Philosophers, Mystics, and Other Sages: Wisdom in Early

Islamic Thought

Nadja Germann

Philosophy East and West, Volume 71, Number 3, July 2021, pp. 603-623 (Article)

Published by University of Hawai'i Press

DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/pew.2021.0043

For additional information about this article

https://muse.jhu.edu/article/797578

[ Access provided at 12 Aug 2021 00:49 GMT from University of Glasgow Library ]
Philosophers, Mystics, and Other Sages: Wisdom in Early Islamic
Thought

Nadja Germann
Department of Philosophy, Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg
nadja.germann@philosophie.uni-freiburg.de

Background: Wisdom and Revelation

The modern Arabic term for ‘wisdom’ is h. ikma, derived from the root
h. –k–m, which also signifies ‘wisdom’ in other Semitic languages, for
instance the Hebrew h. okmah. Notably, however, it acquired this meaning
only gradually. In classical Arabic, h. ikma has primarily juridical connota-
tions.1 It was only under foreign influence, first and foremost the translations
from Greek into Arabic (ninth and tenth centuries), that h. ikma and its
cognates acquired the connotations of ‘wisdom’, ‘wise’, et cetera.2 However,
h. ikma, in this sense, was chiefly associated with falsafa, that is, Greek-
inspired philosophy, and the h. ukamā’ (plural of h. akīm, wise) were identified
as those scholars who engaged with the wisdom inherited from the Greeks.
Although the association of h. ikma wisdom with its Greek roots faded away
over the centuries, during the period at the center of this contribution (late
ninth to eleventh centuries) it was still strongly present.
The expression that in early Islamic thought primarily rendered ‘wisdom’
is ‘ilm, the verbal noun from the root ‘–l–m. The most common translation
of ‘ilm, as it is employed in Modern Standard Arabic, is ‘knowledge’. While
it had this meaning from the outset, in Classical Arabic the further meanings,
shades, and implications of ‘ilm are much richer. It is the core notion
around which Islam and Muslim culture revolved.3 The pivotal role this
concept played owed to the centrality and specific connotations accorded to
it by the Qur’ān, Islam’s divine revelation, and, presumably, God’s own
speech (i.e., a literal quotation of His message). There is no need for us to
engage in a lengthy semantic analysis of this term (and its cognates) in the
Qur’ān. However, for our purposes, the following features are important.
First and foremost, the Qur’ān distinguishes between divine and human
knowledge. While God is omniscient, human ‘ilm is limited and ultimately
derives from God. Yet the divinity of its origin implies that, generally
speaking, human knowledge must be identified with religious knowledge.4 It
primarily embraces the truth about divine creation, the human condition,
and the hereafter—a truth with which God in the course of history
occasionally entrusted prophets, in order to convey it to humanity and, in
this way, give guidance to His people.5 This supposed endowment with

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© 2021 by University of Hawai‘i Press
 divine truth explains the specific rank accredited to prophets.6 Even though
God’s messengers as such are human beings, they are extraordinarily knowl-
edgeable or wise. Granted, this is primarily thanks to divine inspiration.
However, prophets are usually chosen to serve as God’s envoys because of
their personal qualities: their integrity and their imperturbable faith.
This brings us to another noteworthy aspect. Even though the Qur’ānic
term ‘ilm does not directly signify anything related to practice, it never-
theless implies action (‘amal). Insight into the truth is insight into the
exigencies imposed on humanity as an effect of the Fall and required to
attain redemption. Whoever possesses this insight is called upon to put it
into action. ‘Ilm is—and ought to be—sought not for its own sake, but for
the sake of salvation. Although knowledge was usually considered to
precede action, even in the later Islamic traditions the decisive principle in
balancing ‘ilm and ‘amal remained the Prophet Muh. ammad’s view,
according to which knowledge demands good deeds and proper action.7
Exactly what the terms ‘good deeds’ and ‘proper action’ mean was,
however, a matter of dispute. For those religious scholars who were gradually
shaping what was to become orthodoxy, ‘amal was increasingly identified
with the ritual duties prescribed by the Qur’ān, such as the daily prayers and
the pilgrimage to Mecca. Other scholars defended different views on the
practical entailments of knowledge, conceiving them primarily as demands
vis-à-vis society, as a specific ethos. Yet others doubted that a mere literal
reading of the Qur’ān and adherence to its commandments was enough to
obtain the desired salvific knowledge. Instead, they were convinced that a true
understanding of divine revelation presupposed specific practices like medi-
tation. In a sense, ‘ilm and ‘amal switch roles here: certain practices or actions
turn into conditions for the acquisition of knowledge.
As these few remarks may already suggest, the notion of wisdom in early
Islamic culture was quite intricate. In order to bring out the major semantic
shades that this notion took on during the first Islamic centuries, I will
discuss three models, each of which is representative of a different school or
group: (1) adab8—the wisdom of society, (2) falsafa9—the wisdom of natural
reason, and (3) taṣawwuf10—the wisdom of divine inspiration. These move-
ments or circles all share the Qur’ānic predilection for ‘ilm, but they differ
in their specific understanding of this notion, as well as the particular
meaning they attribute to action and its relation to knowledge. It is
somewhere at the crossroads of these divergent approaches to ‘ilm and—
whether knowledge-driven or knowledge-generating—‘amal that the early
Islamic concept of wisdom is located.

I. Adab: Wisdom and Society

The meaning of the term ‘adab’ is difficult to capture. In comparison with its
classical meaning, its modern usage as a synonym for ‘literature’ is quite

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reductive. We cannot trace its history here,11 but, during the period under
consideration, adab was essentially “the equivalent of the Latin urbanitas,
the civility, courtesy, refinement of the cities”; additionally, it “came to
imply the sum of knowledge which makes a man courteous and ‘urbane’,”
whereby ‘knowledge’ was not limited to the pre- and early Islamic heritage
of the ancient Arabs, encompassing a wealth of poetical, historical, and
tribal traditions, but also increasingly absorbed the Persian, Indian, and
Greek teachings translated into Arabic during the ninth and tenth centu-
ries.12 Classical adab thus embraced both ethical-social and intellectual
virtues; it presupposed “training in the social norms of politeness” and
conveyed the “ideas of intellectual nourishment, manners, and education.”13
In sum, we may describe it “as ‘suitable things to know and to act upon’.”14
These “suitable things to know and to act upon” cannot be identified with
the religious teachings the Qur’ān offers to those looking for salvation.
Doubtless, these Qur’ānic teachings were acknowledged and, more or less
explicitly, form the background of adab knowledge. Adab itself, however,
seeks to convey mundane or secular ‘ilm. It is the kind of knowledge a
human being needs to possess in order to smoothly navigate society; it is a
blend of general education (Bildung—one is tempted to think of Humboldt
here) and social etiquette.
The famous polymath and one of the most prolific writers of adab, Abū
‘Uthmān al-Jāh. iz. (d. 868), leaves no doubt that the knowledge transmitted
by adab is subordinate to religious knowledge, the knowledge required for
redemption; accordingly, he interprets ‘ilm (with its religious connotations)
as the root, and adab (with its social overtones) as a branch. This branch, on
al-Jāh. iz.’ account, teaches “ethical behavior” (khuluq) on the one hand, and
“transmitted knowledge” (riwāya)15 on the other. In what follows, I will
concentrate on the core aspects of the notion of wisdom that can be
deduced from the work of al-Jāh. iz.. This is not to say that his ideas were
uncontested. However, as the illustrious historian Ibn Khaldūn’s (d. 1406)
Muqaddima (Introduction) corroborates, al-Jāh. iz.’ oeuvre, specifically his
Kitāb al-bayān (On conspicuousness), was still counted centuries later
among “the cornerstones of ‘ilm al-adab.”16
To summarize, adab is the ‘wisdom of society’ or the ‘wisdom of this
world’. Despite al-Jāh. iz.’ acceptance of Islamic dogma and its ethical
framework, the ribald character of his adab is at times striking. While his
works usually excel in their polished, literary style, their content can, at first
sight, be fairly bewildering. Thus, for instance, al-Jāh. iz. wrote numerous texts
about profane topics, such as laughter, robbers, women and female slaves,
the advantages of using a stick, stingy people, atoms, ebriety, scorpion
stings, and many more things—topics which seem to be entirely random,
incoherent, and apparently treated merely for the sake of entertainment.17
This is a significant observation. In a way, the very selection and
presentation of the material tell us something about the nature of the

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 wisdom he seeks to convey. The wisdom of society spelled out in al-Jāh. iz.’
adab works concerns literally everything and every social stratum, not only
the elite; it concerns interactions between men and women, rich and poor,
intelligent and dumb, educated and rural, in power and enslaved; and it
concerns every aspect of humanity’s encounter with the cosmos: human
beings, angels, jinn, and animals, the macro- as well as the micro-structure
of the universe, the beneficial as well as the harmful. In view of the
vicissitudes of everyday life, as al-Jāh. iz.’ mockery and self-irony underline,
the wisdom of this world demands a playful easiness on the part of the adīb
(practitioner of adab), a readiness to laugh both about the world and about
oneself.
The compass that the adīb ought to use to orient himself in the
innumerable situations everyday life has to offer is bayān (conspicuousness),
as al-Jāh. iz. details in the Kitāb al-bayān—that is, the book the above-
mentioned Ibn Khaldūn identified as one of the cornerstones of adab. This is
noteworthy, for the “conspicuousness” around which the Kitāb al-bayān
revolves is a property that first and foremost concerns language.18 Yet what
does language have to do with “suitable things to know and to act upon,” to
apply our description of adab above as a shorthand for the wisdom it
imparts? There may be various historical and cultural reasons for this
emphasis on language or, more generally speaking, semiotics. However, if
one considers al-Jāh. iz.’ notion of bayān more closely, it turns out that
something else, something philosophically more profound, is at stake.
For al-Jāh. iz., language is not simply a tool invented by human beings in
some remote past and used as a vehicle to transmit thought. Rather,
language (nut. q) is the specific feature that distinguishes humanity from every
other inhabitant of the world.19 It is, however, more than just language in
the sense of ‘linguistic expression’ or ‘utterance’. It is, at the same time, the
underlying human capacity to understand, to grasp the truth. In other words,
nut. q is at once humanity’s mental faculty for discerning and cognizing and
its linguistic gift for articulating its insights, rendering them intelligible. The
foundation of this ‘metaphysics of language and thought’ for al-Jāh. iz. is the
Qur’ān,20 in conformity with his practice of developing adab within a
religious framework, as seen above. And it is likewise the Qur’ān that is the
source of al-Jāh. iz.’ notion of bayān. The Qur’ān describes itself as bayān (or
in cognate terms),21 often translated into English as ‘clear sign’. Already al-
Jāh. iz. preferred a semiotic interpretation of this term. For him, bayān is a
particular quality of a sign (dalāla)—not only of linguistic, but of any kinds
of sign. Perfect bayān occurs when the sign itself and the message it
embodies completely coincide, when expression (lafz.) and meaning (ma‘nā)
are entirely congruent.22
For al-Jāh. iz., this seamless match—the sine qua non for making the
intended meaning fully transparent or conspicuous (bayān)—is an exclusive
feature of the divine speech represented by the Qur’ān. Human nut. q always

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falls short of this ideal, because human beings are fallible; they lack, on the
one hand, complete understanding of both creation and revelation and, on
the other hand, the ability to find (or coin) perfectly suited means of
expression. Consequently, for al-Jāh. iz., bayān is (or ought to function) like a
regulative idea: everyone has the duty to strive for it. However, in view of
al-Jāh. iz.’ notion of bayān, it is obvious that for him conspicuousness is an
ideal that ought to guide not only human speech, but every kind of
expression, which is to say, of human behavior.23 Bayān should be the
above-mentioned ‘compass’ that every adīb applies in (inter-)acting within
society; everyone ought to speak (act, live) as conspicuously as possible and
thus become or function as a clear sign (dalāla) of and within the divine
order. Evidently, al-Jāh. iz.’ notion of bayān is fairly loaded, a trait often
neglected in current research.24 For the adab wisdom he seeks to defend,
meanwhile, this metaphysical-theological grounding has far-reaching impli-
cations.
Regardless of the playfulness and jocularity of many of his (and his
colleagues’) writings, they are first and foremost designed to exemplify the
“suitable things to know and to act upon” in the here and now. The wisdom
of society cannot be fixed once and for all in some sort of checklist. Like
Aristotle’s notion of prudence (phronēsis), bayān requires a broad, general
knowledge basically about everything coupled with a good sense of (re-)
acting adequately in any situation.25 Yet, the most important medium for
human beings to judge and act wisely is nut. q; its proper usage, therefore,
whatever the situation may be, is the most elevated epistemic and social
skill that a human being can develop. As we have seen, however, bayān
transcends mere language use. Hence, al-Jāh. iz.’ emphasis on this particular
quality, we can conclude, means nothing less than the striving for
conspicuousness on every level of human (inter-)action. The wisdom taught
by adab, thus, presupposes thorough knowledge of human nature and the
situations that can occur both in the world in general and in society in
particular, and it requires a consistent attempt by the adīb to (inter-)act as
conspicuously as possible—whether this (inter-)action is by means of
language, humanity’s most important communicative tool, or another kind
of expression.

II. Falsafa: Wisdom and Natural Reason

‘Falsafa’, as already adumbrated above, is a generic term referring to all

those intellectual movements that inscribed themselves into the Greek
philosophical tradition, that is, into one form or another of Neoplatonized
Aristotelianism.26 Accordingly, it is no surprise that its notion of wisdom is
closely related to that of the Greek sources. At the same time, however, the
adherents of falsafa did not reside in an ivory tower secluded from society.
Regardless of whether or not they were Muslims,27 they lived within a

Nadja Germann 607

 predominantly Islamic environment and were well aware of the major
developments and controversies around them. As a consequence, despite
their keen orientation toward their Greek models, the falāsifa (plural of
faylasūf, someone engaging in falsafa) seized and further developed ideas
and concepts triggered by the needs and within the conceptual frameworks
of their time. This is also true for the notion of wisdom. In the introduction,
we already made a few remarks on terminology. It is within the confines of
falsafa that the term h. ikma came to be used as the standard translation of
Greek sophia. Over the centuries, this expression gradually turned into a
quasi-synonym of falsafa, as well as those scholarly movements that were
considered as ‘gnostic’.28
To begin with, it is safe to say that if ‘ilm is primarily the wisdom of the
religious sphere—and if adab is the wisdom of society and everyday life—
then h. ikma is the wisdom of natural or human reason, the wisdom
attainable and applicable through the faculties with which human beings are
naturally endowed. The foundation of this notion of wisdom was laid by
Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī (d. 950), who knew more or less the entire oeuvre of
Aristotle, only a little of Plato (and this mostly indirectly), but quite a
number of the late ancient commentaries on Aristotle.29 Accordingly, he can
be described as a stout Aristotelian who is, however, strongly influenced by
the Neoplatonic commentators. Yet al-Fārābī’s major philosophical concern
not only accords with the Neoplatonized Aristotelian tradition but also with
his religious context: it revolves around the question of how each individual
human being can attain everlasting happiness (sa‘āda). His notion of
wisdom, as we shall see, is situated precisely at the core of this problem. In
a nutshell, in al-Fārābī’s account, it requires wisdom, first, to discover the
path toward felicity and, second, to determine and implement the means
and activities necessary for its attainment. While everyone, according to al-
Fārābī, can achieve happiness, the majority of people are not able to do so
on their own—they need guidance.30 And it is the duty of the h. akīm (wise)
to offer this guidance.
At this point, a few remarks on al-Fārābī’s notion of happiness (sa‘āda)
are in order. In a short treatise, the Tah. ṣīl al-sa‘āda (Attainment of
happiness), dedicated specifically to this topic, al-Fārābī lists the “things
through which” felicity can be reached, namely “theoretical virtues,
deliberative virtues, moral virtues, and practical arts.”31 In the remainder of
the treatise he fleshes out what he means by these virtues and arts. For our
purposes, three aspects are important. For one, what al-Fārābī depicts in the
Tah. ṣīl turns out to be the profile of a h. akīm—a very rare kind of human
being who not only possesses ideal dispositions for developing the above-
mentioned four virtues and arts, but also the paramount skills necessary to
actualize them, that is, to bring them to perfection.32 Nonetheless, even
though the majority of people do not have such exceptional gifts, they still
must hone these virtues and arts to the extent possible for them. It is due to

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their limited capacities that they cannot attain happiness on their own, but
actually need the h. akīm to remedy their deficiencies.
Moreover, from various Fārābīan writings it is clear that the core
requirement for the attainment of felicity is the acquisition of knowledge
(‘ilm). As al-Fārābī expounds in his Madīna fād. ila (On the perfect state), one
of his philosophical summas, everyone, regardless of their natural endow-
ments, must know a broad range of things, stretching from metaphysics (“the
First Cause and all its qualities”) through cosmology (“the immaterial
existents” and “the celestial substances”), natural philosophy (“the natural
bodies . . . and how they come to be and pass away”), and anthropology
(“the generation of man”) to practical philosophy (“the first ruler . . . [,] the
rulers who have to take his place . . . [, and] the excellent city and its
people”).33 This list essentially embraces the knowledge of everything there
is—a knowledge that, as such, is beyond the reach of ordinary people and
is accessible only to the h. akīm. Obviously, if it is the h. akīm’s duty to
remedy deficiencies, as we put it above, one of his34 tasks will consist in
somehow conveying the knowledge required for the attainment of happi-
ness.
This brings us to another notable aspect concerning the four virtues and
arts listed in the Tah. ṣīl: the practical dimension. Even though his emphasis
is on the acquisition of ‘ilm and hence on the theoretical virtues, al-Fārābī
takes seriously the Aristotelian division of rationality into the theoretical and
practical. In his account, not only is self-perfection accomplished by virtue
of abstract knowledge—mastery of the theoretical sciences—but it also
demands the deliberative capacity and practical skills to derive from this
knowledge those rules and practices that contribute to the attainment of
happiness and put them into action. As in the previous instances, only a few
people possess these capacities, and these are the “perfect philosopher[s]”
or the h. ukamā’ (plural of h. akīm),35 whose duty it is to bring about the
theoretical and practical virtues “in nations and cities in the manner and the
measure possible with reference to each.”36 In brief, the true h. akīm is both
the one who knows all that can possibly be known and the supreme ruler.
This notion of the h. akīm is reminiscent of Plato’s philosopher-king, an
association that, to some extent, is justified. Without going into detail, the
chief difference between the two concepts consists in al-Fārābī’s theory of
human nature and perfection. Self-perfection for him entails actualizing
human nature, that is, rationality, to the fullest extent, which is to say both
theoretical and practical rationality. As a consequence, the duty to return to
the cave and act as an instructor and political leader does not derive from
the outside, as repayment for the education one has received thanks to the
polis. Rather, it is inherent in human nature itself—it is part and parcel
of one’s own natural telos. This specific interpretation of Aristotle’s notions
of nature and perfection is noteworthy, as it permits al-Fārābī on the one
hand to presuppose the existence of a specific feature distinguishing all

Nadja Germann 609

 human beings qua human beings, namely rationality, and on the other hand
to account for individual differences with respect to this capacity’s actual
instantiation. Each individual has, so to speak, her or his individual nature.37
Now, given that people, as a matter of fact, differ with regard to their
theoretical and practical faculties, the self-perfection of each individual
cannot be determined absolutely, but only in relation to their specific skills.
As a consequence, in al-Fārābī’s universe everybody (and everything)
has a specific place and a function to perform. In the human sphere, that
is, the realm of politics, the h. akīm is the natural leader and comparable to
the first principle of everything in the cosmos: he is wise because of his
comprehensive ‘ilm (theory) and his capacity to convey this knowledge, as
well as to order society in a manner beneficial to every member’s self-
perfection (practice). Everyone else has their place in society in accordance
with their individual skills. Thus, human beings fulfill specific functions in
society, similar to the various tasks the organs of a healthy body perform.38
The principal practical challenge of the philosopher-king is to set up
society in such a manner that everyone occupies a place in the city (or
nation) that actually corresponds to their individual skills and thus
contributes to the well-functioning of the corps politique (earthly happi-
ness).
In order to lead everyone to the knowledge required for felicity in the
hereafter, the philosopher-king and those who fill the office of teaching in
society must adapt their methods: only sufficiently intelligent students can
be taught in a scientific way; everyone else must be instructed by means of
symbols.39 According to al-Fārābī, this second method is the one applied by
religion; for him, a religion is basically a metaphorical narrative, devised by
the h. akīm, that embraces both theoretical and practical teachings. The
h. akīm is not, therefore, only the perfect philosopher (in terms of ‘ilm) and
the ideal ruler (in terms of ‘amal), but also a prophet, that is, someone who
has the capacity to ‘translate’ ‘ilm into parables and metaphors.40 It is in this
indirect manner that every non-philosopher can acquire the knowledge
necessary for supreme happiness, and it is through the rulings of the h. akīm
that everyone else is guided toward the place most suitable for them in
society and the best way of life.
The wisdom defended by the falāsifa, we can conclude, puts a strong
emphasis on theoretical knowledge—much stronger than, for instance, the
wisdom taught by the udabā’. And in contrast to adab, falsafa denies the
idea that everyone can become wise; rather, it insists that there are—and
can be—only very few truly wise people, due to anthropological givens. The
h. akīm is someone who already excels by virtue of his natural gifts.
However, with talent comes responsibility: it is the duty of the potential
h. akīm to become an actual one, which is to say, to give instruction and
guidance to the society within which he lives (‘amal). He thus becomes the
principle of self-perfection for everyone else, their gateway to eternal bliss.

610 Philosophy East & West

III. Taṣawwuf: Wisdom and Divine Inspiration

‘Taṣawwuf’ is the Arabic term for Sufism, the Islamic form of mysticism.41
This brings us back to the religious sphere already touched on in the
introduction. In accordance with the Qur’ān and early Islamic culture, the
mystical tradition, laying its theoretical foundations during the tenth and
eleventh centuries, put a strong emphasis on ‘ilm rather than on mere
observance of ritual practice or other possible forms of engagement with
religion. Despite this emphasis, Sufism—remaining faithful to the Qur’ānic
teachings—does not deny the significance of practice. To the contrary, the
path of gradual self-perfection upon which the ṣūfī (Sufi) sets out and which
ideally culminates in unification with or approximation to God presupposes
certain practices. Hence, we come across the notion of ‘amal here, as a
knowledge-generating (instead of knowledge-driven) practice. However,
such practices, which combine elements of asceticism and meditation,
possess an exclusively instrumental character. They serve the purification of
the soul, which is not a sufficient but only a necessary precondition for the
desired progress on one’s way (t. arīq) toward ever deeper and increasingly
direct insights into God and His attributes.
Particularly in its early days, Sufism had a double face vis-à-vis the
theological and legal schools: on the one hand, regarding its doctrines,
taṣawwuf closely embraced the teachings of the Qur’ān; on the other hand,
however, its adherents reproached the ‘ulamā’ (religious scholars) for
reducing Islam to the outward practice of religious rites, such as the daily
prayers and the giving of alms, and neglecting its spiritual dimension. For
the ṣūfī, true wisdom consisted, first of all, in a direct cognitive experience
of God and the divine truths—often described in terms of dhawq (taste)—
and, second, in identifying and realizing the necessary preparatory steps,
particularly so long as the ṣūfī was still ‘underway’ (fī al-t. arīq), which is to
say seeking further perfection. Remarkably, despite its strong emphasis on
religious knowledge in contradistinction to mundane knowledge—on ‘ilm in
the Qur’ānic sense—Sufism was deeply inspired by certain theories
developed within the framework of falsafa, especially by thinkers like al-
Fārābī and his successor Avicenna.
Both tendencies—the divided position with respect to the theological
and legal schools as well as the openness vis-à-vis falsafa in spite of serious
reservations—are particularly striking in the case of Abū H . āmid al-Ghazālī
(d. 1111), the herald of classical Sufism.42 At the center of al-Ghazālī’s
notion of wisdom is the idea that access to salvation is through cognition—
an idea we already encountered in al-Fārābī’s thought, although couched in
less religious terms. The object of cognition for al-Ghazālī is the God taught
by Islam, that is, the God revealed through the Qur’ān by means of the
Prophet Muh. ammad. According to al-Ghazālī, the goal of the seeker of

Nadja Germann 611

 knowledge consists in an understanding of this single, unique God and His
true nature. From the outset, the structural parallel to al-Fārābī’s metaphys-
ical setting in the Madīna fād. ila is obvious. We remember that, for the
faylasūf, too, cognition of what he called the First Cause and its attributes
was pivotal. However, while for al-Fārābī and his followers the insights
required for the attainment of happiness can be reached by means of natural
human reason, for al-Ghazālī they always presuppose the active assistance
of God. This can be either in the form of the Qur’ān, the divine message
explicitly transmitted to humanity to convey ‘ilm, or through supernatural,
divine inspiration granted only to a few individuals, such as prophets. In al-
Ghazālī’s account, it is this second method to which the ṣūfīs aspire.
Like the falāsifa, al-Ghazālī identifies ‘aql (intellect) as the locus of
human reason. Human beings, he explains in the ‘Ajā’ib al-qalb (The
marvels of the heart), are naturally endowed with intellect, which allows
them to acquire ‘ilm “of the real nature of things.”43 However, in contrast to
al-Fārābī and his followers, al-Ghazālī rejects the Aristotelian theory
according to which human beings are born without any prior knowledge,
comparing the pristine human soul with a blank slate. Rather, the intellect
“is innately prepared to apprehend the real nature”44 of things. For there is a
“kind of knowledge that exist[s] in it” from birth and which he describes as
“intellectual.” This sort of knowledge, on al-Ghazālī’s account, is “that by
which the innate intellect makes its judgments”; it embraces the first, self-
evident principles on which deductive reasoning is based. Equipped in this
manner, humanity’s task consists in acquiring knowledge, and this means
primarily knowledge of “God and His attributes and works.”45 Now, as has
been mentioned, there are two sources of knowledge, the Qur’ān and divine
inspiration. Let us begin by looking into the first way, a method of cognition
that requires the effort of discursive reasoning on the part of the seeker of
knowledge.46
Al-Ghazālī’s theory of discursive cognition is, once again, inspired by
the falāsifa.47 Basically, knowledge is attained empirically, through contact
with the world by way of one’s external senses. However, for al-Ghazālī
there is more than one ‘empirical’ source of knowledge. While the falāsifa
exclusively acknowledge the physical world around us and its metaphysical
structure as such an empirical given, al-Ghazālī—who by no means denies
the existence and conceivability of “this world”—is rather interested in the
“world to come.”48 The source of knowledge about “God and His attributes
and works” (see note 45), however, is not physical reality; this kind of ‘ilm
presupposes a different medium, namely the divine revelation. Understand-
ing the latter, meanwhile, requires an extra effort. It demands of seekers of
knowledge the application of their intellects. In other words, just as the
sciences of “this world” involve both experiential knowledge and, on top of
this, rational deliberation (deductive reasoning), al-Ghazālī’s “religious
sciences”49 presuppose both ‘empirical’ input—“the Book of God, the

612 Philosophy East & West

Exalted, and the Sunna [i.e., sayings and practice—NG] of the Messenger of
God”—and the application of reason, that is, the decoding of the data
revealed in the Qur’ān by virtue of one’s intellect.50
While this is the standard method of cognition, viable for all those who
are able to reason scientifically, there is an alternative mode of cognition,
transcending the realm of natural reason: the mode of inspired cognition
sought by the ṣūfīs.51 Just like revelation (the Qur’ān), inspiration comes
directly from God, al-Ghazālī believes. Both prophets and what he refers to
as “the saints (awliyā’) and the pure (aṣfiyā’),”52 that is, the successful ṣūfīs,
partake of this form of cognition. Yet in contrast to deductive reasoning,
which, if the seekers of knowledge are sufficiently intelligent and persistent
in their search, can be elicited by will, inspiration is not at hand. It is the
result of God’s grace.53 The only thing seekers of knowledge can do is to
create ideal conditions for inspiration to occur, God willing.
It is at this point that practice (‘amal) designed to facilitate cognition
appears on the scene. The ascetic and meditative activities that al-Ghazālī
recommends are still nowadays associated with ṣūfī practices, even
though over the centuries many details have accrued, regulations multi-
plied, and the significance ascribed to the performance of specific
practices by and large increased. For al-Ghazālī these practices are
related to the human soul. He compares the soul—or, in his parlance, the
heart—to a mirror. If it is well polished, a mirror accurately reflects
images of the things in front of it. The dirtier it is, by contrast, the more
the mirror images are blurred to the point that the glass even fails to do
its job. Polishing the inner mirror, that is, purifying the soul by means of
asceticism and meditation (in the guise of the so-called remembrance
[dhikr] of God), therefore, is the only means for aspiring ṣūfīs to make
themselves ready for divine inspiration.54 If this inspiration does indeed
occur, it differs significantly from merely deduced insights: discursive
knowledge only gives the notion of the thing cognized, while inspired
knowledge, by contrast, is direct experience—it is not the description of
delicious food, but its very taste (dhawq).55
As a consequence, the wisdom pursued in taṣawwuf does not differ in
terms of content from that of the ‘ulamā’: the ‘ilm accrued in the process of
self-perfection concerns God and His attributes. However, the wisdom of
the ṣūfīs is distinguished by its source—divine inspiration versus human
deliberations—and its constitution—immediate experience versus conceptual
comprehension. And it leads to a supreme kind of happiness: the “success
of meeting (liqā’) God the Exalted.”56 It can therefore be described as a
particularly deep sort of insight into the divine truths granted (by God
Himself) to only a few individuals, who, in turn, distinguish themselves by
their exclusive dedication—determining their entire way of life—to the
search for dhawq and liqā’.

Nadja Germann 613

 Concluding Remarks

Wisdom in early Islamic thought, we can conclude, is a multilayered

notion. Its meanings converge in the high esteem in which ‘ilm was held
across the different schools and traditions. Wisdom always presupposes
knowledge and only secondarily entails or demands ‘amal. While the
extent to which ‘ilm possesses religious connotations and is based on the
Qur’ān strongly differs between the schools, they all agree in their
emphasis on ‘ilm.
Now, knowledge and cognition usually distinguish individuals. Yet, if
wisdom is primarily identified with the successful acquisition of knowledge,
does it not necessarily take on strongly individualistic traits? This is
definitely the case with taṣawwuf. Although aspiring ṣūfīs may study with a
teacher, they are concerned exclusively with their own spiritual progress.
And even if meditation is practiced within a group, the experiences one
has are utterly private. Against this background, it is remarkable that al-
Fārābī, our faylasūf, notwithstanding his insistence on the epistemic
dimension of wisdom, underscores its social implications.57 In opposition
to the ṣūfīs and even some of his fellow falāsifa, he believes that wisdom
requires cooperation across social classes and across generations by: And it
presupposes a simultaneously knowledgeable and caring (and in this sense
active) philosopher-king.
However, al-Fārābī’s theory still leaves open the question of how exactly
individual human beings should interact in society, in the here and now.
While this problem is the concern of neither al-Fārābī nor his followers—let
alone of the ṣūfīs—it is clearly the issue with which al-Jāh. iz. seeks to engage.
Wisdom, for him, is not only a private, religious affair of individual self-
perfection, pace al-Ghazālī and the ṣūfīs. And it is not only that which
distinguishes the principle of the universe and the ruler of a perfect city or
nation, pace al-Fārābī and the falāsifa. Rather, there is also a kind of wisdom
present in and required for everyday life, for every sort of human interaction—
admittedly, a kind of wisdom that is couched in a metaphysical-theological
framework.
Wisdom for al-Jāh. iz., therefore, is closely linked with the usage of nut. q,
of language, the most important means for reasonable, human interaction.
This is not to say that wisdom is a matter of grammar. Not at all. Rather,
adab wisdom aims at the realization, as comprehensively as possible, of
humanity’s rational and communicative nature with all of its ethical and
social implications. To a certain extent, the wisdom of the udabā’ is the
virtue of speaking and acting humanely. It is the virtue of perfecting one’s
own communicative abilities for the sake of mutual benefit and not without
a dash of self-irony—a notion of wisdom that, particularly nowadays, might
deserve enhanced consideration.

614 Philosophy East & West

Notes

I would like to thank the two anonymous readers for their valuable
comments and suggestions on an earlier version of this article.

1 – The basic form of the verb h. akama means ‘to prevent, restrain, or
withhold someone from’ as well as ‘to judge, give judgment, pass
sentence, decide judicially between’. The derived forms are even more
explicit. Form II signifies ‘to commit to someone the office of judging,
giving judgment, etc.’; form III ‘to summon someone to the judge’, make a
complaint of someone to the judge’. See Lane’s Lexicon, provided online
by ejtaal.net, accessed September 12, 2019, under “Arabic language
resources,” “Arabic Almanac,” s.v. h. km, https://ejtaal.net/. Cf. also the
connotations of the term h. ikma as it is used in the Qur’ān and discussed
in Franz Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant: The Concept of Knowledge
in Medieval Islam (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), pp. 37–38.
2 – Perhaps this is due to the fact that translation from Greek into Arabic
usually took place through the intermediary of Syriac, where the root
h. –k–m already implied the semantic field of ‘wisdom.’
3 – See, e.g., the summary presentation in Rosenthal, Knowledge Trium-
phant, pp. 1–2:
Arabic ‘ilm is fairly well rendered by our ‘knowledge’. However, ‘knowledge’
falls short of expressing all the factual and emotional contents of ‘ilm. For ‘ilm
is one of those concepts that have dominated Islam and given Muslim
civilization its distinctive shape and complexion. In fact, there is no other
concept that has been operative as a determinant of Muslim civilization in all
its aspects to the same extent as ‘ilm.

It is notable, as Rosenthal observes (ibid., p. 37), that there are a

number of instances where “Greek sophia was . . . translated not by
h. ikmah but by ‘ilm.” This, at first sight surprising, practice suggests
that from the point of view of the translators ‘ilm largely corresponded
to sophia.

4 – This is not to deny the existence of what might be called secular or

mundane knowledge; the Qur’ān itself refers to it. However, true ‘ilm
is knowledge of the truth behind the obvious natural givens, and it is
this kind of knowledge which is really at stake. For this is the
knowledge required for salvation.
5 – Note the practical or, one is inclined to say, political dimension of this
notion of prophethood: the prophet is conceived not only as God’s
spokesperson, but also as the political leader of his community.

Nadja Germann 615

 6 – As Rosenthal succinctly puts it (Knowledge Triumphant, p. 29), “the
prophets are in the possession of a knowledge coming to them from
God such as ordinary human beings do not possess.” He refers to Sūrat
al-A‘rāf (7:62), a passage addressing Noah’s mission: “I (namely Noah)
deliver to you the Messages of my Lord, and I advise you sincerely; for
I know from God that you know not” (emphasis added). English
translations of the Qur’ān are throughout taken from The Koran
Interpreted, trans. Arthur J. Arberry (London: Allen & Unwin; New
York: Macmillan, 1955).
7 – Cf. Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant, pp. 247–248.
8 – Adab is often translated as ‘belles lettres’, ‘etiquette’, or the like. I shall
explain this and the following terms more fully at the relevant places.
9 – Falsafa, as already indicated, is the designation for Greek-inspired
(Neoplatonic-Aristotelian) philosophy.
10 – Taṣawwuf is the Arabic expression for Islamic mysticism; it (or rather a
cognate, ṣūfiyya) underlies its English rendition as ‘Sufism’.
11 – For such an overview, see, e.g., Seeger A. Bonebakker, “Adab and the
Concept of Belles-Lettres,” in ‘Abbāsid Belles-Lettres, ed. Julia Ashtiany
et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 16–30.
12 – F. Gabrieli, “Adab,” in The Encyclopaedia of Islam: New Edition, ed.
Hamilton A. R. Gibb et al., vol. 1 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1979),
175b–176a, the quotations on 175b. On 176a Gabrieli adds:
The adīb [practitioner of adab—NG] of the 3rd/9th century, of which al-Djāh. iz.
[on whom more below—NG] was the most perfect example, was therefore not
only cultivated in Arabic poetry and prose, in maxims and proverbs, in the
genealogy and tradition of the djāhiliyya [pre-Islamic period—NG] and of the
Arabs at a time when they were hardly yet Islamized, but broadened out his
range of interest to include the Iranian world with all its epic, gnomic, and
narrative tradition, the Indian world with its fables, and the Greek world with its
practical philosophy, and especially its ethics and economics.

13 – Roger Allen, An Introduction to Arabic Literature (Cambridge: Cam-

bridge University Press, 2000), p. 134; note that Allen’s focus, in line
with the purpose of the book, is on the literary dimension of adab.
14 – Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, “Adab a) Arabic, early developments,” in
Encyclopaedia of Islam: THREE, ed. Kate Fleet et al., accessed
September 11, 2019, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_
24178. Like Gabrieli (note 12 above) he further compares adab with
urbanitas and humanitas.

616 Philosophy East & West

15 – Both quotes from Hämeen-Anttila, “Adab”; see also the references in
Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant, p. 245.
16 – Hämeen-Anttila, “Adab”; as he indicates, Ibn Khaldūn additionally
mentions a work by Ibn Qutayba, the Adab al-kātib (Adab of the
Secretary), along with two texts by udabā’ who have not yet been
mentioned: al-Mubarrad (d. 898) and al-Qālī (d. 967).
17 – For an overview of al-Jāh. iz.’ oeuvre, see Charles Pellat, The Life and
Works of Jahiz: Translations of Selected Texts, trans. D. M. Hawke
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969); on al-Jāh. iz. and his
world through the lens of one of his most important books, the Kitāb
al-h. ayawān (The book of living), see James E. Montgomery, Al-Jāh. iz.:
In Praise of Books (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013); cf.
also Al-Jāh. iz.: A Muslim Humanist for our Time, ed. Arnim Heinemann
et al. (Beirut: Ergon Verlag Würzburg, 2009).
18 – For analyses of al-Jāh. iz.’ notion of bayān and his philosophy of
 . iz. über die
language, see Lale Behzadi, Sprache und Verstehen: Al-Gāh
Vollkommenheit des Ausdrucks (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag,
2009), particularly chapter 3; James E. Montgomery, “Jāh. iz.’ Kitāb al-
Bayān wa-l-tabyīn,” in Writing and Representation in Medieval Islam:
Muslim Horizons, ed. Julia Bray (London: Routledge, 2006), pp.
91–152.
19 – See Roger Arnaldez, “Mant. ik.,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam: New Edition,
vol. 6 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1991), 442a–452b, at 442a:
Man is defined as h. ayāwān nāt. ik., a reasonable animal, although the LA [Lisān
al-‘Arab, the authoritative dictionary of Classical Arabic composed already
during the Middle Ages—NG] gives a broader sense to the word nāt. ik.,
opposing it to ṣāmit (that which is silent): every thing which has a voice (ṣawt)
is nāt. ik.. But it is certain that the articulate language of man distinguishes him
from all other animals on the vocal level, just as reason distinguishes him on
the spiritual level.

20 – See, e.g., Abū ‘Uthmān ‘Amr ibn Bah. r al-Jāh. iz., Kitāb al-bayān wa-al-
tabyīn, vol. 1, ed. ‘Abdassalām M. Hārūn (Cairo: al-Mat. ba‘a al-
‘ilmiyya, 1893), p. 75: “A clear sign of the secret meaning: that is
conspicuousness (bayān), which you heard God—He is powerful and
exalted—praise and to which He summons and impels. In this manner
speaks (nat. aqa) the Qur’ān. . . . ” (—my translation).
21 – See Sūrat Āl ‘Imrān (3:138): “This [sc. the Qur’ānic revelation—NG] is
an exposition (bayān) for mankind, and a guidance, and an admonition
for such as are godfearing”; Sūrat al-Nah. l (16:89): “And We have sent

Nadja Germann 617

 down on thee the Book making clear (tibyānan) everything, and as a
guidance . . . to those who surrender.”
22 – See, e.g., al-Jāh. iz., Kitāb al-bayān, p. 75: “Making the meaning
apparent corresponds to the lucidity of the sign (dalāla) and the
suitability of the indication (ishāra), . . . The more the sign is evident
and plain and the indication conspicuous (abyan) and bright, the more
it is beneficial and useful” (—my translation).
23 – In a way, al-Jāh. iz.’ notion of bayān—a particularly clear sign (not only
a linguistic sign, but one of any kind)—anticipates positions developed
in twentieth-century Western philosophy, according to which speaking
(1) is acting (e.g., Wittgenstein, Austin) and (2) is literally ‘embodied’
(i.e., expressed or ‘lived’ by the entire body; cf. Merleau-Ponty, Charles
Taylor).
24 – Bayān and related adab concepts are usually taken in an esthetic
sense, probably due to the fact that texts like al-Jāh. iz.’ Kitāb al-bayān
are typically discussed by scholars of literary studies who overlook or
are not interested in the metaphysical dimension and moral implica-
tions of these concepts. In a forthcoming study, I offer an analysis of
al-Jāh. iz.’ multilayered theory of bayān.
25 – The reference to Aristotle is not merely illustrative. As mentioned
above, among the sources that inspired adab, the Greek philosophical
texts played a definite role. In particular, Aristotle’s theory of the mean
was easily applicable to the ancient Arab virtues transmitted through
pre-Islamic poetry, to virtues such as generosity, courage, loyalty, etc.,
which cannot be determined absolutely but only in relation to specific
situations.
26 – This identification is explicit: both the adherents of falsafa themselves
and their contemporaries made this link, as is evinced—beyond the
works of falsafa—by the bio-bibliographical literature. The most
substantial and up-to-date overview over the first centuries of falsafa is
Philosophy in the Islamic World, Volume 1: 8th–10th Centuries, ed.
Ulrich Rudolph, Rotraud Hansberger, and Peter Adamson (Leiden:
Brill, 2017).
27 – Particularly at the beginning, falsafa was supported by many non-
Muslims—Jews, Christians, even self-avowed atheists—among both the
translators and the first falāsifa.
28 – Thus, e.g., h. ikma was also increasingly used to denote the Sufis: like
the falāsifa, the Islamic mystics were often called h. ukamā’ (plural of
h. akīm, wise) rather than ‘ulamā’ (plural of ‘alīm, the adjective derived
from the root ‘–l–m; see our introduction above). The expression ‘alīm/
‘ulamā’ is usually reserved for those scholars who have studied at a

618 Philosophy East & West

 Madrasa, a school of higher learning. Throughout the premodern
period these schools were centered on religious learning, usually
associated with one, occasionally with several legal schools. On the
Madrasas, still useful is Johannes Pedersen et al., “Madrasa,” in
Encyclopaedia of Islam: New Edition, vol. 5 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1986),
1123a–1154b, particularly 1123a–1134b.
29 – The most up-to-date survey of al-Fārābī’s life, writings, and teachings is
Ulrich Rudolph, “Al-Fārābī,” in Philosophy in the Islamic World,
pp. 526–654; cf. also Damien Janos, “al-Fārābī,” in Encyclopaedia of
Islam: THREE, accessed November 20, 2019, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/
1573-3912_ei3_COM_26962.
30 – As we will see in what follows, in order to reach happiness, people
must live in well-governed (“virtuous” and “excellent”) communities
(“cities”) and fulfill certain conditions—mainly, they must learn
particular things and perform specific activities—in order to perfect
themselves. See, e.g., Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī, On the Perfect State
(Mabādi’ ārā’ ahl al-madīnat al-fād. ilah), ed. and trans. Richard Walzer
(Chicago: Great Books of the Islamic World, 1998), p. 261: “The
people of the excellent city have things in common which they all
perform and comprehend, and other things which each class knows
and does on its own. Each of these people reaches the state of felicity
by precisely these two things.”
31 – Note that al-Fārābī distinguishes two kinds of felicity, namely “earthly
happiness in this life and supreme happiness in the life beyond”; for
this quotation and the ones above, see Abū Naṣr al-Fārābī, The
Attainment of Happiness, printed in Alfarabi: Philosophy of Plato and
Aristotle, trans. Muhsin Mahdi, rev. ed. (Ithaca: Cornell University
Press, 2001), pp. 13–50, at p. 13: “The human things through which
nations and citizens of cities attain earthly happiness in this life and
supreme happiness in the life beyond are of four kinds: theoretical
virtues, deliberative virtues, moral virtues, and practical arts.” We
cannot go into detail here, but we should mention that “earthly
happiness” refers to the well-being of the inhabitants of well-ordered
(perfect) communities (cities or nations), whereas “supreme happiness”
is the state individual human souls will attain in the afterlife, al-Fārābī’s
idea being that the soul can survive the death of the human being. For
more details, see Nadja Germann, “Al-Farabi’s Philosophy of Society
and Religion,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer
2018 Edition), ed. Edward N. Zalta, https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/
sum2018/entries/al-farabi-soc-rel/, with further literature.
32 – In the background of this idea is Aristotle’s teleology, according to
which every kind of being has a specific nature, which is to say the

Nadja Germann 619

 potential to become something, to be perfected by way of actualiza-
tion. In the case of the human being, this specific nature is determined
by reason, that is, the capacity to think and deliberate.
33 – For the full list (from which the citations above are taken), see al-
Fārābī, On the Perfect State, pp. 277–279.
34 – Fārābī only uses the masculine gender in relation to the h. akīm—hence
our usage of the personal pronouns throughout.
35 – See, e.g., al-Fārābī, The Attainment of Happiness, p. 43:
To be a truly perfect philosopher one has to possess both the theoretical
sciences and the faculty for exploiting them for the benefit of all others
according to their capacity. . . . For he who possesses the faculty for
exploiting what is comprised by the theoretical matters for the benefit of all
others possesses the faculty for making such matters intelligible as well as for
bringing into actual existence those of them that depend on the will.

36 – Al-Fārābī, The Attainment of Happiness, p. 44.

37 – Al-Fārābī discusses these two levels of human nature—the general one
distinguishing the entire species and the individual one differentiating
each particular human being—by means of the term fit. ra (natural
disposition), a term that derives from the religious context and has its
origin in the Qur’ān, in relation to creation; see, e.g., Sūrat al-anbiyā’
(21:56): “He said, ‘Nay, but your Lord is the Lord of the heavens and
the earth who originated them (fat. arahunna)’”; Sūrat al-Rūm (30:30):
“So set thy face to the religion, a man of pure faith—God’s original
(fit. rata llāhi) upon which He originated (fat. ara) mankind.”
38 – Both analoga of the well-ordered society—the cosmos on the one
hand and the body of a living being on the other—recur frequently
in al-Fārābī’s oeuvre; see, e.g., al-Fārābī, On the Perfect State,
pp. 235–237:
The ruling organ in the body is by nature the most complete of the organs in
itself and in its specific qualification. . . . The heart comes to be first and
becomes then the cause of the existence of the other organs and limbs of the
body. . . . The parts of the body close to the ruling organ perform the natural
functions, in agreement—by nature—with the aim of the ruler, the most noble
ones. . . . In the same way the parts of the city which are close in authority to
the ruler of the city perform the most noble voluntary actions, and those
below them less noble actions. . . . This applies also to all existents. For the
relation of the First Cause to the other existents is like the relation of the king
of the excellent city to its other parts.

620 Philosophy East & West

39 – See al-Fārābī, On the Perfect State, p. 279 (slightly modified): “Now
these things [i.e., the list of things everyone must know; see above,
note 33—NG] can be known in two ways, either by being impressed
on their souls as they really are or by being impressed on them through
affinity and symbolic representation. In that case symbols arise in
man’s mind, which reproduce them by imitation.” We do not have the
space here to elaborate on this, but note the crucial role played by
language in al-Fārābī’s notion of wisdom—in various ways comparable
to what we already saw in al-Jāh. iz..
40 – Accordingly, for al-Fārābī, a document like the Qur’ān would be an
example of universal truth (about the First Cause, cosmology, etc.)
recast into improper speech, a kind of parlance that does not impart its
lessons scientifically, “as [things] really are” (note 39), but nevertheless,
by way of similarity, captures their essence. By means of this symbolic
teaching, al-Fārābī is convinced, even those not sufficiently gifted to
become philosophers can attain supreme happiness. For his ideas of
the afterlife, see al-Fārābī, On the Perfect State, pp. 259–277. On al-
Fārābī’s take on prophecy, see W. Craig Streetman, “’If It Were God
Who Sent Them. . . ’: Aristotle and al-Fārābī on Prophetic Vision,” in
Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 18 (2008): 211–246; on his stance
toward religion, Paul L. Heck, “Doubts about the Religious Community
(Milla) in al-Fārābī and the Brethren of Purity,” in In the Age of al-
Fārābī: Arabic Philosophy in the Fourth/Tenth Century, ed. Peter
Adamson (London and Turin: The Warburg Institute, Nino Aragno
Editore, 2008), pp. 195–213.
41 – On taṣawwuf in general, see Louis Massignon (Bernd Radtke) et al.,
“Taṣawwuf,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam: New Edition, vol. 10 (Leiden:
Brill, 2000), 313b–340b; for the historical developments during the
classical period, see esp. section 1, “Early development in the Arabic
and Persian lands.”
42 – For this assessment, see Massignon (Radtke) et al., “Taṣawwuf,”
314b–315a. According to this overview, the “10th-11th centuries were
a period of consolidation, in which there appeared the great collec-
tions and text-books which gave Sūfism its final orthodox tone.”
Mentioned, among others, are Abū T. ālib al-Makkī (d. 996) and al-
Qushayrī (d. 1074). Against this background, al-Ghazālī’s oeuvre
(specifically his major ṣūfī work, the Ih. yā’ ‘ulūm al-dīn) is described as
a “certain culmination” and a “synthesis of theological science and
mystical ‘ilm al-bāt. in” (literally: knowledge of the interior—NG),
drawing heavily on al-Ghazālī’s two just-mentioned predecessors,
Makkī and Qushayrī. The most recent study of al-Ghazālī’s life,
writings, and thought (with an extensive bibliography) is Ulrich

Nadja Germann 621

 ▪

Rudolph, “Abū H.āmid al-Gazālī,” in Philosophie in der islamischen

Welt, Band 2: 11.–12. Jahrhundert, ed. Ulrich Rudolph (Basel:
Schwabe, forthcoming). I am grateful to Ulrich Rudolph, who kindly
shared a draft version of this chapter with me. See also Frank Griffel,
Al-Ghazālī’s Philosophical Theology (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2009).
43 – See, e.g., Abū H . āmid al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb: The
Marvels of the Heart, Book 21 of the Ih. yā’ ‘ulūm al-dīn: The Revival
of the Religious Sciences, trans. Walter J. Skellie (Louisville: Fons Vitae,
2010), 9, where al-Ghazālī explains his usage of the term ‘aql as both
the activity or state of knowing (“a quality of the knower”) and “the
seat of perception, the mind which perceives.” The ‘Ajā’ib al-qalb is
part of al-Ghazālī’s Ih. yā’ ‘ulūm al-dīn; see note 42 above.
44 – For this and the following quotations and summaries, see al-Ghazālī,
Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 45.
45 – Al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 41. There are various places
in the Marvels of the Heart where al-Ghazālī gives more or less
extensive lists of objects that ought to be known for the sake of the
afterlife; for a variation on this theme, see ibid., p. 49, where he lists
“knowledge of the states of the heart, of defects in religious works, and
of the knowledge of God, the Exalted, and His attributes and His acts,
as we have explained in the Book of Knowledge,” the first part of the
Ih. yā’ ‘ulūm al-dīn, al-Ghazālī’s most extensive treatment of his notion
of knowledge.
46 – It should be mentioned that for al-Ghazālī there is no ‘ilm without
understanding, and understanding, in his account, comes about only
(1) by way of discursive reasoning or (2) through inspiration. Every
other kind of belief, for him, would be mere reliance on authority
(taqlīd) and therefore would not amount to knowledge proper.
47 – On the relationship between al-Ghazālī’s theory of cognition (and, in
particular, his concept of inspired knowledge) and the falāsifa,
especially Avicenna, al-Fārābī’s most important follower, see Alexander
Treiger, Inspired Knowledge in Islamic Thought: Al-Ghazālī’s Theory of
Mystical Cognition and Its Avicennian Foundation (London and New
York: Routledge, 2012).
48 – Al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 21.
49 – For this and the next quotation, see al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-
qalb, p. 47.
50 – For this opposition between intellectual sciences “of this present
world,” like medicine, mathematics, and astronomy (cf. the range of

622 Philosophy East & West

 Aristotelian sciences) and those “of the world to come,” see al-Ghazālī,
Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 49, where al-Ghazālī adds: “These two
[classes of—NG] sciences exist in tension, by which I mean that
whoever applies himself to one of them and goes deeply into it has his
insight into the other lessened for the most part.” Obviously, for al-
Ghazālī it is the religious sciences that really matter, since they provide
the gateway to eternal happiness, while the ‘mundane’ sciences are
beneficial only for the concerns of “this present world.”
51 – For a comparison of these two modes of knowledge acquisition, see al-
Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 51. Accordingly, those sciences
that are not innate “differ in their manner of attainment. Sometimes
they come upon the heart as though something were flung into it from
a source it knows not. At other times they are gained through
deduction (istidlāl) and study. That which is not attained by way of
acquisition or through artful proof is called general inspiration (ilhām).”
52 – Al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 52. For al-Ghazālī, there is a
certain distinction between prophetic revelation and the kind of
inspiration had by Sufis (see ibid. and more often), however, the details
are irrelevant for our purposes.
53 – Applying the metaphor of the veil, al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-
qalb, p. 42, speaks of “the winds of divine favor,” which remove the
veils “from the eyes of the hearts,” and the lifting of the veil “by a
secret favor from God”; similarly, he compares inspiration to “a
dazzling flash of lightning” (ibid., p. 53), linking it with his favorite
light metaphor.
54 – Cf. al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 54. Among other things, al-
Ghazālī mentions “asceticism (zuhd) in this present world, . . . cutting
the self off from all of its ties, . . . emptying the heart of all of its busying
affairs, and . . . advancing with the utmost concern toward God, the
Exalted.”
55 – In this connection, al-Ghazālī also speaks of “learning by experience,”
e.g., in al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 67.
56 – Al-Ghazālī, Kitāb sharh. ‘ajā’ib al-qalb, p. 34.
57 – Other falāsifa later discarded this idea, if we think, e.g., of Ibn Bājja, who
replied to al-Fārābī’s Madīna fād. ila with his Tadbīr al-mutawah. h. id
(Regime of the solitary).

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