and thus think that death is something horrible. He then reassures the reader that this fear is either caused by something else than death itself or it is completely unfounded. Death itself is just a transition to a new condition and is therefore nothing to fear about, even if the condition after this transition or the end of our current condition might be.
Indeed, Meier goes on, all of our negative emotions in our current condition are caused by a clear feeling of imperfection. Thus, if it is probable that the soul is not even conscious of itself at the time of death, death has physically nothing to be afraid of. Now, death severs the connection of the soul and body, which makes all the feelings and sensations connected to organs of the body vanish. Dying soul cannot then immediately feel its body and it will not be conscious of the condition of the body and is even incapable of feeling pain. This still leaves the possibility that the soul might be in pain during the final moments just before death. Meier assures us that during these moments we have no external sensations and our soul probably sleeps without dreams.
Meier notes that before Christianity people often believed in reincarnation, probably because they couldn’t understand how soul could endure without a body. Since they knew of no other organic bodies than animals, they thought that the soul would occupy another human body or then some other animal body. Meier quickly dismisses the idea of reincarnation, not really with any arguments, but just by setting it aside. Still, he thinks that the idea of reincarnation contained the important notion that after its death the soul will have a new body.
Meier goes on to explain why we call a certain body our own. Firstly, we represent this body more strongly and more often than other bodies. Indeed, we immediately represent only our bodies, while the existence of other bodies we deduce from the effects they have on our sense organs. Furthermore, whenever we represent other bodies, we also represent our own body. Secondly, what we call our body is in most close combination with our soul, since our soul affects no other thing so immediately and strongly and no other finite thing affects our soul as immediately and strongly.
Thus, Meier concludes, if we can prove that the same things hold for some other body after our death, it can be shown that the soul will be connected to another body. Assuming then that the soul has after death representations of the bodies in the world and is connected to them, Meier insists that the level of these representations and connections varies quantitatively and one of these levels must be greatest. The body to which this greatest level applies will therefore be our own body. Furthermore, Meier adds, representing external things requires sensations, which also requires that the soul has its own body.
Meier makes the remark that the soul will then in a sense not die, since it will always be connected to a body – just not the same one that it had earlier. He quickly adds that this is not against the Bible, since the scripture does not deny that the soul will be embodied after its death. Of course, he notes, people have a tendency to ask for more detailed characteristics, when something is proven to exist, and if such characteristics cannot be described with any probability, they disbelieve the proof of the existence. Thus, people will want to know what our bodies after death will be like, and indeed, Meier says, there have been many speculations about them: they are shiny, weightless and have sense organs all over. Meier makes fun of all these speculations and tells the reader that some gourmands would probably insist that our new bodies must have a stomach, although actually nothing definite can yet be known about them.
Where do these new bodies then come from? Meier recounts that some newer philosophers suggest it will be a quintessence of our current bodies and thus resemble it in outline – a sort of astral body. He agrees that this would be in line with the principle that nature makes no leaps. Yet, he adds, we only have a very vague idea of the basic parts of the human body and we cannot comprehend how such an astral body would not even now interact with our visible body.
The next question Meier deals with concerns the constitution of the new bodies. Will they be more perfect or imperfect than the current ones and do they even belong to the same species? Meier will later argue that we cannot even know whether our soul will be more perfect or imperfect after our death, thus, he concludes, we also cannot say anything about the perfection of our future bodies. As for the question of the species of the body, Meier notes that nature mostly deals with similarities, but that organic processes also involve natural variety, such as when a caterpillar dies and becomes a butterfly. He also points out that before birth our bodies looked very different from what they look like after birth and suggests that the external shape is not an essential feature of the human bodies, but determined by the standpoint from which we represent the world.
Meier mentions theological discussions about souls sleeping for a while after death. He notes that there is no consensus how long this sleep would last, although some theologians have suggested it will last until resurrection. Meier thinks that the human reason can say nothing decisive about this issue, although a period of sleep appears probable, since death means passage from one body to another, which could imply that for a while we might have more obscure sensations. He adds that such a time of sleep should be especially accepted by those who believe that the soul will not have a body after death, since our soul in this life conceives things only in relation to its body and it would seem improbable that the soul gained completely new capacities. Then again, he immediately says, it also seems reasonable that the soul would be awake after death, because it should immediately be connected to another body, thus receiving new and therefore very clear representations.
The previous considerations of the physical state have been of no interest to moral or religion, Meier thinks, and then suggests a question that is: will the soul live after death spiritually or just sensuously? This question presupposes Leibnizian division of finite monads into three classes: the lowest class consists of elements of bodies that represent the world only obscurely, higher than these are sensuous souls that represent the world obscurely and clearly, but indistinctly, and the highest class is formed of finite spirits – including human souls – that represent at least parts of the world distinctly. Question is then whether souls can move from one class to another, either upwards or downwards
According to Meier, some philosophers have said that while there generally may be progress within a class, nothing can leave its class. Meier argues against this opinion, because we see things changing their classes daily: an ignorant person becomes learned, a caterpillar becomes a butterfly etc. The opinion is true if we speak of classes defined by essential differences, Meier admits, but we haven’t yet proven that, for instance, being unable to represent distinctly is an essential property of sensuous souls. A particular objection against souls changing their classes is that the souls are hindered by the limits of their force of representation. Meier notes that this argument just begs the question, since assuming sensuous souls to be incapable of becoming a spirit is just what had to be proven. Thus, Meier concludes, no one has yet proven that a soul could not move from one class to another.
Meier himself thinks that although it is not certain, it is at least very probable that an element of a body can become a sensuous soul and then a spirit. His argument hinges on the idea that a difference between obscure, clear, but indistinct, and distinct representations is just quantitative: an obscure representation becomes clear when its parts are forceful enough to distinguish the whole representation from other, while an indistinct representation becomes distinct, when its parts become clear representations. Thus, Meier insists, representative force that had represented only obscurely has to just grow and gain more parts to become more perfect. Experience seems to show that such growth happens, he adds, since babies still represent things obscurely. Corruption of representative force seems also possible, Meier adds, since no level of clarity is necessary and experience shows that e.g. formerly distinct representations are forgotten.
Meier foresees the objection that the ability to develop distinct representations is already a defining characteristic of spirits, which would lead us to straightforward idealism. He suggests that this is just a question of how to define words. By spirits, he thinks, is not usually meant any entities that have an absolute or abstract possibility for distinct representations. What is required, instead, is a hypothetical possibility for distinct representations in the current context. Furthermore, what is now hypothetically impossible can become hypothetically possible, thus, animals might in future become spirits, Meier concludes. In addition, while our soul is spirit as long as it is connected to a body in this world and hence belongs to the highest class of finite monads, it is possible that it will lose its higher capacities after death and even all consciousness. All of this depends on nothing but the decree of God.
Meier recounts that philosophers have argued that a soul will have a more perfect power of representation after death, because finite things must constantly increase their perfection, since perfection leads to more perfection, as a good tree bears only good fruits. He considers this a weak argument, since the good fruits might not anymore affect the finite thing that caused them. In addition, the human soul has many imperfections that can cause further imperfections that might overcome the perfections, just like imperfections of our body cause the ailments of old age. Meier mentions also an argument from analogy with birth: just like semen is turned more perfect in the womb, similar change happens when the soul gets a new body with its death. He points out that we cannot really say how good the analogy is, since we are not even sure whether the soul is not destroyed in death.
Could the soul just sleep eternally? If it will, Meier ponders, all its future representations will be obscure and it will descend to the level of mere elements of bodies. He notes that eternal sleep contains no contradiction, since clarity of our representations is not necessary. Furthermore, he says, eternal sleep is even hypothetically possible, because consciousness of the soul depends on constant help from God, and if God chooses not to help it anymore, the soul will sink into sleep. In addition, the soul could also be combined with a body similar to what it had before birth, which would also mean a relapse into eternal sleep. Then again, Meier admits, it is possible that God will continue helping the soul and that it will get a physically more perfect body that is better equipped for clear representations. Furthermore, although we cannot demonstrate anything certain about this question, Meier insists, it is more probable that it will not sleep eternally, since God cannot reward and punish us, if the soul sleeps eternally.
Assuming that the soul won’t sleep eternally after its death, Meier thinks he can prove that it will still sleep sometimes. If we assume immortality to be true, he suggests, the nature of our soul isn’t completely changed, and thus it will want to rest from time to time, as its clear representations become obscure: rest renews our powers and makes our representations very clear after a period of obscurity. According to Meier, if there was no sleep in heaven and hell, they wouldn’t feel as pleasurable and painful, but would eventually become obscure.
Supposing that the soul does not sleep eternally, will it retain its higher capacities or will it descend into a state of an animal? Like with many questions before, Meier has to conclude that this depends on God’s will and cannot thus be demonstrated. The supposed proofs Meier considers fall for the same errors as proofs against the soul changing its class after death.
Can the soul distinctly remember its state before death and can it know itself to be the same person as it was? Meier refers to some ancient philosophers who had assumed that the soul will forget everything of its current life: he explicitly mentions the story of Lethe, the mythical river of forgetfulness. Meier notes that there is no reason to assume that the soul won’t forget everything and in current life we have examples of people losing their memories due to a sickness. Some might even think it a good thing to forget all the pains of the current life, he adds. Then again, it is more natural and more probable to assume that the soul will remember itself.
Meier goes through some fanciful ideas of the places where souls will go after their deaths: some people think heaven lies at the centre of Earth and the hell on a comet, some think that souls remain on Earth, others believe they will sour the stars. Meier thinks it futile to investigate all these suggestions. What we can say, according to Meier, is that if the soul is immortal, it will find itself after death in such a position that is demanded by the standpoint from which it represents the world and through which it steps in close connection with things that are appropriate for the role it will play after death. Furthermore, he thinks it necessary that the soul will remain in the world, because the world is a series of all actual contingent things: even the biblical heaven and hell would be just parts of this world.
Even less can we say about the actions of the soul after death, Meier says. According to him, if the soul can use all its capacities, it will have many new representations. Thus, it will have many new desires and aversions and will move its new body in many ways. Anything else about these actions cannot be known, because the place the souls are in and the things they are in contact with determine their actions also.
What happens to the souls of children who die before they have learned to use their reason? Again, Meier thinks that we cannot really know. If the souls of children are not destroyed, they will certainly live forever, and then they will get new bodies, which might enable the use of higher capacities, Meier argues. Still, all of this is uncertain, and their current lack of higher capacities makes all of this slightly more improbable. The case is similar with old people who have exhausted their capacities and have come into a second childhood. Meier notes that some people suggest that the feebleness of the faculties of the elderly is wholly dependent on the frailty of their body and that freedom from this body would instantly return the higher capacities. He answers that considering the harmony of the soul and body, it is certain that the soul has something to do with their demented state.
Meier begins by considering the condition of the soul at the very moment of death. He notes that people feel fear at impending death and thus think that death is something horrible. He then reassures the reader that this fear is either caused by something else than death itself or it is completely unfounded. Death itself is just a transition to a new condition and is therefore nothing to fear about, even if the condition after this transition or the end of our current condition might be.
Indeed, Meier goes on, all of our negative emotions in our current condition are caused by a clear feeling of imperfection. Thus, if it is probable that the soul is not even conscious of itself at the time of death, death has physically nothing to be afraid of. Now, death severs the connection of the soul and body, which makes all the feelings and sensations connected to organs of the body vanish. Dying soul cannot then immediately feel its body and it will not be conscious of the condition of the body and is even incapable of feeling pain. This still leaves the possibility that the soul might be in pain during the final moments just before death. Meier assures us that during these moments we have no external sensations and our soul probably sleeps without dreams.
Meier notes that before Christianity people often believed in reincarnation, probably because they couldn’t understand how soul could endure without a body. Since they knew of no other organic bodies than animals, they thought that the soul would occupy another human body or then some other animal body. Meier quickly dismisses the idea of reincarnation, not really with any arguments, but just by setting it aside. Still, he thinks that the idea of reincarnation contained the important notion that after its death the soul will have a new body.
Meier goes on to explain why we call a certain body our own. Firstly, we represent this body more strongly and more often than other bodies. Indeed, we immediately represent only our bodies, while the existence of other bodies we deduce from the effects they have on our sense organs. Furthermore, whenever we represent other bodies, we also represent our own body. Secondly, what we call our body is in most close combination with our soul, since our soul affects no other thing so immediately and strongly and no other finite thing affects our soul as immediately and strongly.
Thus, Meier concludes, if we can prove that the same things hold for some other body after our death, it can be shown that the soul will be connected to another body. Assuming then that the soul has after death representations of the bodies in the world and is connected to them, Meier insists that the level of these representations and connections varies quantitatively and one of these levels must be greatest. The body to which this greatest level applies will therefore be our own body. Furthermore, Meier adds, representing external things requires sensations, which also requires that the soul has its own body.
Meier makes the remark that the soul will then in a sense not die, since it will always be connected to a body – just not the same one that it had earlier. He quickly adds that this is not against the Bible, since the scripture does not deny that the soul will be embodied after its death. Of course, he notes, people have a tendency to ask for more detailed characteristics, when something is proven to exist, and if such characteristics cannot be described with any probability, they disbelieve the proof of the existence. Thus, people will want to know what our bodies after death will be like, and indeed, Meier says, there have been many speculations about them: they are shiny, weightless and have sense organs all over. Meier makes fun of all these speculations and tells the reader that some gourmands would probably insist that our new bodies must have a stomach, although actually nothing definite can yet be known about them.
Where do these new bodies then come from? Meier recounts that some newer philosophers suggest it will be a quintessence of our current bodies and thus resemble it in outline – a sort of astral body. He agrees that this would be in line with the principle that nature makes no leaps. Yet, he adds, we only have a very vague idea of the basic parts of the human body and we cannot comprehend how such an astral body would not even now interact with our visible body.
The next question Meier deals with concerns the constitution of the new bodies. Will they be more perfect or imperfect than the current ones and do they even belong to the same species? Meier will later argue that we cannot even know whether our soul will be more perfect or imperfect after our death, thus, he concludes, we also cannot say anything about the perfection of our future bodies. As for the question of the species of the body, Meier notes that nature mostly deals with similarities, but that organic processes also involve natural variety, such as when a caterpillar dies and becomes a butterfly. He also points out that before birth our bodies looked very different from what they look like after birth and suggests that the external shape is not an essential feature of the human bodies, but determined by the standpoint from which we represent the world.
Meier mentions theological discussions about souls sleeping for a while after death. He notes that there is no consensus how long this sleep would last, although some theologians have suggested it will last until resurrection. Meier thinks that the human reason can say nothing decisive about this issue, although a period of sleep appears probable, since death means passage from one body to another, which could imply that for a while we might have more obscure sensations. He adds that such a time of sleep should be especially accepted by those who believe that the soul will not have a body after death, since our soul in this life conceives things only in relation to its body and it would seem improbable that the soul gained completely new capacities. Then again, he immediately says, it also seems reasonable that the soul would be awake after death, because it should immediately be connected to another body, thus receiving new and therefore very clear representations.
The previous considerations of the physical state have been of no interest to moral or religion, Meier thinks, and then suggests a question that is: will the soul live after death spiritually or just sensuously? This question presupposes Leibnizian division of finite monads into three classes: the lowest class consists of elements of bodies that represent the world only obscurely, higher than these are sensuous souls that represent the world obscurely and clearly, but indistinctly, and the highest class is formed of finite spirits – including human souls – that represent at least parts of the world distinctly. Question is then whether souls can move from one class to another, either upwards or downwards
According to Meier, some philosophers have said that while there generally may be progress within a class, nothing can leave its class. Meier argues against this opinion, because we see things changing their classes daily: an ignorant person becomes learned, a caterpillar becomes a butterfly etc. The opinion is true if we speak of classes defined by essential differences, Meier admits, but we haven’t yet proven that, for instance, being unable to represent distinctly is an essential property of sensuous souls. A particular objection against souls changing their classes is that the souls are hindered by the limits of their force of representation. Meier notes that this argument just begs the question, since assuming sensuous souls to be incapable of becoming a spirit is just what had to be proven. Thus, Meier concludes, no one has yet proven that a soul could not move from one class to another.
Meier himself thinks that although it is not certain, it is at least very probable that an element of a body can become a sensuous soul and then a spirit. His argument hinges on the idea that a difference between obscure, clear, but indistinct, and distinct representations is just quantitative: an obscure representation becomes clear when its parts are forceful enough to distinguish the whole representation from other, while an indistinct representation becomes distinct, when its parts become clear representations. Thus, Meier insists, representative force that had represented only obscurely has to just grow and gain more parts to become more perfect. Experience seems to show that such growth happens, he adds, since babies still represent things obscurely. Corruption of representative force seems also possible, Meier adds, since no level of clarity is necessary and experience shows that e.g. formerly distinct representations are forgotten.
Meier foresees the objection that the ability to develop distinct representations is already a defining characteristic of spirits, which would lead us to straightforward idealism. He suggests that this is just a question of how to define words. By spirits, he thinks, is not usually meant any entities that have an absolute or abstract possibility for distinct representations. What is required, instead, is a hypothetical possibility for distinct representations in the current context. Furthermore, what is now hypothetically impossible can become hypothetically possible, thus, animals might in future become spirits, Meier concludes. In addition, while our soul is spirit as long as it is connected to a body in this world and hence belongs to the highest class of finite monads, it is possible that it will lose its higher capacities after death and even all consciousness. All of this depends on nothing but the decree of God.
Meier recounts that philosophers have argued that a soul will have a more perfect power of representation after death, because finite things must constantly increase their perfection, since perfection leads to more perfection, as a good tree bears only good fruits. He considers this a weak argument, since the good fruits might not anymore affect the finite thing that caused them. In addition, the human soul has many imperfections that can cause further imperfections that might overcome the perfections, just like imperfections of our body cause the ailments of old age. Meier mentions also an argument from analogy with birth: just like semen is turned more perfect in the womb, similar change happens when the soul gets a new body with its death. He points out that we cannot really say how good the analogy is, since we are not even sure whether the soul is not destroyed in death.
Could the soul just sleep eternally? If it will, Meier ponders, all its future representations will be obscure and it will descend to the level of mere elements of bodies. He notes that eternal sleep contains no contradiction, since clarity of our representations is not necessary. Furthermore, he says, eternal sleep is even hypothetically possible, because consciousness of the soul depends on constant help from God, and if God chooses not to help it anymore, the soul will sink into sleep. In addition, the soul could also be combined with a body similar to what it had before birth, which would also mean a relapse into eternal sleep. Then again, Meier admits, it is possible that God will continue helping the soul and that it will get a physically more perfect body that is better equipped for clear representations. Furthermore, although we cannot demonstrate anything certain about this question, Meier insists, it is more probable that it will not sleep eternally, since God cannot reward and punish us, if the soul sleeps eternally.
Assuming that the soul won’t sleep eternally after its death, Meier thinks he can prove that it will still sleep sometimes. If we assume immortality to be true, he suggests, the nature of our soul isn’t completely changed, and thus it will want to rest from time to time, as its clear representations become obscure: rest renews our powers and makes our representations very clear after a period of obscurity. According to Meier, if there was no sleep in heaven and hell, they wouldn’t feel as pleasurable and painful, but would eventually become obscure.
Supposing that the soul does not sleep eternally, will it retain its higher capacities or will it descend into a state of an animal? Like with many questions before, Meier has to conclude that this depends on God’s will and cannot thus be demonstrated. The supposed proofs Meier considers fall for the same errors as proofs against the soul changing its class after death.
Can the soul distinctly remember its state before death and can it know itself to be the same person as it was? Meier refers to some ancient philosophers who had assumed that the soul will forget everything of its current life: he explicitly mentions the story of Lethe, the mythical river of forgetfulness. Meier notes that there is no reason to assume that the soul won’t forget everything and in current life we have examples of people losing their memories due to a sickness. Some might even think it a good thing to forget all the pains of the current life, he adds. Then again, it is more natural and more probable to assume that the soul will remember itself.
Meier goes through some fanciful ideas of the places where souls will go after their deaths: some people think heaven lies at the centre of Earth and the hell on a comet, some think that souls remain on Earth, others believe they will sour the stars. Meier thinks it futile to investigate all these suggestions. What we can say, according to Meier, is that if the soul is immortal, it will find itself after death in such a position that is demanded by the standpoint from which it represents the world and through which it steps in close connection with things that are appropriate for the role it will play after death. Furthermore, he thinks it necessary that the soul will remain in the world, because the world is a series of all actual contingent things: even the biblical heaven and hell would be just parts of this world.
Even less can we say about the actions of the soul after death, Meier says. According to him, if the soul can use all its capacities, it will have many new representations. Thus, it will have many new desires and aversions and will move its new body in many ways. Anything else about these actions cannot be known, because the place the souls are in and the things they are in contact with determine their actions also.
What happens to the souls of children who die before they have learned to use their reason? Again, Meier thinks that we cannot really know. If the souls of children are not destroyed, they will certainly live forever, and then they will get new bodies, which might enable the use of higher capacities, Meier argues. Still, all of this is uncertain, and their current lack of higher capacities makes all of this slightly more improbable. The case is similar with old people who have exhausted their capacities and have come into a second childhood. Meier notes that some people suggest that the feebleness of the faculties of the elderly is wholly dependent on the frailty of their body and that freedom from this body would instantly return the higher capacities. He answers that considering the harmony of the soul and body, it is certain that the soul has something to do with their demented state.
keskiviikko 22. toukokuuta 2024
Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on the condition of the soul after death – Is there life after death?
This time we are considering the part of Meier’s treatise he himself considers the most important: he will show that the immortality of the soul is uncertain, making it thus even more uncertain what the life after death would be like. Meier begins from something he considers to be a proven fact, that is, the simplicity and immateriality of the soul. Like all simple beings, he continues, the soul has – or more likely, is – a force that supports its accidental features. This means that the soul exists as long as it retains its force, which is its nature.
This force or nature is the sufficient reason for the changes of the soul, Meier notes. Thus, as long as the soul exists, this nature acts, and this acting can be witnessed in the various ways its accidental features change. These changes are what the life of the soul consists of. As long as the soul exists, then, it lives, or the soul and its life are intrinsically entwined to one another. Meier adds the clarification that it is only the sensuous life he is speaking of and thus the only thing that needs to be proven is this sensuous life of the soul.
Meier follows the Wolffian tradition in stating that simple things like the soul cannot be taken apart, but they can only be destroyed through a complete annihilation, whereby nothing remains of the simple thing that does not exist anymore. Since the soul is a finite thing, it changes and can even fail to exist. Thus, Meier concludes, it is possible that it will be annihilated or that it dies after its death. Indeed, thinking the soul necessarily exists would be tantamount to equating it with God.
Now, Meier admits, this argument determines the mortality of the soul only in itself or in abstraction. To determine whether the soul will truly die or not requires determining whether there are any actual causes that would annihilate it. Meier notes that if the soul is annihilated, it must be annihilated by some substance and its force, which has to be one of three kinds: the soul itself, some other finite substance and its force or God with their infinite power.
Meier quickly concludes that the soul cannot annihilate itself: if the soul is to do something, it must exist, excluding the possibility of the soul being annihilated when it acts. For a somewhat similar reason, Meier insists, a soul cannot be annihilated by other finite things. This proposition Meier bases on the general fact that when a finite thing acts on another finite thing, the other thing acts also in the same measure back to the original thing. This means that if a finite thing would annihilate another, this other thing would at the same time have to exist and act on the first thing, making the annihilation impossible.
The only option left is then that God might annihilate the soul. Meier notes that God should be able to do everything that is in itself possible, which implies that God must also be able to kill the soul. Of course, he adds, God might not choose to do so. Still, he thinks, we cannot really know what God has chosen about this matter. Following the common assumptions of the Wolffian tradition, Meier thinks that God has chosen to actualise the best possible world. Since we haven’t died yet, we cannot know by experience whether our soul will continue to live after it. Then again, if we wanted to demonstrate this future life without relying on experience, we would have to show that it is a necessary ingredient of the best possible world. Such a demonstration, in Meier's opinion, would require going through all the events of the actual world, which clearly exceeds our capacities.
Meier has concluded the main task of this chapter: he has shown we cannot be certain that God won’t destroy us and thus our immortality cannot be demonstrated. Then again, he adds, we also cannot demonstrate that immortality would be contradictory. Meier goes even so far as to argue that materialism is not incompatible with the immortality of the soul. Of course, he immediately adds, if the soul were just another name for the body or some part of it, like the brain, it would die at the same time as the body dies. Then again, materialism is compatible with the position that the soul is something different from the body, just as long as it will be material, for instance, an atom or a combination of atoms. As an atom, the soul could very well be immortal, and even if the soul were a combination of atoms, it might be such that it cannot be broken apart like ordinary matter.
As a conclusion of this chapter, Meier goes through a list of supposed proofs for the immortality of soul, showing all to be lacking. I shall go through these proofs and Meier’s criticism of them very quickly:
This force or nature is the sufficient reason for the changes of the soul, Meier notes. Thus, as long as the soul exists, this nature acts, and this acting can be witnessed in the various ways its accidental features change. These changes are what the life of the soul consists of. As long as the soul exists, then, it lives, or the soul and its life are intrinsically entwined to one another. Meier adds the clarification that it is only the sensuous life he is speaking of and thus the only thing that needs to be proven is this sensuous life of the soul.
Meier follows the Wolffian tradition in stating that simple things like the soul cannot be taken apart, but they can only be destroyed through a complete annihilation, whereby nothing remains of the simple thing that does not exist anymore. Since the soul is a finite thing, it changes and can even fail to exist. Thus, Meier concludes, it is possible that it will be annihilated or that it dies after its death. Indeed, thinking the soul necessarily exists would be tantamount to equating it with God.
Now, Meier admits, this argument determines the mortality of the soul only in itself or in abstraction. To determine whether the soul will truly die or not requires determining whether there are any actual causes that would annihilate it. Meier notes that if the soul is annihilated, it must be annihilated by some substance and its force, which has to be one of three kinds: the soul itself, some other finite substance and its force or God with their infinite power.
Meier quickly concludes that the soul cannot annihilate itself: if the soul is to do something, it must exist, excluding the possibility of the soul being annihilated when it acts. For a somewhat similar reason, Meier insists, a soul cannot be annihilated by other finite things. This proposition Meier bases on the general fact that when a finite thing acts on another finite thing, the other thing acts also in the same measure back to the original thing. This means that if a finite thing would annihilate another, this other thing would at the same time have to exist and act on the first thing, making the annihilation impossible.
The only option left is then that God might annihilate the soul. Meier notes that God should be able to do everything that is in itself possible, which implies that God must also be able to kill the soul. Of course, he adds, God might not choose to do so. Still, he thinks, we cannot really know what God has chosen about this matter. Following the common assumptions of the Wolffian tradition, Meier thinks that God has chosen to actualise the best possible world. Since we haven’t died yet, we cannot know by experience whether our soul will continue to live after it. Then again, if we wanted to demonstrate this future life without relying on experience, we would have to show that it is a necessary ingredient of the best possible world. Such a demonstration, in Meier's opinion, would require going through all the events of the actual world, which clearly exceeds our capacities.
Meier has concluded the main task of this chapter: he has shown we cannot be certain that God won’t destroy us and thus our immortality cannot be demonstrated. Then again, he adds, we also cannot demonstrate that immortality would be contradictory. Meier goes even so far as to argue that materialism is not incompatible with the immortality of the soul. Of course, he immediately adds, if the soul were just another name for the body or some part of it, like the brain, it would die at the same time as the body dies. Then again, materialism is compatible with the position that the soul is something different from the body, just as long as it will be material, for instance, an atom or a combination of atoms. As an atom, the soul could very well be immortal, and even if the soul were a combination of atoms, it might be such that it cannot be broken apart like ordinary matter.
As a conclusion of this chapter, Meier goes through a list of supposed proofs for the immortality of soul, showing all to be lacking. I shall go through these proofs and Meier’s criticism of them very quickly:
- Simplicity justifies immortality; Meier notes that this assumption ignores the possibility of God annihilating the soul
- Our drive for eternal life justifies immortality; Meir insists that even if we had such an innate drive, this would by itself justify immortality just as poorly as our sexual drive would prove we will have sex at some point
- Shared conviction of all nations justifies immortality; Meier notes that before Copernicus we could have with similar grounds said that the Sun truly rotates the Earth
- Failure of arguments against immortality justifies immortality; Meier thinks that this argument is as convincing as if he would say that the Moon must have telepathetic denizens, because we cannot prove it wrong.
sunnuntai 28. huhtikuuta 2024
Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on the condition of the soul after death – What is immortality?
After the preliminary considerations, Meier begins his investigation by elucidation of what is meant by the soul being immortal. He notes that many earlier philosophers, especially those of Cartesian school, had said that the soul's immortality means that it will not be decomposed. Because they also thought that the soul was simple and thus composed of nothing further, they imagined they had sufficiently proven the soul to be immortal.
Meier notes that this Cartesian notion of immortality is simply inadequate: even if the soul cannot be destroyed, it might still fail to be immortal. As an extreme case of an opposite kind, Meier introduces Ludvig Thümmig’s notion of immortality. Thümmig had said that to be immortal, the soul must not just be indestructible, but it also must exist eternally after death, live after death and finally recollect its previous life. Meier thinks Thümmig includes in his notion things that are not really about the immortality of the soul, but about the condition of the soul after death. The true notion should then lie somewhere between Cartesian and Thümmig’s notions.
Meier starts his own discussion of immortality with a discussion of life, which he defines, following Baumgarten, as something continuing its own nature. By nature Meier means sum of all such inner determinations that causes changes in accidences or makes them actual. Thus, he elucidates, nature of something does not include just its essence and capacities, but also forces. One could then prove that something lives by showing, firstly, that it continues to have its capacities or forces, or secondly, by showing that it continues to have actual accidences or changes in them that depend on its particular nature. Meier notes that the latter method is more common and easier, and indeed, the only way we can prove the life of something from experience, because we cannot directly perceive capacities and forces. For instance, we can know a tree has not died during winter, only if we see it grow leaves again in spring.
Death Meier then defines as the opposite of life, that is, interruption in the nature of something. Hence, something can be known to have died, firstly, if we know a priori that its forces have disappeared, or secondly, if we know a posteriori that it has no natural changes or accidences anymore. Note that the dead thing can still change in a manner that does not belong to its particular nature, just like a dead tree can still rot.
Meier continues by defining human being as a complex consisting of a reasoning soul and a human body, which are in a close relation of correspondence. Humans thus have three types of life: life of their body, life of their soul and life of the whole human being. Meier notes that the life of a human being requires the life of the body and the soul. Then again, he adds, if a human body lives, so must its soul and the whole human being also. The death of the human being implies then the death of the body and the ensuing separation of the body and the soul, but it need not imply the death of the soul.
In separation from the body, Meier says, the soul has two kinds of life, because it has two types of forces. In regard to its lower capacities, based on indistinct representations, it has sensuous or animal life, while in regard to its higher capacities, based on distinct representations, it has spiritual life. Now, he adds, spiritual life requires sensuous life, but not the other way around, as we can see in a sleeping person. Soul can then also die in two senses: by losing its sensuous life and thus all representation or by losing its spiritual life and only distinct representations.
Meier defines mortal to be something that can die, while immortal things cannot die. Because what is impossible cannot be actual, assuming the immortality of the soul means, he explains, assuming that the soul cannot die and that it will continue living after the death of the human being. Because what is possible need still not be actual, mortality of the soul might not mean that it would actually die, although usually people assume that the mortality of the soul implies its eventual death.
Following common definitions in the ontology of his times, Meier notes that possibility and impossibility could be absolute or hypothetical. This implies then two senses of mortality and immortality. If something is absolutely or in itself mortal, it can die, when we do not regard its relation to other things. Hypothetically mortal, on the other hand, is mortal when regarded in relation to other things or in some context. Meier notes that the human body is mortal both in itself and hypothetically. Absolutely immortal is then something, the death of which would imply in itself a contradiction: this sort of immortality Meier reserves only for the highest being. Hypothetically immortal, then, is something which cannot die in some context. Meier notes that a thing can be absolutely mortal without being hypothetically mortal in all contexts, while hypothetically mortal is always absolutely mortal. Absolutely immortal, on the other hand, cannot die in any context and is therefore hypothetically immortal.
Meier notes that for the sake of religion and morality it is not enough to prove that the soul is immortal or continues living after death, because it could just sleep or live like an animal. Instead, if one wants to defend religion and morality with such proofs, they should also show that the soul is at least occasionally conscious of itself and of other things in the future life, that it uses at least occasionally its higher forces, that is, freedom and understanding, and that in its future state it also remembers what it did while attached to the body and even recognises its identity with its former state. These latter properties, Meier elucidates, do not characterise the immortality of the soul, but something more, namely the condition of the soul after the death.
Meier notes that this Cartesian notion of immortality is simply inadequate: even if the soul cannot be destroyed, it might still fail to be immortal. As an extreme case of an opposite kind, Meier introduces Ludvig Thümmig’s notion of immortality. Thümmig had said that to be immortal, the soul must not just be indestructible, but it also must exist eternally after death, live after death and finally recollect its previous life. Meier thinks Thümmig includes in his notion things that are not really about the immortality of the soul, but about the condition of the soul after death. The true notion should then lie somewhere between Cartesian and Thümmig’s notions.
Meier starts his own discussion of immortality with a discussion of life, which he defines, following Baumgarten, as something continuing its own nature. By nature Meier means sum of all such inner determinations that causes changes in accidences or makes them actual. Thus, he elucidates, nature of something does not include just its essence and capacities, but also forces. One could then prove that something lives by showing, firstly, that it continues to have its capacities or forces, or secondly, by showing that it continues to have actual accidences or changes in them that depend on its particular nature. Meier notes that the latter method is more common and easier, and indeed, the only way we can prove the life of something from experience, because we cannot directly perceive capacities and forces. For instance, we can know a tree has not died during winter, only if we see it grow leaves again in spring.
Death Meier then defines as the opposite of life, that is, interruption in the nature of something. Hence, something can be known to have died, firstly, if we know a priori that its forces have disappeared, or secondly, if we know a posteriori that it has no natural changes or accidences anymore. Note that the dead thing can still change in a manner that does not belong to its particular nature, just like a dead tree can still rot.
Meier continues by defining human being as a complex consisting of a reasoning soul and a human body, which are in a close relation of correspondence. Humans thus have three types of life: life of their body, life of their soul and life of the whole human being. Meier notes that the life of a human being requires the life of the body and the soul. Then again, he adds, if a human body lives, so must its soul and the whole human being also. The death of the human being implies then the death of the body and the ensuing separation of the body and the soul, but it need not imply the death of the soul.
In separation from the body, Meier says, the soul has two kinds of life, because it has two types of forces. In regard to its lower capacities, based on indistinct representations, it has sensuous or animal life, while in regard to its higher capacities, based on distinct representations, it has spiritual life. Now, he adds, spiritual life requires sensuous life, but not the other way around, as we can see in a sleeping person. Soul can then also die in two senses: by losing its sensuous life and thus all representation or by losing its spiritual life and only distinct representations.
Meier defines mortal to be something that can die, while immortal things cannot die. Because what is impossible cannot be actual, assuming the immortality of the soul means, he explains, assuming that the soul cannot die and that it will continue living after the death of the human being. Because what is possible need still not be actual, mortality of the soul might not mean that it would actually die, although usually people assume that the mortality of the soul implies its eventual death.
Following common definitions in the ontology of his times, Meier notes that possibility and impossibility could be absolute or hypothetical. This implies then two senses of mortality and immortality. If something is absolutely or in itself mortal, it can die, when we do not regard its relation to other things. Hypothetically mortal, on the other hand, is mortal when regarded in relation to other things or in some context. Meier notes that the human body is mortal both in itself and hypothetically. Absolutely immortal is then something, the death of which would imply in itself a contradiction: this sort of immortality Meier reserves only for the highest being. Hypothetically immortal, then, is something which cannot die in some context. Meier notes that a thing can be absolutely mortal without being hypothetically mortal in all contexts, while hypothetically mortal is always absolutely mortal. Absolutely immortal, on the other hand, cannot die in any context and is therefore hypothetically immortal.
Meier notes that for the sake of religion and morality it is not enough to prove that the soul is immortal or continues living after death, because it could just sleep or live like an animal. Instead, if one wants to defend religion and morality with such proofs, they should also show that the soul is at least occasionally conscious of itself and of other things in the future life, that it uses at least occasionally its higher forces, that is, freedom and understanding, and that in its future state it also remembers what it did while attached to the body and even recognises its identity with its former state. These latter properties, Meier elucidates, do not characterise the immortality of the soul, but something more, namely the condition of the soul after the death.
keskiviikko 10. huhtikuuta 2024
Georg Friedrich Meier: Thoughts on the condition of the soul after death (1746)
Meier’s Gedanken von dem Zustande der Seelen nach dem Tode is a rare book for its time, since although it studies the condition of the human soul after death, it does not try to demonstrate that this soul will continue to exist then. Indeed, he says, most of the demonstrations suggested for the immortality of our souls seem convincing just because the conclusion has already been accepted. We believe in the afterlife, because the idea agrees with our hopes, and indeed, we picture the afterlife to be as we would like it to be: Meier mentions a noble who was certain that in the afterlife souls of the nobility won’t have to mingle with souls from the lower classes.
Meier still makes sure to ascertain that he isn’t trying to disprove the immortality of the soul either. The reason for such an explanation is clear, since Meier speaks of the pressure of religious zealots, who censure everyone who even appears to go against such central religious dogmas. Meier assures the reader that he believes in the immortality of the soul and the final judgement of all humans, just because the Bible has taught him so. He even admits that we can be morally certain of this immortality and commends anyone who wants to go even further and demonstrate it with complete mathematical certainty.
Still, Meier says, the aim of his work is to show that such a demonstration is impossible for human beings, although, as he immediately adds, human reason is not inevitably led to doubt the immortality of the human soul. He will even analyse some suggested demonstrations and show where they fail to prove what they set out to prove. Finally, Meier concludes, his work will make it clear that nothing certain can be revealed about the condition of our soul after death.
Meier emphasises that his work has not been motivated by mere arrogance. Instead, he wants to raise the value of faith and scripture by lowering the worth of the human reason. Furthermore, Meier insists, the distinction of the faith and the reason also defends the faith: if one would think that belief in the immortality of the soul is based on nothing else than supposed demonstrations of reason, the weaknesses of these demonstrations would place the faith also in jeopardy.
Meier scorns all those who prefer leaving people with the incorrect opinion that demonstration of the immortality of the soul is possible in the name of religion and morality. On the contrary, he says, religion and morality do not need such weak defences. Immortality does motivate us for morality and religion, but motives need not have mathematical, but mere moral certainty.
Morality specifically, Meier thinks, has motives, even if we didn’t believe in immortality, because it has good consequences even in this life, and at least philosophers are equipped to understand these motives. Even if other people would not recognise these motives, Meier says, they still wouldn’t all become murderers and robbers, if they did not believe in the immortality of the human soul. His justification is that people generally do not act on the basis of some theories, but on the basis of their passions and inclinations. Furthermore, he insists, universal lack of morality could not occur, since, for instance, a universal disregard of property rights would soon collapse, since no one could make sure that they could keep on to what they had stolen from others.
Even religion could exist with the belief in human immortality, Meier says. True, he admits, most non-believers in immortality are atheists. Still, the demonstration of God’s existence is independent of the truth of our immortality, and when we accept the existence of God already, we always have to accept religion also.
Meier still makes sure to ascertain that he isn’t trying to disprove the immortality of the soul either. The reason for such an explanation is clear, since Meier speaks of the pressure of religious zealots, who censure everyone who even appears to go against such central religious dogmas. Meier assures the reader that he believes in the immortality of the soul and the final judgement of all humans, just because the Bible has taught him so. He even admits that we can be morally certain of this immortality and commends anyone who wants to go even further and demonstrate it with complete mathematical certainty.
Still, Meier says, the aim of his work is to show that such a demonstration is impossible for human beings, although, as he immediately adds, human reason is not inevitably led to doubt the immortality of the human soul. He will even analyse some suggested demonstrations and show where they fail to prove what they set out to prove. Finally, Meier concludes, his work will make it clear that nothing certain can be revealed about the condition of our soul after death.
Meier emphasises that his work has not been motivated by mere arrogance. Instead, he wants to raise the value of faith and scripture by lowering the worth of the human reason. Furthermore, Meier insists, the distinction of the faith and the reason also defends the faith: if one would think that belief in the immortality of the soul is based on nothing else than supposed demonstrations of reason, the weaknesses of these demonstrations would place the faith also in jeopardy.
Meier scorns all those who prefer leaving people with the incorrect opinion that demonstration of the immortality of the soul is possible in the name of religion and morality. On the contrary, he says, religion and morality do not need such weak defences. Immortality does motivate us for morality and religion, but motives need not have mathematical, but mere moral certainty.
Morality specifically, Meier thinks, has motives, even if we didn’t believe in immortality, because it has good consequences even in this life, and at least philosophers are equipped to understand these motives. Even if other people would not recognise these motives, Meier says, they still wouldn’t all become murderers and robbers, if they did not believe in the immortality of the human soul. His justification is that people generally do not act on the basis of some theories, but on the basis of their passions and inclinations. Furthermore, he insists, universal lack of morality could not occur, since, for instance, a universal disregard of property rights would soon collapse, since no one could make sure that they could keep on to what they had stolen from others.
Even religion could exist with the belief in human immortality, Meier says. True, he admits, most non-believers in immortality are atheists. Still, the demonstration of God’s existence is independent of the truth of our immortality, and when we accept the existence of God already, we always have to accept religion also.
perjantai 5. huhtikuuta 2024
Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – What a scholar must do
Wolff ends this part of Jus naturae with a study of the duties of a scholar, that is, a person who knows of things. Wolff begins by noting that there are different kinds of scholars depending on what the person in question knows: e.g. there are scholars of law and scholars of languages. Furthermore, he continues, scholars come in different grades. Scholars of the lowest or vulgar order merely know facts. More experienced scholars, on the other hand, have philosophical or even mathematical understanding why something is true. The highest order of scholars, finally, are capable of finding new truths.
Wolff suggests that all scholars should aim for the proper place in this hierarchy, that is, the place where they can achieve something. Thus, if they can ascend to a higher order, they should not be content with remaining on a lower order. Indeed, scholars of all orders should continuously try to progress further, Wolff says, and not be satisfied with the knowledge of things they have already acquired.
Wolff is also a proponent of cooperation in scholarship: if some scholar can help others further, for instance, by providing advice in acquiring information or in finding new truths, they should do so. Particularly, scholars of superior grades should teach those of inferior grades things that are useful in promoting knowledge and understanding. On the other hand, a scholar who cannot decide something on their own should follow the guidance of other, preferably more experienced scholars.
The goal of a scholar, Wolff determines, should be to propagate knowledge and science and to develop them, unless this would be contrary to other important duties. This general goal has many subgoals, as it could imply perfecting one’s intellect, but also perfecting one’s will (if we are speaking of the science of morals) or even perfecting arts that serve humankind to reach necessities, commodities and pleasures of life.
Scholars can have different careers, depending on what they are good at (e.g. whether they are used to working with their hands or with mere intellect and how they apply what they know to other things). Whatever their career choice, Wolff explains, a person following a career should especially know the things they work with. If a scholar wants to pursue any career and they haven’t decided yet what it should be, they should choose it depending on their abilities.
An important task for every scholar, Wolff emphasises, is to have a cognitive faculty they can use readily. This implies that they should especially perfect their intellect. Furthermore, their intellect should enable them to discern true from apparent good and have enough understanding of the natural law for cultivating virtue. Because of this assumed expertise, scholars are expected to be more perfect in virtue than ordinary people and to show a good example to others.
Wolff thinks that all scholars should be given as much praise as they merit. Then again, no scholar has a right for praise, if they do not merit it. Thus, they have no right to complain, when they are not praised in this case. Wolff also insists that no scholar should envy another for being praised, even if the other person does not really merit it: we are allowed to praise anyone we want, provided this is not done contemptuously.
According to Wolff, scholars have the right to defend their own fame or fame of others against those who challenge it. Then again, they are not allowed to contend for their fame by showing contempt toward others. Similarly, scholars are not allowed to gain favour of their countrymen by deriding other nations, or vice versa, to gain favour of foreigners by deriding their own country.
Scholars of second and primary order, Wolff continues, have as their special duty to raise disciplines of science to such a grade of certainty that they can and to distinguish truth in these disciplines from falsehoods. Then again, they should not undertake judgement of such things, which they have not endeavoured to know so meticulously as things, in which they excel. Thus, they should not attempt to reach greater certitude in things, which they are not yet adequately acquainted with.
Who is able to correct or refute errors committed by others has the right to do this, Wolff thinks. Then again, scholars of lowest order are not able to do this and have therefore no right to refute others and even less to correct errors. Wolff notes there are two methods of refuting people. In direct refutation, one is to demonstrate propositions as true what the other thinks is false or to show the manner in which the other falls into error. In indirect refutation, one is to assume as true what the other asserts and then infer from it propositions that the other acknowledges as false. Refutation should also not contain any scorn or arguments conducted out of hate.
In Wolff’s opinion, freedom to philosophise belongs to scholarship. Indeed, he thinks that everyone is permitted to propose their opinion on philosophical matters and also are to be permitted to publicly say their opinion on them. Thus, no one should be forced to defend an opinion that they hold to be untrue. Hence, although scholars have a right to defend truth against assailants, this truth cannot and shouldn’t be defended with external force.
Wolff suggests that all scholars should aim for the proper place in this hierarchy, that is, the place where they can achieve something. Thus, if they can ascend to a higher order, they should not be content with remaining on a lower order. Indeed, scholars of all orders should continuously try to progress further, Wolff says, and not be satisfied with the knowledge of things they have already acquired.
Wolff is also a proponent of cooperation in scholarship: if some scholar can help others further, for instance, by providing advice in acquiring information or in finding new truths, they should do so. Particularly, scholars of superior grades should teach those of inferior grades things that are useful in promoting knowledge and understanding. On the other hand, a scholar who cannot decide something on their own should follow the guidance of other, preferably more experienced scholars.
The goal of a scholar, Wolff determines, should be to propagate knowledge and science and to develop them, unless this would be contrary to other important duties. This general goal has many subgoals, as it could imply perfecting one’s intellect, but also perfecting one’s will (if we are speaking of the science of morals) or even perfecting arts that serve humankind to reach necessities, commodities and pleasures of life.
Scholars can have different careers, depending on what they are good at (e.g. whether they are used to working with their hands or with mere intellect and how they apply what they know to other things). Whatever their career choice, Wolff explains, a person following a career should especially know the things they work with. If a scholar wants to pursue any career and they haven’t decided yet what it should be, they should choose it depending on their abilities.
An important task for every scholar, Wolff emphasises, is to have a cognitive faculty they can use readily. This implies that they should especially perfect their intellect. Furthermore, their intellect should enable them to discern true from apparent good and have enough understanding of the natural law for cultivating virtue. Because of this assumed expertise, scholars are expected to be more perfect in virtue than ordinary people and to show a good example to others.
Wolff thinks that all scholars should be given as much praise as they merit. Then again, no scholar has a right for praise, if they do not merit it. Thus, they have no right to complain, when they are not praised in this case. Wolff also insists that no scholar should envy another for being praised, even if the other person does not really merit it: we are allowed to praise anyone we want, provided this is not done contemptuously.
According to Wolff, scholars have the right to defend their own fame or fame of others against those who challenge it. Then again, they are not allowed to contend for their fame by showing contempt toward others. Similarly, scholars are not allowed to gain favour of their countrymen by deriding other nations, or vice versa, to gain favour of foreigners by deriding their own country.
Scholars of second and primary order, Wolff continues, have as their special duty to raise disciplines of science to such a grade of certainty that they can and to distinguish truth in these disciplines from falsehoods. Then again, they should not undertake judgement of such things, which they have not endeavoured to know so meticulously as things, in which they excel. Thus, they should not attempt to reach greater certitude in things, which they are not yet adequately acquainted with.
Who is able to correct or refute errors committed by others has the right to do this, Wolff thinks. Then again, scholars of lowest order are not able to do this and have therefore no right to refute others and even less to correct errors. Wolff notes there are two methods of refuting people. In direct refutation, one is to demonstrate propositions as true what the other thinks is false or to show the manner in which the other falls into error. In indirect refutation, one is to assume as true what the other asserts and then infer from it propositions that the other acknowledges as false. Refutation should also not contain any scorn or arguments conducted out of hate.
In Wolff’s opinion, freedom to philosophise belongs to scholarship. Indeed, he thinks that everyone is permitted to propose their opinion on philosophical matters and also are to be permitted to publicly say their opinion on them. Thus, no one should be forced to defend an opinion that they hold to be untrue. Hence, although scholars have a right to defend truth against assailants, this truth cannot and shouldn’t be defended with external force.
keskiviikko 20. maaliskuuta 2024
Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Not yet living
From 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
maanantai 26. helmikuuta 2024
Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Bury your dead
Next 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
tiistai 20. helmikuuta 2024
Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Right of necessity
One of the major topics of Wolff’s earlier volumes of Jus naturae 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.
This residual right, Wolff continues, is but an example of the more extensive class of rights of necessity (jus necessitatis). 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wolff argues that the rights remaining from the primaeval community also go further than mere jus necessitatis. This is the case with what Wolff calls res innoxia utilitas, 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 innoxia utilitas 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.
This residual right, Wolff continues, is but an example of the more extensive class of rights of necessity (jus necessitatis). 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wolff argues that the rights remaining from the primaeval community also go further than mere jus necessitatis. This is the case with what Wolff calls res innoxia utilitas, 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 innoxia utilitas 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.
tiistai 30. tammikuuta 2024
Christian 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
keskiviikko 10. tammikuuta 2024
Christian Wolff: Natural right 6 – Feudal relations
In the second chapter, Wolff continues with a special case of the dominum utile, namely, feudum or fief – we are now speaking of legal relations that work as the basis of feudalism. What differentiates feudum from other kinds of dominum utile 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.
Otherwise, the properties of the feudum are simply those of a dominium utile, 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.
The paragraphs above would really be all that can be said of a feudum in general, that is, Wolff says, its substantial determinations. Yet, when agreeing on the feudum, 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 feudum 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 feudum 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).
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.
A condition Wolff considers most extensively is whether the feudal contract allows the vassal to transfer the feudum 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 feudum 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.
Usually the owner does not need to ask the vassal, if they want to transfer their ownership to someone else – the feudum 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.
What kind of things can then be given as feudum? 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 feudum. As an example Wolff gives what is called feudum de caneva (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.
Making a feudum of a right to some consumable things is one way to involve these consumables into a feudum, 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 feudum, which Wolff calls both feudum pecunia (literally, fief on money) and quasi feudum, implying that this is a sort of extension of the proper sense of feudum.
Assuming it hasn’t been explicitly forbidden in the feudal contract, the vassal can create to their feudum a new feudum, which is then called subfeudum, 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 feudum obviously holds for any subfeudum, 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 subfeudum can have a subsubfeudum etc.
Often a feudum 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 feudum exists anymore. In such a case occurs what Wolff calls apertura feudi, which means simply that the feudal thing returns fully to its owner; in this case all possible subfeudum 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.
Wolff has already spoken of the possible selling or donating of a feudum, but a case of pawning requires more discussion. Of course, if the feudum 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 feudum or its products, and this is what they must have understood to have implicitly pawned, if they pawn the feudum without the consent of the owner. Yet, Wolff adds, if the apertura feudi is near, that is, if the feudum 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 feudum 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.
Another concept Wolff investigates is revocatio feudi, 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 feudum, 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.
Another question Wolff considers is whether the vassal can refute the feudum, 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 feudum, 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 feudum, 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 feudum, the heir of the vassal can later demand its return, when the vassal has died.
When the vassal refutes the feudum 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 feudum would simply mean its donation, which Wolff has already considered. In the previous case, the refutation can simply happen if the feudum 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 feudum to them, once the original vassal has died.
An interesting case arises, when the vassal refutes the feudum and wants it to go to their immediate heir, who then at once wants to transfer the feudum to their heir. In that case, Wolff says, the important question is whether the vassal wanted the feudum to go specifically to the immediate heir or whether they just wanted to get rid of it. In the prior case, the feudum returns to the original vassal, in the latter case, it goes to the second heir.
The last thing Wolff investigates of feudum 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.
More serious breaches occur, if the substantial determinations of a feudum 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.
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.
Whatever the breach is, Wolff says, it does not lead to the vassal losing the feudum 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 feudum would still continue in the sense that their heirs have a right to ask the feudum to be given to them, once the original vassal has died.
Otherwise, the properties of the feudum are simply those of a dominium utile, 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.
The paragraphs above would really be all that can be said of a feudum in general, that is, Wolff says, its substantial determinations. Yet, when agreeing on the feudum, 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 feudum 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 feudum 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).
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.
A condition Wolff considers most extensively is whether the feudal contract allows the vassal to transfer the feudum 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 feudum 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.
Usually the owner does not need to ask the vassal, if they want to transfer their ownership to someone else – the feudum 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.
What kind of things can then be given as feudum? 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 feudum. As an example Wolff gives what is called feudum de caneva (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.
Making a feudum of a right to some consumable things is one way to involve these consumables into a feudum, 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 feudum, which Wolff calls both feudum pecunia (literally, fief on money) and quasi feudum, implying that this is a sort of extension of the proper sense of feudum.
Assuming it hasn’t been explicitly forbidden in the feudal contract, the vassal can create to their feudum a new feudum, which is then called subfeudum, 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 feudum obviously holds for any subfeudum, 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 subfeudum can have a subsubfeudum etc.
Often a feudum 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 feudum exists anymore. In such a case occurs what Wolff calls apertura feudi, which means simply that the feudal thing returns fully to its owner; in this case all possible subfeudum 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.
Wolff has already spoken of the possible selling or donating of a feudum, but a case of pawning requires more discussion. Of course, if the feudum 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 feudum or its products, and this is what they must have understood to have implicitly pawned, if they pawn the feudum without the consent of the owner. Yet, Wolff adds, if the apertura feudi is near, that is, if the feudum 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 feudum 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.
Another concept Wolff investigates is revocatio feudi, 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 feudum, 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.
Another question Wolff considers is whether the vassal can refute the feudum, 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 feudum, 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 feudum, 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 feudum, the heir of the vassal can later demand its return, when the vassal has died.
When the vassal refutes the feudum 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 feudum would simply mean its donation, which Wolff has already considered. In the previous case, the refutation can simply happen if the feudum 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 feudum to them, once the original vassal has died.
An interesting case arises, when the vassal refutes the feudum and wants it to go to their immediate heir, who then at once wants to transfer the feudum to their heir. In that case, Wolff says, the important question is whether the vassal wanted the feudum to go specifically to the immediate heir or whether they just wanted to get rid of it. In the prior case, the feudum returns to the original vassal, in the latter case, it goes to the second heir.
The last thing Wolff investigates of feudum 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.
More serious breaches occur, if the substantial determinations of a feudum 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.
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.
Whatever the breach is, Wolff says, it does not lead to the vassal losing the feudum 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 feudum would still continue in the sense that their heirs have a right to ask the feudum to be given to them, once the original vassal has died.
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