Feelings Transformed Philosophical Theories of The Emotions, 1270-1670 (Dominik Perler Tony Crawford)

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Feelings Transformed
ii
E mot i on s of t he Past
Series Editors
Robert A. Kaster | David Konstan
This series investigates the history of the emotions in pre-modern societies,

taking 1500 CE as the conventional threshold of modernity. In addition to new
work on Greco-Roman and medieval European cultures, the series provides a
home for studies on the emotions in Near Eastern and Asian societies, including
pre-modern Egypt, India, China, and beyond.
The Elegiac Passion

Jealousy in Roman Love Elegy
Ruth Rothaus Caston
Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens

A Socio-Psychological Approach
Ed Sanders
Hope, Joy, and Affection in the Classical World

Edited by Ruth R. Caston and Robert A. Kaster
The Ancient Emotion of Disgust

Edited by Donald Lateiner and Dimos Spatharas
The Emotions in Early Chinese Philosophy

Curie Virág
Philosophical Theories of the Emotions, 1270–1670
Dominik Perler
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Philosophical Theories of the Emotions, 1270–1670
Dominik Perler
Translated from the German by Tony Crawford
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Originally published as: Transformationen der Gefühle. Philosophische Emotionstheorien 1270–1670

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Funding for Humanities and Social Sciences from Germany, a joint initiative of the Fritz Thyssen
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Contents
Preface vii
Preface to the English Edition xi
Introduction 1
I.1 A Philosophical Approach to Emotions 1
I.2 Why Historical Analysis? 6
I.3 A Twofold Transformation 16
1. Thomas Aquinas: Emotions as Sensual Movements 23

1.1 A Simple Explanation? 23
1.2 The Soul and Its Faculties 27
1.3 The Characterization and Classification of the Emotions 37
1.4 The Cognitive Content of Emotions: Fear and Anger 53
1.5 How Can Emotions Be Rationally Controlled? 61
2. John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham: Emotions in the Will 73

2.1 Two Kinds of Emotions 73
2.2 Pain as a Sensual Suffering 79
2.3 Sadness and Free Will 87
2.4 The Separation of the Parts of the Soul and Its Consequences 95
2.5 Love, Enjoyment, and Voluntary Control 110
3. Michel de Montaigne: A Skeptical View of Emotions 123

3.1 A Theoretical Approach? 123
3.2 Dynamic Pyrrhonism 126
3.3 Applying the Skeptical Method: Sadness, Fear, and Anger 136
3.4 Is a Systematic Order of the Emotions Possible? 149
3.5 Natural Moderation Instead of Control 158
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vi Contents
4. René Descartes: A Dualist View of Emotions 175

4.1 A Mechanistic Theory of Feelings? 175
4.2 The Functional Unity of Body and Mind 180
4.3 Emotions as Representations 192
4.4 Wonder and the Taxonomy of Emotions 204
4.5 Self-Control through Self-Respect 214
5. Baruch de Spinoza: Emotions as Psychophysical Units 225

5.1 A Naturalistic Approach 225
5.2 The Metaphysical Frame: Monism and Causal Order 229
5.3 Passive and Active Emotions 242
5.4 An Intellectualistic and Egoistic Error? 254
5.5 A Rationalistic Therapy 263
Conclusion 281
Notes 293
Bibliography 325
Name Index 339
Subject Index 343
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Preface
We ask “What does ‘I am frightened’ really mean, what am I referring to when

I say it?” And of course we find no answer, or one that is inadequate. The ques-
tion is: “In what sort of context does it occur?”
—Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations II, ix
Over the past two decades, emotions have moved more and more into the focus
of scientific research and have been studied primarily in psychological, biolog-
ical, and neuroscientific perspectives. The empirical studies concentrate pre-
dominantly on explaining the origin and structure of such phenomena as joy,
fear, and sadness, which are grouped under the common rubric of “emotions.”
But what prompts us to apply a single rubric to a number of phenomena? By
what criteria are these phenomena distinguished from others and classified?
How are they described or even defined? And to whom are they ascribed? The
present book is concerned with answers to these questions. It is intended not as
an empirical study, but as a conceptual analysis. Its aim is to analyze the theoret-
ical map on which the individual emotions are charted and set in relation to one
another as well as to other mental and physical phenomena.
The perspective taken in its five chapters is that of the history of philosophy.
Each chapter reconstructs and discusses influential theories of the emotions
that originated in the late Middle Ages and the early modern period. The in-
tention is not to provide the most exhaustive treatment possible of the exten-
sive textual material, nor yet a history of the sources and their reception, but to
analyze systematically relevant problems and to compare different theoretical
approaches. The history of philosophy shows that there is far more than just one
map on which the emotions can be drawn in their relationship to sensations,
perceptions, beliefs, acts of volition, and other phenomena. Only when we ex-
amine a given map more closely can we explain what is meant by individual
emotions.
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viii Preface
In view of the multitude of theoretical maps, the intention of the present

book is not to pick out a certain explanatory model, but to call attention to
the transformations in the discussion of emotions that have occurred in the
contexts of metaphysics, action theory, and moral psychology. At the same time,
our investigation will also be concerned with how the question of transforming
emotions has been answered in the respective contexts. How did philosophers
explain that emotions are not something we only “suffer” passively, but often
something we actively control, moderating them, sometimes suppressing them,
or the opposite—arousing them? Thus we are concerned with a twofold trans-
formation: change in the theoretical framework and, at the same time, in the
emotions themselves. The particular attraction of investigations in the history
of philosophy is that they bring to light the close connection between these
two transformations, for the possibility of moderating or arousing emotions is
explained very differently in the different theoretical frameworks.
The present study is not aimed exclusively at a specialist audience. For that
reason, it dispenses with a detailed discussion of the secondary literature.
However, the notes provide references to the most important commentaries
and point out the differences from previous interpretations. The references to
the primary sources have been integrated as far as possible into the text itself so
that every reader can turn to them to verify the interpretations and to try them
in greater depth. All quotations (with the exception of those from Montaigne,
Descartes, and Spinoza) are in my own translation from the Greek, Latin, and
French.
This book would not have been possible without the encouragement and ac-
tive support of many people. I thank first of all the staff of the Leibniz Prize
project “Transformations of the Mind: Philosophical Psychology from 1500 to
1750” at Humboldt-Universität, Berlin. I have presented preliminary studies and
draft chapters to them in internal colloquia and learned a great deal from their
critical questions, suggestions for improvement, and clarifications. I warmly
thank Rebekka Hufendiek, Martin Lenz, Stephan Schmid, Pedro Stoichita,
and Markus Wild for their thorough written comments on earlier versions of
the individual chapters. In the spring of 2009, I had the opportunity as a vis-
iting professor at the University of Tel Aviv to teach a graduate seminar on the
texts discussed in this book. My talks with the students there, and also with
David Konstan, who was in Tel Aviv at the same time, were a great help to me.
I thank my colleagues at the Cohn Institute at the University of Tel Aviv for
their exceedingly warm reception. I am also indebted for many suggestions to
the students with whom I have discussed medieval and early modern texts in
seminars in Berlin.
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Preface ix
I have presented ideas that have found their way into this book in lectures
in Vancouver, Toronto, Montreal, St. Louis, Leuven, Utrecht, Jerusalem,
Würzburg, Munich, Freiburg im Breisgau, Basel, Graz, Rome, Jyväskylä, and
Berlin. I thank all the participants in discussions for valuable questions, but
most of all for pointing out unclear points and so motivating me to state my
arguments more precisely, and not to lose sight of the philosophical forest
for the many historical and philological trees. My sincere thanks go to Luz
Christoph Seiberth and Sebastian Bender, who have supported me in obtaining
literature and preparing the text for publication.
I am grateful to the stimulating interlocutors and also to the dedicated
helpers I found in organizing conferences and reading groups on theories of the
soul and the emotions in the Berlin Excellence Clusters “Topoi” and “Languages
of Emotion.” I was given the opportunity to finish the work in idyllic surround-
ings at the Istituto Svizzero di Roma. I thank the directors of the institute for
their hospitality and for a gift that is becoming more and more precious in the
bustling routine of the university: time to read and write.
Berlin, May 2010
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Preface to the English Edition
The present book is the English translation of a German book that I finished in
2010. The text, including the references, has not been changed. But a great deal
else has changed in the meantime, of course. For one thing, the scholarly debate
has continued to advance in recent years. Theories of the emotions have increas-
ingly taken the spotlight in studies of medieval and early modern philosophy,
and it has become still more evident that, in these theories in particular, central
problems of metaphysics, the philosophy of mind, moral psychology, and ethics
have been discussed with particular intensity. For another, my own perspective
on these theories has also changed in certain respects. I would briefly like to in-
dicate three areas that, in my present view, call for closer study.
The first of these areas concerns the relationship between theories of the
emotions and cognitive theory. A central thesis of this book is that medieval
and early modern philosophers were particularly interested in the question of
how we can alter our emotions. How can we overcome anger in ourselves in spe-
cific situations, decrease our wrath, or increase our joy? To answer this question,
many authors appealed to cognitive mechanisms of control. They argued that
we can change emotions only if we also change our perceptions, imaginings,
judgments, and other cognitive states. Only if we judge the object of our anger
differently, for example, can we reduce that anger, and only if we perceive the
object of our joy more intensely can we increase our joy. Of course, the critical
question is then how such a cognitive control is possible. Exactly how can we
influence our emotions by means of our perceptions or judgments? Aristotelian
authors addressed this question using a psychology of faculties. They argued
that the whole soul consists of various faculties that produce different kinds of
states or activities—perceptions, judgments, emotions, etc. All the faculties are
coordinated with one another, so that activities of the faculty of judgment, for
example, have immediate effects on the activities of the affective faculty. This
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means, of course, that the unity and coordination of the faculties permit cogni-
tive control of the emotions.
However, this argument depends on two strong assumptions. First, it assumes
that there are in fact faculties that produce activities, and second, it presupposes
that there is in fact a perfect coordination of all faculties. But what is there to
justify the assumption of faculties in the first place? We cannot observe faculties;
we can observe only individual activities. And why should we assume that the
faculties, if they exist, are coordinated? Indeed, we observe over and over again
that cognitive control fails. We are often unable to reduce our anger or to increase
our joy. It would therefore seem all too optimistic to assume from the outset a
coordinated system of faculties. Reflections of this kind motivated many skep-
tical or anti-Aristotelian authors in the early modern period to question, or to
reject completely, the psychology of faculties. In recent years I have studied the
debate on the faculties in depth (see The Faculties: A History, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2015), and this debate seems to me to be of central impor-
tance for an understanding of theories of the emotions. Only if it is clear how
the assumption of faculties was justified in the context of an Aristotelian cog-
nitive theory can we also understand how the cognitive control of emotions
was explained. And only if it is clear how the Aristotelian assumption was
replaced with new assumptions—in the context of a Cartesian or Spinozan cog-
nitive theory, for example—can we also discern what anti-Aristotelian authors
meant by references to a close relationship among perceptions, judgments, and
emotions. Hence it is very important to examine more closely the discussions
concerning the status and the function of faculties. This means, of course, that
theories of the emotions must be more comprehensively embedded in the cor-
responding cognitive theories.
A second area that requires closer analysis concerns the relationship among
the theories of the emotions and various areas of philosophy. Studies of emotions
are now so well established in the contemporary debate that the “philosophy of
the emotions” has become a discipline of its own. It is therefore tempting to ex-
pect such a discipline to have existed in the Middle Ages and the early modern
period too, and to try to delimit it from other disciplines. Such a temptation must
be resisted, however. In the period between the 13th and the 17th centuries, there
was no separate “philosophy of the emotions”; there was rather an investigation
of the emotions that took place as part of existing disciplines. The discipline
in which this investigation took place varied depending on the author and the
context, however. Two examples may serve to illustrate this. Thomas Aquinas
discussed the nature and the function of the emotions in the second part of
the Summa theologiae, that is, in a theological text, where his study follows a
thorough analysis of human actions and precedes an analysis of the virtues (see
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Preface to the English Edition xiii
Section 1.1). The questions that interested him primarily were how we can pro-
duce good actions by means of the emotions, and how we can over time acquire
a virtuous character so that we produce good actions again and again. Aquinas
embedded the discussion of these questions in the context of a comprehensive
moral theology. René Descartes proceeded very differently. In the preface to The
Passions of the Soul, he wrote that he was investigating the emotions “as a nat-
ural philosopher” (see Section 4.1). He wanted mainly to analyze how different
states originate in the brain through external influences, leading in turn to dif-
ferent emotions. Furthermore, he wanted to determine more precisely which
particular facial expressions and gestures are elicited by the various emotions.
He meant to explain these processes in the context of a mechanistic physiology.
Thus he did not intend to embed the analysis of the emotions in a moral the-
ology. Consequently, he concentrated not on moral questions in the strict sense
(such as the question of what the goal and the structure of morally good actions
are), but for the most part on questions that are relevant from a perspective of
science and natural philosophy.
This important difference must be borne in mind. It would be misleading
to assume that Thomas Aquinas and Descartes pursued a single project of a
“philosophy of the emotions.” There was no such project in the Middle Ages
and the early modern period. Rather, the issues investigated by the individual
authors were oriented after their various overarching projects or disciplines—
such as those of moral theology or of natural philosophy. Daniel Garber re-
cently pointed out that it would be methodologically inappropriate to look for a
unified “philosophy of the emotions” in earlier texts. He concisely writes, “The
earlier theories of the passions and emotions we examined are embedded in
a rich web of philosophical context; modern theories are more autonomous”
(“Thinking Historically/Thinking Analytically: The Passion of History and the
History of Passions,” in Thinking about the Emotions: A Philosophical History,
ed. A. Cohen and R. Stern, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017, 23). This ob-
servation cannot be overemphasized. We must always ask in what context a
medieval or early modern philosopher discussed a given problem, what sig-
nificance that context had for a theory of the emotions, and how that theory
was integrated in a more comprehensive theory. And, of course, we must also
ask how and why different problems were addressed in different contexts. In
any case, the context-specific differences between individual authors must be
analyzed more closely.
Finally, there is a third area that calls for closer examination. This one concerns
the relation of medieval and early modern theories of the emotions to present-
day theories. This book makes it plain that there are, in spite of all differences,
important points of correspondence. For example, Aquinas, Ockham, Descartes,
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and Spinoza all agreed, as do many present-day philosophers, that emotions

are not merely feelings, but states with a cognitive content. Indeed, that is the
reason why emotions can be transformed by other cognitive states. It would
therefore be misleading to say that it was only in the 20th century that a “cog-
nitive turn” took place in debates on the emotions (see the concluding chapter).
It was known long before the 20th century that emotions are a certain kind
of cognition. Does this mean that medieval and early modern authors simply
anticipated the findings of modern emotion research and that we can alternate
between older and present-day theories at will? Not at all. The special attraction
of older theories consists in the fact that they seem to address familiar issues
in a completely different context and thus often arrive at different conclusions.
Again, an example may serve to illustrate this. Medieval authors agreed that
we humans are living beings with a body, and that our cognition in this life is
therefore physically grounded. However, they noted that our soul continues to
exist and can remain active after the body’s death. This moved some authors,
such as William of Ockham, to claim that the soul can still produce cognitions
when it is separated from the body—purely intellectual cognitions with no phys-
ical basis. Ockham also thought that the soul can still produce emotions after
death—purely volitive emotions that also have no physical basis (see Section
2.3). In concrete terms, that means that the soul separated from the body can
have a purely mental joy. This joy consists in nothing other than in the con-
sent that the will gives to an object that the intellect judges to be good. Thus
for Ockham there is a joy that clearly has a cognitive content but is completely
bodiless.
This is a thesis that hardly any philosopher would agree with today. However
cognitive states are conceived in contemporary debates, it seems to be clear that
they always have a physical basis. To present-day philosophers, it makes little
sense to speak of a purely mental joy produced by a soul separated from the body.
At precisely this point we see that we must proceed very cautiously in speaking
of cognitive states: the states referred to as cognitive in different contexts are of
very different kinds. It would therefore be inappropriate to say that there is a
unified, much less a single, “cognitivist theory of the emotions” in the 14th cen-
tury and in the 21st century. But we also see that revisiting older theories can be
productive. It forces us to deal with fundamental questions: What do we mean
by an emotion with a cognitive content? What conditions must be fulfilled for
such an emotion to arise? And what kind of subjects can produce it—only phys-
ical living beings, or bodiless souls too? We might even say that studying older
theories produces an alienation effect. (I describe this effect in detail in “The
Alienation Effect in the Historiography of Philosophy,” in Philosophy and the
Historical Perspective, ed. M. van Ackeren, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
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Preface to the English Edition xv
2018, 140–154.) The characterization of emotions as physically grounded states,

which seems to go without saying today, is suddenly no longer a natural and
self-evident fact—looking at it in the light of another theory alienates it. It turns
out to be the product of a certain theory about the constitution of cognitive
subjects, just as Ockham’s view too, of course, is the product of a certain theory.
This study induces us to think about both theories—the theory that is dominant
today as well as Ockham’s. We must ask ourselves what arguments there are for
and against each of the two theories. I find this a special benefit of studying the
history of philosophy. It not only leads to more exact knowledge of an older
theory, but it also motivates us to think about the specific characteristics of a
present-day theory. It may also lead us to see the present-day theory as being his-
torically contingent just as the older theory is. In any case, comparing older and
contemporary theories of the emotions does not simply amount to discovering
mere “earlier versions” or anticipations of present-day theories. It rather makes
us examine the given theoretical frame more precisely. Future studies should
devote increasing attention to this purpose.
So much for some methodological considerations. After finishing the
German book, I pursued some ideas from it further in three essays in English.
For this reason, Chapters 1 and 2 overlap at certain points, although without lit-
eral repetitions, with the following texts: “Why Is the Sheep Afraid of the Wolf?
Medieval Debates on Animal Passions,” in Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval
and Early Modern Philosophy, ed. L. Shapiro and M. Pickavé, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2012, 32–52; “Ockham on Emotions in the Divided Soul,” in
Partitioning the Soul: Debates from Plato to Leibniz, ed. K. Corcilius and D. Perler,
Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014, 179–198; and “Emotions and Rational Control: Two
Medieval Perspectives,” in Thinking about the Emotions: A Philosophical History,
ed. A. Cohen and R. Stern, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017, 60–82.
Finally, I thank Tony Crawford for the careful English translation, which
I have read in draft.
Berlin, January 2018
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1
Introduction
I.1 A Philosophical Approach

to Emotions
Hardly anything seems more familiar to us than the abundance of emotions that
we experience every day. We are glad when we receive a nice gift; we are afraid
when we are threatened; and we get angry when we learn of a great injustice. We
often observe emotions occurring in other people too: we see someone gripped
by anger; we observe children laughing with joy; and we watch couples who
have fallen out separating in hatred. Emotions are so omnipresent and natural
in day-to-day life that they need no explanation. The need for an explanation
arises only when we want to go beyond listing the various emotions observed
at one point or another and analyze all the phenomena we observe in ourselves
and others. What analysis would be appropriate from a present-day perspective?
It seems at first as if only an empirical analysis would teach us something,
because only that would provide us with insight into the origins and the general
structure of emotions. If we carry out biological, psychological, neuroscientific,
and other empirical investigations, we cannot only describe individual emotions,
but we can also explain what stimuli produce them, what brain structures they
are manifested in, and what behavior patterns they elicit. We can then also ex-
plain why certain types of emotions coincide with a certain physical expression,
and on this basis we may be able to draw up a classification of basic emotions.
If we use in addition the empirically grounded investigative methods of the so-
cial sciences, we can explain how, beginning with the basic emotions, different
socially and culturally shaped emotions arise, depending on different contexts.
We can also study what value is attached to these emotions, how that value has
changed in the course of historic development, and what differences can be
observed in different social groups. If these investigations are based on abun-
dant data, and if the established methods of empirical research are adequate,
we may go beyond a purely subjective, more or less anecdotal description of
individual emotions and construct a theory of emotions—a theory that tells us
about the nature and the special function of emotions.
Is there any room left then for a philosophical analysis? The need for such
an analysis arises whenever the concepts we use, both in everyday life and
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2 Feelings Transformed
in empirical studies, are unclear or imprecise. Only when we have examined

these concepts and explained them in their relations to one another do they
acquire clear outlines. Only then can we see what they are supposed to explain
in the first place, what overall framework they operate in, and what explicit
or implicit assumptions they depend on. Philosophical problems are thus al-
ways conceptual problems: they concern not the empirical data, but the way
in which we integrate and evaluate the data. Consequently, philosophical
problems cannot be solved by accumulating more and more data and per-
forming more and more individual empirical investigations. Instead, we must
reflect on the schemas in which the data are ordered and the presuppositions
they bring with them.
Of course, such schemas are also discussed in the various empirical
disciplines. New empirical findings are often obtained by interpreting ex-
isting data in the context of new theories or by questioning assumptions that
had seemed self-evident. For example, only critical reflection on behaviorism’s
assumptions allowed a “cognitive turn” in empirical research on emotions. Only
then was it possible to understand emotions as states with a cognitive content
and to study the formation of that content in detail.1 Thus there are by all means
theoretical debates in the empirical sciences, and theories are revised as a result
of them. However, such debates usually presuppose generally accepted funda-
mental concepts, as dissent can arise only from a shared conceptual basis in the
first place. It is possible to argue about how the cognitive content of emotions
arises, for example, only if we are more or less in agreement on what we mean
by cognitive content.2 It is precisely with these conceptual foundations that phil-
osophical analyses begin. Rather than assuming that the concept of cognitive
content, or other basic concepts, are already understood, philosophical analyses
are aimed at clarifying them. At least five problems then arise.
First, the seemingly naive but fundamental question arises of whether there
is such a thing as the emotions at all. We may call this the problem of unity: is the
concept of emotion sufficiently definite that it can be applied to a unified class of
phenomena? An affirmative answer seems obvious, because we seem to find it
easy to assign joy, fear, anger, outrage, and many other emotions to a single class,
which we distinguish from the class of beliefs and from that of sensations. But
objections to this answer have been raised time and time again. “Emotions do
not form a natural class,” Amélie Oksenberg Rorty has provocatively asserted.3
It is by no means plausible that all the phenomena that we ordinarily group
together under the term “emotion” really belong together. Perhaps our term is
misleading, just as the term “fish” is misleading when we apply it to trout and
whales. Just because we see these creatures in water doesn’t mean they belong to
the same category of animals.
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Introduction 3
Or perhaps our term is based on a historically developed convention that

could be changed at any time. Or perhaps it is based on the false assumption that
there must be something that connects joy, fear, anger, outrage, etc. But is there
in fact any such thing? Let us examine the spontaneous fear that grips a person
when a big dog lunges at her and the outrage that rises in her when she thinks
about executives receiving salaries in the millions while millions of people starve.
The fear is a reaction immediately triggered by sensory impressions, whereas
the outrage is the result of a moral reflection. A cat attacked by a dog would also
be afraid, but it would never be able to become outraged. Why should these two
phenomena nonetheless belong to one and the same class? Perhaps we should
classify the spontaneous fear together with instinctive sensory impressions but
classify outrage together with moral judgments. In any case, we need to explain
why we put very different kinds of phenomena in one bag. Perhaps what the bag
contains is an assortment of miscellaneous things.
This brings us to the second problem, which we may call the problem of struc-
ture. Even if we admit that we are using a single collective term for different
phenomena, the question arises of what characterizes those phenomena. In
other words, what is the particular structural characteristic that allows us to
distinguish emotions from other mental phenomena? Various answers come to
mind. We might answer that they are characterized by intentionality: that is, by
being directed at objects or states of affairs. We are always glad of something,
afraid of something; we hope for something, etc. But this characteristic is also
found in other mental phenomena. Some would even say it is the characteristic
of all mental phenomena, because beliefs, perceptions, wishes, imaginings, etc.
are also intentional.4 We might answer further that emotions have a physical
component. Thus we tremble when we are in great fear, and we blush with joy.
But this characteristic is also found in other phenomena, including in partic-
ular sensations (such as pain) and longer-lasting states of mind or moods (such
as depression). We might also assert that emotions have a phenomenal com-
ponent. That is, it feels a certain way to be outraged or joyous. But, of course,
this component too is found in sensations and moods. We could also state that
emotions have a motivational component. When we are afraid of a big dog, we
are spontaneously motivated to flee, and when we are outraged at an injustice,
we want to do something to combat it. But this component is also found in
instincts, desires, and wishes; all of them motivate us to act. Finally, we might
point out that emotions are distinguished by an evaluative component. When
we are happy about a gift, we see it as something good, and when we are afraid of
the dog, we estimate it to be dangerous and bad for us. But, once again, this com-
ponent is not specific to emotions either; wishes and especially value judgments
are also evaluative. Is there nothing, then, that distinguishes only emotions? Or
4
should we be looking for a different kind of characteristic, a very particular one?

Or is the peculiarity of emotions the fact that they have a bundle of structural
characteristics that overlap with those of other mental phenomena? In that case,
how would we explain how emotions are related to sensations, moods, wishes,
value judgments, etc.? These questions show that it is not enough just to clarify
the concept of emotion. We need to lay out a whole network of concepts to or-
ganize different mental phenomena and set them in relation to one another.
Talking about mental phenomena immediately brings up a third problem,
the problem of ascription: to whom or to what should emotions be ascribed?
To the mind, of course, we might answer just as quickly. As obvious and as
trivial as this answer may be, it is no less questionable on a closer look. For if
emotions have a physical component, they also concern the body, and not only
in the sense that they have a neuronal basis, which is probably true of all mental
phenomena. Emotions manifest themselves in specific gestures and facial
expressions. Are they nonetheless simply mental phenomena? Is fear something
mental and the trembling merely a concomitant phenomenon or a contingent
effect? That hardly seems plausible. We do not tremble in addition to or after
being afraid; we tremble in fear; the physical behavior is a constitutive com-
ponent.5 Should emotions then be ascribed to the body? Or to a unity of body
and mind? What might we mean by such a unity? Questions like these lead us
directly into metaphysical territory, for only when we have sufficiently clarified
what entities body and mind are is it possible to explain the status of a subject to
which we would ascribe emotions as “mixed” phenomena.
The problem of ascription is relevant in another respect as well. If emotions
are to be ascribed to a mind–body unity, then obviously only living things that
have a mind can be the subjects of emotions. But can we not ascribe emotions
to animals as well, as the example of the cat that is afraid of the dog illustrates?
Does that mean that we must ascribe a mind to the cat too? Or does it merely
mean that some kind of “minimum mind” with cognitive structures is necessary
for an emotion to occur? How might we characterize such a mind and distin-
guish it from a “maximum mind” such as we find in an adult human being?6
In any case, the concepts of mind and cognitive structure must be clarified if
the discussion of emotions as mental phenomena is not doomed to vagueness.
But the problem of ascription can also be posed as a mereological problem: Are
emotions ascribable to the whole of an organism, or only to a part, such as the
brain or a cognitive subsystem? Is it permissible to make the statement, which is
in fact customary in some empirical sciences, that joy and fear are in the brain
and can be seen there, by means of imaging techniques for example? This ques-
tion too can be answered only when the concepts of system and subsystem are
clear.7
5
Introduction 5
In addition, there is a fourth problem that is often obscured by talking about

phenomena. We may call this the problem of categories: What kind of entities are
the emotions? To what category do they belong? Once again, a spontaneous an-
swer comes to mind: we might answer that they are nothing other than states of
a mind or of a whole organism (whether human or animal). To be in fear or joy
would then mean nothing other than being in a certain state. But it can immedi-
ately be objected that an emotion is not something static. Let us examine a spe-
cific case. The parents of a ten-year-old girl are waiting for their daughter, who
has not come home from school, and in the evening they become afraid. The
longer they wait, the greater their fear becomes. Then they hear on the radio that
a severe traffic accident has occurred in their neighborhood: their fear grows to
panic. But a short time later, the parents of another girl in their daughter’s class
call them on the telephone and report that their daughter is with them: their fear
subsides. Evidently, fear in this case is a longer-lasting process that can increase
and decrease in its intensity. Can such a process be characterized as a state? And
can it be described as a simple state? Or must we call it a complex state that
is composed of many individual states (perceptions, imaginings, sensations,
wishes, judgments, etc.) that can be altered or exchanged? What is it then that
makes all these states form a unit? Furthermore, the question arises whether
emotions are always actual states or processes. Suppose someone describes the
girl’s parents as a very anxious people who are always quick to worry. Is the dis-
position to become afraid an emotion in itself? Or is it only the precondition
for an emotion? And in that case, how does an actual state or process arise from
the disposition? These questions can be answered only when we have clarified
what we mean by states, processes, and dispositions. That is why emotions can
be categorized only in reference to a comprehensive metaphysical model.
Finally, there is a fifth problem that must be addressed, which we may call
the problem of imputation. It is not clear whether we can ascribe an emotion to
a person (or perhaps to an animal) as something that they can somehow direct
or control and that therefore falls within the sphere of what can be imputed to
them, for which they can be held responsible. Emotions have an ambivalent
character in this regard. They seem to be phenomena that we can in fact con-
trol by intentionally arousing or moderating them in ourselves. For example,
a person can open the newspaper and read so many articles about excessive
executive salaries that she becomes outraged and begins to curse furiously.
Conversely, she can also try to understand the complex economic background
and so moderate her outrage, or she can simply turn her attention to another
topic and change her emotional state in that way. But there are also emotions
that seem to overcome us and that are beyond our control. A person facing a
growling attack dog is overcome with fear. Try as she may to convince herself
6
that the dog is well trained, her fear will not simply subside or disappear. And
a person who falls head over heels in love is overcome with an uncontrollable
feeling that cannot be moderated or extinguished by any rational reflection: she
is simply at the mercy of this feeling. But how can emotions be something we
can actively induce and control and at the same time be something we passively
undergo, something that overcomes us? Are there two kinds of emotions, active
and passive? Or do all emotions have an active and a passive aspect? And what
can we be held responsible for: only for the emotions that we can control? But to
what extent can we control them? Can a person moderate or shut off her outrage
as if at the push of a button by making the appropriate reflections? Or is there
an element here too that is beyond her control? An answer to these questions
is possible only when the concepts of activity and passivity are clear and when
we examine the cognitive mechanisms by which emotions are accessible. That
requires in turn an explanation of what we mean by such mechanisms to begin
with, and in what sense they can be ascribed to a person.
Of course, the five problems just mentioned are not a complete list of the
philosophical problems to be clarified. These are just some of the fundamental
issues, the entrance gates, so to speak, to further problems in the philosophy of
mind, metaphysics, action theory, and moral psychology. But those who study
emotions can hardly avoid discussing them. For we can gain an insight into the
nature and structure of emotions only if it is sufficiently clear what we mean
by mental phenomena and their characteristics, a mind–body unity, a complex
state, and a cognitive mechanism. An analysis of these conceptual problems is of
course no substitute for empirical investigations, as we still need data to which
the individual concepts can be applied. Nor are they a substitute for the discus-
sion of methods and theories in the various empirical disciplines. It would be
unreasonable to simply substitute the conceptual work of philosophy for em-
pirical work or to assume there could be such a thing as pure conceptual work
that could ignore the empirical findings. But neither can empirical studies, con-
versely, take the place of the conceptual work of philosophy; rather, they inev-
itably lead to it because they always resort, in structuring and evaluating the
data, to fundamental concepts that are by no means self-evident and that re-
quire explanation. Only when these concepts have been clarified do we discern
the frame in which the empirical findings are assimilated. And only then can we
see how the nature and the function of emotions can be explained.
I.2 Why Historical Analysis?

It would seem obvious to start the conceptual analysis against the back-
ground of contemporary empirical studies. It is therefore no surprise that the
7
Introduction 7
philosophical discussions in interdisciplinary contexts (such as the interdisci-

plinary cognitive sciences) have seen a new upsurge,8 because new empirical
findings can be immediately taken up in these contexts and used in testing the
applicability of individual terms and the explanatory power of whole theories.
Why should we choose the history of philosophy as a perspective from which
to study emotions? And why should we examine specifically the period be-
tween 1270 and 1670, as the following chapters do?9 Various answers come
to mind.
First, it may be pointed out that numerous conceptual distinctions and
definitions that are still relevant in present-day discussions originated in the
late medieval and early modern debates. For example, the 13th-century authors
(notably Thomas Aquinas) asserted that emotions always have a “formal ob-
ject,” that is, an object that is specified and evaluated in a certain respect. Fear,
for instance, is directed at an object that is evaluated as bad and threatening;
joy is directed at one that is estimated to be useful and good. Different kinds
of emotions can be distinguished and classified by examining their respec-
tive formal objects. Anthony Kenny and a number of contemporary authors
after him have revisited this insight.10 For another example, Baruch de Spinoza
declared that emotions necessarily have physical components and must there-
fore be described from both a physical and a mental perspective. In the recent
debates, Antonio Damasio has taken up this idea by advocating Spinoza’s theory
as a source of inspiration for neurobiological theories.11 In spite of their historic
remoteness, central elements of the theories from the 13th to 17th centuries are
still relevant.
Furthermore, we can observe that these theories are sometimes important
sources of negative inspiration. They serve a contrasting backdrop, so to speak,
to an appropriate theory of the emotions. Perhaps the most popular foil in this
regard is the Cartesian theory. It has been pointed out time and again that we
can offer an adequate explanation of the emotions only if we take leave of the
“Cartesian legacy” and discard a number of assumptions, such as the assump-
tion that emotions are merely mental feelings that are really distinct from the
physical states, and the further assumption that these feelings have no cog-
nitive value because they are not clear, exact ideas and hence do not indicate
how things really are in the world. Thus John Deigh, for example, has stated
that René Descartes marked the beginning of a long tradition of noncognitivist
theories that reduce the emotions to phenomenal experiences and that this is
precisely the tradition that must be opposed today.12 This estimation is certainly
disputable and is hard to reconcile with certain statements in which Descartes
does not separate the emotions from physical states, nor deny that they have any
cognitive value.13 But regardless of whether the negative reference to Descartes
8
is exegetically appropriate, it shows that a theory from the 17th century is still
challenging.
Finally, another reason why the period between 1270 and 1670 is of particular
interest for contemporary debates is that a profound change took place at that
time. Aristotelian theories that explained the emotions in the context of hylo-
morphism (mainly that of Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, and William
of Ockham, who were influential well into the 17th century) were gradually
superseded by new theories based on a mechanistic understanding of natural
processes. That is, whereas the Aristotelians assumed that emotions arise by
the actualization of faculties and the absorption of forms, the anti-Aristotelians
claimed that the notions of hidden faculties and transferred forms are not only
incomprehensible, but also empirically unfounded. Emotions can arise only by
objects affecting the body mechanically, that is, by pressing and impinging upon
it, producing stimulations that are processed in the brain and that in turn pro-
duce states in the mind or coincide with such states. Depending on the kind
of object affecting the body and the kind of physical stimulation, different
emotions arise, and the purpose of a theory of the emotions consists in exactly
describing the individual relata of this causal relation and the relation itself.
Stating his agenda, Descartes declared that he was concerned with emotions
not as an orator or a moral philosopher, “but only as a natural philosopher.”14
From a present-day perspective, the mechanistic explanation he then gave of
the origins of individual emotions naturally seems antiquated in many respects.
But his methodical approach still seems appealing: emotions are to be studied as
part of a comprehensive theory on the apprehension and cognitive processing of
physical stimuli. Studying the Cartesian theory and earlier theories based on the
Aristotelian view is therefore stimulating because we can visualize the method-
ological transformation that has taken place, and because we can investigate the
reasons for this transformation that are still influential today. Furthermore, we
can then see clearly what assumptions have persisted to the present day in spite
of that transformation and are turning up again in discussions in the cognitive
sciences.
Thus it seems as if there is motivation enough to approach the problem of
emotions from a historical perspective and to examine the transition from
the late Middle Ages to the modern period in regard both to substance and
to method. The reasons named bring with them a danger, however. They all
start from the perspective of current debates and ask what positive or negative
points of reference there are in an earlier epoch. They presuppose as self-evident
that the present-day understanding of emotions and today’s methodological
assumptions are mandatory; earlier discussions serve only as a positive or neg-
ative backdrop. The danger then is that we subject ourselves to a “tyranny of the
9
Introduction 9
present,” as Daniel Garber has pointedly observed.15 Present-day descriptions

of phenomena, present-day conceptual distinctions, and present-day meth-
odological postulates are seen as binding. Earlier theories are then interesting
only to the extent that they anticipate present-day findings or point out errors
to be avoided. But studying older theories can also be philosophically stimu-
lating, to a high degree in fact, because they show that other descriptions of phe-
nomena, other conceptual distinctions, and other methodological postulates are
possible—perhaps even ones that are diametrically opposed to those of today.
They open up another space, figuratively speaking, in which things are put to-
gether completely differently. This challenges us to look at our own space from a
critical distance and not simply assume it is the space of theory itself. Especially
in view of the question of the nature and function of emotions, it is a good
idea to take a step back from our explicit or implicit assumptions and envision
the historic contexts. Then we are unavoidably confronted with the five funda-
mental problems discussed in Section I.1.
Let us take the problem of unity. Even the English word “emotion” (or its
equivalent in another modern language) suggests that there is a more or less ex-
actly defined sphere of phenomena that is distinct from the spheres designated
by other words—such as “sensation,” “bodily feeling,” or “mood.” But a brief
look at the etymology shows that it is quite a young word. Although “emotion”
is found in philosophical texts as early as the 16th and 17th centuries,16 the word
becomes a philosophical term of art only around 1820 and is established as a
psychological term only in the late 19th century.17 The word “feeling,” common
today, had no currency yet in the modern period. If it was used at all, it was
mentioned in discussions about perception to designate the sense of touch in
distinction from other sensory modes.18 The late medieval and early modern
authors, who wrote predominantly in Latin and French, used the expressions
passio and affectus (in Latin) and passion and affection (in French).19 This is far
more than a peculiarity of language, as two examples may illustrate.
John Duns Scotus opens his analysis of the passiones, written around 1300,
by distinguishing the “low” ones, in the sensual soul, from the “higher” ones,
which are in the rational soul. The first group includes, paradigmatically, pains;
the second, states of sadness.20 From a present-day perspective, this is confusing.
Why should pain and sadness be assigned to a single category of states of the
soul? Shouldn’t we classify pain together with other sensations (such as tickling
feelings) and sadness together with other emotions (such as fear or joy)? Why
doesn’t Duns Scotus draw a dividing line here? Evidently he is classifying states
of the soul by different criteria from those that are familiar to us.21 For Duns
Scotus, the important thing to begin with is whether the state is one that the soul
actively produces (an actio or operatio), or one that is produced in the soul and
10
which it passively suffers (a passio). Both pain and sadness are produced in the
soul and hence belong to the same category. Thus Duns Scotus’ understanding
of what belongs to a class of phenomena diverges from the present-day notion,
and he is confronted with different problems. From his perspective, what needs
to be investigated is how a passio is produced and how the soul or the ensouled
body changes in the process.
Spinoza lists all the emotional states, which he calls affectus, at the end of the
third part of the Ethics. He finds that desire is a fundamental one of them, which
is nothing but a form of aspiration [appetitus], and then enumerates many other
forms, including love and hate, joy and sadness—and also ambition [ambitio]
and indulgence [luxuria].22 This too seems confusing. Why is aspiration the
basic form of the emotions? Doesn’t that mix up wishes and intentions, which
are also forms of aspiration, with the emotions? And why does Spinoza include
phenomena in his list, alongside the classic emotions, that belong rather to the
category of character traits (like ambition) or to that of vices (like indulgence)?
He is evidently classifying them by a different criterion than Duns Scotus, and
again with a different one from that which many people would use today. For
Spinoza, everything that is a form of aspiration belongs to the same class, and
within this class, the individual types of phenomena can be separated only by
examining the respective kinds of aspiration. For this reason, he begins with the
questions of what we mean by an aspiration and how the different kinds of as-
piration are distinguishable.
These two examples, which we will examine in more detail,23 are interesting
not only because they show that very different classifications of mental phe-
nomena were made in two different contexts. They are remarkable primarily
because they demonstrate that it is by no means clear what makes up a uniform
class of phenomena. It is indeed questionable why everything we customarily
group together today under the rubric of emotions belongs to such a class at all.
Do love and hate really belong together, or joy and sadness, as is usually assumed
today? Or are not pain and sadness rather two of a kind? Or perhaps desire and
indulgence? To return to Oksenberg Rorty’s provocative statement, one might
say that emotions are not a natural class that has always been the same every-
where, and just waiting to be discovered. What people define as a natural class
depends crucially on which system of classification they use. Studying earlier
theories is fascinating and important for philosophy (and not just for the history
of ideas or reception history) because they force us to look at a given system and
examine its differences from the system we are familiar with.
We can say something similar about the second problem just presented, the
problem of structure. Present-day discussions are usually based on the assump-
tion that emotions have several distinguishing characteristics, and particular
1
Introduction 11
attention is given to the phenomenal characteristic. That is, it appears to be self-

evident that being joyful or angry feels a certain way, and that we can tell the
individual types of emotions apart with reference to their respective phenom-
enal content. The crucial question then is what we mean by this content: a phe-
nomenal property (a “quale”) to which we have privileged access? If so, what
exactly is this property? And how is it related to physical properties? Of course,
it is a subject of debate today whether such a property can be assumed to exist
at all, but there is a consensus at least that what we are trying to explain is some
kind of phenomenal characteristic of emotions.24 If we then turn to the late me-
dieval discussions, we are surprised to find that there is no interest in any such
characteristic. The Aristotelians ask merely what processes of change elicit the
passiones, how the soul itself changes, and what other processes—especially
body movements—are caused by them. Even when they explicitly discuss the
problem of what characterizes pain and sadness (as Duns Scotus does, for ex-
ample), they do not raise the question of how it feels to have pain or to be sad.
Does that mean they simply overlook the phenomenal characteristic? Or are
they trying to reduce it to other characteristics? Or do they see it as something
that simply needs no explanation? In any case, the medieval texts give us oc-
casion to think about what characteristics of emotions do require explanation.
Perhaps the characteristics that we spontaneously think require explanation are
not the particularly problematic characteristics at all, but simply the ones that
seem problematic in a certain theoretical context (such as the materialist frame-
work that dominates present-day debates).25
The situation is still more confusing when we come to Michel de Montaigne,
who takes up many examples that had already been discussed by the Aristotelians.
In one of his Essays, for example, he presents a lengthy examination of anger,
which had been discussed as an exemplary case of an emotion since antiquity.26
But he makes no effort to analyze the particular characteristics of anger, nor
even to define it. He simply describes angry people one after another. Sometimes
angry people become violent and sometimes they do not; sometimes they get
very excited and sometimes they remain calm; sometimes they try to control
themselves and sometimes they do not, etc. He doesn’t seem to be interested in
a general characterization of anger, nor in differentiating between this emotion
and other emotions, but concentrates on individual, sometimes contradictory,
examples. This raises methodological questions: Does Montaigne think it is
meaningless, or perhaps impossible, to ascertain definitive characteristics? Does
he think emotions cannot be distinguished at all from one another and from
other mental phenomena by specific characteristics? How could it be possible,
then, to draw up a theory of the emotions? Montaigne’s skeptical attitude to-
ward the definition and classification of emotions obliges us to think about what
12
we hope to accomplish by determining their characteristics. And his insistence

on the multitude and diversity of individual emotions prompts us to reflect on
whether the search for general characteristics is useful at all.
A certain confusion unavoidably arises when we turn to the third problem,
the problem of ascription. From a present-day perspective, it seems self-evident
that emotions have both physical and mental components and must therefore
be ascribed to a mind–body unity. They are prime examples of “embodied”
mental appraisals of and reactions to certain situations.27 Many late medieval
and early modern philosophers also considered the physical component es-
sential. Thomas Aquinas, for example, pointed out that all passiones (including
love, joy, and many other states that are called emotions today) bring with them
physical changes, and therefore must be ascribed, strictly speaking, not to the
soul but to the ensouled body.28 Descartes too emphasized, in spite of his fa-
mous thesis that mind and body are really distinct, that emotions should be
ascribed to the unity of mind and body, thus to a person, not to a pure mind.29
But the two authors naturally diverge considerably in their explanations of this
unity. Whereas Thomas Aquinas thinks of it as a hylomorphic unity, Descartes
sees in it a combination of two substances. Thus the apparently self-evident
thesis that emotions are states with physical and mental components takes on a
precise meaning only when it becomes clear what we mean by body and mind
(or soul). Studying these two authors is philosophically stimulating because it
inevitably prompts us to look at their respective metaphysical models. These
models do not simply anticipate present-day models (neither Aquinas’ assump-
tion of a substantial form nor Descartes’s postulate of an immaterial substance
appears enticing to most contemporary philosophers), but that is exactly why
they are interesting. They illustrate the fact that contemporary models are not
without alternatives, and that contemporary models too are based on metaphys-
ical assumptions that must be examined.
In looking at past debates, we also see that the view that emotions always
have physical components was by no means undisputed. John Duns Scotus
claimed, as William of Ockham did more explicitly after him, that there are also,
in addition to the sensual emotions that are connected with the body, higher-
level emotions that exist in the rational part of the soul. Because this rational
part is really distinct, according to Ockham, from the sensual part and the ra-
tional part can continue to exist even when the body decays, there can also be
nonbodily emotions.30 This view may seem strange today. What could a love or
a joy be that is not manifested in specific gestures and facial expressions, and in
fact does not even include physiological events? Is bodiless love still love at all?
But the provocativeness of this view, which was of course in part theologically
motivated (in Christian debates about love of God, for example, and about the
13
Introduction 13
condition of good and bad souls after death), is precisely what makes it attrac-
tive. It unavoidably raises the question of whether physical states or processes
are in fact necessary—not merely contingent—components of emotions. And it
challenges us to define exactly the structure of the purely mental states and their
bearers. Only when this structure is sufficiently clear will it also be apparent
what particular component is added when the emotion is ascribed to a mind–
body unity. And of course we will only then understand the difference between
such a unity—a person—and a pure mind.
In the historic context, the problem of ascription arises in yet another re-
spect: that is, when it is posed—as previously mentioned—as a mereological
problem. Should emotions be ascribed to the whole person or to a part of the
person? This question inevitably comes up in reading medieval texts. First, all
the interpreters of Aristotle insisted that the person, as a natural living being,
has emotions. Following a famous passage in De anima, they held that anger
is a state of the whole animate body and that we can distinguish between only
different aspects of this state, not between particular internal bearers of the
emotion.31 But at the same time they claimed that anger could be ascribed to
a certain “part of the soul,” namely the sensual part. Aquinas went so far as to
subdivide this part and held that anger was ascribable to the sensual–appetitive
part of the soul.32 Who is angry, then: the whole person, the soul, or a part
of the soul? This question can be answered only when the metaphysical frame
is clear in which the soul and its parts are conceived. Early modern authors
are similarly confusing. Descartes, for example, claimed in his official defini-
tion of the passions that they are special “perceptions of the soul”; but he also
emphasized that they can be ascribed only to the unity of soul and body and that
a nonreducible term for this unity is necessary.33 To whom shall we then ascribe
an emotion: to the whole person as such a unity or to the person’s soul as a part
of the unity? This question not only challenges us to examine the mereological
problem of ascription more closely in the given context; it also prompts us to
reflect on our own practice of ascription and to explain to whom or to what we
ascribe an emotion.34 The tensions that come to light in the historic texts make
this problem visible.
Now let us examine the fourth problem, the problem of categories. Once
again, a mere glance at the late medieval and early modern debates shows that
the idea of emotions as mental states is not at all as self-evident as it would ap-
pear today. The Aristotelian authors spoke of them rather in terms of processes,
calling them movements [motus], changes [immutationes], or actualizations
[actus] of the soul’s faculties.35 This in turn raises the question as to what such a
process consists of and how it takes place. Does it have parts? Does it go on over
a certain time? Can it increase or decrease in intensity? How does it relate to
14
other processes or states? The Aristotelians also tried to explain these processes
in the framework of the classical doctrine of categories, usually assigning them
to the category of quality.36 This too raises questions: What exactly is a quality?
How does it relate to a substance as its bearer and to other qualities? In what
sense can a process be a quality at all if does not occur as something static in
a substance (like a color), but instead develops? Only when we are aware of
the overall metaphysical framework can we understand how the Aristotelians
categorized the emotions and how they accounted for certain states of affairs
(such as the fact that emotions can last longer and not simply flare up momen-
tarily) by distinguishing different kinds of entities—such as states and processes.
The early modern anti-Aristotelians also did not call the emotions states, but
neither did they call them changes or actualizations of faculties. Spinoza, for
example, held the emotions, or affects, to be “modes of thinking,” and hence
ideas.37 Once again, this raises the question of what category they belong
to: What are modes? Do they have a static or a dynamic structure? How do they
relate to the substance in which they exist? Are there only simple modes, or
are there also complex ones? Can an emotion that goes on over a certain time
be characterized as a complex mode? What distinguishes such a mode from
other modes? The answers to these questions found in Spinoza seem odd at first
glance. He refuses to assume that there are independent bearers of the modes,
for example. In so doing, of course, he also rejects the model, common among
the Aristotelian (and many present-day) authors, according to which there are
individual substances or independent things in which the emotions occur as a
states or processes. For Spinoza there is only one substance in which bundles of
modes occur; an emotion can only be a component of such a bundle. As strange
as this model may appear, and as much as it seems to require an explanation,
it is appealing because it is an alternative to the model common today, and not
merely an anticipation of it. At the same time, it very sharply brings to our at-
tention the fact that it is not enough simply to speak of mental states and to
study their respective origins and effects. It is at least as important to bring up
the metaphysical question of what kind of entities those states are and how they
relate to other entities.
Finally, let us take a look at the fifth problem, the problem of imputation.
One might at first get the impression that this problem never even arose for
the late medieval and early modern authors. After all, they say again and again
that we can master our emotions, that we must master them in fact if we want
to act responsibly. Thomas Aquinas, for example, claimed, in a famous passage
that was later quoted again and again, that we can control our emotions “in a
political way.”38 Descartes ended The Passions of the Soul with the remark that
all the good and evil of our life depends on the emotions, and that we should
15
Introduction 15
do everything we can to bring them under control.39 Montaigne gave practical

advice on how to overcome feelings of sadness and loneliness,40 and Spinoza de-
voted the whole last part of the Ethics to the “power of reason” over the affects.41
All of these authors seem consistently to have conceived the emotions as phe-
nomena that lie within the sphere of our responsibility: we can control them,
moderate them, or even completely overcome them. The question is how we
can achieve that and not so much whether it is possible in the first place. If we
read the explanations on regulating the emotions more closely, however, we no-
tice that these philosophers also conceded that emotions sometimes practically
overwhelm us, so that we are powerless against them. Aquinas pointed out em-
phatically that they are produced by the sensual—not the rational—faculty and
are sometimes simply elicited in us by processes of perception and imagination
whether we want them to be or not.42 Montaigne even wrote a whole essay on
the phenomenon that “our feelings reach out beyond us,”43 without our being
able to prevent it, and both Descartes and Spinoza point to causal processes
that go on in us because of certain laws of nature and that are beyond rational
control.44 Apparently they were aware that emotions cannot be switched on
and off or regulated as if at the push of a button. But then the question arises
of what sense it makes that they admonish us to master the emotions. How is
it possible to master something that is beyond our control? And how are we
supposed to be held responsible for something that sometimes overcomes us
just as feelings of pain or hunger do? Obviously some clarification is needed. It
needs to be explained which emotions can be controlled, if need be, and which
cannot; and it needs to be explained by what mechanisms such control (which
may perhaps be limited) can take place. In any case, we cannot assume at the
outset that emotions are only “low” states that are always subordinate to and
regulated by “higher,” rational states. Most of all, for the purposes of history, we
cannot simply assume that the problem of imputation was solved out of hand
for the medieval and early modern authors. On the contrary: the conception
of passiones as states that we “suffer” and that we nonetheless are supposed to
control somehow made this problem a pernicious one.
These preliminary remarks on the five fundamental problems are of course
too brief to permit a complete understanding of the problem-solving strategies
and the theoretical assumptions of the late medieval and early modern authors.
The chapters that follow have the task of explaining and enlarging on the points
that have merely been indicated here through an analysis of specific texts.
Nonetheless, I hope these brief remarks have made it clear why it is worth-
while to take the history of philosophy as a perspective and to examine theories
of the emotions from the period between 1270 and 1670 more intensely. Our
principal reason cannot be, if we do not want to approach present-day debates
16
uncritically, that these theories anticipate a number of points that are still
discussed today and that we find positive or negative points of reference for
contemporary models. That would mean we were accepting today’s models as
binding and looking for only a backdrop for them. If it is worthwhile to study
earlier theories, it is primarily because doing so inevitably leads us to funda-
mental philosophical problems. The fact that late medieval and early modern
authors sometimes approached these problems with different conditions and
assumptions, and that they sometimes came to propose other solutions than
those we would expect today, makes it enticing to analyze their theories. They
allow us to enter unfamiliar theoretical spaces, to compare the different spaces
with one another, and so to arrive at a critical assessment—of both the contem-
porary and the past theories.
I.3 A Twofold Transformation

Since the influential works of Thomas Kuhn, the transition from the late Middle
Ages to the early modern period is often called a time of “scientific revolution.”45
But this is misleading in two respects. First, there was no abrupt theoretical
switch in which mechanistic theories suddenly replaced “prerevolutionary”
Aristotelian theories. Rather, Aristotelian and non-Aristotelian theories (and
Platonic, Stoic, and Epicurean theories too) coexisted for a long time side by
side, and indeed sometimes mixed, and the advocates of the “modern” theories
used existing elements.46 Second, there was no paradigm shift in which old
core concepts were suddenly replaced by new ones. Rather, terms were grad-
ually reinterpreted and in some cases used ambiguously. The science historian
Steven Shapin thus opened a book on the scientific revolution with this laconic
sentence: “There was no such thing as the scientific revolution, and this is a
book about it.”47 We could say something similar about the history of philos-
ophy: there was no such thing as a revolution that swept away the traditional
theories that were predominantly oriented after Aristotle. But that does not
mean there was nothing but a reception and continuous development of existing
theories. Certainly, fundamental criticism of earlier theories was expressed in
the 17th century, metaphysical assumptions were abandoned, and methodo-
logical principles were defined anew. But this was a process of gradual change
and reinterpretation, even if the “modern” authors portrayed themselves as rad-
ical innovators, and this process too is understandable only if we look at earlier
theories, in particular those of the Aristotelian-scholastic tradition. For only
then does it become apparent which points the criticism attacked, what was af-
fected by the criticism, and what was not. And only then do the potentials and
limitations of the new theories become clear. Furthermore, the theories before
17
Introduction 17
1600 must not be seen as a monolithic block. Within the Aristotelian tradition
itself there were changes and reinterpretations of key terms. Hence we must
examine the processes of transformation that took place over several centuries.
This is all the more important for an investigation of theories of the emotions,
as an example may illustrate. Those who simply contrast “prerevolutionary”
Aristotelian theories with the “modern” theories usually assume they oppose
one another in the following respect: the Aristotelians worked with a model
that distinguished three parts of the soul (a vegetative, a sensual, and a rational
part) and ascribed the emotions to the sensual part. Because they localized this
part in the body, they conceived the emotions as physically bound states, or as
“movements” [motus] in the body. The early modern anti-Aristotelians, on the
other hand—above all, Descartes—tended toward a mechanization of the sen-
sual soul, and therefore drew a sharp line between the mechanical processes
in the body and the ideas in the mind. Because they conceived the emotions
as ideas, they located them in the mind, conceiving them as “private” states or
events that are accessible only through an internal consciousness.48 In short,
the emotions were shifted from the physical–sensual plane to the mental plane.
Such a crude opposition is inadequate for several reasons, however. First,
the Aristotelian model was not simply replaced by a mechanistic or a Cartesian
one. As late as 1641 (in the same year, that is, in which Descartes published the
Meditationes), the French moralist Jean-François Senault claimed that the soul
was composed of three parts and the emotions were movements of the sen-
sual soul.49 And Eustachius a Sancto Paulo’s Summa philosophiae quadripartita,
which succinctly summarized the traditional model, was used as an oblig-
atory handbook well into the 17th century.50 Thus there was a coexistence of
Aristotelian and non-Aristotelian models. Second, the “modern” philosophers
did not propound the simple thesis that emotions were nothing but ideas and
hence purely mental states. As previously noted, it is crucial for Descartes that
emotions are ascribable to the mind–body unity and that they therefore nec-
essarily have physical components. Of course, he explains these components
differently than the Aristotelians do, appealing to mechanical operations and
not to processes such as the transfer of forms. But in so doing, he does not
shift the emotions from a physical to a mental plane; rather, he reinterprets the
physical plane in a different theoretical frame. Spinoza too, who, like Descartes,
builds on a mechanistic description of the body, staunchly defends the thesis
that emotions must be situated on both planes, and indeed that the two planes
are inseparable from one another.51 Third, and finally, we must note that, as early
as the 14th century, several authors—notably Ockham—were of the opinion
that the rational and the sensual souls are really distinct, and that there are
some emotions that exist only in the rational part and are not bound to physical
18
events.52 Ironically, a number of Aristotelian authors too claimed that there are
purely mental emotions, whereas the mechanistically oriented authors referred
to the grounding of all emotions in the body.
As I hope these examples illustrate, it would hardly be helpful simply to col-
lect the prerevolutionary authors in a homogeneous group in opposition to
the revolutionary philosophers of the 17th century. A more nuanced picture
emerges only when we examine the models of individual thinkers more closely,
reconstructing them in their respective contexts and comparing them with alter-
native models, looking for the processes of transformation that were mentioned.
These processes concern first and foremost the metaphysical frame, as the locus
to which the emotions are ascribed changes with the given frame. That is, more
concretely: when Ockham distances himself from Thomas Aquinas and claims
there are emotions not only in the sensual, but also in the rational part of the
soul, and when he further opposes Aquinas in postulating a real distinction be-
tween these two parts of the soul, he evidently changes the metaphysical frame,
and he does so within the Aristotelian-scholastic tradition. Then we must ask
what Aquinas and Ockham mean by parts of the soul, how they explain the
unity of the various parts, and how they distinguish the emotions in each part
from other psychological states or processes such as sensory perceptions (in
the sensual part) and from judgments or acts of volition (in the rational part).
Only when the whole frame is clear can we understand the specific place of the
emotions in it, and only then can we also understand what reinterpretations
have taken place. The same is true, of course, of later theories, such as those
of Descartes and Spinoza. Only when the dualistic or monistic frame takes on
clearer contours do the concepts of the physical and mental components of
the emotions become coherent. And only then does it become evident which
Aristotelian elements have been integrated in both frames and which have been
rejected. For this reason, particular attention is devoted in the analyses that
follow to the processes of transformation of the given metaphysical frame.
After the fifth of the problems previously enumerated, we examine one more
transformation. All authors in the late Middle Ages and in the early modern pe-
riod were interested not only in the question of how emotions arise as natural
states or processes in us (whether in a certain part of the soul or in the unity of
body and soul)—they were just as much, if not more, interested in the further
question of how we can deal with the emotions and how we should deal with
them. Consequently, their investigations in metaphysics and natural philosophy
were always incorporated within a larger context of action theory and some-
times even of moral philosophy. This is apparent in the place they accord to
the investigation of emotions in their philosophical system. Thomas Aquinas,
for example, discusses the passiones animae in a large section of the Summa
19
Introduction 19
theologiae that is preceded by an equally large section on human action and

followed by another on the virtues. To him, it is an important question what
role the emotions play in the origination of actions and how we can become
moral actors by dealing with the emotions in a controlled way. For Spinoza
too, in spite of all his metaphysical differences from Aquinas and other earlier
authors, the prevailing context continues to be one of action theory or indeed of
therapeutics.53 A description and classification of the emotions in the third part
of the Ethics is immediately followed in the fourth part by an investigation “of
human bondage, or the strength of the affects,” which describes how we should
deal with the emotions and how dealing with them correctly helps us to live
a happier life. We might call this a rationalistic–therapeutic approach to the
emotions: only when we have gained an insight into the genesis and structure of
the emotions can we deal with them appropriately; only then are we no longer
at their mercy; and only then can we use them so that they motivate us to good
actions.54
This interest, specific to action theory, is directed at a feature that is char-
acteristic of emotions. They are states or processes that are brought about in
us by the agency of external objects and that arise whether we want them to
or not, and that spontaneously move us to certain actions. If a snake suddenly
appears in front of us during a hike, for example, and spontaneously calls up
ideas of dangerous animals, we cannot help becoming afraid and running away
or taking other evasive action. And if we learn of the death of a close friend,
we are inevitably overcome with great sadness and prompted to take the corre-
sponding actions. Emotions are states that we suffer, in the literal sense, often
without controlling them. But if, during our hike, we look carefully at the an-
imal and discover that it is only a harmless slow worm or a garter snake, we can
make our fear diminish or even disappear completely, and not run away. And
if we reflect that our deceased friend is now finally released from a long, severe
illness, we can reduce our sadness, and perhaps commute it into a form of relief.
Then emotions turn out to be states that we can indeed control, and sometimes
even completely efface. How is that possible? How can emotions be states or
processes that we suffer passively but also control actively? And why are we so
helpless against them that they fully determine our actions, but also are able to
take them in hand—figuratively speaking—and elicit actions with them? How
can it be that we even use them purposefully to elicit good actions and avoid
bad ones?
All of these questions occupied the late medieval and early modern authors,
regardless of whether they analyzed emotions with an Aristotelian, a dualistic, a
monistic, or—as in Montaigne’s case—a skeptical attitude. They were interested
in the problem of how we can influence the naturally caused emotions in such
20
a way that we obtain appropriate emotions that motivate us to right action. Or,
to put it briefly: they wanted to know how it is possible for the emotions to be
transformed. This interest naturally brought to the fore a number of questions
about the rationality of emotions: Are emotions sensual states that we can
somehow get a grip on and alter by rational reflection and voluntary decisions?
Or are they rational states themselves, which we need only to connect in an
appropriate way with other such states? In what way are they rational? And
if this is the case, how is it possible that some emotions cannot be rationally
controlled? Are there, in addition to the rational emotions, irrational or perhaps
arational ones too?
These questions can be meaningfully answered, of course, only if it is more
or less clear what we mean by rational states and by a controllability. When
Thomas Aquinas, for example, claims that emotions, as states or processes of
the sensual part of the soul, can be directed by the rational part of the soul,55 we
must first ask how the parts of the soul are interrelated and how such a directing
can take place. When Duns Scotus propounds the thesis that we can change ex-
isting emotions or produce new ones through a free act of volition,56 we must
ask how the will is supposed to operate on them and what kind of freedom it
has. And when Descartes goes so far as to say we have an “absolute power” over
our emotions,57 the question arises again of what this power consists in and how
it can be exercised. In short, the moment we speak of the emotions being sub-
ject to change or control, we must define what psychic agency is supposed to
effect each change and what kind of change is possible. This of course brings us
in turn back to the metaphysical model with which the individual authors op-
erate. Only when we examine a complete body–mind model can we understand
how the given control mechanisms are explained. And only when we regard the
changes in the whole model in the transition from one author to another does
it become clear why each of them explains the control mechanisms differently.
For this reason, we will study the two transformations mentioned in close
connection with one another: a close look at the transformation of metaphys-
ical models will show how it resulted in a change in the theoretical frame in
which a possible transformation of the emotions was explained. In the chapters
that follow, this twofold transformation is analyzed through the use of specific
examples. Of course, we will look only at a small selection of the abundance
of authors and texts. The objective is not to provide the most comprehensive
survey possible.58 Furthermore, the present book is not aimed at providing a
source or reception history of the individual models. Nor will we investigate the
application of these models in practical contexts (such as mirrors for princes
or instructions for confession, which explained appropriate ways of dealing
with good and bad emotions).59 The focus will be on the models themselves: on
21
Introduction 21
their metaphysical and epistemological dimensions and on their dimensions

of moral psychology and action theory. I will try to show, using selected case
studies, how rich the late medieval and early modern debates were and how
intensely they revolved around fundamental philosophical questions. Their at-
traction lies precisely in the fact that they formulated very different answers to
these questions, thereby opening different theoretical approaches to the com-
plex problem of emotions.
2
23
Thomas Aquinas
Emotions as Sensual Movements
1.1 A Simple Explanation?

Imagine you are strolling casually along the street in front of your home when
suddenly you see a Rottweiler that is loose and running toward you. You are
immediately seized by fear. You stare at the dog as if spellbound, your breath
catches, you break out in a sweat, and you are rooted to the spot. But then you
reflect that the safest thing to do is walk past the dog calmly, paying it as little
attention as possible. You pull yourself together, and you walk past the dog, and
the farther you get from it, the more your fear subsides.
How can this phenomenon of an emotion that flares up and then slowly fades
away be explained? Indeed, how can fear as a specific state be aptly described
and classified? Many philosophers of the 13th to 17th centuries would have
responded to these questions first with a conceptual explanation: like any
other emotion, fear is a “movement of the sensual–appetitive faculty” [motus
appetitus sensitivi]. This characterization is found in a number of authors of
Aristotelian inspiration; prominent examples include Albertus Magnus and
Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century, Francisco Suárez in the late 16th century,
and Jean-François Senault in the early 17th century.1 Such a “movement” is
caused, all of these authors assert, by perceiving a certain object and assessing it
as good or bad. In other words, it is your seeing the dog and your spontaneous
awareness of a danger that elicits fear in you. The fear thus has an intentional
aspect: it is directed at the dog you perceive and at its dangerous character. The
fear also has a physical aspect, because it is accompanied by halting breathing
and sudden sweating. Finally, it also has a motivational aspect, because it moves
you to stop where you are and look for the dog’s master.
As a sensual phenomenon, fear occurs in a cat that sees the dog just as it
does in you. Unlike the cat, however, you as a rational living being are able
to think about how you should best react to the dog. If you come to the con-
clusion that running away in panic will only make the situation worse and
that you had better keep calm, you can master the emotion to a certain extent
and choose an appropriate course of action. In other words, you are not at the
23
24
mercy of a movement of the sensual–appetitive faculty but can control it by

states of the superordinate rational faculty—that is, by reflection and acts of vo-
lition. You can weigh the arguments for and against running away and decide
not to flee, but to walk on slowly. Then, as you continue walking and see the
dog at a safe distance behind you, your fear slowly subsides. But you can also
influence the emotion directly, for example, by reflecting that the Rottweiler is
your neighbor’s well-trained pet. In that way, too, you can moderate your fear
or even make it disappear completely. Perhaps you can even produce a new
emotion by this reflection, such as admiration for the strong, perfectly trained
animal.
At first glance, this description and explanation of a specific case appears
easy to understand and plausible. Most of all it seems plausible to assume that
there are different faculties—sensual as well as rational—and to examine the in-
dividual states that are brought about by these faculties. Only when we analyze
how these states arise and how they are causally connected to one another can
we explain a phenomenon such as fear. Only in this way can we also illustrate
how such a phenomenon can be controlled or even overcome.
Yet on a closer look, this explanatory approach raises a number of questions.
First, it is remarkable how readily it takes for granted that a perception can elicit
fear. What does that mean exactly? Is it the perception of the whole dog that
provokes fear, or of individual properties of the dog (such as its color and size),
or perhaps the perception of a threatening character of the dog? How is such a
character perceptible? Can we see danger in the same way that we see landscapes
and objects? Another remarkable assumption is that the perception elicits fear
as a movement of the sensual–appetitive faculty. What is meant here by a move-
ment? A state, a process, a change occurring? How exactly does the sensual
faculty produce such a movement? And why is it accompanied by breathless-
ness and sweating? Are these concomitant effects merely contingent? Or are
they physical states that necessarily accompany fear? The relation between the
states in the sensual and rational faculties also needs to be explained. Can fear
actually be made to diminish or disappear by a thought? Or, to put it in modern
terms: is an emotion so cognitively penetrable that rational processes can affect
it at any time? That hardly seems plausible.2 Even a person who reminds him-
self that the Rottweiler is the neighbor’s well-trained pet can still be practically
paralyzed by fear in certain circumstances: the sight of the powerful animal can
transfix him and preclude the effectiveness of rational reflection. Even if there
really is a causal relation between reflection and emotions, this connection can
hardly consist in reflections being switched on as if by pushing a button and
used to regulate emotions. The sensual states influence the rational ones at least
as strongly as the rational influence the sensual.
25
Thomas Aquinas 25
A theory that assumes an interaction between states in different faculties

must address all these problems. It is not enough to draw something like a circuit
diagram of the connection between the faculties and say that there are causal
relations. It is much more important to explain how and why such relations
are possible in the first place. But there is a more fundamental problem: the
Aristotelian authors assume that the faculties in question are faculties of the
soul. But what does it mean to say that the soul has faculties or that it consists
of faculties? And what does it mean to say that they interact? The expression
“movements of the sensual–appetitive faculty” takes on sharp outlines only
when we discern the metaphysical framework in which the whole theory of
faculties of the soul exists. Only then can we say precisely to whom or to what
this expression ascribes emotions. Is it the person facing the Rottweiler who is
afraid? Is it the person’s soul as a complex mesh of faculties? Or is it the sensual–
appetitive faculty as a component of the soul? Answering these questions is a
good way to get a clear picture of the metaphysical assumptions and theses un-
derlying the work of the authors inspired by Aristotelianism. They were inter-
ested in emotions not only from the point of view of morals or action theory
(although they often discussed the question of how good actions can be brought
about by means of appropriate emotions). Their intentions were, to the same
if not to a greater degree, metaphysical and anthropological. They wanted to
clarify what kind of entities the emotions are, how they originate, and what their
place is in the overall constitution of a human being. In their view, we must un-
derstand what emotions are before we can analyze how to regulate and use them
as motivations for morally appraisable actions.
An analysis of the metaphysical frame is also important because it is this frame,
which had been assumed as something self-evident in many debates from the
13th to the early 17th centuries, that was vehemently attacked by anti-Aristotelian
authors of the early modern period. When Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, and
other philosophers attacked the traditional conception of emotions, their crit-
icism was aimed primarily at the assumption that the soul can be divided into
different faculties and the emotions ascribed to one of them. “I recognize no
distinction of parts within the soul,” Descartes wrote concisely in The Passions of
the Soul.3 Those who do make such a distinction, he observes, abandon the unity
of the soul and hence the principle of unity of a person. Furthermore, Descartes
believes that the idea of interacting faculties leads to the assumption of strange
entities within a person entering into contact with one another and acting like
internal agents.4 Leibniz takes this criticism still further. He fears, he writes, that
statements about faculties “have brought many people to the confused idea of so
many agents acting distinctly in us.”5 Precisely this idea must be avoided because
it is always the person who acts, not some hidden faculty.
26
If we want to understand what is so problematic, from the perspective of

early modern authors, about a discussion of faculties (and what they may have
distorted or simplified in their rebuttal), we must first ask what meaning this
discussion has within a certain metaphysical theory. It was not least a shift in the
whole theoretical frame that led anti-Aristotelian authors to see the reference to
a sensual–appetitive faculty, which had great explanatory value to Aristotelian
authors, as an empty gesture. How this shift took place becomes apparent, of
course, only if we first examine the initial theory.
The present chapter is concerned with clarifying the metaphysical theory
and its consequences for the characterization and classification of emotions
through an exploration of texts by Thomas Aquinas. In doing so, of course,
it considers only one of numerous authors who identified the emotions as
movements of the sensual–appetitive faculty. But the analyses that follow are
aimed, not at providing the most historically comprehensive account of the
textual material of several centuries, but at a systematic reconstruction and
discussion of a certain explanatory approach. In this perspective, the choice of
Aquinas suggests itself for at least four reasons. First, in the Summa theologiae
(part I– II, quaestiones 22– 48) he wrote the most substantial treatise on
emotions that has come down to us from the whole Latin Middle Ages.6 It is
embedded in a theory of the soul that has been elaborated in detail and is an
illustrative example of the potentials—and of course also the limitations—of
an approach to explaining the emotions by analyzing them in the context of a
theory of faculties. Second, the treatise is also integrated in a theory of action,
as its position in the Summa shows. It is enclosed between investigations on
the goals and structure of human actions (part I–II, quaestiones 1–21) and on
the virtues of human beings (part I–II, quaestiones 49–67).7 This textual ar-
rangement itself indicates that Aquinas closely connects the explanations of
action and emotion. To understand how actions can be incited and directed
toward a goal, according to Aquinas, we must always consider not only the
states of the intellect and the will, but also the sensual emotions. They are a cru-
cial source of motivation for actions, they often determine the goal of actions,
and virtues can arrive from them through processes of habituation. Aquinas’
analyses on the motivational function of the emotions is an example of how
problems of theoretical and practical philosophy were interconnected in the
Middle Ages. Third, Aquinas’ theory was received well into the early modern
period. In the 16th century it saw a revival after the Council of Trent.8 Suárez,
for example, developed his own theory of the emotions in a commentary on
Aquinas’ Summa, and even critics, such as Descartes, owed their orientation in
large part to it.9 Aquinas remained a point of reference for many theoreticians
of the emotions, whether friend or foe, into the early modern period. Fourth,
27
Thomas Aquinas 27
his explanatory model has been discussed in recent analytic philosophy as well.
As mentioned in the Introduction, some key features of this model (such as
the identification of a “formal object” for emotions, which we will analyze in
detail) have been reconsidered by Anthony Kenny and other contemporary
philosophers.10 Hence, in regard to present-day discussions too, Aquinas is an
apt place to start—not to hastily adapt his theory to those of today, praising it as
anticipating modern theories, but to study it for those points that are systemat-
ically stimulating and to permit a comparison with later theories. In doing so,
we must of course examine differences as well as ideas held in common with
later thinkers.
1.2 The Soul and Its Faculties

In his philosophical psychology, Aquinas assumes the Aristotelian thesis that a
person’s soul can be understood as the substantial form that is present in a body.
It is what makes a chunk of matter into a well organized, living body and can
therefore be seen as the life principle. It is always active in two respects: first, in
a synchronic respect, because it organizes a body at a certain moment, making
it into a coherent, functioning body; and second, in a diachronic respect, be-
cause it makes a body develop in a certain way.11 A person is therefore capable
of basic operations such as reproduction and nutrition and of more demanding
activities such as perception, imagination, and cogitation, not only at a given
moment, but also over time. Because the soul to the same extent makes all these
processes and states possible and is present throughout the body, it must be un-
derstood as the first life principle, as Aquinas underscores—as the principle that
is always active and that constantly maintains the body with all its life functions
(STh I 75.1; QDA, art. 2).12
Even this brief description makes it apparent that Aquinas is not primarily
concerned with explaining the mind or a set of cognitive functions. He does not
concentrate on the question, much discussed today, of how believing, wanting,
deciding, and other “mental states” relate to physical states. For that reason, his
investigations are not focused on the mind–body discussion, which is aimed at
explaining the particular relation between the two kinds of states. He is inter-
ested in a deeper problem: how can we explain that fact that there are physical
states at all? That is, states of a living body that are different from states of a
chunk of dead matter?13 To solve precisely this problem, Aquinas invokes the
soul as substantial form. Only because this form structures a chunk of matter,
which is in itself only a potentially existing thing, and supplies it with certain
capabilities, does it become an actually existing body. And only for that reason
is this body able to have a number of states, whether basic states that serve
28
purposes of nutrition and reproduction or more demanding states including

believing, wanting, etc.
Of course, Aquinas’ thesis that the soul is in the body as a life principle raises
the question of what we mean by a life principle. Is this a special entity that
can be located in the body? This question can be answered upon an exami-
nation of the positions from which Aquinas aims to distance himself by his
thesis.14 On the one hand, he rejects the view that he ascribes to the ancient
natural philosophers and that in modern terms we might call the position of
reductive materialism (STh I 75.1; ScG II.64–65). According to this view, there
is nothing except material entities, and the soul can be understood at most as
a certain composite of these entities. When we have explained how this com-
posite comes about and how it is constituted, then we have completely explained
what the soul, or the life principle, is. To this Aquinas objects, that matter in it-
self is not something actually existing, much less living. The moment we speak
of pieces of matter or even of a composite chunk of matter, we assume that the
matter, which is in itself potentially existent, is already actualized, that is, made
into a coherent, functioning whole. But this actualization does not take place
through or out of the matter itself. It requires a certain principle that organizes
and structures the matter so that a concrete, living piece of matter, and thus a
functioning body, arises.
At the same time, however, Aquinas also distances himself from another ex-
treme position, which he ascribes to Plato and that we may call extreme dualism
(STh I 76.1). In this view, the soul is a complete, self-sufficient entity that joins
together with the body as another complete entity and directs it but can also
be separated from it again. Aquinas finds this position erroneous, first for the
same reason as the position of reductive materialism. That is, it too assumes that
there are functioning chunks of matter or bodies as complete entities, indeed
as substances even, and merely adds that they can somehow join together with
other complete entities. It overlooks the fact that there are no existent bodies
waiting, so to speak, to be joined together with other entities. A body comes into
existence only by a soul structuring the matter. It therefore makes no sense to
speak of a body independently from the soul. A dead body is, strictly speaking,
not a body at all; it is only called one homonymously (STh I 76.8; SDA II.2, L 45/
1, 74–76). Furthermore, extreme dualism commits another error: it conceives
the soul as something that is present somewhere in the body, directing it as an
internal motor. In this way it introduces a hidden homunculus, for it is then no
longer the person as a whole who perceives, wishes, or thinks, but the soul sitting
inside her as a skipper sits in a ship (ScG 11.57, n. 1327; STh I 75.4). And of course
that also means that a person is only a conglomerate of two entities which could
in principle exist independently of one another and are only temporarily joined
29
Thomas Aquinas 29
together. This view loses exactly what Aquinas considers to be the fundamental
requirement of any adequate theory of the soul: it must be able to explain why
a person is an irreducible unit and not a conglomerate of two or more inde-
pendent units (STh I 75.4).
This point bears emphasizing, because at first glance one might get the im-
pression that Aquinas advocates an extreme dualism in spite of his Aristotelian
premise. For, as a Christian author, he claims that the soul is immortal and can
therefore continue to exist when the body decays (STh I 75.6).15 To that extent,
he seems to claim that the soul is in itself an independent unit that can just as
well exist and perform its functions outside the body as in it. However, a closer
look at his explanation of the thesis of immortality shows that he does not advo-
cate such a simple view. He maintains that “no part has the perfection of nature
when it is separated from the whole. As the soul is a part of human nature, it
therefore has the perfection of its nature only in unity with the body” (QSC, art.
2, ad 5). Thus, even if it is possible in a way to separate the soul from the body,
it is then no longer a perfect life principle. It can then make certain activities
possible in only a limited way (namely intellectual thinking, which, according
to Aquinas, does not require any physical basis), but it is a mutilated principle,
so to speak. It can be fully active only when it is present in the body. A modern
comparison may be helpful here. If we imagine the soul as the genetic program
that organizes a body, we can admit that this program can in a way be separated,
for example when it is stored in digital form. But in this form it cannot be active;
it cannot make processes of digestion or perception possible. (Today we would
probably add that it can no longer make thought processes possible either, be-
cause these too require a physical basis.) The genetic program is active only as
long as it is actually present in the body. For that reason, we must always con-
sider the functioning body.
Naturally this brief account reflects only the rudiments of Aquinas’ explan-
atory approach. But even in this brief form, it becomes clear that he does not
begin by asking what the soul is in addition to this or that body. He poses rather
the fundamental question: What allows us to call a body a functioning unit?
When he then defines the soul as a life principle, he makes an analytical dis-
tinction; in other words, he defines two aspects or components within this unit
whose respective functions must be examined. This sets important signposts
for the theory of the emotions. If we ask to whom or to what an emotion can
be attributed, we must look at the functioning unit. It is the living body that
has emotions, not some subsystem or a homunculus, even though certain
mechanisms within the body are responsible for the fact that emotions arise.
A theory of the emotions must then explain in detail what these mechanisms
look like and how they can be activated. It must also analyze how the emotions,
30
as states of the living body, relate to other states, how the various states influ-
ence one another, and how they can be changed by external agencies. In doing
so, however, a theory must always follow the principle that the emotions are
not attributable simply to the soul, nor to a part of the soul, as a distinct entity,
but to the whole person as a unity of form and matter. Unequivocally, Aquinas
maintains, after Aristotle, that anger, for example, is a state of this unity and
must therefore be examined in regard to form and matter (SDA 1.2, L 45/1, 10).
This has an immediate and crucial consequence. It is nonsense to attribute
emotions to a pure soul separated from the body. Aquinas briefly and succinctly
states: “An emotion [passio] in the strict sense is found where a physical change
occurs” (STh I–II 22.3). Hence nonphysical beings such as angels or God cannot
have emotions. Naturally, this raises a number of theological questions. How
can we say that God loves man if he is not capable of emotions? And how can
angels treat people with benevolence or with compassion? Aquinas gives an
unambiguous answer: bodiless beings can address other beings with a certain
intention, but they have purely volitive and not emotional states. A guardian
angel, for example, wants to accomplish good for a human being and so attends
to her, or God wants to bring a bad person to justice and so punishes her. But
they do so with no sensual movement.16 We might say that they have quasi-
emotions: they are not emotions in the strict sense because they lack a consti-
tutive characteristic.17 This makes it clear that limits are set on a conception of
God and angels as persons, at least if persons are understood to be living beings.
They do not act and feel as persons—although they are often anthropomorphi-
cally so described—because they lack precisely that which characterizes a living
person: a live body.18
If Aquinas were to limit himself to this thesis, of course, he would not be
stating anything very substantial. What aspect or what particular life function
of the body makes it possible for an emotion to arise? One approach to an-
swering this question can be found in the division of the soul into distinct parts.
Although the soul as a whole is in the body as a life principle, it is respon-
sible for different life functions in different areas. Hence different faculties of
the soul, which can also be called parts, can be defined, and only one certain
part—the sensual–appetitive—is responsible for the genesis of emotions. In this
view, Aquinas adopts the classical Aristotelian division of the soul into a vege-
tative, a sensual, and a rational part, and he divides the sensual part again into a
cognitive (or “apprehensive”) part, which is responsible for perception and im-
agination, and an aspirational (or “appetitive”) part, which produces emotions.19
But what does it mean to say that the soul, operating in various areas, has
parts? This question is not a new one arising in a present-day perspective; it
occupied the minds of the 13th-century authors. Aquinas’ teacher Albertus
31
Thomas Aquinas 31
Magnus discussed at length the question of whether there are one or three or
even more souls in a person, and all authors after him commented on it.20 The
position of those who postulated a “plurality of forms” proved particularly in-
fluential. They held that each part of the soul is a peculiar form that is really
distinct from all others.21 When a human being is conceived, first the vegetative
form comes into being, then the sensual, and the rational last. What is custom-
arily called the human soul is nothing but the sum of these forms.
Aquinas is quite familiar with this position but rejects it firmly. The first and
most important argument he fields against it is metaphysical in nature (STh
I 76.3; ScG 11.58). If there are three really (and not just conceptually) distinct
forms, a human being would not be a unit. She would be a composite of these
forms: she would be a living thing thanks to the vegetative form, a perceiving
thing thanks to the sensual form, and a thinking thing thanks to the rational
form. Then we could no longer say that it is one person who at the same time
digests, sees something, and thinks; we would have to say that it is a conglom-
erate of partial persons, who, moreover, are only contingently joined together.
For things that are really distinct from one another can always be separated.
This argument clearly expresses the fundamental thesis that a human being
is an irreducible unit and that one must inevitably assume several homunculi
if one were to conceive of a human being simply as the mereological sum of
independent parts.
On the basis of this consideration, Aquinas asserts that there is only one soul
in a human being and that the reference to parts of the soul designates only
different functional domains. In other words: when we consider the soul inas-
much as it permits acts of thinking, we speak of the rational soul. When we con-
sider it inasmuch as it permits perception, imagination, and emotional states,
we speak of the sensual soul. But it is always the same soul that produces all
these activities.
Aquinas sets the various functional areas in a hierarchy. The rational (or
intellectual) is, in his view, the most complex, and contains in it the sensual,
which in turn contains the vegetative. Hence the rational soul contains all the
others. This is shown by the comparison Aquinas draws, following Aristotle,
between the soul and a geometric figure (STh I 76.3; SDA II.5, L 45/1, 90). As
a pentagon contains a square, which in turn contains a triangle, the rational
soul encompasses the sensual soul, which in turn encompasses the vegetative
soul. The relation among the parts of the soul is thus not to be understood in
a mereological sense (more or less as individual pieces of pie taken together
yield a whole pie), but as a relation of inclusion: the rational part of the soul
is itself the whole soul, as it covers the most complex functional domain and
hence encompasses those parts of the soul that are responsible for less complex
32
activities. It is not surprising therefore that Aquinas often simply mentions the
intellect when he means the whole soul and even explicitly equates the form of a
human being with the rational or intellectual soul (in STh I 76.4). In doing so he
does not deny, as we might perhaps expect, the real existence of the vegetative
and sensual parts of the soul, nor does he neglect them as irrelevant. Rather, he
chooses a view of the soul that we might call the “top-down” perspective: if we
consider the soul with attention to the most complex functional area, we always
comprehend all subordinate areas and need not search for other possible inde-
pendent areas besides. (For comparison: if we comprehend the genetic program
of an organism, we comprehend everything the organism is capable of, from
reproduction to nutrition to perception and thinking. It is then unreasonable
to search for other programs. We need to specify only the external conditions
under which the program is activated and perhaps the extent to which it is
activated.)
For Aquinas, this has a practical consequence for the explanation of a human
being’s origination. The fact that a fetus develops and acquires various abilities
does not mean in his view that a sensual soul is added to the vegetative soul
in a second developmental step, and then a rational soul added in a third step.
Rather, the whole soul is successively replaced by a more complex one until fi-
nally the rational soul, as the most comprehensive one, organizes the body (ScG
II.89, n. 1745).22 This thesis is not simply an empirical–embryological specula
tion; it is at bottom a metaphysical thesis: there are not merely continuous
changes that occur in a mature living being (namely, when existing faculties are
actualized), but also discontinuous changes. These consist in replacements of
the whole substantial form. The genesis of a living being is thus something com-
pletely different from the development of a living being who is already born.23
A more important consequence, however, is the course that is set here for
an explanation of the emotions. If there are no really distinct parts of the soul,
then the causal mechanisms that lead to the genesis of an emotion cannot be
understood as relations between independent entities. They are always internal
relations to be situated in the whole soul or, more exactly, in the whole ensouled
body. For the example of fear introduced at the beginning of the chapter, this
means that we can say only metaphorically that the sensual–apprehensive
soul produces a perception, thus acting upon the sensual–appetitive soul and
eliciting fear in it, which in turn leads the rational soul to intervene and con-
trol the fear or make it disappear completely. Strictly speaking, we must say in-
stead: it is the whole ensouled body that perceives, is afraid, and tries to master
this emotion. We can describe relations between various activities in this body
and investigate what brought about each activity. But we should not postulate
any internal agents acting as independent entities.
3
Thomas Aquinas 33
One problem still remains unsolved, however. In what sense can the parts
of the soul, whose relation to one another is one of inclusion, be conceived as
faculties? One might perhaps expect Aquinas to formulate a general definition
of faculties and then derive from it special definitions for the vegetative, the sen-
sual and the rational faculty. But he does not choose this path, and his reasons,
like those of Aristotle, are methodical. Aristotle had remarked before him that
it makes no sense to derive definitions of parts of the soul from a general point
of view, nor from a general definition for the soul. Rather, one should start with
concrete living beings, describe their respective activities, and ask why they can
perform exactly those activities. Only in this way, he wrote, could one arrive at a
definition of the parts of the soul.24 Taking up this idea, Aquinas states that one
must “seek the specific definition of each part of the soul” (SDA II.6, L 45/1, 91).
This can succeed only if we look at individual kinds of activities and then indi-
cate why they are possible. Aquinas illustrates this using the faculty of seeing as
an example (STh I 77.3; QDA, art. 13). Anyone who would explain or define this
faculty must investigate acts of seeing, which in turn must be identified with
reference to visible objects. Thus one must say: a person has a faculty of seeing if
and only if the impact of visible objects elicits in her acts of seeing.
This approach to explanation shows that Aquinas is concerned with a func-
tional definition of the faculties. A faculty is an inner mechanism that is respon-
sible in a system for a certain output (such as an act of seeing) being assigned to
a certain input (such as the impact of a visible object). If we want to understand
a faculty, we must examine the input–output relation case by case. We should
also note similarities and dissimilarities between distinct cases so that we can
identify types of faculties and not have to postulate a separate faculty for each
individual relation.25 But we should not look for agents that can be individuated
independently of an input–output relation.
To prevent misunderstandings, I should add at this point that such a func-
tional definition is not identical with a functionalist definition in the contem-
porary technical sense. According to an influential theory originally developed
by Hilary Putnam and Ned Block, mental states are explained in a functionalist
way when we claim that (a) they are individuated in respect of their causal role
alone, and (b) they can be realized in multiple ways.26 This does not correspond
with Aquinas’ approach for at least two reasons. First, as I have already pointed
out, Aquinas’ intention was not to explain mental states as a particular class of
states, but initially to explain everything a living being is capable of, including
such basic activities as nutrition and reproduction. Second, in this context he
does not assume that multiple realizations are possible. On the contrary, he
asserts that certain states can occur in a body of only a certain kind, because
certain faculties and hence mechanisms for the assignment of input and output
34
can be located only in a body that is constituted thus and so. Thus it is the fac-
ulty in this body (that is, in the human body, which is equipped with a certain
kind of eyes) that produces a certain state of seeing and not the faculty existing
per se, which could be present in very different bodies. Although cats and dogs
have eyes too, they have their own kinds of eyes, and therefore their own kind
of seeing. It is therefore important always to begin with a concrete body and ask
what state in it can be produced by a certain input.27
This methodical point is immediately relevant to the explanation of
emotions. It would be absurd to ask what fear is per se and how it can be
realized in the body of a human being or a cat. Human fear and cat fear must
be carefully differentiated from one another because they are states in different
bodies. Furthermore, we must observe that the relation of inclusion previ-
ously described is constituted differently in the two cases. In cats, the faculty
responsible for emotions is connected with only other sensual and vegetative
faculties. Consequently, there can be relations only to states that are made pos-
sible by these faculties. In human beings, by contrast, the sensual faculty is also
connected with the rational faculty. Hence relations to states of reflection and
will must also be considered. According to Aquinas, the rational faculty is “the
horizon and the limit” of all other faculties (ScG II.68, n. 1453; cf. QDV 26.3, ad
12). This means that the mechanism in a human being that produces fear in the
presence of a sensory impression of a guard dog is always connected with an-
other mechanism that produces reflection and acts of volition. Hence the fear
is immediately influenced (at least in the ordinary case) by rational activities.
It is constituted completely differently from cat fear, which is never influenced,
indeed cannot be influenced, in that way. It would therefore be inappropriate to
assume an additive schema and suppose that cats and people initially have the
same fear because of their common sensual faculty and that something is simply
added to it in human beings. The human fear is differently constituted from that
of the cat from the very beginning because several mechanisms of input pro-
cessing are active at the same time.28
When we situate Aquinas’ descriptions of individual emotions in this theo-
retical frame, it becomes apparent that his intention is not to divide the soul into
individual parts and attribute the emotions to an isolated part, so to speak.29
Descartes’ objection, previously mentioned, that referring to parts of the soul
endangers the unity of the soul, can be refuted. If the parts of the soul are nothing
but internal mechanisms, then the entire soul is always active. We can distin-
guish at most between functional areas and ask which mechanism in the soul
is necessary for a certain activity to occur. Leibniz’s objection—that designating
the parts as faculties that produce states implies the introduction of myste-
rious agents within the soul—likewise turns out to be unjustified. As internal
35
Thomas Aquinas 35
mechanisms, faculties are not homunculi that possess some kind of power and
act. What is active, and produces fear, for example, is always the whole soul (or,
more precisely, the whole living body). The crucial question here is not who
acts, but how action takes place. How is the soul able to process certain inputs
so that very specific states arise? Aquinas’ answer, in its shortest form, is: by
setting inner mechanisms in motion as an activity principle. The more com-
plex these mechanisms are, the more differentiated the states that arise. Thus a
person can react differently from a cat when a growling dog appears before her,
because in addition to the sensual input-processing mechanisms, she can also
use rational ones.
Although the accusations expressed by Descartes and Leibniz prove to be
unfounded, the recourse to faculties as parts of the soul is not as harmless as
it may appear. Two difficulties bear mentioning. The first concerns the funda-
mental Aristotelian thesis that the soul must be a life principle because a piece of
matter has no life, and in fact is not even an actually existing object. This thesis
is completely dependent on the notion that a chunk of matter is in itself not a
body, and indeed pure matter is not actually existent. Only if we grant this can
we admit that a soul is necessary as a principle of actuality and life and that this
principle is manifested in various faculties. But why should matter be some-
thing only potentially existent? Why can it not, in itself, without any form, have
certain properties and perform certain activities? Descartes and many other
early modern authors asked precisely these questions. In doing so they laid the
foundation for a new concept of matter that does not presuppose the opposi-
tion between potentiality and actuality, and consequently does not necessitate
the assumption of an actualization principle.30 If we use this concept, we do
not need a soul that has faculties as internal mechanisms. Then matter itself, or
a specific body as a piece of matter, has internal mechanisms. All that is then
necessary is to investigate how these mechanisms take effect when, for example,
certain visual impulses are induced and a perceptual image is elicited. But we
must no longer resort to the soul; the sensual mechanisms can be completely
reduced to physical mechanisms.31 Then the reference to faculties as parts of the
soul is not dangerous or false (because it would cast doubt on the unity the soul,
for example)—it is merely empty of substance and useless.
This criticism of faculties of the soul needs to be examined before we can as-
sess the viability of the explanatory model that Aquinas postulates. The model
has explanatory substance and persuasiveness only as long as we assume an
Aristotelian concept of matter. In that case, we can and must resort to the soul
as a life principle and must also specify the faculties in which this principle is
manifested. But if we abandon that concept, the model collapses.32 For the ex-
planation of emotions, this means that it makes sense to refer to “movements
36
of the sensual–appetitive faculty” only as long as we are willing to grant the

assumption of faculties in an actualized chunk of matter. If we consider this
assumption superfluous, however, we must rebuild the whole explanatory ap-
proach from the ground up. Hence it is not surprising that the erosion of the
Aristotelian conception of matter and faculties in the 17th century was a crucial
factor for the growing criticism of the Thomist explanatory model.
There is another difficulty that arises even if we are willing to grant the assump-
tion of faculties. Aquinas emphasizes that we must resort to various faculties if
we want to explain the soul, but he does not claim that the soul is identical in es-
sence with the faculties. Rather, he puts forward the thesis that they are different
from one another (STh I 77.1; QDA, art. 12). That is, although the vegetative,
the sensual, and the rational faculties are neither purely physical mechanisms
nor autonomous agents, they are still distinct from the essence of the soul. In
Aquinas’ metaphorical terms, they “flow out” of this essence (STh I 77.6).33 This
is confusing in several respects. Why should the faculties not be identical with
the essence? Referring to the soul is no different from referring to the faculties
that make a body into a functioning unit. So what could the soul’s essence be that
somehow exists in addition to them? And in what sense do the faculties flow out
of it? In regard to the discussion of the emotions, the question naturally arises of
what function this ominous essence is supposed to have. Is there more we must
explain to explain an emotion than the way in which a sensual–appetitive state is
produced in accordance with certain internal mechanisms?
These questions are not new. Duns Scotus in his day thought it was odd to
assume a real distinction between the soul’s faculties and its essence.34 As late
as the early modern period, the Aristotelians disputed whether it was sensible
to assume any difference between them and, if so, what kind.35 It is therefore a
good idea to examine first why Aquinas distinguished between the soul’s es-
sence and faculties. His main argument can be reconstructed as follows (STh
I 77.1): The soul as the first life principle is always active. It makes a potentially
existing body into an actually existing, unitary body in every moment. The indi-
vidual faculties, however, are not always active. Sometimes a living body digests
food and sometimes it does not; sometimes it moves and sometimes not; some-
times it perceives something and sometimes not; etc. Hence the intermittently
active faculties cannot be identical with the constantly active essence.
This argument at first creates the impression that Aquinas is yielding to
the pluralistic conception of numerous souls as independent entities—some
of which are always active while others are not. The essence would then be a
kind of foundational soul that is responsible for basic functions and is always
switched on, so to speak. From this basic soul, others arise (or “flow”), which
are designated as faculties. It would hardly be plausible, however, to suppose
37
Thomas Aquinas 37
Aquinas held this view. For he would then be propounding an incoherent

theory. The fundamental thesis that there is only one soul in a human being
would contradict the thesis of a plurality of souls. It is more reasonable to as-
sume that he consistently postulated a single soul that is active in accordance
with different internal mechanisms. Some of these mechanisms—those that are
responsible for basic life functions—are always active; others are not. The soul
is thus, in its essence, only the first life principle, that is, the one that is always
active in accordance with the basic mechanisms, and thus always makes a chunk
of matter into a living body. Everything else belongs, strictly speaking, not to
the first life principle, but to the domain of what results from that principle.
In this domain are the individual faculties that are responsible for digestive
processes, perceptions, emotions, beliefs, etc. They become active only when
certain inputs are present. The perceptive faculty, for example, becomes active
only when a concrete perceptible object is present. When Aquinas says that the
faculties “flow” from the essence, he is not thinking of a mysterious emanation,
but simply a dependency relation: the faculties, which are not always active,
depend on the first life principle, which is always active.36
For the discussion of the emotions, this means that we do not need to study
a hidden essence of the soul in addition to the faculties.37 Once we have deter-
mined that there is a functioning body, we can analyze how the presence of a
growling dog, for example, elicits a state of perception, which in turn excites
fear, which can then be controlled by beliefs and acts of volition. Examining
the causal connection of these states is entirely sufficient. But we must not as-
sume that all these states are directly caused by the first life principle. They are
elicited by this principle only indirectly, that is, insofar as it is the basis for the
mechanisms of the soul that become active in this case.
This explanation shows once again that Aquinas’ explanatory framework is
completely dependent on his fundamental hylomorphic thesis. Only if we are
willing to admit that the soul is a substantial form and thus the first life principle
can we also admit that it is the basis for faculties, or mechanisms, that become
active under certain circumstances and produce emotions. If one doubts this
fundamental thesis, however, the concept of faculties becomes questionable. It
is the admission or rejection of the theoretical framework that decides whether
a certain kind of explanation is plausible or not.
1.3 The Characterization and Classification

of the Emotions
In his theory of the soul’s faculties, Thomas Aquinas is not content simply to
enumerate different emotions and describe their genesis and their effects. His
38
aim is to assign them a systematic place and to distinguish them from other
states or processes of the soul (perceptions, wishes, beliefs, acts of volition, etc.).
For only when it is clear what characterizes emotions in general can they be
examined as a particular class of states. And only then can different kinds of
emotions be distinguished within this class.
What then distinguishes emotions? Aquinas states that they are passiones
animae.38 It could be misleading to translate this technical term simply as “passions
of the soul.” Passions today are usually understood as feelings that are especially
strong or difficult to control (in reference to passionate love, for example) and
sometimes as keen affinities or interests (when we say someone has a passion
for music, for example). But Aquinas is not concerned with such a psychological
definition. His only aim is a metaphysical definition: an object has a passio when-
ever it undergoes or “suffers” [patitur] something and thereby changes. Aquinas
offers practical examples of this (STh I–II 22.1; QDV 26.1). In the broadest sense,
the air has a passio when it is illuminated. That is, when it absorbs light it “suffers”
something and thereby changes. In a narrower sense, a healthy person has a
passio when he falls ill. The person too “suffers” something and changes when he
receives the disease. Unlike the air, however, he also loses something: his health.
In the term passiones animae, the word is used in this narrower sense: the soul
“suffers” something by absorbing something and thereby changing.39 Of course,
Aquinas points out, it is not the isolated soul that changes, but the soul present in
a concrete body. In a word: the living body changes.
Three points about this general definition are noteworthy. First, it is inter-
esting that Aquinas mentions changes. Consequently it is not surprising that
he also calls the passiones “motions” ([motus]; STh I 81.1 and I–II 23.2).40 This
is far more than a terminological variation. Aquinas expresses in this way that
he understands emotions as part of a metaphysical model that begins with the
faculties in a body and examines the changes that arise through an actualiza-
tion of those faculties. Because the actualization is a process, not a punctual
state, the emotions too must be understood primarily as processes. Strictly
speaking, only the endpoints of the processes can be called states. That is, more
concretely: fear of the growling dog is a process of change in a living body, more
a becoming-afraid than a being-afraid. For this reason, fear can also increase, as
can easily be illustrated with an example. When someone stands before the dog,
he is not suddenly in a state of maximum fear. Rather, the sight of the powerful
animal frightens him until he finally succumbs to panic. Or, to put it techni-
cally: through the actualization of the sensual-appetitive faculty, a process of
change begins that leads to fear. Although in the discussion that follows we refer
mainly to states (as is customary in the literature), this dynamic element should
not be overlooked.41
39
Thomas Aquinas 39
Second, it must be emphasized that emotions are actual states and not
dispositions or the like.42 A passio is present only if a process of change is actu-
ally occurring. If we speak of a fearful person, referring to a general disposition
or a character trait, we are not referring to a passio. That does not mean, of
course, that emotions as actual states are independent of dispositions. On the
contrary, the very fact that these states come about through an actualization of
faculties indicates that they are closely connected to natural dispositions. Only
if a person is disposed to become afraid can he—under certain conditions—
actually be in that state. But there are also dispositions that arise from, and thus
are acquired through, the repeated occurrence of the actual states. A person who
becomes afraid over and over again, for example, gradually becomes a fearful
person. In Aquinas’ terminology, such a person is said to acquire a “habitual dis-
position” (STh I–II 50.1). Such a disposition is very important from the point of
view of moral philosophy and action theory. Only if someone has certain actual
states over and over again does he become trained, so to speak, to spontane-
ously produce such states again in the future that prompt him to certain actions.
Thus a person who repeatedly has actual devotion and understanding for needy
people becomes a kind person. But the habitual disposition is not an actual state
itself; it results from repeatedly occurring actual states, and thus follows them.
Hence it cannot be a passio.
Third, it is noteworthy that Aquinas insists from the outset that emotions as
passiones are always situated in the body. It is therefore not surprising that he
specifies the typical physical component for each emotion, such as laughing for
joy and stiffening for fear. What is crucial here is that the physical processes are
not merely concomitant symptoms or external signs of the respective emotions,
but an integral part of them. When we see, for example, the person who freezes
in the face of the guard dog, what we see in the stiffening is fear itself as it
is manifested physically; and when we hear someone laugh, we hear joy itself.
In this way Aquinas from the very beginning avoids a problem that is usually
discussed in the modern debate as the problem of other minds: How can we be
sure that other persons have emotions when we see only external signs? Isn’t it
possible that these signs do not indicate any inner state? Isn’t it also possible that
the person paralyzed in front of the dog is not afraid at all, because his outer be-
havior doesn’t correspond to anything internal? Aquinas avoids these questions
from the outset by drawing no dividing line between an outer sign and an inner
state. Nor does he presuppose any argument from analogy; in other words, he
does not argue as follows: in myself I am absolutely certain that paralysis is
linked to fear; and because another person is similarly constituted to myself,
I assume that the same connection occurs in him; therefore I can conclude from
his visible paralysis that he has the invisible internal emotion. Such an argument
40
from analogy would always be contestable. For how can I be sure that another
person is really similarly constituted to myself? The nub of Aquinas’ argument
is that he avoids this question, and so escapes the skeptical dead end to which
it inevitably leads. As Anita Avramides has shown in regard to modern debates,
the problem of other minds must be addressed as a conceptual problem from
the outset if it is to be brought under control.43 The concept of an emotion must
be conceived as referring to a physically manifested state and thus to some-
thing that necessarily has physical components. Only then can we claim that the
observation of these components gives us access to the emotion itself and not
merely to an outward sign from which we infer an inner state. Aquinas himself
takes precisely this methodical path in stating that the term passio is applicable
to a state of the living body—not the isolated soul—and that an emotion must
therefore be present when we see a certain physical behavior.44
By saying just this much, Aquinas would be able to establish that emotions
are physically manifested processes that lead to other states. He would not yet
be able, however, to distinguish emotions from physical sensations. A physically
manifested process is also present when someone steps on my foot and I feel
pain. The same is true of feelings of tickling, hunger, or thirst. Does that mean
that emotions are indistinguishable from physical sensations? Not at all. Aquinas
points out that fear, joy, and many other emotional states relate to something
and are thus intentional, whereas physical sensations are not. Only the inten-
tional states are passiones animae in the strict sense; the physical sensations are
merely passiones corporales (STh III 15.4; QDV 26.3). A person who feels pain,
for example, or is hungry, also “suffers” something and undergoes a change, but
does not relate to anything. The intentional passiones animae, by contrast, are
characterized by their relation to certain objects, namely good ones or bad ones
that are apprehended by the senses (STh I 81.2 and I–II 23.1).
With this explanation, Aquinas demarcates the emotions from other states of
the soul in two directions at once: first, from the nonintentional sensations and
moods; and second, from the intentional judgments, reflections, and acts of voli-
tion. These are related to objects that are apprehended by the intellect, not by the
senses. And objects that are intellectually apprehended are always apprehended
by means of concepts. This specific kind of apprehension is not required for
emotions, however. Thus a person can be afraid of the guard dog, for example,
without forming the concepts of guard dog and danger, and without making the
judgment “I am being threatened by a dangerous guard dog.” It is necessary only
that he sees, hears, or otherwise sensually apprehends the dog and relates to it as
something dangerous that is immediately present in his perception.
This clarification has an important consequence. Babies and animals, who
cannot form concepts and judgments, are capable of emotions. They too are
41
Thomas Aquinas 41
able to relate to objects that they apprehend sensually. Aquinas points to the an-
imals in particular and ascribes specific emotions to them. He cites the example,
which originates with Avicenna, of the sheep that finds itself facing a wolf, is
afraid, and runs away (STh I 78.4).45 The sheep fundamentally lacks the concept
of a wolf and does not make the judgment “There is a wolf here.” Nor is it able
to subsume what it sees under the concept of danger and to think: “This animal
here is dangerous; therefore I should run away from it.” Rather, seeing the wolf
causes a spontaneous fear that in turn induces flight. Aquinas even goes so far
as to ascribe hope to animals. They are naturally oriented toward certain goals
that are good for them. The example Aquinas gives is that of the dog that sees a
hare and hopes to catch it (STh I–II 40.3). The dog does not hold the belief “That
hare is a good prey for me” and therefore does not base its hope on such a belief.
Rather, just seeing and smelling the hare, and the dog’s natural orientation to-
ward this prey, determine the dog’s hope. Of course, this hope is different from
that of a human being, who as a hunter may also find himself before the hare,
but who judges it in detail and considers whether it would be a suitable prey. In
the case of a human being, there may be an intellectually “charged” hope, and
indeed in the normal case (that is, if no illness, inebriation, or other limitation
is present) there is always such a hope because the higher cognitive activities
immediately influence the sensory activities. But this does not mean that every
hope is necessarily linked to an intellectual activity. The only thing that is nec-
essary is a sensory activity.
This point must be taken into account in comparing Aquinas’ theory with
present-day explanatory models. Many contemporary philosophers advocate
a cognitivist theory of the emotions according to which emotions always con-
tain beliefs, or even consist of nothing else but a certain kind of evaluative
beliefs.46 In this view, a person who is afraid of a dog has a belief such as “This
animal is dangerous to me,” and in the ordinary case can also justify his emo-
tion by referring to other beliefs that support his current belief. For this reason,
emotions are intrinsically rational: they are susceptible to reasons and can be
justified well or ill.
This explanatory model does not agree with that chosen by Aquinas. For
him, emotions do not necessarily consist of beliefs, and hence they are not in-
trinsically rational. They can be at most extrinsically rational, namely if they
are connected with certain beliefs that the person then justifies. For example,
if I am afraid of the guard dog and at the same time hold the belief that it is
a dangerous animal, this intellectually “charged” fear can be justified by an-
other belief, such as the belief that the dog is big and strong. But then it is
not my fear that is justified, strictly speaking, but the belief connected with it.
Admittedly, the connection is usually made spontaneously because, according
42
to the inclusion thesis previously discussed, the higher rational faculty contains
and influences the lower sensual faculty. That is exactly what distinguishes us
human beings from the animals, who cannot form beliefs. Nonetheless they
too have emotions, as the example of the sheep shows. It is afraid of the wolf al-
though it is fundamentally unable to have a belief and to justify something. We
humans can also find ourselves in this situation on occasion. Simply imagine
that a person is so captivated by the sight of the muscular animal that he can
no longer think clearly. This person has a bare fear that is not accompanied by
any belief and is neither well nor ill justified. Although Aquinas stresses that, in
the ordinary case, people always activate the rational faculty and form beliefs,
he points out that there are such exceptional cases. Mentally disturbed persons
[amentes], for example, can be so possessed by emotions that their reason is
completely disabled (STh I–II 10.3, ad 2). Although this special case is rare, it
nonetheless shows that emotions neither necessarily contain beliefs nor are
necessarily connected with them.
Thus Aquinas does not propound a cognitivist theory of the emotions in the
modern sense.47 Nor does he propound a purely behavioristic theory under
which an emotion would be just a reaction to a certain stimulus, as the blink of
an eyelid, for example, is a reaction to something touching the eye. Because an
emotion always relates to something sensually apprehended, it has a cognitive
content. The exact constitution of this content and the way in which it arises is
analyzed in Section 1.4. For the moment, we only want to identify the middle
position that Aquinas occupies in the space of possible positions. Against the
position claiming that emotions necessarily consist of beliefs, he objects that
they are sensual states that consequently relate to what is sensually apprehended
and are at most contingently linked to beliefs. Against the position holding that
they are mere reactions to stimuli, he objects that they are cognitive states that
relate to a certain object.
However, this characterization would not yet suffice to distinguish emotions
unambiguously from other states of the soul. Perceptions and imaginings are
also sensual states that relate to something. How are emotions different from
them? Aquinas answers this question by pointing out—as has been mentioned—
that emotions do not relate to just any sensually apprehended objects, but to
good and bad ones.48 For this reason, they motivate a physical movement. They
prompt a living being (whether an animal or a human being) to aspire to the
good objects and avoid the bad ones. They are therefore, in technical terms,
not simply sensual–apprehensive states like the perceptions and imaginings, but
sensual–appetitive states. Of course, the fact that emotions motivate a phys-
ical movement does not mean that that movement is actually performed. When
I stand spellbound in fear before the guard dog, I am motivated to run away
43
Thomas Aquinas 43
immediately, but the motivation cannot be carried out. It is not crucial whether
a movement actually takes place, but only whether a motivation is present.
Taking all together the characteristics of emotions mentioned, we find that
Aquinas provides a precise characterization even though he never formulates a
definition in the strict sense. In his view, emotions have the following charac-
teristics: (1) They have a physical aspect because they include a physical change,
through which they manifest themselves. (2) They have an intentional aspect
because they are directed toward an object. (3) They also have a sensual aspect
because they relate to a sensually apprehended object. (4) In addition, they have
an evaluative aspect because they relate to an object that is present as some-
thing good or bad. (5) Finally, they have a motivational aspect because they
prompt a living being to react to the good or bad object by a physical movement.
Only when we look at all five of these characteristics can we distinguish the
emotions from other states of the soul and assign them to a uniform class. The
important point is that none of these characteristics is found only in emotions.
Sensations too are physical, beliefs too are intentional, perceptions too are sen-
sual, value judgments too are evaluative, and wishes too have a motivational
force. Emotions are distinguished from other states of the soul in that only they
unite all five characteristics. They are therefore particularly complex states that
cannot be reduced to other states.
If we examine the list of the five characteristics, we notice immediately that
one aspect is missing that is usually mentioned today as one of the chief char-
acteristics of emotions: the phenomenal.49 Being afraid or being joyful does feel
a certain way. Every living being has a particular inner experience when being
in an emotional state. Does Aquinas overlook this central characteristic? It is
striking that he pays it no special attention. Unlike present-day authors, he no-
where addresses the question of how it feels to be in this or that emotional state,
and he undertakes no classification of phenomenal experiences. He doesn’t even
introduce a special terminology to designate feeling or inner experience. In a
word, he ignores that which is discussed in the present-day debate as the “qualia”
problem.50 That does not mean, however, that Aquinas denies emotions have a
phenomenal characteristic. It is already contained in their physical and sensual
aspects, as a brief comparison of the emotions with the perceptions shows.
Suppose someone asks how it feels to have a perception of red. How can we
explain that this phenomenal experience is different from the one we have when
we have a perception of blue? Aquinas would answer, after Aristotle, that a per-
ception of red arises through absorbing the form of redness—only the form, not
the matter. For, just as the form of the signet ring, and not its matter, is impressed
upon a piece of sealing wax, the form is impressed upon the perceptive sense.
The perceptive sense thereby undergoes a certain change which Aquinas calls
4
“spiritual change” (STh I 78.3; QDV 26.3, ad 11).51 By this he means not a purely
mental change, as everything that changes in a perceptive sense is bound to
matter. He means rather something that we might call “form change”: the per-
ceiver absorbs the form of the redness, and hence has another form in addition
to his own. The peculiar experience or the phenomenal character of a percep-
tion of red is explained precisely through this form change.
What happens in the case of an emotion is analogous. If someone asks what
fear feels like, we may answer from Aquinas’ perspective that a person who is
afraid refers to a dangerous object. This reference presupposes that he has been
sensually affected by the object, and that means nothing else but that he has
absorbed the particular perceptible forms of the object. Thus a person facing
a guard dog undergoes a form change: he absorbs the form of something big,
hairy, and growling. In doing so, he already has a certain perceptual experi-
ence. Now he also absorbs the form of something dangerous and undergoes a
physical change: he begins to tremble and stiffens. What is referred to today as
a phenomenal experience is nothing else but the aggregate of these changes. Or,
to put it more briefly, experiencing fear means nothing else but being formally
and materially changed. Once we have described these processes of change, we
have specified completely what the experience consists of.
As this explanation illustrates, Aquinas does not see the phenomenal quality
of sensual states as an independent entity that can somehow be absorbed and
apprehended. It simply results from the occurrence of certain formal and ma-
terial changes. Assuming another change that would produce a particular phe-
nomenal quality besides or in addition to these changes would be not only
useless, but simply unreasonable in the Aristotelian explanatory model.52 As a
unity of form and matter, a living body undergoes only the formal and material
changes. It is thus not surprising that Aquinas does not go into a special discus-
sion to explain an inner experience.
Now that we have established how emotions differ from other states of
the soul, we may examine what distinctions can be made within the class of
emotions. What kinds of emotions are there? Aquinas lists eleven: love, hate,
longing, abhorrence, joy, sorrow, hope, despair, fear, audacity, and anger (STh
I–II 23.4; QDV 26.4). The fact that he draws up a list is not surprising. Beginning
with the Stoics’ distinction of four basic kinds, if not before, there has been
one attempt after another to classify the emotions.53 Well into the modern pe-
riod, many debates revolved around the questions of what and how many kinds
of emotions there are, and even today some cognitive psychologists set them-
selves the task of identifying basic emotions.54 What is interesting about the
various lists is not so much the exact number and designation of the individual
emotions as the different methods used. Different criteria are applied to produce
45
Thomas Aquinas 45
such a list, and the resulting lists differ accordingly. It is therefore a good idea
to take a closer look at how Aquinas arrives at his classification of eleven kinds
of emotions.
He begins with the feature of intentionality. If we analyze what objects
emotions relate to and how they relate to them, we can identify different kinds
of emotions. The objects concerned, of course, are not individual material
objects (such as this guard dog or that juicy apple), but kinds of objects that
are characterized in a certain way. Anthony Kenny has coined the expression
“formal object” to designate these.55 It is the form or the aspect under which the
object is apprehended that is important. Hence we must—in modern terms—
give an intensional description of this object. That is, specifically: we must not
simply say that fear is related to an object x; we must make it clear that it is
related to x to the extent that x is apprehended in such and such a way. That
does not exclude the possibility, of course, that this object is a material object.
A person who is afraid of the guard dog is relating to a concrete, material an-
imal. But the object of the fear is not simply this animal with all its individual
properties, but the animal to the extent that it is apprehended in a certain re-
spect: as something dangerous that could attack at any moment. There are even
cases in which a formal object is present, but no material object. A person who
is suffering from delusions, for example, and is afraid that extraterrestrial beings
could attack him at any time is directing his emotion at an object that does not
exist in the material world, but only in his imagination. Nonetheless, the fear is
directed at a formal object.
How then exactly are the formal object and the directedness toward this ob-
ject to be identified? Aquinas specifies three criteria. The first consists in the
distinction between good and bad objects. The critical question is of course not
whether the objects actually are good or bad, but whether they are apprehended
as good or bad. This can be easily illustrated. When I see the guard dog, I spon-
taneously apprehend it as something bad and dangerous for me, and I become
afraid. But then it may transpire that the dog is well trained and not dangerous.
Perhaps it is even a reliable watchdog, and quite beneficial to me. The important
thing is only that I apprehend the guard dog as something bad in the specific
situation, regardless of how accurate or erroneous my estimation may be. We
must also bear in mind that I so apprehend it only sensually, and not intellectu-
ally for example. Aquinas expresses this by a subtle terminological distinction.
He emphasizes that an emotion relates to this good thing or that bad thing, not
to goodness or badness (QDV 25.1). That means we do not relate to what makes
an object good or bad, such as its inner constitution. To do that, we would have
to begin reflecting, and apply our thoughts to the specific object. For example,
I would have to think: the guard dog is big and muscular, has powerful jaws and
46
an aggressive character; exactly these make it bad and dangerous to me. I can
reflect in that way, but I am not compelled to do so. I have to only look at the
guard dog and spontaneously apprehend it as something bad, without being
able to specify what constitutes its badness. For this reason even a baby, which
is not yet capable of reflection, can become afraid, and so can the sheep—to use
Aquinas’ own example—in face of the wolf. We see here once again that Aquinas
is not advocating a cognitivist theory. An emotion requires no beliefs, not even
evaluative beliefs that would permit a determination of what makes an object
good or bad.
A simple division of objects into good and bad would not suffice for a classi-
fication of emotions, however, as there are several emotions that relate to good
objects (such as love, joy, and hope) just as there are several emotions that relate to
bad objects (such as hate, abhorrence, and sadness). Aquinas therefore introduces
a second criterion: some objects are so constituted that they can be aspired to or
avoided effortlessly. Others can be aspired to or avoided only by clearing certain
obstacles out of the way: these are “arduous” objects and consequently can be
attained or averted only “under the aspect of difficulty” [sub ratione ardui]. The
emotions that relate to the first kind of objects are those in the “desiring” or “con-
cupiscent appetitive faculty” [appetitus concupiscibilis]; the emotions that relate
to the second kind are those in the “irascible” or “overcoming appetitive faculty”
[appetitus irascibilis] (STh I 81.2 and I–II 23.1).56 It is noteworthy that Aquinas
subdivides the appetitive faculty and asserts that different kinds of aspiration are
required for different kinds of objects. But if we now understand the faculties
as inner mechanisms, as explained in Section 1.2, that means that a living being
needs different mechanisms to relate to effortless or arduous objects. The activa-
tion of these mechanisms leads to different kinds of emotions.
This subdivision is by no means self-evident and was soon criticized by later
scholastic commentators. Suárez, for example, thought it was redundant to pos-
tulate two different faculties for effortless and arduous objects.57 There is only
one faculty, the one that enables a living being to aspire to a good object and to
avoid a bad one. This faculty, according to Suárez, produces different emotions
depending on how easy or difficult the object is to aspire to or to avoid.
This objection appears persuasive at first glance. Suppose I am standing right
in front of the guard dog with my back to the wall of a house and could hardly
escape it: I become greatly afraid. About five yards away from me, someone
drives by in a car and sees the dog, but can easily escape it: he is only slightly
afraid, or not at all. We might then say that I am relating to an “arduous” object,
and the motorist is relating to an “effortless” one. But this has no effect on which
faculty is actualized, nor on which emotion arises. Whether an object is arduous
seems to be important only for the intensity of an emotion.
47
Thomas Aquinas 47
But on a closer examination, we see that the matter is not so simple. For,
strictly speaking, I am relating in the situation described not only to the dog,
but also to the particularly difficult situation I am in. I find that the dog is close
before me and that I can hardly escape it. Thus I have a very specific object: the
dog as something bad and hardly escapable. That leads to my becoming greatly
afraid. The motorist, by contrast, pays no mind to the situation he is in. He only
briefly glances at the dog, perhaps spontaneously appraising it as something
bad, but notices nothing else. Thus he has a much simpler object: the dog as
something bad. Very probably, he doesn’t even feel fear, but only aversion or ab-
horrence. The critical point consists in the fact that I have a different object than
the motorist has, and therefore I activate a different inner mechanism, namely
the one that produces the appropriate emotion for hardly escapable objects: that
is, fear, and not mere abhorrence.
As this example illustrates, different objects require different inner
mechanisms to process them. For exactly this reason, Aquinas draws a dis-
tinction between a “concupiscent” and an “irascible” faculty. The first is acti-
vated when we are able to direct ourselves at an object without considering
special circumstances. The second faculty becomes active when the particular
circumstances are considered, and indeed must be considered, and a certain
combative spirit is necessary. For this reason Aquinas also calls it “the combative
faculty” (STh I 81.2). And different faculties produce different emotional states.
This does not exclude the possibility, of course, that there can be different grades
of intensity, but these concern only an emotion that is produced by one and the
same faculty. Thus my fear, for example, can increase or decrease, depending on
how inescapable the guard dog seems to me to be. But no matter how strong a
fear is, it is always directed at an object that is apprehended as bad and hardly es-
capable. The increase or decrease of fear is something completely different from
the transition to a different emotion, such as aversion or abhorrence.
Aquinas has another reason for considering the assumption of two different
faculties indispensable. A conflict can arise when an object is appraised in dif-
ferent ways, in particular when it is appraised both as effortless and as difficult
to attain. This is easy to illustrate. Suppose someone falls head over heels in
love with a person. He then desires the person and spontaneously appraises her
as something effortless to attain, to be conquered as if by storm, so to speak.
But then he finds that the person shows no interest in him and can hardly be
conquered at all. As a result, he is seized with despair and turns his back on the
person. But that does not extinguish his desire. He may be torn between de-
sire and despair. Why? Because, depending on his mood, he appraises the other
person as something effortlessly attainable or as something attainable only with
difficulty. This conflict can persist even if the despair continuously increases;
48
the despair does not simply efface the desire. There are different faculties that
are activated when something is appraised as effortless or difficult to attain, and
these faculties can alternately produce emotions that do not harmonize with one
another. That would hardly be the case if there were only one faculty creating
emotions of greater or lesser intensity. Then the stronger emotion would simply
displace the weaker one.
The two criteria mentioned so far allow us to classify emotions in relation
to good and bad, effortless and arduous objects. But these criteria are still not
sufficient for a classification of the emotions, because we can relate to one and
the same object in different ways depending on whether it is present or absent.
Thus it is one thing to desire a person, and another thing actually to be together
with the person and enjoy his presence. Aquinas accounts for this difference in
his third criterion, which is aimed at the movements toward the good object and
away from the bad object (STh I 81.4). This movement always originates with the
object. When there is a good object, the movement takes place in the following
three steps: first the object causes a faculty to address it (Aquinas calls this an
“inclination” to the object); then it causes the faculty to aspire to the object, if
the object is absent; finally, it causes the aspiration to be brought to a conclu-
sion if the object is present. Accordingly, there are three kinds of emotions for a
good and effortless object: first, love, in which one devotes oneself to the object;
second, desire, in which one aspires to the absent object; and third, joy or enjoy-
ment, in which the desire reaches its conclusion if the object is present. The case
of a bad object is analogous; here too there is a movement in three steps—in
this case a distancing movement of course—and hence three kinds of negative
emotions: first, hate, in which one refuses the object; second, flight or abhor-
rence, in which one moves away from the object not yet present; and third, sad-
ness, in which the movement reaches its conclusion when the object is present.
Thus the six kinds of emotions are determined in the concupiscent faculty.
From a present-day perspective, however, this definition seems strange. Why
should there be a movement that originates with the object, and not with the
faculty or with the person who possesses a faculty? If I desire another person
and enjoy being together with him, I am the one who has an “inclination,”
desires, and enjoys. And if I am afraid of the dog, again, I am the one who has
an aversion and moves away from the animal. Why does Aquinas designate the
object as the active entity that is responsible for the movement?58 The reason lies
in the theory of faculties outlined earlier. According to that theory, the faculty is
the passive entity that must be actualized, and the object is the active entity that
actualizes it. Let us illustrate this by a simple example. In the middle of summer
I undertake a bicycle tour and arrive at a stream half dead of thirst. The water,
which in this situation is without reservation something good for me, actualizes
49
Thomas Aquinas 49
my sensual faculty—it immediately triggers in me the need to drink. Expressing

it in Aquinas’ language, I have an “inclination to the good” or a “love for water,”
which is excited by the babbling brook and not by me. Of course, I must be re-
ceptive to it, because, for example, I have become dehydrated in the blistering
heat. But in those circumstances I have nothing more than a general disposition
to imbibe liquids. The specific inclination for water is brought about in me by
the stream that practically entices me. Once inclined, I first have a desire, and
run toward the stream. Then, when I drink, the desire is satisfied, and I feel an
enjoyment.
As this example illustrates, there is a process that begins with the actualiza-
tion of the faculty and goes on until the actualization is concluded. The various
emotions—love, desire, enjoyment—are thus not punctual states, but stages in
this process. The example also shows that it only matters whether there is a good
object to start the actualization. It doesn’t matter whether this object is water, a
person, or something else. Hence the expression “love of water” is not a meta-
phor. As an orientation toward something good, it is love in the strict sense, just
as, of course, devotion to a good person is love.
But if we then examine the love of a person, the question arises why Aquinas
calls only the inclination or the orientation love, not the desire and the joy or
enjoyment. Isn’t that a very limited conception of love? It seems more plausible
to call the whole process love and then distinguish, at most, different phases in
it. That is, we love a person first by feeling attracted to him, then longing for him
if he is absent, and by rejoicing in him when he is present. All of this together
is love.
Aquinas would immediately admit that the idea here is not to see love only
as the initial sequence in the overall process. He emphasizes that love forms the
basis of every other emotion and does not end when a desire or a joy occurs.59
It consists in a permanent orientation toward something good. A person who
loves another feels constantly attracted to him, whether or not he is immediately
present, and wants to be together with him. If the lover is then actually together
with the person, he enjoys this moment, but that doesn’t end the love. It persists
as a permanent attraction and causes the lover to long for the person when he is
no longer present and to want to be together with him again. We might say love
is something like a mainspring that is responsible both for the enjoyment and
for the desire. Only because of this constantly active mainspring is there more
than just a sequence of individual states of enjoyment and desire—that is, a con-
tinuous process of love. And only for that reason do the individual sequences of
enjoyment and desire combine to form a whole.
Aquinas’ expression of an “inclination to the good” that creates such a whole
may sound strange today. But his basic idea is by no means strange, and in fact
50
appears again in contemporary theories of the emotions. Peter Goldie has pointed
out that we would overlook an important aspect of emotions if we viewed them
only as punctual states.60 Specifically, we would lose sight of the particular unity
that is composed of many states. For someone to love a person for years would
then mean only that there is a long series of states of desire and enjoyment. But
evidently there is more: namely, a structured, internally coherent process of love
in which the individual sequences make sense. For that reason, Goldie states
that we must examine a “narrative structure” that is not simply created by an
observer, but follows from the meaningful succession and connection of the var-
ious sequences. Because of this structure, there is a process that continues for
years; it cannot be reduced to the sum of individual states nor to a mere disposi-
tion. Aquinas’ expression of a fundamental “inclination to the good” can be simi-
larly understood. It gives a narrative structure, and thus an internal coherence, to
the individual states of desire (when the person is absent) and enjoyment (when
the person is present). The proposition of a continuing “inclination” is metaphys-
ically underpinned in Aquinas by a reference to the continuing actualization of
a faculty. This actualization is triggered the moment the person is perceived as
something good and worthy of aspiring to, and it continues as long as the person
remains such an object, whether present or absent.
In view of this conception of love, it is not surprising that Aquinas defines
it as a fundamental emotion, and not just for the emotions in the concupiscent
faculty, but also for those in the irascible faculty. These emotions too, which re-
late to an arduous object, arise only through the existence of an inclination to
the good, or in the negative case an aversion to the bad (STh I–II 23.4).61 When
we move toward a good object that can be attained only with difficulty, hope
arises. When we turn away from a good object that is so difficult to attain that
it seems unattainable, despair arises. When we move toward a bad object that
can be overcome only with difficulty, audacity arises. When we turn away from
a bad object that can be avoided only with difficulty, fear arises. All of these
emotions relate to an object that is immediately imminent, but not yet immedi-
ately present. Thus we hope to be able to drink the refreshing water even though
we have to cycle on a while in the blistering heat. Or we give up in despair and
dismount from the bicycle because the cooling stream appears unattainable.
But there are also arduous objects that are bad and immediately present and
so dominant that we rebel against them. Anger is the emotion that relates to
these objects. This emotion, unlike hope/despair and audacity/fear, is not part
of a pair of opposites because it does not involve any movement toward or away
from an object: the object is immediately present.
Thus, in addition to the six emotions in the concupiscent faculty, five more
are identified in the irascible faculty. According to Aquinas, these are all
51
Thomas Aquinas 51
distinguishable, fundamental emotions. But in what sense can we call them fun-
damental or basic emotions? Aquinas himself refers to only four “fundamental
emotions” [passiones principales]: joy, sadness, hope, and fear. Yet his explana-
tion of these emotions makes it clear what is relevant to their classification as
fundamental. The orientation toward an effortless good or bad object comes to
a conclusion in joy or sadness; the orientation toward an arduous good or bad
object culminates in hope or fear (STh I–II.25.4). The critical point is evidently
the relation to an object specified in a certain way. When Aquinas then identifies
a total of eleven kinds of emotions, he distinguishes the respective object with
still greater precision and distinguishes among relations to eleven fundamental
kinds of objects. In a word: eleven fundamental emotions are identifiable by
reference to eleven fundamental formal objects.
But doesn’t this classification neglect important emotions such as jealousy
and regret? Aquinas would not deny that these are genuine emotions, but he
would describe them as complex emotions that can be explained by reference
to certain fundamental emotions. Thus jealousy is composed of love and hate.
That is, a jealous person loves a person (technically speaking: a good, effortless
object) and at the same time hates another person who could be a dangerous
rival. Likewise regret is a complex emotion. A person who regrets an offen-
sive remark is saddened by his verbal lapse and at the same time desires to
make amends. But are there no more emotions that are not composed of other
emotions, such as rage for example? According to Aquinas, rage is a certain
kind of anger. That is, there is not only the anger that flares up briefly, but also
the anger that rises to a fury (STh I–II 46.8). Thus different kinds of anger can
be distinguished by different grades of intensity. Analogously, the other basic
emotions also have their variants. When we have identified all the grades of
intensity and all the composites of the basic emotions, then we have a complete
list of the emotions.
A conspicuous facet of this method is that it is oriented exclusively after
formal objects. An emotion’s kind always depends on what kind of object is
concerned and how the orientation toward that object takes place. But an objec-
tion can be raised against this methodical approach: Aquinas also refers to the
physical portions of the emotions, which are indeed necessary portions, as we
have seen. Why then doesn’t he try to classify the emotions with reference to dif-
ferent physical behaviors, as is sometimes done in contemporary discussions?
For example, there are attempts today to identify the basic emotions by ref-
erence to typical facial expressions that are found across all cultures.62 Why
doesn’t Aquinas also appeal to certain facial expressions? The chief reason is
that, in his hylomorphic approach, he does not commit himself to specific phys-
ical components—neither in the face nor in any other part of the body.63 In his
52
approach, it is important only that each emotion has a material aspect in addi-
tion to the formal, but how this aspect is manifested depends on the given being
and his or her individual development, and perhaps even on the given culture.
Some people begin to tremble when they are afraid whereas others do not;
some go rigid whereas others do not; some grimace whereas others do not; etc.
Although Aquinas does not explicitly discuss individual or cultural differences,
his theoretical frame admits the possibility of variable physical expressions. For
this reason, the observation of physical behavior does not permit an unam-
biguous identification of the given emotion. When we see a behavior such as
trembling or stiffening in another person, we can say with certainty only that
there is an emotion (avoiding a radically skeptical position), but not which emo-
tion it is. We can identify the kind of the emotion only when we find out the
object to which this person is relating. Thus we must ask this, for example: Are
you relating to a bad object that is immediately present? Then you are sad. Or
are you relating to a good but unattainable object? Then you are in despair. It is
even possible for sadness and despair to have similar physical manifestations.
A distinction between the two can be made only when the formal aspect of the
emotion, and hence the specific object, is identified.64
If we want to compare Aquinas with present- day theoreticians of the
emotions, we should therefore refer, not to those who make physical expres-
sion the criterion for identifying basic emotions, but to those who appeal to the
“core relational theme,” that is, the given object involved. Richard Lazarus, and
following him Jesse Prinz, have defined fear and sadness as follows: fear is re-
lated to an immediate threatening and hardly avertable physical danger; sadness
is related to an irretrievable loss.65 Aquinas does exactly the same. The criteria
for the identification of fear and sadness are not the physical symptoms or the
typical facial expressions, but the formal objects. Admittedly, Aquinas goes a
step further than Lazarus and Prinz when he not only lists emotions with their
respective “core relational themes” but also considers this list as a kind of basic
catalog containing all the relevant formal objects.
The classification of the basic emotions with respect to formal objects imme-
diately raises another objection, however. Aquinas advocates a strong intention-
ality thesis in claiming that every emotion has a formal object and indeed can be
classified as a certain kind according to that object. But why should all emotions
be intentional? In regard to fear in particular, there seem to be two emotions: fear
in the strict sense, which is in fact intentional, and nonintentional fear, which
is a diffuse general feeling. A person can be in a fearful state and experience it
as extremely anxious and oppressive without being able to indicate any object
that appears to him bad and unavoidable. In the extreme case, this feeling can
increase to a paralyzing state that takes hold of the whole body.
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Thomas Aquinas 53
Aquinas does not neglect this special state. Nor does he take the view, how-
ever, that it is a nonintentional emotion. Rather, he sees it as a special kind
of sadness that he terms constriction [angustia]. In this emotion, as in others,
something is apprehended as bad, but as an object that is already present and
not merely impending. What is bad appears so all-embracing and dominant that
no turn for the better is seen as possible. This comprehensive sadness can even
increase to become torpor [acedia], which takes hold of the whole body; then
the voice fails and the members are as if paralyzed (STh I–II 35.8). As Alexander
Brungs has shown in detail, Aquinas’ phenomenological description draws on
a spiritual–ascetic tradition in which the experience of an utter inner empti-
ness and despondency had been addressed since early Christianity.66 When a
person is in this state, everything appears so bad to him that he sees no way
out, and cannot bring himself to perform any act at all. Again, of course, the
critical point is that a person in this extreme state relates to a formal object,
namely something bad that has no remedy. The person is unable, however, to
identify this object precisely or to distinguish different bad objects from one an-
other: everything appears equally bad and irremediable. If we wanted to apply
the modern terminological distinction between fear and anxiety, we would
therefore have to say this: fear relates to an object that (a) is apprehended as
something bad, (b) is specified, and (c) is appraised as threatening and hardly
escapable, but as in principle avoidable. The object of anxiety lacks the last two
characteristics. Hence the distinction is not one between an intentional fear and
a nonintentional fear. The critical difference is rather the specification of the
formal object.
Thus emotions are always intentional, and it would not be permissible to re-
duce them to nonintentional bodily feelings. It would be just as inappropriate,
however, to reduce them to perceptions, beliefs, or acts of volition, which are
also intentional. They are characterized by a particular kind of intentionality,
because their object is present in a sensory way (as this object with particular
perceived properties) and present in an evaluative way (as a good or bad object).
Precisely this is what distinguishes them from other intentional states.
1.4 The Cognitive Content of Emotions: Fear

and Anger
The finding that all emotions are intentional immediately raises the question
of why they are intentional. We can formulate an answer in view of the met-
aphysical theory of the soul and its faculties presented in Section 1.2: they
are intentional because they are brought about by the sensual–appetitive fac-
ulty, which is activated only after the sensual–apprehensive faculty has been
54
active. The faculties are coordinated inner mechanisms. Because the sensual–
apprehensive states are intentional perceptions and imaginings, the emotions
as sensual–appetitive states take on or “inherit” their intentionality. For the
same reason, the emotions also have a cognitive content. The object of the
perceptions and imaginings that cause the emotions determines what content
those emotions have.
This point must be emphasized to prevent any misunderstanding. Some
interpreters have claimed that Aquinas considers an emotion to be a pure im-
pulse or a desire lacking all cognitive content.67 Others have made the opposite
argument that Aquinas considers an emotion to be intrinsically cognitive be-
cause it always includes an act of apprehension.68 Both interpretations are in-
accurate. The first overlooks the fact that an emotion is elicited by a perception
or imagining and is thus not a pure impulse, unlike the feeling of hunger. That
is, more concretely: I can be afraid of a guard dog only if I first see it and appre-
hend it as something dangerous. It is this activity that elicits fear and determines
what I am afraid of in the first place. Although the second interpretation rightly
points out the cognitive content, it makes the mistake of defining the cognitive
apprehension as part of the emotion. For Aquinas, however, it is crucial that
the apprehension is only what elicits the emotion and that we must carefully
distinguish between the apprehensive and the appetitive state. Only if we make
this distinction can we account for the fact that there is something more to the
appetitive state: namely, the motivational aspect. It is one thing to apprehend the
dog as something threatening, but it is another thing to have the motivation to
run away from it.69
However, the statement that an emotion “inherits” the intentionality and
hence the cognitive content of the perception or imagining that elicits it raises
the question of what kind of content that is. As we have seen, Aquinas rejects
the strong cognitivist thesis that there must necessarily be a perceptual belief or
even an evaluative belief. Hence there is no propositional content. If I am afraid
of the guard dog, I do not necessarily apprehend the proposition that there is
a dangerous animal in front of me. Then what content does the emotion have?
And how exactly does it arise?
These questions can be answered by a closer examination of the apprehensive
states. According to Aquinas, the external and the internal senses are respon-
sible for bringing about these states. The external senses first apprehend the
perceptible properties of an object, such as the guard dog’s color, shape, and
size.70 The internal senses then apprehend particular properties, which Aquinas
calls intentiones and which we may describe as normative properties.71 Aquinas’
illustrative example of the sheep, mentioned in Section 1.3, makes this clear.
The sheep sees not only the color and size of the wolf, but also apprehends its
5
Thomas Aquinas 55
hostility (STh I 78.4). The reason why the sheep is afraid of the wolf lies in this
apprehension, not in the mere sight of the individual perceptible properties.
The thesis that a normative property is also apprehended in addition to the
perceptible properties seems confusing at first. Can we sensually apprehend
hostility? And is this a property that, like color, shape, and size, is present in
the wolf? We might at first think Aquinas is advocating the thesis that hostility
is part of a wolf ’s standard equipment, so to speak, and is apprehended as a
separate property. For he writes that a sheep “perceives” it, although not by its
external senses, and immediately adds that we humans likewise perceive it and
connect it with other properties (STh I 78.4). Similarly to the way in which we
apprehend and connect terms with our “general intellect,” our “particular intel-
lect” enables us to apprehend and connect the various intentiones. Concretely,
this would mean that we human beings perceive the hostility, just as the sheep
does, but are also able to combine this normative property with others—such
as dangerousness—and to realize that the wolf is in fact hostile and dangerous.
If we understand Aquinas’ statements about the external and internal senses
in this way, at least three problems arise. First, the conception of normative
properties as absolute properties of an object is highly implausible. A wolf is not
hostile or dangerous per se; indeed it is not bad at all per se, but only for a sheep
or for a human being. When playing with a wolf cub, for example, it is helpful
and protective. Second, the assumption of a direct perception of this property
is likewise implausible. We cannot see hostility directly, the way we see a color
or size. Hostility is something that is quasi brought along by certain perceptible
properties. If I see something big, dark, and shaggy, and at the same time hear a
growling noise, an overall impression forms that prompts me to apprehend the
animal standing in front of me as something hostile. Third and last, it would
be strange if we were able to understand through the “particular intellect” that
the wolf is hostile and dangerous. Understanding that something is the case
requires the possession of concepts and the formation of a judgment. But we
are not capable of this on a sensual level. Judgments originate only through in-
tellectual activity, in other words, when the “general intellect” acts; only then is
understanding possible.
How can we take these three problems into account? Evidently, we must admit
that an intentio is a relational property: the wolf is dangerous for the sheep, but
not for a wolf cub. Although Aquinas does not explicitly introduce this distinc-
tion, it is implicit in the context of his discussion. When he writes that the wolf
is a “natural enemy,” he assumes a natural order in which certain living things
are beneficial or dangerous to certain others. Thus hostility or dangerousness is
conceived of as relational from the beginning. Furthermore, Aquinas does not
claim by any means that hostility is perceived as an isolated or an independent
56
property. He only maintains that it is apprehended by a particular agency,

namely the inner senses (or, more precisely, by the vis aestimativa, the power
of estimation).72 But this by no means excludes the possibility that hostility is
apprehended together with the perceptible properties and is quasi transported
by them. Only when the external senses apprehend a large, dark shape and a
growling noise does the property of hostility appear, which is apprehended by
the inner senses. Finally, Aquinas does not commit himself to the thesis that the
“particular intellect” directly attains the understanding that the wolf is hostile
and dangerous. Nowhere does he mention a judgment, much less an act of un-
derstanding and recognition. The only thing that distinguishes the particular
intellect is the fact that it combines different properties with one another.73 This
combining takes place not in a predication, but only in an association.
This allows us to explain the cognitive content of an emotion. What exactly
do I apprehend when I am afraid of the wolf? I apprehend a set of perceptible
and normative properties that are bundled, and this without necessarily having
concepts for the individual properties. I am able to do so because the outer and
inner senses are so attuned to the impinging objects that they spontaneously
absorb properties and combine them with one another.74 Hence animals and
babies can also be afraid. Although they are not intellectually active, they appre-
hend purely sensual bundles of properties that allow them to appraise individual
objects as beneficial or detrimental. The crucial point here is that apprehending
and appraising something in a certain respect does not mean judging that an
object is constituted in such and such a way. It only means associating percep-
tible properties and the resulting normative properties. Hence no higher-order
cognitive abilities are necessary (to apply a predicative judgment structure, for
example).75
If emotions as appetitive states now “inherit” the cognitive content of those
apprehensive states that elicit them, their content consists in exactly these as-
sociated properties that are apprehended in a specific object.76 This illustrates
once again that Aquinas takes a position that—in modern terms—elegantly
avoids both a behaviorism and a strong cognitivism. In contrast to a behaviorist,
Aquinas does not claim that emotions are simply elicited by certain stimuli and
can be classified with reference to different kinds of stimuli. Emotions can also
arise when there are no stimuli. Even if no wolf is before me and I therefore have
no visual stimuli, I can become afraid—very simply by imagining a wolf and
apprehending the wolf in this mental image as something dangerous and hardly
escapable. Not the existence of certain stimuli is essential, but the relation to a
formal object. This in turn requires a sensual–apprehensive activity, whether
that of perception or of imagination. At the same time, Aquinas also avoids the
position of a strong cognitivist, because he does not claim that a judgment must
57
Thomas Aquinas 57
be formed. Even if I do not become intellectually active and do not judge that
the wolf is dangerous, I can still be afraid. All that is necessary is a mere percep-
tion or imagination in which I spontaneously apprehend the wolf as something
dangerous. The only important thing is the apprehension of a sensual content.
Examining this particular content allows us to find an elegant explana-
tion for the problem of the cognitive impenetrability of emotions. Why can a
person be afraid of the Rottweiler when she knows that it is her neighbor’s well-
trained dog and won’t hurt her? Or why is an arachnophobe afraid of spiders
even when she judges them to be harmless little animals? Although Aquinas
doesn’t discuss such cases explicitly, the strategy of his response can be easily
reconstructed: because fear is elicited by the spontaneous association of certain
properties, it persists even when a judgment is made that shows the fear to be
unjustified. Thus the mere sight of thin, long-legged spiders that are spontane-
ously apprehended as disgusting can make a person become afraid. The associ-
ation of properties caused by the perception is not simply removed or amended
by a rational judgment about the harmless spiders. Naturally a change can take
place. Indeed, Aquinas emphasizes that emotions can in principle be controlled,
and in fact must be controlled, by a rational activity. He immediately adds, how-
ever, that this control is not “despotic,” but merely “political” (STh I 81.3, ad 2).
That is, emotions are not controlled always and without exception by a rational
activity. It is possible that the control fails because of interference at the sen-
sory level. A person who stares steadily at spiders is so spellbound by the sight
of them that she constantly apprehends and associates certain properties. This
sensory–cognitive activity is then so dominant that it pushes the rational ac-
tivity to the background or suppresses it completely.77
As this example shows, the explanatory power of Aquinas’ theory lies in its
distinction between two kinds of cognitive content: (a) a sensual, purely as-
sociative content that is determined by a perception, and (b) an intellectual,
propositional content, which is determined by a judgment. The former persists
and is “passed on” to an emotion even if the latter exists. Of course, Aquinas
does not take the extreme position that the former content is wholly impene-
trable. A person can, for example, force herself to examine spiders more closely
in the light of certain judgments, and in this way can gradually come to perceive
spiders differently. She then sees them no longer as threatening monsters, but
perhaps as elegant, graceful animals. This allows her to overcome her fear. Thus
an emotion is not simply given and immutable. To use an expression from the
current debate, we might say that an emotion can be “recalibrated”: it can be
adjusted to a changed evaluation of the surroundings, and thus reoriented.78
Because in the ordinary case a person always uses her conceptual abilities, such
a recalibration is always possible in principle. We do not simply stare at the
58
arthropods as a mere collection of individual perceptible properties: we per-

form a conceptual classification and hence see them as disgusting or elegant,
depending on the system of classification. But the critical point is that the spon-
taneous perception is not shifted by the conceptual operation as if at the push of
a button. It doesn’t help just to say, “I should classify spiders as harmless animals
and not be afraid of them.” That doesn’t make the fear go away. We can make the
fear go away only gradually, by gradually classifying and hence appraising the
sensory content differently.
So far we have seen that Aquinas is able, thanks to the distinction between
sensual and rational activities, to identify a special content of emotions that is
not propositional. But one might object to the remarks up to now that they apply
only with regard to simple emotions that are directly connected to perceptions
and sensual mental images, although there are also more complex emotions,
even among the eleven basic kinds of emotions. Thus a person can be afraid,
not only of a wolf she sees directly, but also of dishonor and social decline. Yet
these are not objects or states of affairs that a person can somehow sensually ap-
prehend. They can be apprehended only conceptually. Animals or babies cannot
be afraid of dishonor—very simply because they do not have the concepts of
honor and social position, and because they cannot make judgments of the
form “My honor has been offended.” Adult people characteristically do make
such judgments, and therefore have emotions with social causes in addition to
the basic emotions.79 Must we not admit, in view of these emotions, that they
contain judgments and therefore have a propositional content?
To answer this question, it is a good idea to examine Aquinas’ explanation of
anger more closely, because this emotion in particular has been discussed since
antiquity as a prime example of a social emotion.80 Aristotle defined anger as
an aspiration toward retribution for a wrong suffered, thus making it clear that
one must have many different concepts and judgments at one’s disposal to be-
come angry.81 Only a person who can distinguish right from wrong and judge
that she has been wronged in a certain situation can become angry. This in turn
presupposes that one has social and moral categories and that one is able to ap-
praise one’s own position vis-à-vis other persons.
Aquinas builds directly on this conception of anger. He too states that anger
is the aspiration for retribution for a wrong suffered (STh I–II 46.1) and adds that
this is a complex emotion consisting of sadness and hope.82 An angry person
is sad about the wrong suffered, and at the same time hopes to bring about
retribution for it. Each of these two emotions has its own formal object: the
sadness is aimed at something past and bad (namely the act of wrongdoing);
the hope is aimed at something future and good (namely the expiation by the
act of retribution). The critical aspect is that both emotions are present at the
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Thomas Aquinas 59
same time in anger, and that there are therefore two formal objects at the same
time, as Aquinas underscores (STh I–II 46.2). If the person related only to the
wrong suffered, she would be sad or aggrieved. If she related only to the retri-
bution aspired to, she would be hopeful or courageous. But an angry person is
characterized by the simultaneous relation to something past and something
future and thus has negative and positive formal objects.
But how can an angry person have both objects? Evidently only by certain
rational reflections. A sensory apprehension of some object is not sufficient to
relate to the wrong suffered. Suppose someone bumps into me in the street. To
apprehend this as a wrong suffered, it is not enough merely to see or to feel that
another person has jabbed his elbow into my side. It could be that he stumbled
and hit me unintentionally. I must discern that he did it intentionally to repel
or perhaps to injure me. And I must also understand that such a repulsion is in
no way justified and constitutes a wrong. In a word: I must not only see and feel
the action, but also interpret it in a certain way. This requires conceptual appre-
hension, judgment, and reflection. If I then aspire to retribution, it is likewise
not sufficient simply to imagine a sensory image of some future action. I must
also understand that this action—a verbal rebuke perhaps, or a counterattack—
constitutes an appropriate compensation for the wrong. This too requires ra-
tional reflection.
Aquinas is well aware of this rational component. He therefore states that
anger arises through a rational activity (STh I–II 46.4). He immediately adds,
however, that this activity can take place in two ways. In one case, reason can
dictate something and in doing so completely determine which sensual states
and actions should occur. In the other case, reason may simply announce some-
thing by calling attention to certain states of affairs without determining the
sensual states and actions in the process. Hence Aquinas contrasts the ratio
praecipiens with the ratio denuntians (STh I–II 46.4, ad 1). In anger, the rational
activity is of the second kind. Rational reflection shows only that a wrong has
been suffered and that a retribution should take place, but it does not completely
determine the response of anger. Why not? Because it is not sufficient to reflect
and arrive at an understanding to become angry. The example just mentioned
may illustrate this. Suppose someone is standing next to me who observes how
another person bumped into me. This observer then reflects: “Person X inten-
tionally bumped Person Y, and thereby did him wrong. Person Y is therefore
entitled to demand retribution from X.” But this observer is not angry in the
least; in her reflections she remains cool and calm.
This example illustrates that the announcing function of reason is not suf-
ficient to produce anger, because it can produce at most a certain judgment.
For anger to come about as a sensual–appetitive state, a sensual elicitor is also
60
necessary. I must have a painful sensation that an elbow has been jabbed into
my side and that I have suffered a wrong. And I must imagine a sensual image
of how I could attain satisfaction by a verbal rebuke or by a counterattack. Only
then do I become angry and motivated to do something. For anger to arise, two
factors are necessary: (a) rational reflection, which calls attention to a situation
and appraises it as a wrong suffered, and (b) sensual perceptions and mental
images, which afford an immediate experience of the situation. If only the first
factor is present, only a calm, sober behavior occurs, as would typically arise in
the observer described. If only the second factor is present, at most sensations
such as pain or sensual states such as fright occur. For anger to arise, both factors
must be present. I must rationally understand that I have been wronged; at the
same time I must sensually experience that I have suffered this wrong. This has
immediate consequences for the content of anger. If both factors are neces-
sary, the content cannot be determined by rational reflection alone. The sen-
sual perceptions and mental images are equally important. The contents of both
factors are “inherited” by the anger, which consequently has not only a proposi-
tional content, but also a sensual content.
Now one might raise the objection that this explanation describes at most
some, but certainly not all, cases of anger. Suppose someone receives her bank
statement and finds that her account has been plundered by some stranger. She
would then immediately become angry and solely because of the reflection that
an unacceptable wrong has been committed against her. She has no sensual ex-
perience, however: after all, no physical pain is being inflicted upon her. In this
case, must we not say that a rational reflection alone has given rise to anger?
An explanation that always assumes a propositional and a sensual content is
too closely oriented after those cases in which a physical pain or other sensual
experience is present.
This objection rightly points out that a physical pain must not always be
present but overlooks the fact that a sensual component is present even in ap-
parently purely intellectual cases. A person reading her bank statement sees
concrete numbers and her name on the paper, and in doing so she applies
the reflection that an account has been looted to herself. The general reflec-
tion is particularized through the sensory seeing, so that the idea spontane-
ously appears: “The one who has been looted is me.” It is a critical point for
Aquinas that only general terms, judgments, and reflection are formed by a
purely rational activity. A sensual relation is necessary for the reflections to be
anchored in the material world and applied to objects, because only the senses
relate to particular things (STh I 84.1). And for an emotion to arise, the person
must establish a relation to herself. A person who only reflected that an account
had been looted and a wrong committed would at most begin to worry about
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Thomas Aquinas 61
growing white-collar crime. She becomes angry only when she notices that she
herself is the victim. This personal concern is brought about by a perception,
and perhaps also by the mental image of being personally impoverished. Hence
a sensual activity and therefore a sensual content are always present, even in an
apparently purely intellectual case.
Aquinas illustrates this by comparing human anger with the emotions that
are often attributed to God and the angels. The angels, for example, are said
to be angry that human beings have sinned and want to punish them for it.
According to Aquinas, that is not a permissible statement. As purely immaterial
beings, angels have no sensual states, whether apprehensive or appetitive, and
hence can have no anger. Following Augustine, Aquinas holds, “The holy angels
punish without anger and help without feeling compassion” (STh I–II 22.3, ad
3). The relevance of this thesis is not merely theological. Aquinas underscores
here that beings who reflect purely rationally cannot have anger because that
emotion is not determined by reflection alone. The angels are in the situation of
unconcerned observers; they see a person sin and judge that to be bad. But that
does not put them in an angry state because they lack the second critical factor.
They have no body with which they could see, feel, or vividly imagine that they
have been wronged. Consequently they cannot have a sensual apprehension that
something bad has happened to them. They remain in a sober, distant position.
Bearing this characterization of the angels in mind, we see that anger is a
genuinely human state. Animals cannot get angry because they lack rational
reflection. The angels are also unable to get angry because they lack a body and
hence sensual perceptions and imaginings. Only human beings, who apprehend
a situation rationally and sensually, can become angry.
1.5 How Can Emotions Be Rationally Controlled?

The fact that anger has rational components makes it plain that it would be inap-
propriate to analyze emotions by focusing exclusively on the sensual–appetitive
faculty, even though they are states that come about by an actualization of that
faculty. The interesting thing about anger, of course, is that it not only comes
about through rational reflection, but also can be attenuated, or completely
done away with, by appropriate reflections. If I am angry about the person who
bumped into me, I can reflect on whether he did it intentionally. If I then come
to the conclusion that he only accidentally hit me with his elbow, my anger
subsides again. I can even intentionally produce another emotion, for example,
by thinking intensely of the old friend I am about to meet, and thus blot out the
anger with the pleasure of my anticipation. Aquinas would immediately admit
that such mechanisms of rational control are possible, and even imperative, if
62
we consider ourselves rational living beings who are not simply at the mercy
of their emotions. Again and again he says that the emotions “are subject to
reason” and must “obey” it (STh I 81.3, I–II 17.7, I–II 24.1; QDV 25.4).
However, this assertion raises the question of why that should be possible.
Why does Aquinas not assume that the emotions are isolated, so to speak,
from rational reflection, or that—as David Hume later remarked—it is not
the emotions that obey reason, but inversely reason that is “the slave of the
passions”?83 Why is rational control theoretically possible? Aquinas’ answer to
this question lies in the overall design of his theory of the soul. If there is only
one soul, as shown in Section 1.2, and if faculties exist as mechanisms that are
hierarchically coordinated with one another within this soul, then the lower
mechanisms are always regulated by the higher ones. Aquinas expresses this
by noting that the sensual–appetitive faculty is by nature designed to be guided
by the particular intellect, which in turn is by nature designed to be guided
by the general intellect.84 This clearly shows the “top-down” view of the soul
mentioned in Section 1.4. Only if we assume a rational faculty to which the
other faculties are subordinate can we understand the specific functions of the
individual faculties. Concretely, that means: only if we observe that a human
being, in contrast to an animal, has the faculty to deal with sensual impressions
conceptually and to produce beliefs, can we understand why the sensual fear
or joy is ordinarily permeated, so to speak, by beliefs. Although the emotions
themselves do not contain beliefs, they are nonetheless designed to be connected
with beliefs and transformed by them.
How exactly does the transformation take place? We must differentiate be-
tween two fundamental cases. First, there is the case in which the emotions have
already been engendered by perceptions or imaginings and are transformed by
rational activities only afterward. Second, there is the case in which rational ac-
tivities are present first and then give rise to emotions.85 Let us examine the two
cases a little more closely.
The first case can be illustrated using our now-familiar example of fear of the
guard dog. I see the strong jaws, hear the menacing growl, and am gripped by
fear. What can I do? According to Aquinas, I can first activate my intellectual
faculty. It allows me to make general judgments and draw conclusions. I can
reflect, for example, that it is not just any dog that is in front of me, but my
neighbor’s well-trained watchdog. Well-trained dogs are not dangerous; there-
fore this dog too is not dangerous; therefore I need not be afraid. Aquinas states
tersely, “Everyone can experience this for himself. If we make some general
reflections, the anger or the fear or something of that sort is attenuated, or it can
also be aroused” (STh I 81.3). Yet this statement hardly seems persuasive at first
glance. The fear doesn’t disappear simply because I tell myself insistently that
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Thomas Aquinas 63
well-trained dogs are generally not dangerous. The beast still looks aggressive,
and its growl still sounds menacing in spite of any such belief. Why should mere
reflection be able to practically switch off the fear? The statement seems still less
persuasive if we consider pathological cases, such as the case of the arachno-
phobe mentioned in Section 1.4. She can tell herself as often as she wants that
spiders are only harmless bugs and that she shouldn’t be afraid of them; that
doesn’t make her fear go away. Thus one might object to Aquinas: we experience
in ourselves and observe in pathologically extreme cases that general reflections
are sometimes not able to moderate or arouse an emotion.
Aquinas’ rationalism would be a crude, unpersuasive one if he simply claimed
that reflections can turn existing emotions on or off on command. In fact, he is
well aware that the matter is not so simple. In a concise, frequently overlooked
passage, he notes:
As one can look at the same thing in various regards and make it pleasant
or abhorrent, reason opposes the sensual faculty by means of an imagina-
tion of the thing in regard to the pleasant or the sorrowful aspect—just as
the thing appears to reason. In this way, the sensual faculty is moved to joy
or to sadness. (QDV 25.4)
Two points are critical here. First, it is important that a thing is not absolutely
good or bad. It can be looked at in various respects and apprehended as good
or bad accordingly. Of course, this requires a discriminating examination of
the given thing. I have to look more carefully at the guard dog, for example, to
stop seeing it as an aggressive beast and see it as a protective watchdog instead.
Reason then provides not only general reflections, but a changed perceptive
scheme that allows me to see the dog differently. Thus it is not a matter of a re-
flection simply switching off an emotion, but of its allowing a different view that
in turn causes a focus on different properties. Only then is the emotion changed.
Second, it is also noteworthy that Aquinas’ statement underscores that an emo-
tion can be changed only by means of an imagination. General reflections alone
do nothing because they only lead to judgments such as “Protective watchdogs
are harmless.” What is necessary, however, is the assessment that this specific
dog is harmless. That assessment is only attained through imagination, which
in turn requires an association of numerous individual properties. Only when
I have combined the dark color of the fur, the open jaws, the growling noise, and
much more to form an image of a watchdog can I change my cognitive attitude
and hence my emotion.
As the example shows, the critical point is the fact that a general reflection
never transforms an emotion directly, but only indirectly: that is, by changing
the focus of perception and so evoking a different image, which in turn produces
64
a changed emotion. And in fact anyone can observe this for himself, as Aquinas
rightly remarks. If I concentrate fully on the dog’s well-trained behavior and
imagine concretely how it protects me from dangers, I can attenuate my fear or
perhaps do away with it completely. Of course, the process of transformation is
not guaranteed to be successful. It may well be that the growling so frightens me
that I am unable to concentrate on the dog’s other properties and to imagine it
as a watchdog. And it may be that I am torn between the image of an aggressive
guard dog and that of a protective watchdog and therefore waver between fear
and joy. The arachnophobe may be so fascinated by the spider’s long, thin legs
that she cannot make any general reflections and muster a new image of the
spider. Under unfavorable circumstances, the rational change in perception and
imagination may fail. But Aquinas’ thesis is not that it always takes place without
exception; he argues only that it ordinarily takes place because the faculties are
so arranged that the sensual faculty follows the rational.
The general reflection can also take effect in another way, as the example of
anger may illustrate. Even if I do not see the person differently who jabbed me
with his elbow, by changing my field of perception I can still interpret differ-
ently what I have immediately seen and felt. Thus I can notice, for example, that
there is a tree branch lying on the pavement and the other person tripped over
it. This leads me to a reflection of the following kind: “Because he did not see
the branch, he tripped and fell against me with his elbow; therefore he did not
hit me intentionally; therefore he did not intend me any wrong, and I have no
reason to be angry.” In this case too, the reflection alone cannot do anything.
I must imagine concretely how the other person tripped and unintentionally hit
me. Only this changed sensual–cognitive content changes the emotion. In this
case too it is of course possible for the transformation to fail. Aquinas explicitly
mentions the possibility that the anger becomes so rampant that “physical con-
fusion” ensues that renders clear thinking impossible (STh I–II 48.3). If I get so
carried away in my anger that I begin to boil inside and can only stare red-faced
at the other person and scream at him, I am no longer able to look at the overall
situation and reflect coolly. Here again, it is only ordinarily possible to control
the emotion. Naturally a person with self-control is one who at least tries to
maintain the ordinary case and mobilize all his faculties.
However, a rational person has not only an intellect that enables him to judge
and reflect, but also a will, which can also exert an influence on the emotions.
Aquinas notes that the will is responsible for the “execution” of an emotion, and
illustrates what he means by comparing a sheep, which has no will, with a human
being when confronted with a wolf (STh I 81.3). The sheep is overpowered by
its sensory impressions and the fear they engender. It cannot do otherwise than
surrender to the emotion and flee. A human being, by contrast, is able to make
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Thomas Aquinas 65
a decision. He can say to himself, “Wait a minute: the wolf looks dangerous
and spontaneously incites fear in me, but I will not simply surrender to this
fear. I will have a closer look at the wolf. Perhaps it only looks dangerous to me
at first glance. Perhaps I will discover other aspects of it that will change my
assessment and hence my emotion.” Here too it is important to note that the
fear is not simply switched off. An act of volition does not change an emotion
directly, but only indirectly: that is, by eliciting a reflection that in turn leads to
a different perception. Only the changed perception, paying attention to other
aspects, changes the emotion.
The efficacy of such an indirect control is particularly clear if we compare
a strong-willed and a weak-willed person. What exactly is lacking in a weak-
willed person who simply gives in to his spontaneous emotions? Let us examine
the following case: Two persons are strolling down the street and meet some
children playing with a garden hose. Suddenly a jet of water hits the two, and
they are soaked through. One person approaches the children angrily, shouts at
them, and even tries to slap them. The other is at first angry too, but then forces
himself to evaluate the situation more exactly. He finds that some adolescents
behind the children turned on the water faucet without the children noticing.
Hence he approaches not the children, but the adolescents, and confronts them.
Let us assume that, in this case, both persons have the same intellectual
abilities and are hence equally able to form judgments and to reflect. Let us as-
sume further that both of them also have the same perceptive abilities. In what
respect is the first person different from the second? In the fact, obviously, that
he did not activate his will and hence did not evaluate the situation. He failed
to look closely and discover the causes of the water because he didn’t want to
know how the mishap came about. He simply allowed himself to be guided by
his initial perception and the emotion it caused. We could call this a lack of voli-
tion ex ante: the will failed before the intellect could even become active.86 It did
not allow a comprehensive evaluation of the situation and appropriate reflec-
tion. A strong-willed person, by contrast, forces himself to consider all relevant
factors and to reflect appropriately. The important point here is that it is not a
matter of simply switching off an emotion by an act of volition. A person who is
suddenly soaked by a jet of water cannot simply tell himself that he doesn’t want
to get angry. Such an act of volition will have no effect because it doesn’t change
the immediate perception and the sensations. What is necessary is rather to take
a certain attitude: that is, to say to oneself, “I will take a closer look at the situa-
tion.” Only this leads to a changed perception and—at least in the ideal case—to
a diminution of the anger. The will is thus responsible, not for simply rejecting
emotions, but for bringing about an increased attention and a more acute cog-
nitive attitude.
6
Up to now we have considered examples of the first of the two cases of

controllability, that is, examples in which an emotion already engendered is
transformed through rational activities. But Aquinas also discusses examples of
the second case: that of an emotion initially arising through rational activities.
He describes this kind of rational control as follows:
. . . when something is apprehended by the intellect, an emotion in the
lower appetitive faculty can follow in two ways: in the first case, when
the thing the intellect generally apprehends is presented in the imagi-
nation in a particular way; the lower appetitive faculty is then moved
accordingly. For example, when the intellect of a believer understands
the punishments of the Hereafter and creates the corresponding mental
images, by imagining the burning fire, the gnawing worms and the like,
the emotion of fear in the sensual appetitive faculty then arises. In the
second case, the intellect’s apprehension moves the higher appetitive
faculty, from which the lower appetitive faculty is then moved by a certain
redundancy or by a command. (QDV 26.3, ad 13)
Let us examine the two possibilities presented here. First, an emotion can be
brought about expressly through an intellectual reflection, but again, not by
some kind of instruction, but only indirectly. Aquinas’ own example illustrates
this clearly. A person who believes that sins are punished in Purgatory can re-
flect as much as he likes that “we must atone for our sins” or that “many torments
await sinners in Purgatory” without such reflections causing him any fear. Why
not? Because such reflections provide only a general description of the situation
in Purgatory, but they do not make it clear what that signifies for the person
himself. The reflections become concrete only when mental images arise—in
other words, when the sinner imagines himself burning in Purgatory. Only then
does rational reflection become efficacious, because only then does a belief arise
of the kind “I am the one who must atone so cruelly for my sins.” Here once
again, just as in the case of anger previously discussed, the person must feel per-
sonally concerned. This is possible only through sensual imagination, because
only something that has a sensual content represents the person himself as an
individual object.
What is noteworthy about this case is that, although a sensual–apprehensive
state is still necessary, it has no direct causal relation to an object impinging
upon the senses. Unlike the person standing before the guard dog and receiving
sensory impressions from it, the sinner has no direct contact to any actually ex-
isting Purgatory. Instead, he can attain a sensual–apprehensive state that elicits
fear all by himself, so to speak, by means of the intellect influencing the imag-
ination. Hence there is a kind of creative power of reason through which an
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Thomas Aquinas 67
emotion can be created. This does not mean, however, that reason can create
everything just as it likes. As an empirically minded philosopher, Aquinas
insists that the intellect always needs a sensual basis. Intellectual judgments
and reflections always ultimately rest on sensory impressions, which in turn
have been brought about by material objects. The intellect cannot make arbi-
trary reflections and produce arbitrary mental images. If the sinner had never
perceived fire and worms, he would never have been able to form the concepts
of fire and worms and so reflect that burning fire and gnawing worms await the
sinner in Purgatory. But once he has acquired the necessary concepts, he can
use them freely, activating them at need and bringing forth a reflection with
which he then activates a mental image. He is thus bound to an empirical basis
but can nonetheless purposely create a certain mental image and thus a certain
emotion. And, naturally, he can also change that emotion again by producing a
new mental image.
Furthermore, Aquinas mentions a second way in which an emotion can
be brought about through rational activity. The intellect, he states in the pas-
sage just quoted, can move the higher appetitive faculty—that is, the will—that
then moves the lower—that is, the sensual—appetitive faculty through a cer-
tain redundantia or a command. This raises the question, first, of how the in-
tellect can move the will. For Aquinas, the answer is clear: it does so by suitable
reflections to determine the object toward which the will is oriented. When all
the necessary reflections are present, the will cannot do otherwise than to as-
pire to, or to reject, precisely this object.87 If a person carefully reflects, for ex-
ample, that the dog standing in front of him offers his only protection against
possible attackers, then under ordinary circumstances (that is, excluding the
special case of a weakness of the will) his will cannot do otherwise than to as-
pire to this animal as a watchdog. And if, inversely, he reflects that this dog is
an unpredictable, aggressive guard dog that could bite at any moment, then his
will cannot do otherwise than to reject the animal. If the positive or negative
volitive attitude is particularly strong, an “overflow” (the literal translation of
redundantia) carries it over into the sensual–appetitive faculty and activates it,
so that an emotion arises. In our concrete example, that means that if a person
absolutely wants the dog to stand by him as a protection, he immediately sees
it as a watchdog and is glad of it. If he then completely rejects it, he sees it as a
possible attacker and is afraid of it. The volitive attitude has an immediate effect
on the sensual attitude and hence on the occurrence of an emotion.
But it can also happen that there is no immediate effect, and that a kind of
command must first take place. Suppose that, although someone reflects that
the dog is a reliable watchdog, he is nonetheless always afraid of dogs and does
not feel spontaneously drawn to this watchdog. Then he can try to evoke joy
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through purposeful activity. He can say to himself, for example, “Since I want
to have this dog at my side as a protective companion, I also want to see it as a
watchdog. I therefore force myself to take a closer look at it to discover those
aspects of it that make it look like a pleasant companion. That will evoke joy in
me.” Although joy does not arise spontaneously in this way, it can be aroused
with a certain effort. Here once again, the emotion is not produced by an act of
volition, as if at the push of a button, but through a certain attitude that results
in a changed perception. Only the fact that the person looks at the dog with an
eye for certain aspects produces the joy.
As this example shows, it is not only possible to change existing emotions
rationally, but also to bring forth new emotions through rational activities. This
has consequences for the questions of whether and to what extent we humans
can be held responsible for our emotions. Aquinas is certain that we can be held
responsible only for something that is subject to our rational control. Hence he
states that emotions, taken by themselves, that is, as sensual–appetitive states
that are brought about by causal mechanisms, are not subject to any moral
evaluation (STh I–II 24.1). They are not states that are good or bad, then, for
which we can be held responsible, but simply natural states or processes. When
a person who is half dead of thirst sees cool water and spontaneously feels de-
sire, he is no more responsible for it than someone who spontaneously becomes
afraid at the sight of a growling guard dog. As long as only sensual mechanisms
are involved, moral categories and hence the attribution of responsibility are out
of place. Hence it would be unreasonable to hold a baby or an animal respon-
sible for its emotions. The question of responsibility becomes relevant when
emotions are examined as states that can be rationally controlled. This view is
appropriate only in the case of a person who is able to reflect and take a volitive
attitude. In view of the rational control mechanisms that such a person has at
his command, he can be held responsible for his emotions in two respects. First,
in regard to the existing emotions: if the person neglects to produce the appro-
priate reflections and acts of volition with which he could attenuate or change
these emotions, he bears responsibility for it. And second, in regard to emotions
engendered by activity: if the person omits to produce purposeful reflections
and acts of volition that evoke a changed cognitive attitude, he can likewise be
held responsible for it. If someone is paralyzed with fear in face of the guard
dog, he cannot be held responsible for this naturally caused fear. He can be held
accountable only (a) if he omits to reflect on the dangerousness of the dog and
thus to change the existing fear, or (b) if he fails to reflect on the dog’s positive
aspects and thus to evoke a different emotion. In a word: we are responsible, not
for the spontaneous occurrence of an emotion, but for omitting to deal with it
rationally.
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Thomas Aquinas 69
In addition, there is another dimension of responsibility. Suppose one of

the two persons whom the children unintentionally spray with water is quick
tempered. He is easily irascible and cannot control himself when he flies into
a rage. His rational abilities are then as if switched off; he is no longer able to
produce suitable reflections and acts of volition with which he could overcome
his anger. It seems as if this person could not be held responsible for his spon-
taneous anger, as he has no rational control mechanisms in light of his quick-
tempered character. He seems to be similar to a nonrational animal, which also
cannot be held responsible for its emotions.
Aquinas would refute such a judgment. Although the quick-tempered person
does not have rational control mechanisms in this situation, earlier he would
have been able—unlike an animal—to train his rational abilities and gradually
to overcome his quick-tempered character, or at least to moderate it. For, as a
rational living being, he has the ability to acquire an intellectual and volitive dis-
position that would allow him to produce the appropriate reflections and acts
of volition in spite of his natural character. Aquinas calls this disposition the
habitus, which can be gradually acquired, both in the intellect and in the will
(STh I–II 50.4–5). The quick-tempered person could have acquired the habit of
throwing a bolt, so to speak, to control himself when his anger flares up, and
then forcing himself to evaluate the situation more carefully. How could he have
done that? Aquinas says that a habitus originates from the repeated occurrence
of actual states (STh I–II 51.3). Hence the person could have reflected on earlier
situations in which he spontaneously got angry and asked himself how appro-
priate this emotion was in each case. He could have reflected on how and why
the spontaneous anger came about, and he could have thought about how the
anger could have been prevented or diminished. If he had made such reflections
again and again, a habit would have developed in him of taking a critical at-
titude to his spontaneous anger—a habit that would have been automatically
activated when anger flared up again. It is exactly this acquired habit that the
quick-tempered person lacks. If he is responsible for his unjustified anger at the
children, then not because he is not controlling this emotion now: his quick-
tempered character doesn’t allow him to exercise control. He is responsible
rather for not having done anything to acquire a habit that would have checked
that natural character. We may call this a preventive responsibility. The quick-
tempered person is not responsible for the present deficient control of his emo-
tion, but for not having acted to establish control mechanisms.
Aquinas builds his whole theory of virtue on this idea. What distinguishes a
person who has formed a habit is the fact that he has acquired an “intellectual
virtue.” And what distinguishes a virtuous from an unvirtuous person is the
fact that the virtuous person has the habit of immediately thinking about the
70
appropriateness of his emotions and activating rational mechanisms as appro-

priate to attenuate the emotion or even purposely to produce a new emotion,
whereas an unvirtuous person does none of this for lack of the corresponding
habit. Naturally this immediately raises the practical question of how such a
habit can be acquired. But we are not concerned here with the details of the
theory of virtues.88 What is important is only the fundamental thesis that
Aquinas assumes throughout the theory of virtues: the problem of the rational
control of emotions, and hence of responsibility, must be treated in two respects.
The problem arises, first, in regard to a person who is already virtuous and has
rational control mechanisms. In this case, we must study how the person should
apply these mechanisms to change existing emotions or to produce new ones.
Such a person bears responsibility for actually applying the mechanisms avail-
able to him, thereby producing the reflections and acts of volition necessary in
each individual case. The problem also arises in regard to an unvirtuous person
who has no such control mechanisms. In this case, we must analyze how a
kind of rational habit can be acquired through practice in intellectual and vol-
itive activities. Such a person bears responsibility for acquiring the necessary
mechanisms by such practice, and thus gradually becoming virtuous.
If we consider these two views, it becomes clear that the question of how
someone can deal rationally with his emotions in a specific situation is not the
only relevant question to Aquinas. The question of how someone can become
a person able to deal rationally with emotions in the first place is at least as
important to him. It is precisely this second question that he tries to answer
by referring to intellectual virtues. But why, we may inquire further, should
a person be able to acquire such virtues at all, and hence have rational con-
trol mechanisms at his disposal? The answer to this question leads back to the
starting point of this chapter: that is, to the metaphysical frame of the theory
of the soul. Aquinas states that all the faculties of the soul form a unity, and
that the rational faculty is the highest and most comprehensive one to which all
others are subordinate. It is “quasi the horizon and the confines” of all the other
faculties (ScG II.68, n. 1453). This does not mean that a person, as a rational
living being, is always oriented toward applying intellectual and volitive abilities
and thereby acquiring rational control mechanisms. It is in a person’s nature
that—quite unlike an animal—he not only spontaneously produces emotions,
but also reflects and forms acts of volition from which rational habits gradually
arise. For Aquinas, the question that arises is not whether a person can acquire
rational control mechanisms at all, but rather how well he is able to do so and to
what extent he doesn’t just passively suffer emotions, but also actively changes
or produces them.
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Thomas Aquinas 71
With this background in mind, we see that Aquinas’ theory of the emotions
is a component of an anthropology based on a rationalistic optimism: as a ra-
tional living being, a person can in principle control his emotions, or at least
enable himself to acquire control mechanisms. Of course, this does not mean
that Aquinas espouses a naive optimism. Rational control mechanisms cannot
be activated as if at the push of a button but must be acquired step by step.
Furthermore, they are not always successfully acquired, as the examples of
unvirtuous persons show, and even when they have been acquired, they are not
always successful applied, as the examples of weak-willed persons illustrate.
Thus, although it can fail in several different ways, rational control is none-
theless possible in principle. And according to Aquinas, precisely this control,
not some kind of eradication or suppression of the emotions, is the goal to be
pursued.
Is such a rationalistic position persuasive? It is only if we admit the critical
metaphysical assumptions. If we admit that there are faculties of the soul as
internal mechanisms, and if we grant further that these faculties are intercon-
nected in such a way that the sensual ones are attuned with, or—as Aquinas
repeatedly says—ordered toward the rational ones, the thesis is indeed persua-
sive that rational control is possible in principle. For then the sensually caused
emotions must be rationally “infiltrated” and, in the usual case, transformed by
reflection and acts of volition. But the moment we reject the assumption of a hi-
erarchical order of faculties, the rationalistic optimism also becomes doubtful.
For this reason, the chapters that follow will examine how the critique of the
metaphysical frame led to a revision, or indeed a partial abandonment, of the
assumption that rational control is possible in principle.
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John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham

Emotions in the Will
2.1 Two Kinds of Emotions

In his work De civitate Dei, which was highly influential in the Middle Ages,
Augustine reports that the Roman writer Aulus Gellius once sailed abroad
with a respected Stoic philosopher.1 When a storm suddenly blew up and the
ship rolled alarmingly, the philosopher turned quite pale with fear. The other
voyagers noticed it, and when the storm subsided, one of them made fun of
the philosopher. The allegedly imperturbable Stoic had evidently been seized by
fear, he jeered, while he himself had not been frightened in the least. Gellius too
was surprised and asked the philosopher what had been the cause of his evident
fear—not to expose him to ridicule, but to learn from him. The Stoic took a
book by Epictetus from his bag in which the Stoics’ view was explained and gave
it to Gellius to read. There he read that we have no power over what perceptions
and mental images occur and what effects arise from them. We have power only
over our judgments and over what we reasonably pursue or avoid.
In Augustine’s eyes, this little story demonstrates that the Stoics were not
so different from the members of other schools of philosophy as is often sup-
posed. They do not espouse the view that one should become completely free
of emotions, nor do they think a wise man achieves this goal by overcoming all
emotions. They too concede that we cannot free ourselves of those emotions
that are brought about by sensual impressions. We can control and, if appro-
priate, change only those emotions that are brought about by a judgment or
that themselves contain a judgment. That is, more concretely: a person who, in
heavy seas, has a visual impression of huge masses of water and spontaneously
imagines that they are about to crash onto the ship and crush it is inevitably
seized with fear. This sensual emotion is elicited by natural processes and cannot
be rationally controlled. If a dog or other animal were on the deck of the ship
and had the same visual impressions, it too would be seized with fear. A human
being, however, can think about how important her life is to her and can form
the judgment that the imminent danger of death is not as frightening as it may
appear. This elicits in her the rational emotion of serenity and inner peace. Thus,
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74
although she blanches and perhaps shows other signs of fear, she is subject to
only a sensual emotion. She has the rational emotion under control, because she
herself determines and can change the content of her judgment. And according
to the Stoics, only the rational emotion is an emotion [passio] in the strict sense;
the sensual is at most the preliminary stage of an emotion [propassio], compa-
rable rather with sensations.
The medieval authors were quite familiar with this distinction between two
kinds of emotions.2 They knew it not only thanks to Augustine’s account and
commentary of the Gellius anecdote, but also from reading Seneca, who had al-
ready explained the Stoic position in De ira, and then called attention to the fact
that one should carefully distinguish between what a person undergoes through
external agency and sensual processes and what a person controls through her
own judgment.3 Admittedly, the medieval commentators were less interested
in the exegetic question of how this distinction could be used to reconstruct a
persuasive Stoic position, but rather concentrated on the systematically relevant
issues, trying to develop a position of their own that would account for the two
kinds of emotions and explain how they are related.4 Especially at the end of the
13th century and in the first half of the 14th century, several authors—notably
John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham—advanced the thesis that it is not
sufficient to identify all emotions as “movements of the sensual–appetitive fac-
ulty,” as Thomas Aquinas had proposed. They felt that this explanatory model,
presented in the first chapter, overemphasized the dependence of the emotions
on sensual perceptions and mental images and neglected the special role of ra-
tional activities. Or, to put it more precisely, this model overlooks the fact that,
although some emotions are determined by sensual, quasi naturally “wired”
processes and linked to physical changes, by no means all emotions are. Many
emotions can arise through the evaluation and judgment of a situation. The
will plays a central role in this event, because it is the will, and not the intel-
lect, that chooses one situation as worthy of pursuit and rejects another. It is
also the will that chooses freely between consenting to and refusing a situation,
and its choice is not determined—though sensual impressions inevitably pre-
sent a situation as beneficial or detrimental and thereby seem to compel consent
or refusal. For this reason, a number of authors explicitly mentioned “passions
of the will” [passiones voluntatis], which they distinguished from the sensual
emotions.5
This clear distinction raises a number of problems, however. First, in regard
to the sensual emotions, the question arises of in what sense they are natu-
rally caused and inevitable. Should we conceive of them as similar to feelings
of hunger and thirst, which are brought about by physiological processes and
not controllable? Or are they distinct from those feelings because they are
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John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham 75
based on perceptions and mental images, and hence depend on certain cogni-
tive conditions? What are those conditions? And how can the sensual emotions
too be changed, if at all, by changing those conditions? It is by no means self-
evident that sensual impressions of tall waves automatically evoke fear always
and everywhere. Imagine an experienced sailor who is accustomed to that
sight and immediately associates it with the mental image of a skillful nautical
maneuver: she does not become afraid. It seems as though a sensual emotion
can indeed be controlled by a purposeful handling of perceptions and mental
images.
Various questions also arise in regard to the emotions in the will. Are they
in fact produced by the will? Why are they then passiones (states that a person
suffers) and not operationes (activities that a person produces herself)? What
cognitive conditions do they depend on? Obviously, they too require exacting
procedures. A person who reflects in the middle of a tempest that the loss of her
own life is not so terrible, and thereby attains a state of mental calm, must form
quite abstract ideas about the value or the worthlessness of life, apply them to
the concrete situation, and form a judgment accordingly. How exactly does such
a judgment come about? Is it the sole elicitor of an emotion in the will or are
there more inciting factors? Finally, the question also arises as to what role free
will plays here. Can it will or not will something independently of any judgment
and thus produce an emotion? That hardly seems plausible. Even a sailor who is
not misled at sea by the sensual emotions and judges that death is not so threat-
ening after all seems to be led by this judgment not to will the preservation of
her own life at all costs; this is precisely what then elicits her inner peace. How
could such a person will something else on the basis of her judgment? And how
could she then produce a different emotion? The will seems to be just as much
determined by judgments as the sensual–appetitive faculty is by perceptions
and mental images. Where is there supposed to be room for free will here?
All of these problems are discussed step by step in this chapter on the basis
of selected texts. In view of the extensive material, I cannot hope to present a
historically complete survey of the origins and development of the debate on
the passiones voluntatis.6 A comprehensive presentation of the theory of the will
is impossible, even for individual authors. Rather, the systematic questions just
outlined will be our focus. For only when we have settled how emotions can
originate both on the sensual and on the volitive level, and what their struc-
ture is, can we understand what role the individual faculties of the soul play.
And only then can we describe how a control or amendment of emotions
could take place. Our objective, therefore, will be to reconstruct the theoret-
ical frame in which the questions of the genesis and structure of individual
emotions were discussed. John Duns Scotus will serve as a point of departure,
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as he developed—although he was not the first to do so, but was a particularly

influential author nonetheless—a theory of two kinds of emotions.7 In his thor-
ough Commentary on the Sentences, composed in two versions (as a Lectura and
an Ordinatio) probably between 1298 and 1304, he discussed both kinds and
explained their interaction. William of Ockham took up these analyses and de-
veloped them further in his own Commentary on the Sentences, written between
1317 and 1319, and in the Quodlibeta, written around 1325. He is the second au-
thor considered here because he embedded this discussion in a comprehensive
theory about the relation between the sensual and rational faculties of the soul.8
The text analyses are concentrated on just two selected authors, but the explana-
tory model they discuss was still present in the early modern period.9
But why did more and more authors, beginning in the late 13th century, con-
centrate on the “higher” emotions in the will, which were allegedly not reducible
to the “lower,” sensual emotions? Why did they consider it indispensable to dis-
tinguish two classes of emotions, and not simply address—as Thomas Aquinas
had done—different ways of dealing with sensual emotions? For Aquinas, it is
critical to observe that all emotions are sensual because they are all manifested
in the body and coincide with physical changes. To him, higher emotions can
only be sensual states that are controlled by suitable judgments and acts of voli-
tion. Why did Duns Scotus and Ockham not follow this conception?
We can name at least three motives. One is of an anthropological nature.
If animals are conceived as cognitive living beings, just as human beings are,
as was customary in the Aristotelian tradition, and if we therefore attribute to
them a sensual faculty of cognition and appetite, then we must also concede
that they have sensual emotions. But what then distinguishes human beings,
as beings endowed with reason, from other living beings? Only the fact that
human beings can somehow guide and control the sensual emotions thanks to
their rational abilities? Or also the fact that they can produce special emotions
with their own structure that necessarily require the use of higher faculties?
These two options can be illustrated by the example of the sheep that fears the
wolf, mentioned in the previous chapter. Suppose I, like the sheep, suddenly
find myself facing a wolf. Do I too then have only a sensual fear, whose con-
tent is always shaped by perceptions and mental images, although I, unlike the
sheep, can moderate the fear through the purposeful use of rational reflection?
Or can I produce another emotion in addition to this fear, such as joy, which is
based on the judgment that I have found one of the extremely rare specimens of
wolf in the Alps and also on my consent to this encounter?
Duns Scotus, Ockham, and their successors would plead for the second op-
tion in this case and see precisely this ability as a specifically human accom-
plishment. In their opinion, we, unlike sheep and other animals, can form
7
emotions that are based on rational evaluation and consent to a situation, and
that therefore have a particular content that is not simply an extension of their
sensual content. The analysis of higher emotions is therefore a contribution to
identifying genuinely human activities that distinguish us from other living
beings.
A second motive for differentiating the volitive from the sensual emotions is
a consideration of moral philosophy. All the authors in the Aristotelian tradi-
tion agreed that a person can be a moral agent only if she acquires virtues. What
distinguishes a morally steadfast person is that she does not have to force herself
to do a good deed. She does good rather because of her virtuous character; her
virtue is like a second nature that she has assimilated and that motivates her
to do good spontaneously. A virtue is nothing other than a disposition or, in
technical terms, a habitus that arises from the reinforcement of individual activ-
ities and has become established in the rational part of a human being—in her
faculties of judgment and will. The activities from which a virtue originates must
therefore be situated in this same part. Thus the virtue of mercy originates from
repeated devotion to the needy, and such devotion is not a sensual stimulus or
a mere reaction to perceptions, but an emotion based on understanding and a
voluntary decision. In view of this reflection, it is not surprising that the debate
on volitive emotions was closely connected with the discussion of virtues: only
if we understand which higher emotions there are and what structure they have
can we understand how virtues (and of course their opposites, the vices) can
arise. The analysis of emotions was therefore a central component of what we
now call “moral psychology.”10
Finally, a third motive can be discerned in the theological frame that in-
formed all philosophical discussions in the late Middle Ages. This frame
comprises at least two doctrines: eschatology and Christology. In eschatology,
all the Christian authors assumed the thesis that, on the day of the Resurrection,
the souls of good people, who are to be rewarded for their conduct, will be able
to see God and will have the greatest pleasure and the greatest joy in that sight.11
This special emotion, called fruitio in the theological literature, requires some
explanation. It cannot be a sensual emotion: God is not a physical being, and
hence cannot be sensually perceived, which might result in a sensual pleasure.
Therefore there must be a special emotion in this situation that is incited by ra-
tional activity alone—an emotion that is really distinct from a sensual one. But
if this is possible in the situation after death, there must be psychic mechanisms
before death too that would make it possible in principle to engender higher
emotions, even if these would still be bound to sensual events; after all, the soul
does not change in its basic structure. The question therefore arises of how these
emotions originate and how they differ from the sensual emotions.
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In the Christological debate, all the theologians in the Western Church were
unanimous, from the Council of Chalcedon on, that two natures are united in
Christ, a human and a divine nature. In accordance with his human nature,
Christ is subject to all physical processes and therefore has sensual emotions,
which are bound to physical changes. In accordance with his divine nature, he is
at the same time a purely spiritual being who is not subject to any such changes.
The simultaneous presence of both natures is dramatically apparent at the mo-
ment of the Crucifixion: as a human being, Christ suffers unspeakable pain and
is afraid of death; as God he is glad of the imminent union with the Father and
the redemption of mankind. How can the simultaneous presence of fear and joy
be explained? Apparently the two emotions are situated on two different levels
and elicited by different processes. Hence it is not enough to examine only sen-
sual emotions.12 If we accept this, the case of Christ provides a textbook example
to study the origins and the structure of higher emotions.13 We can derive from
it an explanatory model that is partially applicable to ordinary humans; for, al-
though humans are not divine, they are created in God’s image and likewise
have a rational nature that cannot be simply reduced to or identified with their
physical nature.
Because eschatological and Christological questions carried such great
weight (they were among the fundamental questions that all who aspired to
the title of Magister had to discuss in their commentaries on the Sentences of
Peter Lombard), questions as to the distinction between sensual and volitive
emotions also received more and more attention. Hence it is not surprising that
the subtlest philosophical analyses are found in the seemingly purely theological
quaestiones on fruitio and the suffering of Christ.14 This must be emphasized to
prevent misunderstandings and to do away with prejudices. Christian dogmas
and precepts from the theological tradition did not restrict the philosoph-
ical horizon but broadened it. It was the theologically intricate cases, in fact,
that challenged medieval philosophers to develop special explanatory models
that went beyond what they could find in the pagan tradition. These models,
which were designed so to speak for special cases, could then be applied to or-
dinary cases, and brought to light issues that would hardly have been clear if the
philosophers had always concentrated exclusively on the situation of a human
being with sensual perceptions and sensual imagination. Using the words of
Amos Funkenstein, one might say that the theological questions stimulated
the “scientific imagination,” because they motivated the philosophers to think
about what is not immediately observable, but conceivable, and indeed must
be assumed in the light of certain Christian dogmas.15 In the following discus-
sion, therefore, we will consider not only “pure” philosophical texts (such as
commentaries on De anima and other Aristotelian sources), but also, and indeed
79
to a significant degree, commentaries on the Sentences, in which questions are

discussed that would seem to be philosophically inapposite: questions on the
joy of the resurrected souls, the devil’s incapacity for pleasure, and the suffering
of Christ on the cross.
2.2 Pain as a Sensual Suffering

John Duns Scotus offers a paradigmatic illustration of the close intertwining of
theological and philosophical issues, because he discusses the various kinds of
passiones as part of an investigation of the suffering of Christ.16 He starts with the
following questions: what kind of suffering is Christ’s suffering—pain, sorrow,
or both? What is the structural difference between the two forms? And how can
we specify the conditions that must obtain for each of the two forms to occur?
When we have answered these questions, we have, according to Duns Scotus, a
general explanatory model that can also be applied to human beings.
That Christ as a human being felt great pain when he was nailed to the cross
is obvious. And that normal people often suffer pain when they are physically
injured is likewise an obvious fact. Let us examine an everyday example: I cut
my finger with a knife while peeling onions and immediately feel a stabbing
pain. How can we explain this feeling? In the late 13th century, all philosophers
would have answered immediately that it is a passio, in other words a “suffering,”
that was caused by an external agency and involves a physical change. But what
is meant here by a change? It is clear, first, that a physical change occurs: the
skin is cut open and blood flows. On this point too, everyone agreed, and they
spoke of a material change taking place in an organ of the body. But there seems
to be more taking place than just that kind of change. If a tree is scored with a
knife, a material change takes place in it too. The bark is damaged, and perhaps
sap flows out. But when I cut myself, I feel something, as the tree does not. How
shall we explain this critical difference?
Henry of Ghent gave his attention to this problem and tried to solve it by
designating two roots of a pain. “The first root of pain,” he wrote, “is the dam-
aging or destroying change of a disposition that is beneficial to nature” (Quodl.
XI.8, f. 460 r). This is precisely the material change through which in our ex-
ample a positive disposition of the skin—protecting the inner organs and
preventing the escape of blood—is damaged. “The second root,” he continues,
“is the apprehension of this change.” Henry subdivides that apprehension in turn
into two cognitive processes. First, there is “sensual apprehension” [apprehensio
sensitiva], which concerns a perceptible object; and second, there is “percep-
tion” [perceptio], which relates to the object’s beneficial or detrimental character.
That is, more concretely: when I cut myself, not only is the skin damaged, but
80
I also apprehend the cut and the red color of the escaping blood, and I perceive
that this is detrimental to me. Precisely this is the difference between me and the
tree, which also undergoes a damaging change, but is not capable of any cogni-
tive processes and hence cannot apprehend or perceive anything. Henry admits
that no sophisticated cognitive activities are necessary to apprehend or perceive.
He explicitly mentions a sensual, not intellectual, apprehension and perception.
I don’t need to have a concept of physical injury or blood loss when I relate to
my cut finger. Nor do I need to reflect or make a judgment. It is enough that
I perceive the injury with my sense of vision or touch and realize immediately
that it is detrimental to me. But, modest as these activities may be, they are
nonetheless cognitive. When I perceive and notice something, I turn my atten-
tion to something and relate to a certain state of affairs.
How does Duns Scotus respond to this explanation? He reports it in detail,
but then immediately discards it. In his view, it is perfectly superfluous to pos-
tulate two “roots,” or necessary preconditions, for the occurrence of pain. In
particular, he rejects the thesis that a special apprehension and perception is
necessary. Duns Scotus finds that it is sufficient to consider a single process in
which something active is brought to bear on a passive faculty and activates it.
If this active thing is appropriate to the faculty, a beneficial state arises; if not,
a detrimental state occurs (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 492–494). For our concrete ex-
ample, that means the knife (or the hand guiding the knife) is something active
that is brought to bear upon the skin. Because the sharp knife is not appropriate
to the soft skin, a detrimental state arises from the contact. Or, to put it more
precisely, a state arises that is contrary to the passive faculty and does not actu-
alize it in a way that suits its nature. When we point to this actualization of the
faculty, we have completely explained what the pain consists in. We do not need
to postulate any special cognitive activity, least of all one that is oriented toward
the injury and somehow perceives or notices it. It is one thing to enter an actual
state that is contrary to the natural faculty, and thereby to have pain; and it is
another thing altogether to localize the cause of the pain and to evaluate it as
something detrimental.
With this criticism, Duns Scotus refutes an exaggerated cognitive interpre-
tation and is able to satisfy the expectations of everyday intuition. When I cut
myself, I don’t have to see or touch the injury to have pain. I feel pain even if
my hand is covered and I can’t perceive the escaping blood. Nor must I perceive
something detrimental. Even a baby who has no categories for detrimental and
beneficial, and hence doesn’t perceive anything, feels pain. Duns Scotus’ critique
also has the advantage of connecting the explanation of pain more closely to the
explanation of other natural processes of change. For change, in the Aristotelian
conception, always comes about through the actualization of a faculty. The only
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question is how this actualization takes place. If it takes place in the fact that
the faculty is brought to its natural goal, the appropriate states arise; if not, “dis-
ruptive” states arise. For example, a young organism has the faculty of growth.
This faculty is actualized by introducing food to the organism. If beneficial food
is introduced, the body grows, and the state proper to it comes about. If detri-
mental substances are introduced, the faculty cannot be correctly actualized,
and the organism does not grow, and may even die. Duns Scotus is referring to
precisely this explanatory model of natural philosophy when he insists that the
only question is how a given natural faculty is actualized.
This explanatory framework conveys the impression, however, that a critical
point has been overlooked: namely, the sensation of pain. After all, we could say
of the tree too that its faculty is not actualized in the way beneficial to it when
it is scored with a knife, and that a detrimental state therefore arises. In the case
of a human being, there is something more that must be taken into account for
which the reference to the actualization of a faculty is not a satisfactory expla-
nation. Duns Scotus is aware of this problem and hence makes it clear that a
human being—quite unlike a tree—has not only a vegetative, but also a sensual
soul. This soul allows him to have sensory organs that undergo certain changes
when actual states arise in him. Duns Scotus describes these changes as follows:
[A]‌lthough a sensory organ is a natural body and therefore can suffer
something through a process of real suffering, as a sensory organ it is
mixed so that it is in an appropriate relation to the perceptible. In this way
it can be changed by an object through an intentional change, to the extent
that the object is perceptible. And in this way a certain object is beneficial
for a sensory organ, and another detrimental. Consequently, one object
gives pleasure and another pain. (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 489.)
Duns Scotus emphasizes here that two processes must be considered in
accounting for change. First, there is a real change in a sensory organ, and
thus a real suffering. The skin, for example, really suffers something when it
is scratched or cut. This is nothing other than the material change previously
mentioned, whose occurrence was admitted by Henry of Ghent and many other
medieval authors. Second—and this is critical for Duns Scotus—there is also an
intentional change that consists in the fact that the perceptible form of an object
is absorbed. The word “intentional” here must not be understood in a modern
sense as “mentally cognitive” (as when we say someone has intentional states
when he thinks of something or hopes for something), but as meaning initially
only “immaterial.” The prime example of an intentional change is that which
takes place in sensory perception, which was mentioned in Chapter 1.17 Aristotle
had written that, in seeing or hearing an object, its perceptible form is absorbed
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without its matter.18 This form is impressed upon the sensory organ as a seal is
pressed into a piece of sealing wax. For just as the wax does not absorb the metal
of which the seal is made, but only its form, the sensory organ too receives not
the material of the perceptible object, but only its form. Hence an immaterial
change in the sensory organ occurs. One might also say that a change of form
takes place, because the sensory organ, which has a form of its own, receives in
addition the form of the perceptible object. This is precisely what distinguishes
an organism with a sensual soul from one that has only a vegetative soul. If a tree
comes into contact with red paint, it can really change: that is, it can take on the
material of the paint and be colored red in the literal sense. But if a person or
an animal sees something red, this living being can be intentionally changed: it
can absorb the form of the color in its sensory organ, without turning red itself.
There was controversy among medieval interpreters of Aristotle as to how
this intentional change must be understood in detail.19 Is the form transferred
to the sensory organ in a literal sense? Or does something arise in the organ that
merely corresponds somehow to, and at most represents, that form? But it was
undisputed that an intentional change must take place for a sensual perception
to come about. Duns Scotus too adopted this conception,20 and he carried it
over from the debate on sensual perception to the discussion on feeling pain.
In the latter case too, a form change must take place—not instead of a mate-
rial change this time, but in addition to it. Or, to put it more precisely, both
changes take place at the same time: the sensory organ is materially affected
(the skin is torn apart) and absorbs a form (it absorbs the pointedness and the
sharpness of the knife). Because this form does not correspond with that of the
skin (which is characterized by softness and elasticity), what is absorbed is an
antiform, so to speak. Hence a state arises that goes against that of the natural
faculty, namely pain.
This explanation may seem strange today. In regard to Aristotle’s model of
perception, Myles Burnyeat has remarked that it has become strange to us be-
cause we no longer assume that a perceived object consists of matter and form
and that the form can somehow be transferred and absorbed.21 We are still less
inclined to suppose that matter is something potentially existent that must be
actualized by form. It is generally assumed that a perceived object is a piece of
matter that actually exists in itself, impinges upon the perceptive organs, and
creates effects in them. In this case, all that needs to be analyzed is this causal
relation between two material objects. The same can be said of the explanation
of pain. Neither philosophers nor neurophysiologists suppose today that an ob-
ject that elicits pain consists of form and matter and that the absorption of a
form is responsible for the feeling of pain. Rather, they investigate a relation
of efficient causality, asking which effects are created in the system of neurons.
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These effects naturally have certain structures, and in this sense they may have
a formal component.22 But this structure neither represents nor is identical with
anything that is found in the impinging object. And it is certainly not respon-
sible for somehow actualizing the matter.
To understand Duns Scotus, it is critical that we suspend such modern
assumptions and call to mind the hylomorphic frame in which his explanation
is embedded. Having pain means, to him, undergoing a real and an intentional
change. Both kinds of changes are natural, and both take place in a sensory
organ. It is also true of both that they are not rationally caused. Whenever an
object impinges on a sensory organ and the organ absorbs a form that is con-
trary to its own natural form, pain arises—whether in an animal, in a baby, or
in an adult human being. This requires no judgments, no reflections, and cer-
tainly no acts of volition. Does that mean there are no cognitive processes here?
To answer this question, we must first define precisely what we mean by the
ambiguous term “cognitive.” If we understand it in a modern sense, according
to which cognitive processes are thought processes by which information is
processed, then there is indeed nothing cognitive about pain.23 No thought
processes are present, but purely sensual processes, which take place in the sen-
sory organs. And there is no involvement of a higher faculty, such as a faculty of
imagination, memory, or judgment. If, on the other hand, the term “cognitive”
is understood in the sense that was customary in Duns Scotus’ time, the matter
is more complex.24 For Aristotelian authors, the external and internal senses
are counted among the cognitive faculties, and when a relation to an external
object is established through these senses, a cognitive process arises. Hence the
seeing or feeling in which a perceptible form is absorbed is a cognitive activity.
Feeling pain, then, is also a cognitive activity. It is therefore not surprising that
Duns Scotus says, as if it were self-evident, that the senses have a “cognitive fac-
ulty” [virtus cognitiva], because in pain the form detrimental to a sensory organ
is absorbed (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 497). By this statement he is not saying—as, for
example, his predecessor Henry of Ghent did—that there is a special relation of
apprehending or perceiving. Nor is he by any means referring to an epistemic
state, such as a knowledge that an impinging form is detrimental and destroys
the sensory organ. All that matters to him is that a form is absorbed.
At this point an objection may be raised from a present-day perspective. Even
if we grant the hylomorphic frame, we might answer, and even if we look in this
frame at a twofold natural change, it is not sufficient to describe this change as if
from outside. What is crucial for a sensation of pain is that it is experienced in
a certain way. What we must describe, then, is a subjective experience, is it not?
Must we not examine a particular phenomenal quality and explain what this
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quality is and how it is accessible to us? Like Aquinas, Duns Scotus too seems to
have overlooked this crucial point.
This qualia problem, as it is called in present-day debates, seems in fact to
call for an explanation. Indeed, some contemporary philosophers consider it
the central problem, not only in the discussion on pain, but in the whole body–
mind discussion. David Chalmers, for example, finds that exactly this is the
“hard problem” that must be addressed.25 For only when we have explained how,
in a sensation of pain (or in another sensation, such as one of color or taste),
we can have a certain subjective experience—only then have we explained how
a consciousness of our own mental states is possible. And only then have we
explained what characterizes mental states and distinguishes them from phys-
ical states.
Does Duns Scotus then owe us an explanation? Should he explain how a
subjective experience is possible beyond the absorption of a form? If we were
to demand this, we would be anachronistically seeking an explanation for a
problem that doesn’t come up at all in Duns Scotus’ theoretical frame. He has
not set himself the task of explaining the characteristics of mental states. He is
not operating with a contrast between mental and physical states, but working
with an Aristotelian model that contrasts the states of a living being with those
of inanimate things. He assumes that the states of a living being always occur
in a specific body that constitutes a unity of form and matter. Hence he asks, in
reference to this unity, what material aspect and what formal aspect the given
states have. For a state of pain, that means one must describe its material aspect
by examining the process of real change. Then, from the so-called subjective
point of view, one must give an explanation like the following: “I feel a pain be-
cause my skin is injured and because the material constitution of the sensory
organ is thereby negatively changed.” Furthermore, one must also describe the
formal aspect by referring to a process of intentional change. Then one must
say, “I feel a pain because I absorb the form of an impinging object which is not
appropriate to the form of my skin, and indeed destroys it.” But there is nothing
else besides or in addition to these two aspects that could be taken into account.
It would therefore be unreasonable to look for a special phenomenal quality.
In regard to this explanatory strategy, Peter King aptly wrote that there was
no body–mind for the medieval philosophers, if what we mean by it is the “hard
problem” of the existence of qualia.26 The qualia problem arises only if we as-
sume a modern concept of matter and ask how there can be, besides or in ad-
dition to material processes that require no form and are explained completely
physicalistically, something that cannot be grasped physicalistically. Of course,
that does not mean that there was no body–mind problem for Duns Scotus and
other medieval philosophers. But theirs is situated on a different level—namely
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on the level of hylomorphic metaphysics. The fundamental question that arises

here is: why are animals and human beings, unlike plants, capable of an inten-
tional change, and hence of absorbing other forms? Duns Scotus’ answer to this
question ultimately remains bound to the Aristotelian theory of faculties: they
have that capability because they themselves have a special, complex form that
gives them a sensual faculty. Precisely this faculty, which is not reducible to
anything more elementary, is made to absorb forms. Hence a sensation of pain
cannot be explained reductionistically, for example, by tracing it to a purely
material state or process. It arises through the actualization of the sensual fac-
ulty in a natural body, and hence irreducibly has a material and a formal aspect.
When we refer to these aspects, we have, figuratively speaking, gotten to the
bottom of it.
If we look at this nonreductionistic explanatory approach, we understand
why certain questions that materialist philosophers have posed again and again
since the 17th century could not even come up for Duns Scotus. For example,
the question never arose for him whether we can perhaps explain the sensation
of pain purely physically, as a material process of nerve stimulation and the
processing of stimuli. If we situate this explanatory strategy in the hylomor-
phic frame, we can also see why it was met with resistance in the early modern
period. For only a person who is willing to accept the existence of forms can
also agree that there are faculties of the soul and that some of them are made to
absorb other forms. A person who is not willing to make this metaphysical con-
cession will be unable to accept the whole explanation—not so much because
it is an incomplete explanation, but because it rests on dubious assumptions.27
What consequences does Duns Scotus draw, then, from his explanation of
pain? He finds that it is the paradigmatic case of a sensual passio. It is a state
that is brought about exclusively by a sensual faculty and is not subject to ra-
tional control. This state is different from other sensual states, such as seeing or
touching, in that it motivates an immediate body movement. Duns Scotus there-
fore distinguishes carefully—just as Thomas Aquinas and other predecessors
did—between sensual–apprehensive and sensual–appetitive states. Seeing, on
the one hand, is sensual–apprehensive because it consists in absorbing percep-
tible forms. The sensation of pain, on the other hand, is sensual–appetitive be-
cause it motivates the person to avoid the object by which a sensory organ is
detrimentally changed. A person who cuts himself and feels a stabbing pain, for
example, immediately flinches away from the sharp object. For Duns Scotus,
there are many other states of this kind.28 Some of these are negative (such as
fear), because they motivate a person to avoid a detrimental object that damages
the sensory organ. Others are positive (such as pleasure), because they motivate
a person to aspire to a beneficial object. All of these states, the positive and the
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negative alike, are characterized by the fact that they (a) arise through a sensu-
ally impinging object, (b) comprise a real and intentional change, and (c) elicit
or at least motivate a physical reaction. Duns Scotus admits that the change
consists in some cases not only in the absorption of one or more forms, but also
in the emergence of a mental image. A person who is afraid not only absorbs the
forms of an object, but also connects them to produce a mental image in such
a way that this object is present to him as something dangerous. Conversely, a
person who feels pleasure connects the forms to produce a mental image that
presents the object as something pleasant.
The critical thing in all these states is that they are only sensual in nature and
are elicited by the impingement of an object on the sensory organs. Because an-
imals too are subject to such impingements, they can also have such states. Like
many authors before him, Duns Scotus uses the illustrative example of a sheep
that sees a wolf and is afraid of it. Why does it become afraid? Because it absorbs
the perceptible forms of something large and growling, whereupon a certain
mental image arises in it. Duns Scotus, however, diverges from his predecessors
in one important point. Unlike Avicenna and Thomas Aquinas, he does not
claim that the sheep absorbs, in addition to the perceptible forms, an intentio—
that is, the wolf ’s dangerousness—and that that is why it becomes afraid.29 In his
view, the assumption of such a normative property is superfluous. He explains
this by an amusing thought experiment:
If a sheep retained the same nature and had the same affection for the lamb,
but was miraculously changed in all its perceptible accidental properties
so that it resembled a wolf, then the lamb would flee from this transformed
sheep just as it flees from a wolf. Yet, in the sheep transformed in such a
way, there is no intention of the detrimental, but of the beneficial. Thus the
lamb’s faculty of appraisal would not try to find an intention of the ben-
eficial under the perceptible impressions, but would be moved exactly as
the sensual accidental properties move it, in accordance with the sensual
appetite. (Ord. I.3, pars. 1, q. 1–2; Vat. III, 43–44)
Let us try to imagine such a sheep in wolf ’s clothing. Why does the lamb that
sees this disguised sheep become afraid and run away? For Duns Scotus, the an-
swer is clear: simply and solely because it has the impressions of a large, shaggy,
growling animal and a corresponding mental image. The mere absorption of
certain perceptible forms is sufficient. The lamb need not additionally absorb
the property of being dangerous or detrimental—indeed it cannot absorb such
a property, because the sheep in disguise has not changed its nature and hence
is not dangerous. Duns Scotus is aiming here at an explanatory model that does
without the assumptions of a hidden normative property. If we want to explain
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the genesis of sensual fear, we need only refer to the impingement of an ex-
ternal object and to a bundle of perceptible forms that distinguish this object.
Whatever it is that has this bundle of forms elicits fear, whether it is a true wolf or
a sheep disguised as a wolf. The crucial point is that a simpler causal mechanism
is at work. No special cognitive process of evaluation of different properties, nor
of judgment, is present here. The lamb does not think, “The animal in front of
me is big and growling; therefore it is dangerous to me”; in fact, the lamb doesn’t
even appraise the animal before it as dangerous through a process of comparing
different perceptible properties. Rather, it is affected by the animal, experiences
a real and intentional change, and by that fact alone becomes afraid.
The example makes it clear that Duns Scotus places the sensual emotions
on the same level as sensations that motivate actions. All of them are elicited
by changes in the sensory organs and are not subject to rational control. This
is true not only of animals, but also of us human beings. In us too, sensual
emotions are evoked by causal mechanisms without our being able to influence
them rationally. If I, like the lamb, find myself facing the perfectly disguised
sheep, I too am spontaneously seized with fear because I too absorb certain per-
ceptible forms and have a mental image of a wolf. Nor do I evaluate and judge
in this situation. Naturally I, unlike the lamb, have the ability to think about
whether there is really a wolf in front of me, and I can reappraise the situation.
If I then come to the conclusion that it is only a disguised sheep, I can make
my fear disappear, and perhaps even replace it with admiration for the cunning
disguise. This is certainly a considerable difference from pain, which I cannot
make disappear simply by reappraising the situation. But even if I am able to re-
appraise the situation, I can do so only after the fear has spontaneously arisen in
me. In the first moment, this sensual fear is like pain: both are brought about by
an impinging object; both involve a change in a sensory organ; and both elicit a
physical reaction—whether I will it or not. For this reason, Duns Scotus assigns
both states to the category of the sensual passiones.
2.3 Sadness and Free Will

If we had nothing else but sensual states, we would be no different from ani-
mals. We would then be subject to simple causal mechanisms and would go
into positive or negative states, depending on the objects that impinged on us.
Everything would depend on whether the momentarily impinging object was
beneficial or detrimental to our organism. But Duns Scotus emphasizes that
we, as rational living beings, are indeed capable of having more than just these
kinds of states. His prime example is again Christ on the cross. Although he
was helpless against the sensual pain, by activating his rational faculties Christ
8
was able to have higher-order emotions: namely, sadness over the fact that he
had been betrayed and nailed to the cross, as well as joy over the redemption of
mankind. Ordinary people are also capable, in a less dramatic way, of conceptu-
ally grasping something and thereby arriving at a rational appraisal that elicits
a higher-order emotion. Duns Scotus therefore writes that all emotions that are
ordinarily classified as “concupiscent” and “irascible” are also situated on the ra-
tional level (Ord. III.33; Vat. X, 170). Thus, if I am standing in front of the wolf,
I have not only a sensual fear, but also a rational one, which is elicited by my
appraising the wolf as a dangerous animal and coming to the conclusion that it
could attack me at any moment. Does this mean that a higher-order emotion
is simply elicited by a judgment, and thus by an activity of the intellect? Duns
Scotus rejects precisely this apparently obvious intellectualistic interpretation,
explaining his rejection by the example of sadness. In his view, this higher-order
emotion can arise in different ways.
First, sadness arises when a person rejects a certain event and it occurs none-
theless (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 498–499). The crucial point here is that the person
is not simply forming a judgment about an object or an event but is taking a
volitive attitude: only if I will something not to occur, and that event nonethe-
less occurs, do I become sad. This involves more than an activity of the intellect,
as a modern example may illustrate. Suppose a close friend is gravely ill and in
danger of dying. If she then in fact dies and I am seized with grief, the reason lies
not simply in the fact that I make a number of judgments, such as “Her death
is a heavy loss to me,” or “She is an irreplaceable friend.” These judgments do
play a role, but not the critical one. What is important in this moment is that
I want her to remain with me. I could form many judgments (including complex
value judgments), but they would not elicit an emotion if I did not will some-
thing: judgments in themselves have no motivational power. Duns Scotus’ own
example of Christ on the cross illustrates this point very clearly. Christ could
make numerous judgments, such as the judgment that it is bad to be betrayed
and nailed to a cross. But as long as he forms the judgments as an uninvolved
observer, no emotion arises in him. Only when he wills not to be betrayed and
not to be nailed to the cross himself, and all that nonetheless happens—then
he becomes sad. Hence it is not just an intellectual realization or appraisal that
elicits a higher-order emotion, but an act of volition.
For Duns Scotus, however, the will is always free. Hence no act of volition
and no emotion elicited by an act of volition arises with absolute necessity. Only
a conditional necessity is involved: if someone performs a certain act of volition,
then a certain emotion is necessarily elicited in this person.30 But what does it
mean to say the will is free? For Duns Scotus, three characteristics are crucial.31
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First, as a rational faculty, the will is not restricted to a single activity. It can
produce two mutually opposing activities: it can will or not will one and the
same thing. In this way it is different from a natural faculty, which can pro-
duce only one activity. For example, burning wood’s faculty to heat a room is
restricted to this one activity. It cannot produce the opposite, that is, a cooling
of the room. But if I will my friend not to die, I can always will instead for
her to die. I may have good reasons to do so (for example, I may realize that
she has suffered long and should be released from her illness), or I may not.
But for Duns Scotus it does not matter what reasons I have or how many. All
that matters is that the will as a rational faculty is never restricted to a single
activity—even if all reasons are in favor of that one activity.
The second characteristic of free will is that it is not determined that it becomes
active at all. It always has three options: to will something [velle]; not to will the
thing [nolle]; or not to will anything at all [non velle]. The third possibility is rele-
vant when, although a person has formed all conceivable judgments, she abstains
from a conclusive appraisal and wills nothing. Here again, a person may have the
best reasons for a conclusive appraisal, and it is nonetheless not determined that
she must make an act of volition. Abstention is always a possibility.
Third and finally, a characteristic of free will is that it moves itself. When it
produces the activity of willing or not willing, it is not driven or compelled by
another entity. Even the intellect, which supplies reasons for a certain activity,
does not compel the will, but at most enables it to choose an activity and pro-
duce the corresponding act of volition, which in turn elicits a certain emotion.
This characteristic of a self-moving mover also distinguishes the will from the
natural faculties, which are always moved by something else.
In the light of this conception of free will, Duns Scotus insists that it is not
the intellect that is responsible for a higher-order emotion, but the will. Strictly
speaking, however, such an emotion is not itself actively produced, but is the
consequence of an actively produced act of volition. Hence it is not an activity
[actio or operatio], but something that the will suffers (that is, a passio) the mo-
ment it performs an act of volition (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 498–499). And the mo-
ment the act of volition is changed, the emotion coinciding with it changes too.
In the example mentioned, this means that I can overcome my sadness only if
I renounce my persistent will for my friend not to die.
One may object at this point that it is impossible for me to do so. If I appraise
my friend’s death as a great loss, I cannot do otherwise than not to will that
death. How can there be any freedom here? Duns Scotus would admit that, from
a psychological point of view, it hardly seems possible to produce a different act
of volition here. But that does not mean that it is absolutely excluded. Again, the
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example of Christ on the cross may illustrate this succinctly. It seems to be psy-
chologically out of the question for him to will the Crucifixion and thus accept
unbearable pain. But Christ did will it, and in so doing he made it clear that we
should not infer what is in principle possible or impossible from what in our
experience seems psychologically out of the question. Because the will is free, it
is always possible—even under the most adverse conditions—to produce a dif-
ferent act of volition from that which appears psychologically plausible or even
inevitable and hence to have a different emotion. Naturally, ordinary people
probably never have such freedom de facto, because they are always influenced
in their volitive choices, or even overpowered, by sensual experiences. But
Christ is a kind of limit case that shows that we must carefully distinguish be-
tween a freedom that is de facto present and a freedom in principle.
Two points are noteworthy about this voluntaristic position. First, it is
striking that Duns Scotus makes a structural distinction between the sensual
emotions and the emotions in the will. The sensual emotions are causally de-
termined: when a certain object impinges, a certain real and intentional change
occurs, and, furthermore, a certain mental image arises; then a certain emotion
necessarily arises. As a natural faculty, the sensual–appetitive faculty is so ar-
ranged that it can produce only one state if a certain causal input is present. The
higher-order emotions are a different matter. Even if a certain judgment about
an object and a certain rational appraisal are made, a certain emotion arises
only contingently in the will. Which emotion actually arises depends on the con-
crete act of volition. Second, it is noteworthy that Duns Scotus insists on the
autonomy of the will with respect to the intellect. Even if the intellect forms nu-
merous judgments that seem clearly to favor a certain act of volition, the will is
not compelled to produce exactly that act and thus to elicit a certain emotion. In
this point Duns Scotus clearly diverges from Thomas Aquinas, who maintains
an intellectualistic position, claiming that the intellect determines the object for
the will and thereby sets it in motion (STh I 82.4). If I have formed numerous
judgments about the death of my friend and come to the conclusion that her
loss is bad for me, and in fact is a significant detriment to my happiness in life,
then, according to Aquinas, I cannot do otherwise than not to will it. What
is appraised as bad must be refused, and not simply because of a psycholog-
ical compulsion, but because the will can have no other object than that which
the intellect determines. Opposing this view, Duns Scotus states that the will
determines its own object—sometimes even an object that is in contradiction to
what the intellect has determined as the object to be aspired to. Provocatively,
Duns Scotus writes that even the highest goal, happiness, by no means must
be the goal that the will chooses—not even if the intellect has judged it to be
the best possible goal. It is possible in principle that someone would not will to
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aspire to happiness (Ord. III. 15; Vat. IX, 498). The will is free in this, as in every-
thing else, and is not determined by an intellectual discernment.
The freedom of the will also plays an important part in the second case of sad-
ness that Duns Scotus discusses (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 501). If an object impinges
on the senses and is detrimental to them, so that a negative sensual state arises,
the will ordinarily becomes active immediately and performs a rejecting act that
results in a corresponding negative emotion. When Christ suffers physical pain,
this leads to his rejection of exactly that which produces his pain, and he is sad
if the detrimental impact nonetheless persists and the pain continues. That is,
there is a natural connection between the sensual faculty and the will. This con-
nection naturally persists even in the case that a positive emotion arises. If, for
example, a beneficial object impinges on the senses and elicits a state of pleasure
or enjoyment, the will is likewise active and performs an approving act that
results in a positive emotion—such as joy or affection. Here again, however,
this connection only exists ordinarily; it is not a necessary connection. Duns
Scotus illustrates this with a rather shocking example (Ord. III. 15; Vat. IX, 503).
When a virgin is raped, a sensual pleasure may arise in her that is due to the
sensual stimulation. Such a “lower” emotion would ordinarily elicit an act of
approval and hence a positive “higher” emotion. But the virgin is free to refuse
her approval and not to elicit a positive emotion; indeed she can even explicitly
perform a negative act of volition and hence elicit a negative emotion. Hence
she does not sin, as Duns Scotus explicitly states, and cannot be held respon-
sible for her sensual emotion. That emotion is simply elicited through a causal
mechanism and is not subject to any rational control. She would sin only if she
assented to the sexual contact and thereby felt a rational form of enjoyment.
This case in point is remarkable not only in that Duns Scotus explicitly
formulates a criterion for responsibility: a person can be held responsible only
for emotions that are due to an act of volition, because such emotions are the
only ones that the person could have avoided. All other emotions are just as
much outside her control as naturally caused feelings of hunger or thirst. It is
also remarkable here that Duns Scotus emphasizes that the relation between the
will and the senses is only a contingent relation, just as he does in regard to the
relation between the will and the intellect. Regardless of which sensual emotion
is elicited and how much of a natural inducement there may be for a certain act
of volition, that act need not be performed. As a free faculty, the will fundamen-
tally cannot be compelled.
Finally, Duns Scotus introduces yet a third case of sadness: that of condi-
tional voluntary assent (Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 504–505). If a person does not will
something, but gives her assent under special circumstances, she nonethe-
less succumbs to sadness. The example Duns Scotus himself gives is that of a
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merchant who, while sailing over the sea with his merchandise, is caught in a
storm. When he throws the cargo overboard, he consents to losing his property
only under these circumstances. What he wills then occurs, and normally this
would elicit joy. But because what happens is what he would want only under
adverse circumstances, he is sad nonetheless. Yet the merchant’s act of volition
is free even in this situation. In principle, he could refuse to throw his merchan-
dise overboard, and he would then be glad of not losing it—although only for a
short time, because then his ship would soon sink.
This example illustrates that we human beings can, in special situations, in-
tentionally choose a negative emotion. If there is a higher goal to which we
aspire, we can accept in pursuit of this goal that an act of volition temporarily
elicits sadness. In this way we differ strikingly from the animals, which always
aspire to what gives them sensual pleasure and cannot choose something that
would result in displeasure. We are not mere “pleasure maximizers,” but rational
living beings who can distinguish clearly between temporary pleasure and
longer-lasting contentment or joy. And we ordinarily choose the longer-lasting
contentment, even though our will is not compelled to do so—neither by the
intellect, which presents a longer-term goal, nor by the senses, which present us
with mental images of present and future states.
When we examine this explanation of the three kinds of sadness that Duns
Scotus presents as prime examples of emotions in the will, we see that he makes
a clear division between passive emotions, which are simply produced in us, and
active emotions, which we produce ourselves. This would allow him to explain
the example of the Stoic philosopher described at the beginning of this chapter
just as Augustine does. When the Stoic caught in a storm at sea pales with fear,
the cause lies in the fact that he receives sensual impressions and hence mental
images that inevitably elicit in him a sensual emotion, with the corresponding
physical symptoms. This is a natural, “hardwired” process over which he has
no influence and for which he (like the virgin who feels a sensual pleasure)
cannot be held responsible. He is responsible for the higher emotion of serenity,
which arises, however, not merely through the intellectual realization that the
loss of his own life is not so dramatic after all. It arises through his decision not
to will the preservation of his own life at all costs. It is one thing to judge from
an objective point of view, so to speak, that earthly life is not the highest good,
but a completely different thing to want this for himself. And precisely this free
wanting is crucial from Duns Scotus’ perspective.
It is striking about this explanatory model not only in that it allows us to
identify two kinds of emotions in human beings, and thus account for both
the animal and the rational sides of people. It is still more remarkable in that it
allows us to consider emotional conflicts. We can describe at least three kinds
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of conflicts. First, there can be a conflict among different sensual emotions. This
arises from one living being (which may just as well be an animal as a human
being) absorbing different forms and different perceptions from one and the
same impinging object. Just imagine that the lamb facing the disguised sheep
sees the wolf ’s coat and hence has the perception of a big, dark animal, which
elicits fear. But at the same time the lamb smells the sheep, and hence absorbs fa-
miliar olfactory impressions and has the perception of a mother animal, which
immediately elicits pleasure and well-being. The lamb is then confused: it is
frightened and at the same time feels pleasure. This in turn results in conflicting
motivations: it would like to run away and at the same time stay where it is. This
conflict can be resolved only by either eliminating one perception (for example,
by placing the lamb at a great distance from the disguised sheep so that it has
only visual and not olfactory impressions) or reinforcing one perception (for
example, by playing a sound recording of a growling wolf, and thus reinforcing
the visual impressions with auditory impressions). In either case, that emotion
will always prevail that is elicited by the dominant perception. The same is true
of human beings. Imagine, for example, that someone is walking through a park
after dark and sees a dark silhouette: she becomes afraid. But at the same time,
she hears the voice of a familiar person: she is glad. If the voice becomes more
clearly audible and the auditory impression increasingly predominates over the
visual, the gladness prevails. The conflict is thus resolved simply by the rein-
forcement of a natural cause, not by a reflection or a decision. Hence there is
no freedom for a rational determination or change of the given emotion; it is
completely determined by sensual processes.
Because human beings, unlike animals, have a rational faculty, a second
kind of conflict can also occur: namely, a conflict between “lower” and “higher”
emotions. Imagine, for example, that a person is facing the disguised sheep and
spontaneously becomes afraid because of the visual impressions. But then she
reflects that it is only a harmless animal in disguise and that the disguise has
been very convincingly done. She brings herself to approve of the disguise as
something clever and well done, and through this act of will enters a state of
joy or even admiration. How can she now resolve the conflict between fear and
admiration? If she manages to act rationally, then only by giving priority to her
reflection and will, and thus gradually overcoming her fear, can she resolve this
conflict. In this case, she learns to see the sheep differently (that is, as a clev-
erly disguised animal), and thereby to appraise it differently (that is, as some-
thing admirable) and thus curb her fear. That does not mean the fear disappears
completely; sensory impressions are of course still present. But the spontane-
ously elicited sensual emotion is overshadowed more and more by the ration-
ally controlled emotion. Exactly this is what characterizes a virtuous person,
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according to Duns Scotus, as his own example of the raped virgin shows. Her
“lower” sensual emotion is not simply extinguished by the “higher” volitive
emotion. Perhaps her sensual pleasure cannot be completely eliminated because
it is elicited by natural causal mechanisms. But the spontaneously produced
pleasure is completely overshadowed by her rejection. Then only what the virgin
herself wills is decisive, and what that will elicits in her. The same holds in less
dramatic cases, as when we feel desire for something sweet, but at the same time
reject eating sweets as unhealthy. As rational living beings, we are characterized
in such a case by the fact that we give priority to the volitive emotion and make
it determine our action.
Finally, a third kind of conflict can arise—one that is rooted in Duns Scotus’
model although he does not discuss it explicitly. Because the will, in light of
various reflections, can arrive at different acts of assent or rejection, and as a
free faculty is never determined by any single one, a tension can arise between
different emotions. That is, to overstate it somewhat, the will can be torn be-
tween mutually contradictory emotions. Let us look again at the example of
Christ on the cross. Christ can appraise the situation in such a way that he does
not will the Crucifixion, because it came about through a betrayal and brings
with it unbearable pain. If he is then crucified nonetheless, he is immensely
sad. At the same time, Christ can appraise the situation in such a way (and did
so appraise it, according to Christian doctrine) that he wills the Crucifixion,
because by it humanity is redeemed from sin and reconciled with the Father.
If he is then crucified, then what he wanted happens, and he is glad. Thus con-
flicting emotions can occur because of different acts of will. This kind of con-
flict can be prevented only by giving priority to one of the two acts of will. This
cannot happen, however, through preferring that act of volition that is based
on a more comprehensive or more persuasive reflection. Unlike intellectualists,
Duns Scotus does not agree with the thesis that we always will or do not will
that for which we have the best reasons. We (or Christ in the example) can will
or not will something freely—in the extreme case, we can even will that which
we do not have the best reasons to will. And we can change our act of will at
any time, because the will as a free faculty is never definitively committed to an
act. Christ could therefore be torn on the cross between sadness and joy, be-
cause his act of volition could change at any time. Thus he could have been in
a continuous conflict. Duns Scotus ultimately writes, however, that Christ was
sad because the sensual pain quite spontaneously elicited a rejection in his will
(Ord. III.15; Vat. IX, 508), but Duns Scotus’ model does not exclude the pos-
sibility that this rejection is suspended and Christ vacillates between sadness
and joy. This conflict is of course structurally different from the second kind,
because Christ cannot both will and not will the Crucifixion at the same time.
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Only conflicting emotions that are situated in different faculties can occur at the
same time. In one and the same faculty, they can occur at most in succession,
repeatedly superseding each other: one can will something, then a short time
later not will it, then will it again, etc.
The particular appeal of Duns Scotus’ explanatory model lies in the fact that
it calls attention to this conflict that has its roots in the definition of the will
as a free cause. It avoids the reduction of the human being to a purely sensual
living being in which natural and hence determining causes always prevail. At
the same time, it also avoids the reduction of a human being to a purely intel-
lectual being for whom rational reflection always prevails. What emotions we
have and which ones prevail in a conflict depend in part on the sensual causes
and rational reflection, but not exclusively. The decisive faculty is ultimately the
will, which decides for or against something and thus elicits an emotion that is
not determined by any other cause.
2.4 The Separation of the Parts of the Soul

and Its Consequences
Duns Scotus’ distinction of two kinds of emotions in two different faculties of
the soul rapidly gained influence in the 14th century. It became particularly
prevalent among the Franciscans who insisted that not every emotion can be
equated with a sensual state.32 Ockham adopted this distinction in his early
Commentary on the Sentences and even radicalized it in two key points. The
first point concerned the relation between the faculties of the soul that are re-
sponsible for the sensual and the volitive emotions; the second concerned the
respective structures of these emotions. Let us examine both points.
Like all Aristotelians, Duns Scotus too designated the sensual and the ra-
tional souls as parts of the soul. He was clear, however, that they are not really
distinct, but only formally distinct parts.33 Such a distinction is present when-
ever there are different “realities” [realitates or formalitates] within a thing that
exist as aspects of that thing, and cannot be separated from one another. The
textbook example that Duns Scotus offers is the relation among the three divine
persons. Each of them—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—is something real which
actually exists in God (and not something fictitious that we have invented), yet
they are not separately existing persons, but different aspects of God which al-
ways occur together and cannot be separated from one another as independent
entities. They are thus formally, and not really, distinct from one another (Ord.
I.2, pars. 2, q. 1–4; Vat. II, 349–361).34 If they were really distinct, they could exist
independently of one another, as ordinary persons do. The relation among the
parts of the soul is analogous: they are “realities” that actually exist together,
96
but not as independent entities that can be separated from one another. The
parts of the soul are rather aspects of the soul and always occur together. Hence
when we speak of the sensual and the rational souls, we are always referring to
one single soul being considered under the aspects of the sensual and rational
faculties.
This conception of the parts of the soul has an immediate consequence for
the definition of the emotions. When Duns Scotus mentions sensual emotions
in the “lower” part of the soul and volitive emotions in the “higher” part, he is
not talking about states of the soul that exist as if separately, in different sections
of the soul. He is referring to states of a single soul that is not divisible into
its component parts. However, these states can be ascribed to the soul only in
certain respects or with reference to certain aspects of the soul. Thus a sensual
emotion is a state that the soul has in view of its sensual faculty (that is, its
ability to absorb and process sensual impressions). And a volitive emotion is
a state that the same soul has under another aspect, namely, in view of its vol-
itive faculty (that is, its ability to assent to or to reject something conceptually
apprehended). When we describe the various emotions, we must therefore—in
modern terms—always give an intensional description that specifies the aspect
concerned. (For comparison: when we indicate the states of a person who has
various social roles, we must likewise give an intensional description. We say,
for example, that the person is a teacher with regard to his profession; married
with regard to his family status, etc. But it is always the same person to whom
we ascribe all these qualities.) Because a person has only one soul to which the
different emotions are ascribed, the emotional conflicts previously mentioned
can only be intrapsychic and not interpsychic conflicts. In other words, they are
conflicts within the single soul that occur when different faculties are activated,
especially when sensual and volitive faculties are in use at the same time. But
there are no conflicts between different souls or autonomously acting parts of
the soul.
It is in this point that Ockham radicalizes Duns Scotus’ model. In Ockham’s
view, there can be no formal distinction (Ord. I.2.1; OTh II, 14–17).35 He considers
the assumption of different “realities” within an object to be unreasonable. If
something is a reality, it is a res, that is, an entity that actually exists in nature
(and is not merely thought of in the mind as something fictitious), and can exist
independently of every other entity. Such an entity is always really distinct from
another entity. Thus a table and a chair, for example, are really distinct from one
another, and a chair is really distinct from its color. The color occurs in nature
as a property and can also exist independently of the chair, as when it is painted
onto another object.
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Ockham applies this explanation of realities to the explanation of the parts of

the soul. If these parts are actually something that exists in nature (and not merely
something that we have invented, and hence exist only in our minds), then they
must be res: entities that can exist independently of one another. What kind of
entities are they? Ockham gives an unequivocal answer: the parts of the soul are
forms that exist in matter. Strictly speaking, Ockham discerns three really dis-
tinct forms: (1) the form of corporeality, which makes a certain body precisely
this body and distinguishes it from other bodies; (2) the form of the vegetative–
sensual soul, which endows the body with animal functions (from metabolism
and reproduction to perception); and (3) the form of the rational soul, which
permits conceptual thinking and willing (Quodl. IV.14; OTh IX, 369).36 Thus a
person is not simply a thing, as it may seem at first glance, but a composite of
matter and these three forms. Although all three forms occur together and com-
bine with matter, in principle each of them could also exist independently of each
other. Each is a res and thus really distinct from every other entity.
With this conception, postulating a plurality of forms, Ockham not only
deviates considerably from the original Aristotelian hylomorphism, but also
from a widely received interpretation of the Aristotelian model.37 As described
in Section 1.2, Thomas Aquinas (and a number of authors following him)
propounded the thesis that there is only one form in a person, and that the parts
of the soul are nothing but manifestations of this form. For Aquinas—just as for
Aristotle—it would have been unthinkable to assume a separate form of corpo-
reality as distinct from other forms of the soul. What makes the body precisely
this body and distinguishes it from other bodies is nothing other than the soul,
that is, a form that is responsible for all the body’s functions. A body without the
soul—in other words, a dead body—is, strictly speaking, not a body at all, but
called one only homonymically.38 Why does Ockham refute this conception?
Let us examine the main argument he advances in favor of the assumption of
a form of corporeality (Quodl. II.11; OTh IX, 162–163). When we see a dead body,
we observe that it has a certain size, shape, color, and other accidental properties.
It has these properties that distinguish it from another dead body, even if it has
no vital properties such as respiration and circulation. Thus there is something
in it that structures the matter and makes it into this matter, constituted in such
and such a way. Because the matter neither structures itself (it has in itself no
activity at all) nor is a certain property responsible for structuring it (properties
can occur only when a piece of matter has been activated and structured), there
must be a special form that performs precisely this function.39 This is the form of
corporeality. That it can exist independently of any other form is shown by the
fact that it can continue to exist when all life functions are extinguished.
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Evidently, the form of corporeality is responsible for the numerical and qual-
itative identity of a body. Only this form causes a piece to be picked out—in
a metaphoric sense—of an all-encompassing dough of matter and delimited
from other pieces. If it weren’t for this delimiting, we could not apprehend this
body as a body and distinguish it from another. Because the form also outfits
the piece of matter with certain properties, it is also responsible for this body’s
being present with a certain size, shape, and color, and that, consequently, we
can distinguish the body constituted in such and such a way from a differently
constituted body. The key point lies in the fact that neither the numerical nor
the qualitative identity is bound to specific life functions. Whether the body
breathes or not, whether it circulates blood or not, it is and will continue to be
this piece of matter that is delimited from another piece and has a certain size,
shape, and color.40
In the ordinary case, of course, a body is not simply a dead piece of matter.
If it is a living human body, it can breathe, circulate blood, see, hear, and even
think something. According to Ockham, the sensual and the rational (or intel-
lectual) forms are responsible for these functions (Quodl. II.10; OTh IX, 156–
162). Why exactly two forms? First, there must be a form that permits all the
life functions—that is, the functioning of all the organs. Among these are the
lungs, the heart, and the other inner organs as well as the senses, which are also
organs of the body. Ockham does not distinguish, as one might perhaps expect,
between noncognitive and cognitive functions, but groups all the functions to-
gether, each of which occurs in a given organ or system of organs; he groups
together seeing and hearing as well as respiration and circulation. Hence there
is exactly one form, namely the sensual soul, that is responsible for all these
organic functions and that makes a living, functioning body different from a
dead one. But this form is not responsible for a body being able to think. Strictly
speaking, it is not the body at all that thinks, because thinking, for Ockham, is
an immaterial process. It cannot be assigned to any physical organ, and hence
cannot be explained with reference to the functioning of a particular organ.
Rather, a separate form is responsible for thinking: the form of the rational (or
intellectual) soul.
When we point to a whole person, strictly speaking we must indicate three
really distinct forms in the matter. We must refer to a different form depending
on what it is in the person that we want to explain. If the question is why it is this
person to begin with, who is distinct from another person through an exactly
delimited body, we must, according to Ockham, refer to the form of corpore-
ality. If the question is why it is a living person, we must refer to the sensual soul.
And if the question is, finally, why it is a thinking person, we must refer to the
intellectual soul—different forms explain different facts.
9
Such a reference to a plurality of forms is of course not without problems. The

question arises of why we can still call it a unitary person, and not just a con-
glomerate of forms, if the individual forms are really distinct entities, and not—
as Duns Scotus would have argued—mere aspects of a human being. Ockham
answers this question by referring to a special unity of the forms. Concisely, he
writes, “I say that there is for a human being only one total being [esse totale],
but a multiple being in parts [esse partialia]” (Quodl. II.10; OTh IX, 161). But this
thesis does not yet solve the problem. What constitutes the special unity or the
“total being”? If it is nothing more than the joint occurrence of the three forms
in matter, it is nothing but a combination of several entities that are in principle
separable from one another and could exist independently. There is nothing in
the forms that welds them together, so to speak. Why then is their unity closer
than that between arbitrary, really distinct forms?41 This question arises in a
more acute form if we consider those passages in which Ockham refers to the
possible intervention of God. Thanks to his unrestricted omnipotence, Ockham
underscores, God can separate everything that is really distinct and thus sepa-
rable. If God wanted, he could separate the intellectual form or even the sensual
form from the form of corporeality. Why then do the three nonetheless form a
special unity? Ockham merely notes that a person would no longer be a “com-
plete being” [ens completum] if one were removed (Quodl. II.10; OTh IX, 161).
He does not, however, refer to any special property of the forms or the under-
lying matter that is responsible for completeness. What prompts him, then, to
claim that a person is in fact a complete, unified entity?
The main reason lies in the particular composition of the various forms.
Together they constitute not an accidental unity (as, for example, three chairs
arranged together form an accidental unity), but an essential unity. Such a unity
is characterized by the fact that the individual parts not only exist together but
are also functionally dependent on one another. Ockham maintains that “the
whole is nothing other than the totality of its parts, but not always: only when
they occur together or are ordered with respect to one another or connected
with one another in due wise” (Summula phil. naturalis I.19; OPh VI, 208).42 The
unity must therefore be understood not as an additional entity that contains all
the parts: it is nothing but the set of all the parts. But the parts must be so coor-
dinated that one part can perform its function only if it is in a certain relation
to another part. Exactly this condition is fulfilled in a human being. The distinct
forms are not only present together in the matter, but are also coordinated, and
indeed hierarchically ordered. Thus the sensual form can produce perceptions
and mental images only if a form of corporeality is present that structures a piece
of matter so that it has sensory organs. And the intellectual form can produce
ideas and acts of volition only if perceptions and mental images are present. In
10
a word, the intellectual form is functionally dependent on the sensual, which is

in turn dependent on the form of corporeality. Even God could not destroy the
form of corporeality and leave the other forms unaffected. By destroying the
fundamental form, he would also destroy the other forms’ ability to function.
This is an important clarification: the really distinct forms are independent of
one another in their existence, but not in their ability to function.
Thus, although Ockham conceives the parts of the soul as really distinct
forms, he emphasizes their special unity and distinguishes them from an ar-
bitrary conglomerate of forms. Hence it is not surprising that he speaks of a
human being as one substance (SL I.26; OPh I, 85). Nonetheless, the question
arises of what consequences the thesis of the real distinctness has for an expla-
nation of the emotions. If the sensual soul and the intellectual soul are really
distinct forms, then the sensual and the volitive emotions must be assigned to
distinct entities. And the emotional conflicts that arise must then be understood
as interpsychic conflicts, not as intrapsychic, as they were in Duns Scotus. That
precisely this kind of conflict is especially important to Ockham is evident in
his explanation of the real distinctness of the sensual and the intellectual soul.
He not only points out that the one is bound to the body and the other is not, he
also calls attention to the fact that the two souls can have states that are mutually
contradictory. Thus a person can aspire to something with a sensual state and
reject the same thing with an intellectual state (Quodl. II.10; OTh IX, 157). For
Ockham it is unthinkable that a single soul aspires to and rejects a thing at the
same time; such a conflict can only exist between two souls.
But why should it be unthinkable? Imagine, for example, that a person is
offered a piece of chocolate. He feels attracted by the tempting smell and would
like to take it. But at the same time, he reflects that eating chocolate is unhealthy
and hence refuses to take it. Or the person encounters a former lover, feels
spontaneously attracted by the sight, and would like to approach her, but then
remembers the disappointments he experienced with her and therefore refuses
to approach her. In such cases, is it not one person or one soul present in a body
that at the same time aspires to and rejects something? Ockham would grant
that it is one person, but he would deny that only one soul is active and has
contradictory states simultaneously. After all, the respective states come about
through very different causal mechanisms. A person who is attracted by choco-
late and feels a spontaneous desire is simply reacting to sensual stimuli; the smell
elicits a certain impression that in turn elicits desire. There is no judgment or
decision here. But when the person refuses to take the chocolate, the reason for
this lies with a completely different mechanism. Then the person forms a judg-
ment about the sugar content of the chocolate and appraises it as unhealthy, and
this appraisal in turn elicits a rejection. Evidently, these events require complex
10
thought processes. For Ockham, it is unthinkable that one and the same soul is
subject to a simple sensual mechanism and at the same time performs intricate
thought processes. There must be two entities here, the sensual and the intellec-
tual souls, which function in different ways and produce really distinct states.
The critical point for Ockham is thus not so much the fact that a person can
aspire to or reject a thing both sensually and intellectually. After all, it may be
that someone finds chocolate repulsive and rejects it both sensually and intel-
lectually. Then there would be no conflict, and yet two distinct states would
nonetheless be present. The important thing is not so much the fact that there
are two states, but that they are elicited by different processes and are differently
structured, and hence each is attributable to a different soul. In a word, different
kinds of psychological states require different causal principles. Of course, such
an argument hinges on the thesis that the sensual aspiration or repulsion is
elicited by a completely different principle from that of rational agreement or
rejection, and therefore there is a categorical difference between the sensual and
the volitive emotions. For this reason we must take a closer look at the structural
differences between the two kinds of emotions. Ockham’s explanation of this
difference reveals another radicalization of Duns Scotus’ approach.
Ockham posits the thesis that all emotions, the sensual as well as the voli-
tive, are produced by cognitive acts (Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 186–187).43 The crit-
ical difference between them consists in their causation: sensual emotions are
produced by sensual–cognitive acts, whereas volitive emotions are produced
by intellectual–cognitive acts. A concrete example may serve to illustrate what
he means by these kinds of acts. Suppose there is a ripe, round apple in front
of me. If I apprehend it only sensually, by looking at it or touching it, for ex-
ample, a sensual–cognitive act arises in me that presents the apple to me with
the perceived properties. Because the apple is in fact in front of me, this act
coincides with an awareness of the existence and immediate presence of the
apprehended object. Ockham calls this case an intuitive sensual cognition (Ord.
I prol. 1; OTh I, 30–32; Rep. II.12–13; OT V, 256–258), because there is an imme-
diate intuitio of the object. This cognition elicits the sensual emotion of pleasure
or desire. If I later remember the apple, or only hallucinate it, it is still present to
me in a sensual–cognitive act, but then I have no awareness of its existence and
immediate presence; indeed I purposely ignore it. I withdraw, so to speak, from
the fact that it actually exists. Hence Ockham calls this a merely abstractive sen-
sual cognition (Rep. III.3; OT VI, 114–125). This cognition too can elicit pleasure
or desire, because merely imagining a juicy apple can make my mouth water
and make me want to bite into such a fruit.
Ordinarily, an intuitive cognition precedes an abstractive one, because I can
remember the apple only if I have seen it or otherwise sensually apprehended
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it before. Even a mental image or a hallucination must have been preceded by

an intuitive cognition. Thus I can imagine a juicy apple only if at some time
I had one before my eyes, and I can hallucinate winged horses only once I have
seen wings and horses. But both the intuitive and the abstractive sensual cogni-
tion present only bundles of properties such as color, size, or shape. Thus when
I have a sensual cognition of an apple, I am not applying the concept of “apple”
to it, and I am not making a judgment. Even a baby or an animal that has no
conceptual abilities is therefore able to have intuitive and abstractive sensual
cognition. Like his predecessors, Ockham too refers to the classical example of
the sheep that is afraid of the wolf. It is an intuitive sensual cognition that elicits
this emotion in the sheep. The sheep apprehends only a bundle of properties,
without classifying them conceptually. Although Ockham says that in this case
an animal judges an object, he immediately clarifies that this is not a predi-
cative judgment (Rep. IV.14; OTh VII, 314–315). The sheep associates only the
properties that are present to it in the sensual cognition. It does not form any
concepts, nor join them together in a judgment with a subject–predicate struc-
ture. Nonetheless, it has a genuine cognition—not every cognition is a concep-
tual cognition.
At this point, however, one might pose the critical question of why a cogni-
tion is necessary at all, even if it is only the association of perceived properties,
for a sensual emotion to arise. Why should we not postulate that the apple
directly causes pleasure and the wolf directly causes fear? Does the assump-
tion of special cognitive acts not run counter to the principle of economy that
Ockham defends in everything else—that is, the methodological principle that
one should assume as few entities as possible in explaining concrete matters?44
Cognitive acts, whether intuitive or abstractive, seem to be superfluous here. If
we attribute a causal power to apples, wolves, and many other natural objects, as
Ockham does in accord with other Aristotelians, we can simply postulate that
they immediately produce emotions.
Ockham explicitly mentions this objection, but immediately refutes it
(Quodl. III.17; OTh IX, 269). His main argument is this: If a sensual emotion
were directly caused by an object, the emotion would disappear the moment the
impinging object disappears. However, we find again and again that the emo-
tion can persist when the object is no longer present, or even when it no longer
exists. Ockham refers by way of illustration to the fear [horror] of an object that
has caused us great pain. Even if the object no longer plagues or threatens us,
the fear persists. It is then produced by a memory of the dreadful object. This
means, in Ockham’s terminology, that in such a case the fear is caused by an
abstractive sensual cognition. Examples can also be given, however, to illustrate
the same point for intuitive sensual cognition. For example, if I am wandering
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across a meadow and a snake lies in my path, the snake does not produce fear
in me directly. It could happen that I don’t even notice it. My fear is caused by
my seeing the snake. Naturally my seeing in turn requires a cause, which is
ordinarily the snake itself. Thus there is at least an indirect causal connection
between the object and the sensual emotion. But not even this connection is
always necessary without exception. Ockham illustrates this by referring to the
hypothesis of the omnipotent God, who could intervene in the natural order
at any time (Quodl. III.17; OTh IX, 270).45 If God actually were to intervene, he
could maintain a sensual cognition (an intuitive or an abstractive one) while
destroying the object that caused it, and so cause an emotion to be elicited. Thus
he could all at once annihilate the snake, yet maintain my seeing the snake, and
I would still be afraid. Thus the object is neither the direct nor the necessary
cause of the sensual emotion.
Because the sensual cognition is the direct cause, the emotion that arises
depends on the given cognition. Thus a cognition that presents something big,
slithering, and menacing produces fear. Another cognition, which presents
something pleasant such as the juicy apple, produces pleasure or desire. There
is no purposeful control or guidance involved. For every living being, there
is something like a natural program that assigns a certain sensual emotion to
a certain bundle of perceived properties. Hence such an emotion cannot be
suppressed. It is “not in our power,” as Ockham succinctly puts it (Quodl. II.17;
OTh IX, 188). For this reason, no one can be held responsible for such an emo-
tion. We are only responsible for what we can prevent or change.
The volitive emotions are a different matter. These too are produced through
cognitive acts, and thus through a form of cognition, and here too we must
distinguish between intuitive and abstractive cognition (Ord. I, prol. 1; OTh I,
30–38; Quodl. V.5; OTh IX, 495–500). However, the cognition in this case is in-
tellectual cognition, which is conceptually structured. In Ockham’s view, that
means that mental terms are formed and combined to make mental sentences.
He argues that every person has an internal language that consists of such
sentences (SL I.1; OPh I, 7–9).46 This inner mental language precedes the ex-
ternal, that is, the spoken or written language—in fact, it is a necessary condi-
tion for an external language to come about. For the example mentioned, this
means: When I have an intellectual cognition of a juicy apple that is before me,
I form several mental terms and combine them into a mental sentence. If it is an
intuitive intellectual cognition, this sentence is the assertoric statement “Here is
a juicy apple.” In such a cognition, the apprehension of an object is immediately
followed by a judgment about its existence and presence. If, however, I have only
an abstractive intellectual cognition, there is no such judgment. Then I form
at most a sentence such as “A juicy apple is present to me” and abstain from
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a judgment about the object’s actual existence. This is the case if, for example,
I intellectually remember an apple apprehended earlier or only conceptually im-
agine what is meant by an apple.47
Thus there is here too, as with sensual cognition, a distinction between a cog-
nition of immediately present objects and a cognition that relates to remembered
or imagined objects. The critical difference, however, consists in the fact that
in intellectual cognition, whether it is intuitive or abstractive, it is not merely
a bundle of properties that is apprehended. Rather, individual properties and
whole objects are categorized by means of mental terms, and complete predica-
tive sentences are formed about them. Ordinarily, these sentences are expressed
in Latin or English or another spoken language, but, strictly speaking, they are
not simply Latin or English, but mental sentences, which—as Ockham explic-
itly states (SL LI; OPh I, 7)—are the same, and originate in the same way, in all
people.48 The intellectual cognition that produces the volitive emotions consists
precisely of these sentences.
In this explanation of intellectual cognition, Ockham goes far beyond Duns
Scotus, who had also mentioned conceptual cognition, but had not equated it
with linguistic cognition.49 Ockham’s radicalism consists in his conception of
thinking and hence all intellectual activity as necessarily linguistically structured.
Naturally this has consequences for the emotions. If all emotions, the sensual as
well as the intellectual, are produced by a cognition, then the difference between
them cannot lie in the fact that one kind is produced directly by objects and the
other by a cognitive activity. Rather, they are distinguished by the fact that sen-
sual emotions are caused by nonlinguistic cognitive activities, and intellectual
emotions by linguistic cognitive activities. Here Ockham has defined a catego-
rical distinguishing characteristic for the “lower” and the “higher” emotions.
And this also makes it clear why he insists that the two kinds of emotions are
states in two really distinct souls. What is elicited by linguistic activities has a
completely different structure than what is caused by nonlinguistic activities,
and therefore must have a different active principle, that is, a different soul. In
Ockham’s view, it would be incomprehensible how one and the same soul could
produce both linguistic and nonlinguistic cognition, and hence two very dif-
ferent kinds of emotions.
The question arises, however, of why Ockham explicitly speaks of two kinds
of cognition. Why is he not content to situate cognition only on the intellectual
level and to speak at most of the absorption of sensory impressions on the sen-
sual level, which would in themselves not generate any cognition, but merely
serve to elicit an intellectual cognition? Then he could say that, although we
ordinarily must have sensory impressions of something red, round, and juicy in
order to form the mental term “apple,” the mere presence of such impressions is
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not in itself cognition. Only the synthesis of all impressions and their processing
into a linguistic sign generate cognition. In a word, only linguistic cognition is
cognition. If Ockham argued thus, he could limit himself to a single kind of
emotion and would not have to distinguish lower ones from higher ones. Why
does he insist on the fact that there are two kinds of cognition and hence two
kinds of emotions?
One reason is clear by now. If we want to grant that babies and animals have
emotions, we must also attribute to them a cognition that elicits these emotions.
But this cannot be an intellectual cognition; hence we must assume a “lower,”
sensual cognition. If we were to deny that there is any cognition at all below
the intellectual level, we would have to conceive of babies and animals as pure
automata that are affected by objects, but not able to process their impressions
cognitively and to relate to objects. Ockham opposes this conception when he
writes that they can have sensual perceptions and even memories (Rep. IV.14;
OTh VII, 313). The fact that they have no linguistic cognition does not mean that
they have no cognition at all.
But even in adults capable of language it is necessary to assume two kinds
of cognition. This can be shown, to begin with, independently of Ockham’s
texts by a distinction that Fred Dretske has introduced into the contemporary
debates.50 He argued that there are two kinds of coding of information. In the
case of analog coding, a piece of information represents numerous properties of
an object or state of affairs, and represents them as faithfully as possible, without
distinguishing them from one another and without naming and classifying
them. In the case of digital coding, by contrast, certain properties are selected,
distinguished from one another, and classified. Dretske gives an example that
illustrates this difference. If someone is sitting in front of a cup of coffee and
wants to communicate information about this cup to another person, he can do
so in two ways. He can photograph or draw a picture of the cup. Then he would
capture as many of its properties as possible, representing all the shadings and
curves of the cup, but he would not distinguish the properties from one another,
presenting them instead in a total picture. Or he could simply say, “In front of
me is a cup full of coffee.” Then he would be communicating only scant infor-
mation, saying nothing about the color and the shape of the cup, but he would
be giving discrete information, because he would be using the classification
terms “cup,” “coffee,” and “full.” Both kinds of coding have their advantages and
disadvantages. Analog information is rich because of the numerous properties
represented, but not discrete. Digital information, conversely, is discrete, be-
cause the individual properties are clearly distinguished, but not rich. The crit-
ical fact is that one kind of information cannot simply be replaced with the other
or reduced to the other. One kind of information or the other is appropriate,
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depending on the situation. If someone asks us what the cup looks like, then it
is appropriate to show a picture. But if someone asks us what the cup contains,
the best answer is simply to say, “Coffee.”
With this in mind, we can understand the distinction Ockham makes between
sensual and intellectual cognition as the difference between analog and digit-
ally coded information. In the case of sensual cognition, numerous perceived
properties are presented, but only in a total picture. As an Aristotelian, Ockham
speaks of a sensual image [phantasma] that one gains through sensual cogni-
tion.51 It is rich, but not discrete. The case of intellectual cognition is the op-
posite. In intellectual cognition, mental terms are formed by which individual
objects and their properties are designated, and these terms are combined into
mental sentences. Thanks to these sentences, objects and properties can be
exactly classified and delimited from one another. This cognition is discrete,
but not very rich, because only a few properties are designated linguistically.
Ockham’s point, then, is that he emphasizes the indispensability of both kinds of
cognition. Neither can the sensual cognition be reduced to the intellectual, nor
vice versa. To gain a comprehensive cognitive access to the objects in the world,
we need both kinds: we must cognize them as richly and as discretely as pos-
sible. We can succeed in this only if we use both sensual (that is, nonlinguistic)
and intellectual (that is, linguistic) abilities. Thus, regarding Dretske’s example
of the cup of coffee, Ockham would say that we gain a comprehensive cogni-
tion of it only if we apprehend as many of its perceptible properties as possible
and distinguish them as exactly as possible from one another by forming many
mental sentences. Thus the goal is not to overcome sensual cognition in favor of
intellectual cognition, or to consider it only a preliminary stage, but to gain sen-
sual and intellectual cognition. For Ockham, that always means that both the
sensual and the intellectual souls must be active. Only the presence and activity
of both souls in a person ensure that he will gain the most comprehensive cog-
nition possible. Hence it is not surprising that Ockham says in his remarks on
cognition in the blessed life—that is, the state after death—that a comprehensive
cognition is then possible only when the body is resurrected so that a sensual
soul becomes active again.52 As long as only the intellectual soul is active, only a
reduced form of cognition is possible.
Thus it is clear that there are, and indeed must be, two kinds of cognition in
an adult human being, so that objects can be apprehended as richly and dis-
cretely as possible. Consequently, because each kind of cognition produces a
particular kind of emotions, there are sensual and volitive emotions. The sen-
sual emotions are not simply overcome or extinguished by the volitive emotions.
This is easy to illustrate. The fact that I form the mental sentence “In front of me
lies a dangerous snake,” and thereby produce a higher emotion, does not simply
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extinguish the lower emotion that is elicited by the mere sight of the snake.
Rather, I then have two emotions that are simultaneously present, but nonethe-
less distinct from each other: sensual and volitive fears. What characterizes me
as a human being is the fact that, unlike an animal, I have not only a sensual fear
(a dog too would freeze at the sight of the snake), and unlike an angel have not
only a volitive fear (an angel too could form a mental sentence and reject the
presence of the snake as something bad).53 I am sensually and volitively afraid
because I have a perception and react to what I perceive, but at the same time
I classify what I perceive conceptually and reject it as something bad.
Up to now there seems to be a perfect analogy between sensual and vol-
itive emotions, although their respective causes are different. For the volitive
emotions, just like the sensual emotions, are also produced by a certain form
of cognition. Now we must refine this statement. For Ockham, only the sensual
emotions are directly produced by a sensual cognition. The volitive emotions
are caused at most indirectly by an intellectual cognition; their direct cause is
always the will. Ockham emphasizes that, although they “require an actual cog-
nition in order to exist” (Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 187), they are not immediately
produced by this cognition. Why not? For Ockham, just as for Duns Scotus,
the chief reason consists in the fact that the will is free. All states of the will—
including volitive emotions—are therefore produced by the will itself, which
cannot be compelled by anything, not even an intellectual cognition. If volitive
emotions were immediately produced by such a cognition, the will could not
choose whether it wanted to produce an emotion. It would have to produce one
when the appropriate cognition is present. In fact, strictly speaking, it would
not produce anything: it would be just a kind of vessel for many emotions.
Depending on the cognition that is momentarily present, one emotion or an-
other would be pulled out of the vessel.
Ockham rejects precisely this image of a passive will that merely serves as a
container or vessel for emotions. In his view, the will is always active. It produces
an emotion itself and can be moved to do so by a cognition, but not compelled.
Ockham emphasizes that “an actual cognition in the intellect inclines the will,
in a way, as a partial cause with respect to its act” (Rep. III.5; OTh VI, 158; cf.
Rep. III. 12; OTh VI, 396). This seems confusing at first. What does it mean to
say that a cognition only “inclines” the will to an emotion but does not cause
the emotion in it? This question can be best answered by contrasting the volitive
emotions with the sensual emotions. On the sensual level, a cognition com-
pletely causes a certain emotion, so that the emotion cannot be prevented or
avoided at all. For example, if a snake is sensually present to me, the perceptual
image inevitably makes me afraid. There is nothing here for me to choose or
decide. But if I then gain an intellectual cognition and form the mental sentence
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“There’s a snake lying here,” I am only inclined to become afraid. The cognition
ordinarily leads me to reject the snakes as something dangerous and menacing,
and precisely this rejection elicits the fear. But I do not absolutely have to be-
come afraid. It could also happen that I do not reject the snake, because I want
to study it as a biologist, for example, or perhaps because I just want to examine
it more closely. Thus it may be that the intellectual cognition is followed by an
approval of what I have cognized, which then elicits joy or curiosity. The crucial
point lies in the fact that the intellectual cognition that “inclines” my will, unlike
a sensual cognition, does not compel me to produce a certain emotion. Which
emotion I in fact produce depends on my approval or rejection. These in turn
are produced by the will. Hence the will is the actual cause of the emotion.
Ockham goes so far as to define the will as an absolutely free cause. Not
even the best possible knowledge can compel it to give its approval or rejection.
Although Ockham admits that it is difficult to prove this, he nonetheless writes,
following Duns Scotus, “This is obviously discernible from experience, namely
the fact that a person has the following experience: no matter how much reason
may prescribe something, the will can will it, not will it, or will nothing at all”
(Quodl. I.16; OTh IX, 88). Applying this statement to the example of the snake
gives us the following picture: Suppose I have not only a sensual but also an
intellectual cognition of the snake and apprehend it very accurately as a highly
venomous, dangerous animal. I also know very well that dangerous animals are
to be avoided. This knowledge, no matter how comprehensive and well founded
it is, cannot compel my will to reject the snake. Consequently, this knowledge
cannot necessarily make me become afraid. Thanks to my free will, I always
have the option of approving of the fact that a dangerous snake lies before me
and of finding it good. This in turn will make me glad, because exactly what
I will is the case.
As this example shows, Ockham insists that, although an intellectual cogni-
tion certainly can, and in many cases actually does, influence a volitive emotion,
it is nonetheless not determining. It can at most “incline” the will to produce
a rejection and hence fear. But ultimately, it is solely up to the will whether
it approves, rejects, or remains neutral. This has far-reaching consequences.
According to Ockham, a person cannot even be compelled to love God. Even
the best knowledge of God’s perfection cannot compel the will to will the orien-
tation toward God. Whether a person wants to relate to God as the best possible
object, and by that token loves him, depends solely on the person’s will (Ord.
I.1.6; OTh I, 504–505).
However, if no intellectual knowledge can induce, much less compel, the will
to give its agreement or rejection, and thus to produce a certain emotion, a sen-
sual emotion at least seems able to do so. If I am beaten, for example, and feel
109
a severe pain, I cannot do otherwise than reject this event. And if the beating
nonetheless continues, I cannot do otherwise than be angry about it. The same
is true of positive cases. If I eat something delicious and feel sensual pleasure,
I spontaneously approve (at least in the first moment, before I reflect on the
consequences of this feast). Is not the will determined at first by sensual events?
Ockham clearly answers this question too in the negative, again insisting on the
freedom the will:
One may suppose any intensity of enjoyment in the sensual appetitive
faculty, a determining cognition in the intellect, and other things condu-
cive to the act. It is still within the power of the will to produce an act of
willing, of not willing, or no act at all in relation to the object. And hence
one seems unable to give any other reason for this inclination of the will
than the nature of this kind of thing. This is made known to us by experi-
ence.” (QV VIII; OTh VIII, 448)
Thus no matter how severe a pain I feel, and no matter how persuasively I judge
that it is wrong and unjust to be beaten, my will is still free to relate to it pos-
itively, negatively, or neutrally. It is true that the probability is very high that
I will oppose the beating in view of the great physical suffering, but what is
probable is not necessary.
This is of course a strongly voluntaristic position that rejects any determina-
tion of the will by sensual or intellectual activities. To avoid misunderstanding,
it should be added here that it is not simply equivalent with an antirationalistic
position that completely depreciates intellectual cognition and leaves acts of vo-
lition (and thus emotions in the will) fully to the discretion of each person.
Ockham’s thesis is not that cognition plays no role, but that it plays no deter-
mining role. In his characterization of the volitive emotions, he explicitly writes
that they can be “directly or indirectly regulated by the right understanding”
(Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 187). That is, he grants that judgments and reflections can
(and often do) move us to acts of volition that then elicit certain emotions. His
point is merely that he disputes the existence of a mechanism by which an intel-
lectual cognition necessarily produces a certain act of volition and hence neces-
sarily elicits a certain emotion—what can be the case, and often is the case, need
not always and without exception be the case. Furthermore, he emphasizes what
Marilyn McCord Adams has rightly placed at the center of his theory of the
will: the accountability of acts of volition.54 Only those acts and states that are
freely produced by the will are those that are in its power and for which it can be
held accountable. If acts of volition were produced in the will by a mechanism,
as if at the push of a button, they would be, strictly speaking, not acts that the
will itself produces, and thus not something for which it can be held responsible.
10
This point must be underscored to rebut an objection that could be raised

here. Doesn’t the thesis that the free will is not determined by judgments and
reflections have the odd consequence that the freest people are those who arbi-
trarily will one thing on one occasion and another thing on another, because they
do not let themselves be guided by rational cognition? David Hume remarked
that it would be very odd indeed if madmen who pay no heed to anything or
anyone and will something for no comprehensible reason were the freest people
because they are the farthest removed from a rational compulsion.55 In taking
his position, doesn’t Ockham declare irrational or even arational people to be
the freest? Not at all, for such people would not be accountable subjects. To be
free, a person must be able to form judgments and weigh reasons against one
another. He must also be motivated—or, as Ockham himself puts it, “be in-
clined” [inclinatur]—by reasons to will or not will something. A madman who
cannot grasp reasons has no inclination to a certain willful choice. Yet it is im-
portant to distinguish between such an inclination and a compulsion. A person
who, like an automaton, reels off reasons that inescapably lead him to an act
of will is no more free than the madman. A free person is only one who has
reasons, yet is not determined by them, but at most prompted to an act of will.
This emphasis on undeterminedness illustrates once again why Ockham puts
such great weight on the real distinctness of the sensual and the rational souls.
In the sensual soul, sensual emotions are simply produced by natural processes.
It is true that they are elicited by cognitive acts and are thus different from other
natural processes, such as respiration and digestion. But they are always deter-
mined: when certain cognitive acts are present, certain sensual emotions inevi-
tably arise. In the rational soul, by contrast, completely different emotions arise,
namely those that are not determined by cognitive acts. They are prompted by
such acts, but produced, controlled, and sometimes even suppressed by free acts
of will. Hence we can apply normative categories to them such as accountability
and responsibility: whatever free will can do or omit to do is something it can
be held responsible for. That which can be normatively evaluated in this way
cannot be produced by the same entity as that which can be described at most as
a natural process. Hence there are two distinct souls: the sensual soul, in which
naturally determined emotions arise, and the rational soul, which produces
emotions that can be normatively evaluated.
2.5 Love, Enjoyment, and Voluntary Control

Ockham’s thesis that volitive emotions are produced by the free will was devel-
oped in a context that today seems foreign, indeed strange. He discussed it as
part of the theological debate on fruitio. That was the term in the late Middle
1
Ages for the particular emotion that a blessed soul feels when it sees God face to
face. Then it has unlimited love for the highest and most perfect being that one
can love. Because fruitio is a noninstrumental love—that is, God is loved for his
own sake—it is different from usus, an instrumental love with which an object
is always loved in regard to something else (such as one’s own welfare).56 This
definition of fruitio, which was familiar to all medieval authors since Augustine,
raises not only theological problems, but also philosophical ones. It raises the
question of what kind of emotion fruitio is: is it the highest love, or infinite
enjoyment, or both? The question also arises of how this emotion comes into
being. Is it elicited solely by the fact of seeing God? Does it require in addi-
tion some particular knowledge, such as the knowledge that God is the perfect
being? Or does it also require a particular act of volition, such as one by which
a blessed soul chooses its union with God as the perfect being? All of these
questions were discussed intensively by medieval authors beginning in the 12th
century, when Peter Lombard included the problem of fruitio in his Sentences, a
list of problems in Christian dogmatic theology. They formed a kind of gateway
to the structural analysis of emotions.
Thomas Aquinas offered an explanation for fruitio that proved influential in
later debates. He stated that it cannot be an emotion in the strict sense (i.e., a
passio) because no physical change is involved. A blessed soul is not sensually
affected by God and thus has no images of perception or imagination that could
elicit a sensual–appetitive state. Fruitio can therefore not be a real emotion.
Aquinas states further that fruitio is elicited by an act of cognition. The moment
a blessed soul discerns that God is the highest and perfect object, and that the
highest happiness consists in union with this object, the soul cannot do other-
wise than to relate to this object and to aspire to it. This is an activity of the in-
tellect, as Aquinas holds that “the best activity of a human being is an activity of
the highest faculty, namely the intellect, in relation to the most sublime object,
which is God” (In Sent. I 1.1). This intellectual activity immediately gives rise to
a volitive act, because that which is recognized to be the most sublime object is
immediately desired. It is critical for Aquinas that the activity of the will depend
on that of the intellect and in fact be determined by it. One can will only that
which is presented as an object of assent or refusal. And if an object is presented
as the best possible, the will must give its assent. The special constitution of the
intellectually recognized object determines the activity of the will.
Ockham distances himself from precisely this conception. First, he states
that not only sensual–appetitive states that coincide with a physical change
are emotions. Rational–appetitive states, which are not (or at least not always)
bound to the body, can also be genuine emotions, because in them too one can
relate to something that is discerned to be good or bad, and they too motivate
12
one to aspire to the good objects and avoid the bad. In fact, fruitio is a para-
digmatic state in this regard, because in fruitio the soul relates to an object that
is recognized as the best possible and decides in favor of uniting with it. Thus
it clearly has an intentional and a motivational aspect. This alone suffices in
Ockham’s eyes to characterize it as an emotion. A physical aspect may addi-
tionally be present but is not a necessary condition. This is clearly expressed
in Ockham’s general explanation of the passiones. There he writes that he
understands a passio as being “in brief, a form which is distinct from a cogni-
tion, exists subjectively in the appetitive faculty, and requires an actual cogni-
tion for its existence” (Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 186). The critical point here is that a
cognition is necessary for the production of a passio. As we saw in Section 2.4,
this can be a sensual or an intellectual cognition. The blessed soul has only an
intellectual cognition, which is produced by the immaterial intellectual soul. It
is not accompanied by a physical change, and it elicits an emotion that in turn
has no physical component.
Could we call this an intellectual emotion? This seems an obvious conclusion
to draw, and it would ascribe to Ockham an intellectualistic position, at least
in reference to the higher emotions. If we understand this term in the modern
sense, according to which intellectualists (or cognitivists) support the thesis that
emotions have a cognitive content with a propositional structure, it would be
correct to ascribe it to Ockham. For Ockham claims that higher emotions re-
quire an intellectual cognition that consists in the apprehension of mental terms
and sentences. Thus the blessed soul, to have a fruitio, must believe that God is
the perfect being, that the highest happiness consists in union with this being,
etc. The blessed soul’s emotion thus presupposes the apprehension of a propo-
sitional content. In this view, Ockham is certainly an intellectualist. However,
if we take into account the medieval distinction between intellectualists and
voluntarists, he does not hold an intellectualistic position. For in Ockham’s view,
the intellectual cognition can be only a necessary condition, but not a sufficient
condition, for the emergence of fruitio. In addition, the will must also become
active and assent to or refuse what has been cognized. But the will is not deter-
mined by the intellectual cognition. Unlike Aquinas, Ockham does not claim
that the will must assent to that object that has been recognized as the best. He
writes very clearly that “the will acts freely and contingently in relation to any
object” (Ord. I.1.2; OTh I, 399), including an object that has been recognized as
the best possible. In terms of the concrete case at hand, this means that a blessed
soul that has recognized God as the highest and perfect being is not compelled
to assent to uniting with that being. Consequently, it is not compelled to love
that being. It is free to refuse its assent and thus not to produce the emotion that
seems inevitable in this situation.
13
This point underscores once more how central for Ockham the freedom of the
will is, and with it the undeterminedness of every volitive emotion—even the love
of God, which seems to impose itself. Ockham explains this undeterminedness
in precise terms by referring to the absence of two compulsions (Ord. I.1.6; OTh
I, 501). First, there is no external compulsion, as there is no external entity (not
even God) that could compel a human being to assent to and to love the best
possible object. Second, there is no internal compulsion, as the will is not a fac-
ulty that is determined to produce a certain act in the presence of a certain intel-
lectual cognition. It is not subject to any mechanism that compels it to respond
to the cognition of the best possible object with assent and hence with love. As
a free faculty, the will always has the options of assenting to, refusing, or being
neutral toward the object. That is why Ockham writes “that someone who sees
the divine being and does not yet have a beatific love is able not to want that
love.” (Ord. I.1.6; OTh I, 505).
From a theological viewpoint, this is of course a significant thesis. From the
fact that human beings, by virtue of a natural order, are oriented toward God and
able to recognize him as the highest being, it does not follow at all, according to
Ockham, that human beings cannot do otherwise than love God. They are not
mere puppets in which the cognition of God automatically elicits love. Whether
or not a person wants to turn to God and love him is up to each individual. This
thesis is equally important from a philosophical viewpoint, however, because it
illustrates that Ockham refutes what we may call cognitive determination. Even
the perfect cognition, which is purely intellectual in nature and not impaired by
any illusion or distortion, does not determine an act of volition and hence does
not determine any emotion.
Let us suppose someone has a complete cognizance of God and has also de-
cided to assent to union with God. What is then the fruitio that results from
this volitive act: is it a particular kind of love, an enjoyment, or something
else? Ockham discusses this question in great detail, and critically examines
the position of Peter Aureol, an author who commented on the Sentences in
Paris shortly before him. According to Aureol, fruitio is an emotion that always
contains love [dilectio] and enjoyment [delectatio].57 It has two aspects: an as-
piration to the cognized and willed object, and an abiding or coming to rest in
this object. What this means can be illustrated by a simple example. Suppose
someone is still far from the state of bliss and regards not God, but another
person as an excellent partner and wants to be together with her. Then the emo-
tion that this person feels has two aspects. First, it has a dynamic aspect, be-
cause this person concentrates on the other, aspires to her, and would like as
much as possible to be together with her always. He longs for her when he is
separated from her and does his utmost to be with her again. At the same time,
14
however, his emotion also has a static aspect because, when he actually is with
the other person, he savors that togetherness. He does not will anything fur-
ther, but simply enjoys this moment. According to Aureol, fruitio encompasses
both aspects, because a person who sees God concentrates on him and wants
to be united with him always (this is dilectio), but also enjoys this moment (and
herein consists delectatio).
It is precisely this conception that Ockham opposes. He sees here not simply
two aspects of an emotion, but two really distinct emotions (Ord. I.1.3; OTh
I, 413). The first emotion is love, which consists in nothing other than the act
of will by which a person concentrates on God as the best possible object and
would like to be united with him. The second emotion is the enjoyment that is
ordinarily elicited by this act of will and that consists in a person savoring the
union with God. But what is ordinarily the case need not always and without ex-
ception be the case. It could also be that a person concentrates only on an object
but feels no enjoyment. Ockham offers an example to illustrate this (Ord. I.1.3;
OTh I, 408). The devil concentrates on human beings and wants to be united
with them, but he feels no enjoyment in it. He rushes from one person to the
next, but he never comes to rest and hence can never savor being together with a
person. The blissful soul is a different matter: it concentrates on God and enjoys
the union with God. But the fact that concentration on an object can in prin-
ciple occur without enjoyment shows that these are not two aspects of an emo-
tion, but two distinct states: the blissful soul feels love and enjoyment.
Why does Ockham insist on the real distinctness of these two emotions?
He is not simply concerned with the special case of the devil who is incapable
of enjoyment. We could also say that this case presents a deficient form of love
and that every true form of love (including fruitio) always encompasses concen-
tration on an object and enjoyment of it. Rather, Ockham uses the example of
the devil to demonstrate a structural difference between two types of emotions.
There are active emotions that a person produces by willing something and pur-
posely concentrating on something. The devil is just as much capable of this as
any human being. And there are also passive emotions that happen to a person
the moment he gets what he wills. To have such an emotion, however, he must
have a certain disposition. Only someone who can abide and come to rest with
an object is disposed to enjoy something. Because the devil lacks this disposi-
tion, he cannot enjoy anything. The blissful human being is a different matter.
He can indeed come to rest and enjoy the union with God. This state is not
produced actively by him, but simply ensues the moment he is united with God.
For Ockham, this has a consequence for the classification of emotions. He
claims that we must distinguish between two kinds of emotions at the level of
the will (Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 187). Some are active states [actus], others are
15
passive states [passiones]. Among the active states, Ockham mentions love, hate,
hope, fear, and joy. These consist in nothing other than volitive states by which
we concentrate on good objects and avoid bad objects. Among the passive states
are enjoyment and sadness. They ensue from the active states and are immedi-
ately elicited when we have attained the good or bad objects and have a suitable
disposition. Thus enjoyment immediately ensues from a person’s love when this
person is united with a good object he has aspired to. Conversely, aversion or
sadness ensues immediately from hate when a person is confronted with the
bad, rejected object.
If we now put together all the elements that Ockham mentions in his anal-
ysis of the volitive emotions, the following explanation of the genesis of these
emotions arises. Ordinarily, the presence of a good or bad object is the eliciting
factor.58 It is not the object alone that elicits an emotion, however, but the cog-
nizance of it. In the case of an intellectual cognition, a person has a mental sen-
tence in which he judges the good or bad object. But even this cognition doesn’t
in itself elicit an emotion, even if it is a complete and nonillusory cognition.
The will too must become active and give its assent or refusal to the object. If a
person gives his assent to a good object, he concentrates on this object and is in
the positive emotional state of love. If he is then united with the object, enjoy-
ment ensues, without an additional act of volition being necessary. Conversely,
if a person gives a bad object his refusal, he is in the negative emotional state of
hate. If he then encounters this object, aversion or sadness ensues, again without
an additional act of volition being necessary.
Ockham does not explain the genesis of every single emotion in detail.
Furthermore, unlike Thomas Aquinas, he does not draw up a taxonomy of dif-
ferent kinds of emotions. He contents himself with showing, with reference to
the example of fruitio, what function the will has and what the distinction be-
tween active and passive emotions signifies. Consequently, some interpreters
have been disappointed by the lack of detail and the deficiency in the systematic
treatment of various theories of the emotions.59 But we can also see in Ockham’s
failure to spell out the various types a special feature of his approach. Ockham
does not want to commit himself to the proposition that there are exactly eleven
basic types, as Aquinas thought. His intention is not to draw up a fixed cat-
alog of basic emotions, but only to indicate the basic structure of the volitive
emotions.60 We can examine case by case how this structure is manifested in
detail. The emotion of fruitio is for Ockham only a kind of showcase example
in which this structure can be shown in an especially distinct form. In other
words, this case shows clearly that it would be inappropriate to seek the eliciting
factor of a “higher” emotion solely in intellectual cognition. It would be equally
inappropriate to look at only the active emotions. In this way Ockham is able
16
to point out central structural characteristics that can also be identified in other
cases. We can illustrate this by returning to the example presented at the begin-
ning of this chapter of the Stoic philosopher who encounters a storm during a
sea voyage. How must we explain this case in the light of Ockham’s theory?
To begin with, it is clear that the philosopher has a sensual emotion that is
elicited by the sensory impressions of heavy seas and the roaring nose. This
emotion is a sensual fear, which is unavoidable: the sensory impressions nec-
essarily elicit a sensual cognition, which in turn necessarily elicits a sensual
emotion. But the philosopher is also able to form judgments about his situa-
tion and the threat presented by the storm, and to appraise the value, or lack
thereof, of his own life. This produces in him an intellectual cognition in which
an object—such as the loss of his own life—is presented. Now his will can take
a neutral, refusing, or assenting position toward this object. If it remains neu-
tral, it produces the emotional state of equanimity. If it refuses the object, it
produces the state of volitive fear. This is followed by the state of anxiety or
terror, which inevitably ensues as death comes closer. If the will assents to the
object (an option that may appear unreasonable, but that is always available to
the free will), it produces volitive joy, which is followed by enjoyment as the
willed event becomes more tangible.
As this example shows, Ockham’s general structural description offers an ex-
planatory model that allows us to distinguish different kinds of emotions in a
single situation. Of course, the question immediately arises of how the control-
lability and changeability of emotions can be explained in this model. Which
emotions are controllable at all, and how can control take place? To begin with,
it is clear that the sensual emotions cannot be directly controlled because they
are elicited by sensual acts of cognition, which are determining causes. Ockham
writes unequivocally that these are “involuntary states of the sensual–appetitive
faculty” that are not under our control (Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 188). He mentions
the examples of fear and anger, which immediately seize us when we sensually
apprehend something. However, at least an indirect control is possible in these
cases: the will can become active and direct our attention, thus exercising an in-
fluence on the source of the sensual cognition. Ockham calls the will “the cause
of the cause” in this case (Rep. III.3; OT VI, 411). What this means can also be
illustrated by the example of the Stoic philosopher. As long as he watches the
heavy seas, he cannot do otherwise than to feel sensual fear. But he can volun-
tarily decide to stop looking at the water, go belowdecks, and look only at the
wall of his cabin. Then his will causes a changed sensual cognition, which in turn
causes a changed sensual emotion. The critical point here is that the will cannot
switch the fear on or off as if at the push of a button. It can, however, influence
the conditions under which the fear arises, thus exercising an indirect control.
17
An indirect control is also possible on the level of the volitive emotions, be-
cause the cognitions that elicit these emotions too can be controlled and pos-
sibly changed. Thus the Stoic philosopher can bring himself, by an act of will, to
evaluate the situation aboard the ship exactly, and so may form new judgments
that motivate new emotions. It is important that judgments only motivate, or—
as explained in Section 2.4—make a person only “inclined” to produce an emo-
tion, but do not determine an emotion. Even the best cognition of the danger of
death cannot make the philosopher determined to reject his impending death
and thus to incur volitive fear, just as the best cognition of God’s perfection
cannot determine the blessed soul to concentrate on and to love God.
For Ockham, however, the direct control that is exercised by the will is much
more decisive than the indirect control. This direct control consists in the fact
that the will can decide in each individual case whether to assent, refuse, or
remain neutral. Even if an emotion seems to impose itself by certain sensual
impressions and intellectual judgments, the will can refuse its assent and thus
not produce the emotion that seems necessary. Ockham emphasizes repeatedly
that the will is absolutely free and gives a succinct example to demonstrate this
(Rep. III.11; OTh VI, 357–358). If a person has long loved another and has the
best reasons to continue loving her, he can nonetheless hate her. Neither his
prior love nor the good reasons to go on loving determine him. Ockham does
concede that the sudden hate has unpleasant consequences: “After such an act
[of hate], he has pangs of conscience which, it seems, are nothing other than
a certain sadness that has taken hold in the will by its producing an act which
contradicts the inclination which was acquired by the correct rational under-
standing” (Rep. III.11; OTh VI, 358). Thus one who suddenly hates his partner,
although he would be quite disposed to love her by a long life together and
knowledge of her merits, is sad about it. A meta-emotion spontaneously arises
in him, for he is sad about his own hate. Thus Ockham does in fact admit that
an emotion that is formed against one’s own inclination has negative side effects.
He nonetheless maintains that it is possible to contravene one’s own inclination
and the best cognition. The will is always free and hence can always change its
emotions by refusing its assent.
This decidedly voluntaristic conception raises two objections, however. First,
the question arises as to why someone should reflect on the appropriateness
of her emotions if they are ultimately determined, and possibly changed, only
by an arbitrary decision of the will. Why should a person question whether he
in fact has good reasons to go on loving his partner if the will can ultimately
produce an act of hate regardless of these reasons? Does not Ockham’s volun-
taristic position have the consequence of devaluing intellectual activities and
attributing changes in emotions to erratic, practically irrational decisions of the
18
will? Second, the question also arises as to how a person can develop emotional
stability if the will is completely free at every moment to produce one emotion
or another. It seems as if a person could arbitrarily sometimes love and some-
times hate a partner without having any lasting emotional bond. That seems
to be so even in the extreme case of the love of God. If the will is always free,
a person can produce love and hate alternately even when he sees God face to
face. Nothing seems to obligate him to a lasting fruitio.
Let us first examine the first problem. As we noted at the end of Section 2.4,
Ockham’s voluntarism is not meant to imply an irrationalism. He does not hold
the view that intellectual reflections play no part in the genesis and change of
emotions. His thesis is rather that they only play a part, and that the part played
by the will should not be overlooked. A person may think as long as he wants
about what merits his partner has and what good reasons he has to go on loving
her. In the end, if he does not commit himself to his partner by an act of will,
he will not go on loving her. This does not mean, however, that he should not
carefully reflect on what reasons there are in favor of his love and what reasons
against it. For the more good reasons he has, the more inclined he will be to go
on committing himself to his partner. Ockham’s point is not that he would de-
value the intellectual activities that lead to ascertaining these reasons, but that
he carefully distinguishes between an inclination and a compulsion. It is one
thing to be highly inclined or disposed to commit to a certain emotion, and an-
other thing to have no choice and be compelled to the emotion. The same can
be said of the problem of controlling and changing emotions. It is one thing to
be disposed by reflection to change an existing emotion, and another thing to be
compelled to such a change. This can be illustrated by a variation of Ockham’s
own example. Suppose the person who has loved his partner for years comes
to the realization that he has been repeatedly betrayed and abused by her. Then
he would have every reason to stop loving her and to leave her. Nonetheless,
he is not compelled to do so. He can decide after careful deliberation to stay
with her, and in fact can decide against his good reasons. Good reasons can at
most dispose a person to change an emotion; they cannot compel him to do so.
Ockham takes this fact into account when he notes, in the explanation previ-
ously quoted, that the emotions can be “regulated directly or indirectly by right
understanding” (Quodl. II.17; OTh IX, 187). Apparently they can be changed
by appropriate reflections, but need not be. Whether they are in fact changed
depends on whether the will actually orients itself after the good reasons and
gives its assent or rejection in light of those reasons.
This exacerbates the second problem, however. How can there be an emo-
tional stability if even the appropriate reflections do not constantly have to
produce a certain emotion? Ockham solves this problem by appealing to the
19
virtues. By these he means, unlike Thomas Aquinas, not intellectual virtues, but
volitive virtues. Such virtues are “habits of the will”: in other words, habits ac-
quired through the repeated exercise of acts of volition (Rep. III.11; OTh VI,
358–366; Quodl. III.18; OTh IX, 273).61 If a person repeatedly performs an act
of voluntary assent the moment he discerns an object and evaluates it as good,
he acquires the habit of giving this object his assent for the future as well. This
results in a constant emotional attitude. In reference to fruitio, this means that a
blessed soul need not decide over and over again to assent to being united with
God and hence to love Him. If he has repeatedly given his assent, the habit of
constantly loving God arises in him. Thus there is not simply a succession of
individual acts, much less an alternating succession of acts of love and hate. Of
course, here too the principle holds that the habit has no determining character.
A person who has formed the habit of giving his assent to union with God is not
compelled to give it again in the future. Although it is very probable and psy-
chologically almost inevitable that he will continue to give it, it is not necessary.
In principle, a habit can be broken.
For Ockham, virtues as acquired habits have not only a stabilizing, but also
a corrective function. It is the virtues that allow us to produce new emotions or
to change existing ones. “It is the role of virtue,” he writes, “to arouse emotions
at the time and place where it is necessary, for virtue can be the partial cause of
an emotion by means of an act that elicits it” (Rep. III.12; OTh IX, 417). Virtue
has this function in regard to both the “lower” and the “higher” emotions. Let us
first examine an example of the “lower” emotions, which are elicited by sensual
cognition. Suppose a person is seized by panic and fear at the sight of spiders.
If this person is virtuous, he has acquired the habit of not allowing himself to
be overpowered by a few impressions, but instead taking as many impressions
as possible into account. He wants to examine the spiders in their environ-
ment, wants to observe their harmless movements, and inspect their elegant
spiderwebs. This act of will leads him to increase his set of visual impressions, by
which he acquires a changed sensual cognition, which in turn elicits a changed
emotion. The crucial point is that he does not make a single isolated decision
for this act of will. Rather, it is elicited in him by an acquired habit. Hence his
habit is a partial cause, alongside the individual sensory impressions, for the
changed emotion.
Something similar can be said of the “higher” emotions, for which intellec-
tual cognitions and acts of volition are necessary. A virtuous person does not
limit himself to spontaneously appearing judgments and appraisals. He wants
to carry out numerous reflections, revise existing judgments as appropriate, and
so arrive at a different appraisal, which in turn gives rise to a different emotion.
For example, if he discovers that his partner has betrayed him, he does not let
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this judgment alone move him to hate. He wants to take other judgments into
account as well, and to reach a balanced appraisal. Only on the basis of this ap-
praisal does he then form an emotion.
By this time I may hope it has become clear that Ockham’s overall theory of
the emotions is embedded in a theory of the will. Furthermore, his concept of
the will is markedly different from that which was anchored in the Aristotelian
tradition—notably that of Thomas Aquinas. I may conclude by pointing out
a central difference. For Aquinas, the critical point is that the will is an active
faculty that allows a human being to concentrate on something and to choose
something. But the will does not choose arbitrarily: it chooses what the intellect
presents as something good and worthy of aspiring to. Thus Aquinas writes that
“the intellect moves the will, because the recognized good is the will’s object;
it moves the will as its goal” (STh I.82.4). That is, the intellect determines what
the will is to concentrate on, and therefore acts as a final cause. This does not
mean that the will is fixed upon a single goal from the outset. Often the intel-
lect presents several things as good objects worthy of aspiration.62 A process of
comparing and evaluating is then necessary until the object to be aspired to in
a specific situation has been determined. Once this process is completed, how-
ever, the will is fixed on this object. It is then a kind of moved mover, because
it moves a person to choose a certain object, but is itself moved by the intellect
to concentrate on that exact object as its goal. Hence the will cannot orient it-
self toward an object arbitrarily or randomly. In the process of comparing and
evaluating various objects, the intellect invokes reasons why the will must orient
itself toward and choose a certain object. Ordinarily—that is, when a weakness
of the will is not present—the will chooses that object that is favored by the best
reasons.
In Ockham, the role of the will is different. As we have seen in the course of
this chapter, he denies that the will must choose that object that is judged, in an
intellectual process of reflection and comparison, to be the best possible object.
Consequently, he also denies that the object favored by the best reasons must be
chosen and loved in a volitive emotion. The will is free not to choose this object,
or to refrain from all choice. Ockham explains this freedom as follows:
By freedom I mean a power by which I can determine diverse things in-
differently and contingently, so that I can cause or not cause the same ef-
fect without any difference existing outside the power. (Quodl. I.16; OTh
IX, 87)
If the will is such a free power, it can choose or not choose something, without
any different conditions existing outside it—in the intellect for example. Thus it
makes no difference whether good or bad reasons favor the choice of an object.
12
Such reasons are found in the intellect by reflection and are located outside the
will.63 The will can choose or not choose an object regardless of these reasons.
For the volitive emotions, this means that the will can love or not love an object
regardless of any evaluation. It is then a kind of unmoved mover, which is not
fixed on an object by the intellect, but fixes itself, freely and without constraint.
This has already become clear in the discussion of fruitio: the will can decide not
to choose union with God and not to love God, even if the best reasons support
choosing God.
But then what is responsible for the will’s decision in favor of one thing or
the other? One answer might be: a certain habit that has been acquired by the
repeated occurrence of individual decisions and an inclination that has ensued
from intellectual reflection. Both play a certain role for Ockham, but he none-
theless does not claim that habit and inclination determine the will. Even a
person who has an extremely strong inclination to love God because of a cog-
nition of him is not determined to do so. What is then responsible for the will’s
choice? Nothing but the will itself. As an unmoved mover, it fixes itself on an
object and thus on an emotion. Of course, this means that there is ultimately
no explanation for the will’s choice. For Ockham, the choice can be made at
most in accord with good reasons, but not compelled by them. To overstate it
somewhat, that means: the will chooses something because, as a free faculty, it
so wills. Calvin Normore has pointed out that a radically new conception of the
will makes its appearance here. Whereas Aquinas and many other Aristotelians
see the will as choosing something for good reasons, for Ockham the free will
simply picks an object—with or without good reasons.64
This has significant consequences for the theory of the emotions. If an act of
volition is always necessary for the higher emotions, and this act comes about
through mere picking, then the emotions are ultimately not explicable with ref-
erence to a well-founded choice. Ockham’s voluntaristic approach turns out to
be an almost Existentialist approach: we have certain emotions because we au-
tonomously so will—freely and contingently.
12
123
Michel de Montaigne
A Skeptical View of Emotions
3.1 A Theoretical Approach?

The theories discussed up to now differ significantly from one another in their
explanations of the genesis and structure of emotions, but they have an assump-
tion in common: talking about emotions makes sense only in the context of
a general theory of the soul and its faculties, because only in this context can
we discuss the question as to which faculty emotions should be ascribed—the
sensual, the volitive, or some other faculty?—and what causal connections
there must be between the faculties for emotions to arise at all. Furthermore,
in spite of all their divergences, Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, and
William of Ockham agree in one methodological point: only when emotions are
demarcated from other psychic phenomena and defined, if possible, can they be
accurately grasped and described in regard to their essential components. And
only then can they be sensibly classified and compared with one another and
with other psychic phenomena.
In the 16th century, the theoretical models of the Aristotelian-scholastic
authors were discussed extensively, and in parts criticized and modified.1 In this
context, one might have expected Montaigne, who withdrew to his castle in 1571
and worked on the Essays until his death in 1592, to examine these debates thor-
oughly and to seek in his turn for a definition and classification of the emotions
as part of a theory of the soul. But such an expectation would be disappointed.
Montaigne was not interested in a theory of the soul and its faculties. He wrote
tersely, “We cannot distinguish the faculties of men; they have divisions and
boundaries that are delicate and hard to determine” (III.9, 759 b).2 Nor does
Montaigne attempt to define the emotions and to classify them by precisely
stipulated criteria. He doesn’t even try to identify individual types of emotions,
differentiating them from other types in regard to essential characteristics, even
though he devotes whole essays to them. Thus one essay is titled “Of Fear,” but
Montaigne does not open it with any definition or analysis of fear. He merely
remarks that it is “a strange passion” and then recounts a number of stories (I.18,
52 a). When the city of Rome was militarily conquered, a standard-bearer was
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124
so taken with fear that he ran through a breach in the wall toward the enemy,
but then, discovering his error, he turned around and came back unharmed.
Another standard-bearer also ran out but was killed by the enemy. A gentleman
at the same siege was so severely seized with fear that his heart froze and he fell
dead without being wounded by the enemy at all. Montaigne adds many more
stories, anecdotes, and historic accounts, but he never goes beyond the descrip-
tion of individual cases to arrive at a general definition of fear; much less does
he undertake the attempt to evaluate the individual cases in light of a theory
on the origins and physical manifestations of fear. He seems content simply to
arrange them one after another like pearls on a string. He accepts the risk that
inconsistencies may occur. He introduces his narration of the individual cases
with a quotation from Virgil that portrays a person in fear as unable to speak
or move. Why then do the examples that follow describe persons who run away
in fear? Is fear an emotion that elicits inertia or the contrary, physical motion?
And is the given physical behavior a necessary or a contingent manifestation of
fear? The text contains no answers to these questions. Montaigne seems to avoid
exactly what one would expect of a theoretical examination of the phenomenon
of fear in light of the late medieval debates: the development of a consistent
explanatory model applicable to many individual cases and permitting a struc-
tural description.
In view of this procedure, the question arises of whether it is appropriate at all
to look to Montaigne for a theory of the emotions. True, the vivid descriptions
of individual cases can be amusing and insightful. The skillful selection and in-
terconnection of quotations from various literary and historic sources may also
be a shrewd narrative strategy: Montaigne makes use of a sophisticated collage
technique.3 But, looked at from a philosophical perspective, this technique has
the consequence that the heterogeneous, sometimes contradictory, quotations
make it impossible to develop a unified theory. Montaigne is aware of this. He
quite candidly disclaims any pretensions to present a philosophical theory,
saying concisely, “I am no philosopher” (III.9, 725 c). He also writes that he
describes only his own readings, experiences, and opinions, with no aspirations
to develop an objective theory. In a word, he unabashedly takes a subjective po-
sition, making himself the measure of all things. In the famous, often-quoted
address to the reader, he straightforwardly admits, “Thus, reader, I am myself
the matter of my book; you would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so
frivolous and vain a subject.” (I, 2 a; cf. II.8, 278 a; II.18, 504 c). Why then should
we study the Essays, unless what we seek is an autobiographical approach to a
southern French provincial nobleman and his textual collages?
His first readers in the 16th and 17th centuries asked themselves the same
question.4 Pierre Charron, an admirer of Montaigne, thought there was indeed
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Michel de Montaigne 125
a consistent theory behind the author’s disparate quotations and personal

remarks. It was only up to the reader to establish a systematic order and suitable
classifications, and to introduce conceptual distinctions and a thematic organi-
zation. That makes it possible, Charron said, to distill from Montaigne’s seem-
ingly subjective descriptions an objective theory that can be communicated
clearly and understandably. The lack of a theoretical perspective, he wrote, is a
problem rather of literary presentation than of philosophical substance.5 Nicolas
Malebranche, by contrast, arrived at a negative answer by a very different ar-
gumentation. He saw in the Essays a fundamental lack of general principles,
rational reflection, and arguments, and hence a lack of philosophical sub-
stance. Montaigne is only chattering and demonstrating nothing, Malebranche
wrote; in his vanity, he writes constantly about himself, both his strengths
and his weaknesses. Malebranche was indignant in his accusation against
Montaigne: “Thus it is vanity on Montaigne’s part, an indiscreet and ridicu-
lous vanity, to speak flatteringly of himself at all times. But this author has the
still more extravagant vanity of describing his faults.”6 To make philosophical
progress, one must first free oneself from this vanity and look beyond oneself,
Malebranche wrote. Only then can we gain an insight into general principles
and structures—especially in regard to the emotions. It is not important which
literary examples of fearful, angry, joyful, or other persons one knows, nor how
one personally experiences emotions. The crucial questions are rather what the
fundamental characteristics of emotions are and what mechanisms bring them
about. One must therefore attempt to describe the emotions as objectively as
possible and not simply make oneself the topic of essayistic observations.7
Thus there seem to be two ways of approaching Montaigne: either we can
construct as far as possible an ordered theory based on the unordered text and
take the statement “I am no philosopher” as a mere gesture of modesty; or we
can take the statement at face value and expect at most a literary benefit, not a
philosophical, systematic gain, from reading the Essays. Both of these strategies
have been pursued time and again, and I purposely avoid both in this chapter.
My intention is rather to show that the apparently tangled text does in fact have
philosophical substance, but not in the sense that it contains a concealed theory
that could be made visible by a suitable presentation. Rather, the seemingly
disordered presentation is an expression of a skeptical method that is aimed
at destabilizing theoretical models, including those developed in Aristotelian-
scholastic debates on the emotions. But for all his skepticism, Montaigne does
not abandon all philosophical pretensions. He only distances himself from a
dogmatic philosophical attitude and sees himself as a skeptical philosopher
approaching dogmatism as if it were a disease to be cured. In this intention
he takes the position of a therapeutic philosopher, one who does not call for
126
rational control or extermination of the emotions, but advocates accepting and

experiencing the emotions in a certain way. To clarify this position, we begin
by taking a metatheoretical perspective, asking how Montaigne appraises the
status of philosophical theories and what methodological tools he applies to un-
dermine their dogmatic claims. Then we can go on in a second step to analyze
individual cases in which he applies the skeptical method to the discussion of
the emotions, and what consequences ensue for the explanation of individual
emotions—for example, sadness, fear, and anger. We will pay special attention
to the effects of the antidogmatic treatment on the appraisal of Aristotelian
theories of the emotions, for Aristotle is, in Montaigne’s words, “the prince of
dogmatists” (II.12, 376 a). Third and finally, we will examine more closely how
the problem of control and alterability of the emotions, which was seen by the
Aristotelians as a particularly central one, can be analyzed from a skeptical
point of view.
The study of Montaigne is profitable because it provides a counterpoint to
the dogmatically oriented analyses of his predecessors and challenges us to re-
flect on what status a theory of the emotions has per se, and not just on the
persuasiveness of one theory or another. Furthermore, Montaigne is also sig-
nificant in regard to his successors. The Essays mark the beginning of the cen-
tury of the moralists, a succession of French authors (including François de La
Rochefoucauld and Blaise Pascal) who by no means attempted to establish moral
theories, but devoted themselves to a careful study of mores, conceiving of the
emotions as expressions of diverse, culturally varied forms of life.8 Montaigne
developed the methodological framework that the moralists adopted. If we want
to understand what is characteristic of the moralists’ approach (and what their
critics, notably Descartes, found objectionable in it), we must look primarily at
this framework, and not just at individual statements.
3.2 Dynamic Pyrrhonism
Hellenistic philosophy experienced a great revival in the 16th century thanks
to numerous new translations from the Greek. Pyrrhonism proved particularly
influential, spreading rapidly and attracting considerable attention primarily
thanks to the activity of the translators Henri Estienne (who published Sextus
Empiricus’ Outlines of Pyrrhonism in Latin in 1562) and Gentian Hervet (whose
translation of Adversus mathematicos was added to that of the Outlines in 1569).9
Montaigne was quite familiar with this skeptical current. In the “Apology for
Raymond Sebond,” by far the longest of the Essays, he presents it in detail, laying
special emphasis on the Pyrrhonian method. What are the characteristics of that
method? Sextus Empiricus, Montaigne’s chief source, describes it as follows:
127
Skepticism is an ability [dynamis] to set out oppositions among things

which appear and are thought of in any way at all, an ability by which,
because of the equipollence [isostheneia] in the opposed objects and ac-
counts, we come first to suspension of judgment [epoche] and afterwards
to tranquility [ataraxia].10
The skeptical method that is then presented can be briefly summarized in four
steps as follows:
1. The skeptic collects all kinds of phenomena and opinions and sets them
opposite one another. These are not opinions that the skeptic holds, but
opinions that are held by anyone or that could be held by someone. They
can include everyday opinions as well as theoretical opinions. They are
set opposite one another so that they contradict each other. They do not
necessarily have to form a logical contradiction. It is sufficient that they
are incompatible and cannot be reconciled with one another. There is no
special prior knowledge or special talent that enables the skeptic to collect
and oppose the opinions; he is able to do so thanks to a natural ability that
every healthy person has.
2. Setting opinions in opposition to one another implies finding an equally
plausible counteropinion for each opinion and recognizing the equiva-
lence of the respective opinions. This does not mean that the opinions
opposite to one another are in fact equivalent or can be judged equivalent
from an objective point of view. It is only necessary that they subjectively
appear equivalent: one appears just as plausible as the other to the person
who collects opinions on some everyday or academic question.
3. The determination of equivalence leads to hesitation in regard to the ques-
tion of which opinion is correct, and hence to a suspension of judgment.
If every opinion is balanced against a contrary opinion, we can no longer
claim that only one opinion and not the other should be upheld. We can
then only describe an abundance of opinions, but not affirm any of them
ourselves.
4. The moment we suspend our personal judgment, we are no longer under
pressure to adhere to a certain opinion and defend it against objections. In
this way we attain a state of intellectual serenity or peace of mind. This is
not a state that is purposely induced, but one that arises of itself. For, just
as light is always accompanied by shadow, the suspension of judgment is
inevitably followed by peace of mind.
Thus the application of the Pyrrhonian method allows us to overcome

opinions. This clearly distinguishes it from later skeptical methods, especially
128
that applied by Descartes in the “First Meditation.” The famous method of

doubt leads to the conclusion that knowledge of the material world and of one’s
own body is no longer possible, yet the possibility of opinions is unaffected.11
As a doubter, Descartes certainly does continue to hold opinions, and prima-
rily the fundamental opinion that his own thinking cannot be doubted. The
Pyrrhonian method is more radical in comparison. It affects all opinions, in-
cluding the skeptic’s opinions of his own thinking.12 The moment he reaches
the point of suspending judgment, he must cease to profess the opinion that
something is beyond doubt. He can describe only what momentarily appears to
him undoubtable. All statements without exception must then be prefaced with
the qualifying clause “It seems to me . . . . ”13 This makes the Pyrrhonian skeptic
serene, because, unlike the Cartesian skeptic, he no longer has to propose an
opinion as fundamental and affirm or defend it by argument.
But how is the Pyrrhonian skeptic supposed to lead a life when he has over-
come all opinions [dogmata], thus becoming an antidogmatist? We can carry
out an action only if we have an opinion, however trivial it may be. For example,
a person can take bread and feed himself only if he has the opinion that bread
is a suitable food and if he also has the opinion that bread is there for him to
take. Is the skeptic not doomed to starve for lack of any opinion? Not at all.
There are two attitudes toward opinions that must be carefully distinguished.14
On the one hand, we can have an opinion and uphold it, giving it our assent.
A person who sees bread before him, for example, would then say, “I give my
assent that there is bread here, and I uphold this as my opinion.” In this sense,
the skeptic has no opinion, not even such a simple, everyday opinion, because
after his suspension of judgment he renounces all such assent. But we can also
have an opinion without assenting to it, and indeed without making any as-
sertion in regard to truth, by simply receiving something that is quasi forced
upon us because of sensory impressions. A person who sees bread before him
can say, “Because of what is immediately present to me, I cannot do otherwise
than to opine that there is bread here. That simply suggests itself. But I make no
assertions. If something else is immediately present and something else suggests
itself, I am perfectly willing to change my opinion.” In this sense, the skeptic
can have opinions after all, and hence can act.15 In technical terms, he then has
nonassertoric opinions, which are merely expressions of certain impressions,
and thus forms of “It seems to me . . . .”
Sextus maintains that a skeptic cannot only live using the sensually imposed
opinions but can also lead his life simply by submitting to nature, that is, by
following his natural ability of perceiving, feeling, and thinking, and also by
following traditional customs and laws and accepting instruction in techniques
(PH I.11, 23). Thus he can live in peace with his neighbors, for example, and
129
refrain from striking them not because he upholds the opinion that one ought
not to strike one’s neighbors (after all, there may be an equivalent opposite to
this moral opinion), but simply because it is customary in his environment not
to strike neighbors and because this custom has proved itself. If there is also a
law prohibiting violence against neighbors, the skeptic follows it, and not be-
cause he assents to it (after all, in other states there may be other laws that are
equivalent), but once again only because it is imposed by his social surround-
ings. The skeptic acts in accordance with the law, not out of a conviction in favor
of the law. The matter of instruction in techniques is analogous. If the skeptic
becomes a baker, for example, and learns how to bake bread, he acts in accord-
ance with instruction in the craft, and not out of a conviction that bread must be
baked in such and such a way. Nonetheless, he can of course take up the baker’s
profession. Thus he can lead a complete personal and professional life, just as a
person does who has assertoric opinions and is hence a dogmatist. The two do
not differ in their observable actions, but in their motivation: whereas the dog-
matist acts because of opinions, the skeptic carries out acts in accordance with
opinions that are sometimes imposed and sometimes traditional and socially
established.
Overcoming opinions is by no means an intellectual trick, nor is it driven
by a purely theoretical interest in the equivalence of opinions. Rather, the
Pyrrhonian skeptic is guided by a practical interest. He wants to treat himself
by freeing himself of opinions, but he also wants to cure the illness of dogma-
tism in his fellow human beings who are fixated on certain opinions in their
day-to-day lives as well as in academic disputes. Hence Sextus compares the
skeptic to a physician (PH III.31, 280). Just as a physician administers a stronger
or a weaker medicine depending on the disease, the skeptic too presents some-
times stronger and sometimes weaker contrary opinions depending on what
opinion a dogmatist is upholding. The skeptic’s intent is not to give a complete
list of all the contrary opinions, but to present the appropriate one depending
on the situation. Furthermore, he does not want to destroy and replace a whole
system of opinions or of knowledge; he wants to neutralize opinions selectively.
Only in this way can the dogmatist free himself from his fixation on individual
opinions and attain serenity. In this point too the Pyrrhonian skeptic differs
from the later Cartesian skeptic. The Cartesian skeptic pursues a comprehensive
theoretical project; he wants to destroy an existing system of knowledge and lay
the foundations for a new, unshakeable system. The Pyrrhonian skeptic, by con-
trast, pursues a practical intention with his therapeutic procedure. He wants to
help the dogmatist achieve serenity and with it peace of mind.16
It is undisputed that Montaigne was quite familiar with this intention. He
writes concisely, “the profession of the Pyrrhonians is to waver, doubt, and
130
enquire, to be sure of nothing, to answer for nothing” (II.12, 372 c). It is like-
wise undisputed that Montaigne concisely describes and explicitly praises the
Pyrrhonians’ method and style of life.17 Does that mean he identifies himself
as a Pyrrhonian skeptic? This question has been repeatedly debated in the lit-
erature. Whereas some interpreters feel that Montaigne was in fact a modern
Pyrrhonian, others ascribe to him Pyrrhonian intentions and a Pyrrhonian
method only with qualifications. Still others hold the view that he tends to-
ward academic rather than Pyrrhonian skepticism. And some scholars, finally,
claim he uses the Pyrrhonian method only as a kind of springboard to an ul-
timately antiskeptical position, namely one of fideism and antirationalism.18 It
does not suffice, therefore, simply to point out that Montaigne accords a promi-
nent place to Pyrrhonism in the “Apology.” If this chapter is to defend the thesis
that Montaigne adopted the Pyrrhonian method and applied it to the discus-
sion of the emotions, we must show how he adopts it, perhaps modifying and
incorporating it in a new context, and we must discuss objections to such a
reading.
First, there seems to be a simple reason not to see Montaigne as a Pyrrhonian
skeptic. At no point does he say that he adopts Pyrrhonism. He merely
presents this philosophical current alongside others, including Platonism,
Aristotelianism, and other classical schools of thought. Nor does he call himself
a skeptical philosopher, but instead says succinctly, as we have noted, “I am no
philosopher.” What then justifies us in labeling him a philosopher of a certain
kind? His goal, after all, is to distance himself from all philosophical schools,
which would include Pyrrhonism.
This objection is correct in pointing out that Montaigne never explic-
itly claims to be a Pyrrhonian philosopher. But that fact itself shows a strict
Pyrrhonian attitude. If he did make such a claim, he would be a dogmatist on
a meta-level: he would be expressing the assertoric opinion that he is someone
who has no opinions. A Pyrrhonian, of course, could not make such an asser-
tion. Because he attempts to overcome all opinions, he must avoid those on the
meta-level as well or neutralize them by contrary opinions. Sextus himself had
written that the skeptic, in contrast to a dogmatist, is someone who is always
seeking (PH I.1, 3, and I.3, 7). The skeptic therefore only asks questions and
never makes assertions. Montaigne is aware of this. He expressly chooses as
his characteristic motto, not an assertion, but the question “What do I know?”
and has it stamped on a medallion over the picture of a pair of scales (II.12, 393
b).19 This is significant in two respects. First, the interrogative form expresses
the seeking, nonassertoric character of his method. He neither claims to know
something in regard to a specific problem, nor identifies himself as one who
knows, and thus is a dogmatist possessed of true opinions. Second, the image
13
of the scales illustrates his aspiration to balance opinions against opposing

opinions. Of course, this aspiration is visible in his practical procedure rather
than in his profession of a school. When he says he is no philosopher, he must
be understood as distancing himself from a dogmatic school of philosophy and
primarily from the scholastic school that was dominant in his day.20 The state-
ment “I am no philosopher” is thus understandable in the sense of “I am no
scholastic philosopher advocating certain opinions,” and should not be taken as
an assertion (a skeptic does not make negative assertoric statements), but as a
mere description, or perhaps only a narration, of his practical method.21
One might now admit that Montaigne adopts the first step of the Pyrrhonian
method—collecting and opposing opinions—but not the second. He never
arrives at the point of finding the opposing opinions equivalent, rushing on
instead from one opinion to the next: “I draw myself along in almost any direc-
tion I lean, whatever it may be, and carry myself away by my own weight” (II.12,
426 b). There is never any balancing and neutralizing of opinions, only the iso-
lated recording of this or that opinion. Nor is there any rational ability or fac-
ulty by which opinions can be evaluated and assessed as equivalent. Montaigne
compares reason with a piece of lead or wax that can be stretched and bent at
will (II.12, 425 a).22 Whatever is presented to reason appears persuasive to it
for the moment. But in the next moment, our reason throws itself upon some-
thing else and is captivated by it. Reason is not a cognitive power that could
fulfill any evaluative function in regard to the diversity of opinions, much less a
stabilizing function. But if reason is not able to compare and evaluate opinions,
no appraisal of equivalence can ever take place. Consequently, Frédéric Brahami
found that, for Montaigne, there is no isostheneia, but only an asthenia: a weak-
ness of the reason, which is torn back and forth between floating opinions.23
This objection rests on the assumption that a Pyrrhonian skeptic, in
collecting and opposing opinions, must come to a conclusion at which he has
balanced them against one another once and for all, producing a stable equi-
librium. But this is by no means necessary. The Pyrrhonian method can also
be understood to imply that new opinions appear again and again and must
be taken into account and balanced against one another. Hence the activity of
opposing opinions never comes to a conclusion, and an equivalence is never
definitively established. Depending on which new opinions appear, a certain
view seems persuasive—only until new contrary opinions turn up. To return
to the image of the scales, one might say: new weights can be laid in one scale
or the other again and again. That does not mean, however, that the scales lose
their function of comparing and balancing; only that the weighing never comes
to an end. Applied to reason, this means: the fact that reason finds first one and
then another opinion persuasive does not mean that reason loses its function
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of comparing and evaluating opinions; it merely means that it doesn’t reach a

conclusion. It is constantly in search of new opinions. This dynamic conception
of the rational faculty is found in Sextus himself, who describes the skeptic as
a “zetetic” philosopher—that is, someone who is never content with a result,
but always looking for more opinions and their contrary opinions (PH I.3, 7).24
When Montaigne characterizes the Pyrrhonian as considering nothing certain
and always shaking the foundations, he is emphasizing precisely this dynamic
conception. What is critical is not achieving a state of equivalence and dogmatic
equilibrium, but striving for equivalence even though the process never comes
to an end. For this reason, Montaigne states that his touchstone is “ordinarily
false” and his “scales uneven and incorrect” (II.12, 423 a). This is not to say that
he has no touchstone or scales at all and therefore cannot compare and evaluate.
He is only pointing out that he cannot take a neutral position from which he
could evaluate once and for all what is true and what is false. And in so doing,
he is not making an assertoric statement, but only describing what happens to
him. Whether he likes it or not, he is constantly in the process of testing and
weighing, and whenever new opinions appear, new aspects become relevant.
He must therefore continue testing constantly, and even the criteria may change
in the course of his testing. The impression that one has finally determined an
equivalence would be an illusion, or even a self-delusion. One would simply be
turning a blind eye to new opinions and pretending that only those opinions
that had already been weighed and those criteria that had already been applied
were relevant.
The fact that Montaigne constantly evaluates new opinions could give rise
to another objection: if there is no determination of equivalence of opinions
and counteropinions, there can be no suspension of judgment, and the third
step in the Pyrrhonian method is missing. Montaigne seems to admit this when
he points out that he is constantly judging. He says, for example, “What I hold
today and what I believe, I hold and believe it with all my belief; all my tools and
all my springs of action grip this opinion and sponsor it for me in every way
they can” (II.12, 423 a). Although he exchanges the opinions that he holds today
for others tomorrow and the next day, he nonetheless holds some opinions
at some moments, never reaching the point of completely abandoning all
assertoric attitudes. Accordingly, André Tournon has remarked that Montaigne,
unlike the Pyrrhonian skeptic, is not interested in suspending judgment, but in
constantly postponing a definitive judgment.25 In this way, judgments are not
neutralized, but temporalized, that is, related to a certain point in time, to be
followed by other judgments at later times.
This objection correctly points out that Montaigne mentions again and again
what he momentarily believes or thinks. But we must bear in mind that—as
13
previously mentioned—a person can hold an opinion in an assertoric or in a

nonassertoric way. By explicitly noting that his powers—in other words, his sen-
sual and other cognitive faculties—“grip” [empoignent] an opinion, he is aiming
at a nonassertoric opinion. He cannot do otherwise than to believe something
when certain perceptions, feelings, and mental images arise in him.26 And when
they change, he cannot do otherwise than to believe something else. This does
not mean, however, that he consciously assents to the one opinion or the other.
Hence he makes no judgment in which an opinion is purposely affirmed or
denied. Moreover, even Sextus does not conceive of the suspension of judgment
as a definitive state in which the comparing of opinions comes to its conclusion.
Here too, a dynamic element must be taken into account. There can be a suspen-
sion of judgment only for as long as an equilibrium between opinions and con-
trary opinions is attained. The moment new opinions appear and the equilibrium
is disturbed, the suspension of judgment disappears as well. Because Montaigne
states that new opinions must be accounted for again and again, he draws at-
tention to the fact that the suspension of judgment too can disappear again and
again, and indeed a final renunciation never occurs because a final balance is
never achieved.27 Finally, one further point must be noted: For better or worse,
the Pyrrhonian skeptic must use understandable language and thus speak of his
opinions or judgments in accordance with the linguistic conventions. In doing
so, however, he does not commit himself to really holding an opinion. To make
it clear that he does not hold an opinion in the strict assertoric sense, he would
have to prefix a qualifying clause to every statement or use completely different
expressions. In a word, “they would need a new language,” as Montaigne astutely
remarks (II.12, 392 a). But then he would withdraw into his own language game.
As long as he participates in the established language game, he cannot do other-
wise than to talk about his opinions and judgments.
If we take the dynamic character of the Pyrrhonian method seriously, we
can understand how the fourth and last step, the attainment of peace of mind,
is meant. If the objection is raised that Montaigne is in constant agitation and
never at rest,28 we can answer that, since Sextus, the objective has not been to
attain a permanent state. Peace of mind is attained at most with reference to a
problem on which the opinions have been balanced out. But of course there are
many other problems for which opinions and contrary opinions must still be
sought. Therefore there can be no peace of mind in the sense of permanent in-
tellectual relaxation. Nor can such peace of mind be affirmed and aspired to as a
particular good (as that would require the skeptic to have a normative opinion);
at most, it occurs in a given situation when no new opinions appear. Whether
and when it will actually occur is always unknown. We must note too that peace
of mind is not a self-sufficient goal.29 It is desirable only to the extent that it
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frees the dogmatist from the pressure of defending an opinion at all costs. It
is supposed to permit him to have “a peaceful and sedate condition of life,” as
Montaigne writes, so that he is no longer beset by objections or torn between dif-
ferent opinions (II.12, 372 a). Peace of mind is important in a therapeutic regard
and need not be manifested in a mental relaxation or slackening, but can also
be reflected in a certain way of dealing with oneself: one learns to treat not only
opinions and contrary opinions with composure, but also sensory impressions
and emotions. The consequences of this attitude for the appraisal and control-
lability of the emotions remain to be investigated in the sections that follow. At
this initial juncture, we only note that there can also be a peace of mind that
manifests itself in a person’s day-to-day dealings with all the experiences that
are imposed upon him, and not in a remote state of perfect equanimity. This
kind of peace of mind, which is acquired gradually through a certain life expe-
rience, and not reflected merely in an intellectual attitude, is mentioned repeat-
edly in the Essays—forming one of their main themes—as, for example, when
Montaigne expounds how one ought to respond to individual expressions of
emotion, and how to relate to the loss of a friend or to death itself.
Finally, a Pyrrhonistic reading of Montaigne must address one final ob-
jection that has often been raised. Montaigne seems to apply the Pyrrhonian
method only in order to disarm various philosophical and theological theories,
and indeed to expose the inadequacy of theories generally. This leads him in the
end to trust only faith, so that he takes a fideist position: what cannot be estab-
lished as an opinion by rational argument must be believed on the grounds of
revelation.30
There are in fact various places in which Montaigne seems to perform some-
thing like a leap to faith. At the end of the “Apology” in particular, he states that,
as both the senses and reason prove to be unreliable, we can only trust in faith.
Only through it, and not through rational argument, can we know of the eter-
nity and immutability of God. Montaigne therefore closes the “Apology” with
the remark that we must turn to “our Christian faith” if we want to understand
how God can exist eternally (II.12, 457 c). We must note at the same time, how-
ever, that this injunction is expressed in a clearly circumscribed context: if we
want to gain knowledge of the divine attributes, we must stand on faith. This
does not mean that we can refer to only that source for all knowledge, so that
all other sources, including in particular sensual experience and the capacity
for rational thought, are superfluous. The whole “Apology” is about the fact that
there are different sources of knowledge. Some are even found in animals, so
that we have reasons to ascribe thinking and, in a certain regard, knowledge to
them.31 It would be strange if the numerous examples referring to the multitude
of sources of knowledge (perception, imagination, memory, logical thinking,
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etc.) were obliterated at the very end by a reference to faith as the sole source.
The reference to faith can be understood rather as a radicalization of the skep-
tical methods.32 Just as it is impossible in regard to secular matters to establish
a position by balancing opinions and contrary opinions in a rational way, it is
impossible to do so in regard to religious truths. As long as we practice rational
theology, we can always present new opinions and never come to a conclusion.
If we want to make a statement about God, we must base it for better or for
worse on faith, even if that is no way to justify and argumentatively defend a po-
sition. The situation is then similar to the case of imposed experiences. If we are
asked why we have the opinion or even the knowledge that God exists eternally,
the answer must be, “My faith suggests it. In the context of the Christian dogma
that has shaped me, I cannot do otherwise than to hold this opinion.” But that
does not mean that we are espousing a well-founded opinion.
There is yet another regard in which the reference to faith is a strict applica-
tion or indeed a radicalization of the skeptical method. As previously mentioned,
the Pyrrhonian skeptic acts in accordance with traditional mores. This includes
religious mores. He does not consider them the only correct customs, to be
defended against other religious or nonreligious mores, but he respects them
because he has grown up with them and they have more or less stood the test of
time in his environment. He does not consider the religious dogmas as true and
proven, but accepts them simply because they are generally accepted in his sur-
roundings, and he acts in accordance with them. Here again, he acts in accord-
ance with the tenets of religion, not because of them. Thus, when Montaigne
addresses an appeal to his readers to follow the Christian faith, he is merely
enjoining them to act in accordance with the tenets familiar to them (such as
that regarding the eternal existence of God). He is aware, however, that this
appeal has no generally binding character. “We are Christians by the same title
that we are Perigordians or Germans,” he straightforwardly admits (II.12, 325 b).
In other words, we are born into a certain congregation, just as we are born into
a certain ethnic group and language community. Hence we adhere to the tenets
of that confession even though we are aware that we cannot prove them defin-
itively and that there may be other tenets in other communities that regulate
the community’s life just as well. Montaigne even explicitly mentions the equal
status of other religions. When the Spanish set out to christianize foreign peo-
ples, for example, those peoples “did not want to change their religion, having
followed it so advantageously for so long, and they were not accustomed to take
counsel except of their friends and acquaintances.” (III.6, 695 b). Montaigne
reports this without accusation. In his eyes it is perfectly understandable that
people prefer not to give up long-held beliefs. Hence his appeal to the Christian
faith is ultimately a reference to a time-honored tradition, which is an additional
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source of knowledge in addition to the natural sources and should not be aban-
doned without cause.33
If Montaigne applies the skeptical method even in the area of religious
opinions, thus adopting a strict Pyrrhonian attitude, this has two consequences
for the assessment of his essays on the emotions. First, it would be inappropriate
to look for a theory in them that rests on certain theses or dogmas and refutes
contrary theses. For methodological reasons, a skeptic propounds no theory
at all, hence no theory of the emotions. But it would be equally inappropriate
to see these essays merely as a bouquet of stories and anecdotes. The point of a
collection of isolated examples consists in rebutting dogmatic positions. Hence
we must carefully examine how the examples are strategically used and what
explicit or implicit dogmas they serve to refute. We must also give particular at-
tention to the dynamic aspect of Pyrrhonism that Montaigne emphasizes. How
can a person lead an undogmatic life if a lasting state of peace of mind is not
achievable? How can a person find inner equanimity or contentment, in spite
of swinging back and forth between opinions? And what is the function of the
emotions that seem to overcome us and impose opinions on us? Only when
these questions have been resolved can we understand how a Pyrrhonian way
of dealing with emotions could be possible.
3.3 Applying the Skeptical Method: Sadness, Fear,

and Anger
Reading the essays in the first book that are devoted to various emotions, we
find at first glance no Pyrrhonian method. On the contrary, Montaigne seems
to apply a dogmatic method. At the very beginning of the essay “Of Sadness,” he
unabashedly expresses an opinion, namely the opinion that he neither loves nor
respects this emotion even though everyone honors it and sees in it wisdom and
virtue (I.2, 6 c). A closer examination of this expression reveals, however, that it
is not a thesis that makes a claim to general validity and is to be defended against
objections, but the expression of a subjective appraisal. I personally, Montaigne
remarks, set little store by sadness. By that he makes known only how this emo-
tion appears to him, not how it actually is. But why does he state this at the very
outset? In doing so, he takes aim at an opinion that was widespread in the 16th
century and espoused primarily by the scholastic authors who followed Thomas
Aquinas (such as Bartholomé de Medina and Thomas Cajetan). According to
Aquinas, sadness is an emotion that has as its formal object something bad and
immediately present and that therefore elicits a negative reaction: because the
object is bad, a person wants to avert it, or make it as if it hadn’t occurred, if
that were possible. But in this aversion, there is something positive at the same
137
time: the person turning away from the bad object wants to turn toward a good
one. Aquinas explicitly points out that the bad is only a lack of good (STh I–II,
35.6). Hence in every sadness there is also a positive emotion, namely love—
an orientation toward the good—and in fact the negative emotion would not
be possible without it. To exaggerate slightly: A person averts the bad only by
appraising it as something deficient in goodness and always preferring the good.
Hence sadness ultimately has a positive function, as it reveals what the good
object is that one is oriented toward. Furthermore, Aquinas explicitly points
out that sadness can also be the cause of an enjoyment or a joy (STh I–II, 32.4,
35.3, ad 1). For when sadness is actually present, it evokes the memory of some-
thing that is loved but no longer present, which in turn elicits a positive emo-
tion. And when it is no longer actually present, it evokes the memory of how
one vanquished it: this too elicits a positive emotion. Sadness is therefore to be
appreciated as an emotion that calls our attention to the value of a good object
and motivates us to turn toward that object with joy or enjoyment—the loss of
the object only intensifies the devotion.
When Montaigne remarks at the beginning of his essay that he does not ap-
preciate sadness, we must read this as a contrary opinion to the widespread
opinion that sadness must be seen as a meaningful and even beneficial emo-
tion. Montaigne does not assert this as a dogma, of course. He is only placing
his subjective opinion on the scales. This becomes clearer still when we study
the examples he presents (I.2, 6–7 a). First he reports on an Egyptian king who
fell into his enemies’ hands, together with his family. When the king was shown
how his daughter had to fetch water as a slave, he remained calm. And when
his son was led away to his death, the king was impassive. But when one of his
servants was led away as a prisoner, he beat his head and displayed great sad-
ness. In the second example, Montaigne mentions a prince who was likewise
taken prisoner. When he heard of the deaths of two of his brothers, the prince
was unmoved. But when, some days later, he learned that one of his vassals had
died, he was very upset.
These two examples are noteworthy in several respects. First, they neutralize
the conception that there is always something positive in sadness because it
illuminates or intensifies a devotion to the lost good. Neither the Egyptian king
nor the French prince is said to have felt more intensely drawn to their lost
family members or to have become aware of the persons to whom they felt
drawn in their loss. Nothing positive results from the sadness; it is simply a very
deep psychic pain. It is striking, furthermore, that the two mourners seem to re-
spond calmly to the deaths of their closest family members. This reaction shows
that sadness is by no means always connected with particular physical behaviors
(lamenting, weeping, etc.) and that it is therefore impossible to identify it by
138
these behaviors. As was explained in Chapter 1, Section 1.3, although Aquinas

did not refer to behavior as a means of identification (referring instead to the
formal object for that purpose), he nonetheless supported the thesis that sadness
must have a material component in addition to a formal one, and that the ma-
terial component is ordinarily weeping and lamenting (STh I–II, 37.3–4). Thus
if there are now cases of sadness occurring entirely without external behaviors,
the question arises as to whether this emotion really always has an observable
material component. The point in Montaigne is, of course, that he does not ad-
vance an opposing thesis. That is, he does not claim that sadness occurs entirely
without physical behaviors and must consequently be conceived as a purely
mental state. He only calls attention, by presenting individual cases, to the fact
that it can occur without such behaviors and that the connection between the
formal and the material components is at most a contingent one.
Finally, we can note one more point. Only when a more distant relation dies
do the bereft persons show a physical behavior. This is difficult to explain in
the context of a theory like Aquinas’, which emphasizes the importance of the
formal object. In such a theory, the intensity of the physical expression depends
on the given object. The worse the object (such as the loss of a loved one), the
more intense the emotion and hence its expression.34 But the king and the
prince, surprisingly, begin lamenting and weeping only when they hear of the
death of a servant. Why? According to Montaigne, the reason is that they are
“already so brimfull of sadness, the slightest overload broke down the barriers”
of their fortitude (I.2, 6 a). Thus he alludes to the phenomenon of accumula-
tion, which is not accounted for in the traditional model. For if the orientation
toward a formal object is critical, then every emotion, and hence every case of
sadness, must be considered individually in regard to its object. It cannot be that
there is something like an emotional congestion that discharges unexpectedly.
If a discharge occurred, it must take place where the formal object consists in
something particularly bad, as, for example, in that case in which the person
one loves most is killed. But Montaigne’s examples show that this is not neces-
sarily the case. Accumulated sadness can discharge where it is least expected.
Hence it is not enough to examine emotions only individually. We must also
look at a person’s prior emotional history and ask what place an actually man-
ifest emotion has in light of that history. This in turn means that we must also
examine, in addition to the current emotion, an emotional disposition, and in-
deed a whole individual biography.
Now perhaps one might expect that, in view of the difficulty of associating
an emotion with a specific physical behavior, Montaigne would simply refer
to an inner experience that must be precisely described and classified. Then
stronger and weaker forms of sadness could be distinguished, depending on
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that experience. The grief at the death of the person one loves most would then
manifest itself in the strongest inner experience or feeling, independently of
any behavior. But Montaigne does not choose this way, as another one of his
examples illustrates. He refers to Niobe, who lost seven sons and seven daugh-
ters and was then transformed into a rock. This petrification is a metaphor for
the “bleak, dumb, and deaf stupor” of the grieving mother (I.2, 7 a). Apparently,
experience is not scalable—the strongest sadness is manifested by stupor, by
an inner void. Hence it would be inappropriate to set up a kind of inner scale
for emotions and to measure quantitatively how intense each feeling or inner
experience is.
What conclusion does Montaigne draw from this? None at all. This is exactly
the point of his skeptical approach. He does not claim that the Thomist or any
other traditional explanatory model is false; he does not propose an alternative
of his own that would designate a different essential element of sadness instead
of the formal object and physical behavior. He refrains from identifying any-
thing essential and refers only to individual cases. He uses them strategically,
however, because they illustrate that the established model cannot explain all
cases and that we should therefore withhold final judgment on the origins and
structure of sadness. We can pass only a provisional judgment based on con-
crete cases—a judgment that may change at any time in view of new cases. In
addition, the individual cases Montaigne presents broaden the field of study.
They call attention to particularly strong forms of sadness, showing that it
would be inappropriate to develop an explanatory model for all cases on the
basis of some cases.
But why doesn’t Montaigne present a clear model of the emotion, the
Thomist model for example, and then use precise arguments to refute its pre-
tension to general validity? Why is he content to present individual examples
that can hardly count as philosophical arguments? If his aim were to refute a
model, then he would have to take a definite position, because he would be
saying that he considers the model he is attacking to be false. But a skeptic does
not take positions. He makes no assertions, not even the assertion that an es-
tablished position is false; he only points out its limitations. He puts it, figura-
tively speaking, on the scales and then tries to balance them, without refuting
or rejecting it. Note too that Montaigne is not at all obliged to give a textbook
presentation of Aquinas’ position before refuting it. In his late 16th-century con-
text, that position was well known to all educated readers. Everyone who was fa-
miliar with the Summa theologiae expected fear to be explained as an individual
“sensual movement,” definable with reference to its formal object. Only in light
of this expectation do Montaigne’s odd, seemingly unreasonable examples have
philosophical weight. For they show that the established explanatory model is
140
insufficient: the examples don’t fit the model, and thus cast doubt on the whole
model. Of course, they don’t replace it with another model; they only strip it, in
keeping with the skeptical method, of its dogmatic pretensions.
The application of the Pyrrhonian method is equally clear in the essay
“Of Fear” mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. It seemed at first as if
Montaigne were contradicting himself, first quoting a passage of Virgil in which
a person is said to be paralyzed and speechless with fear, and then presenting
cases of soldiers who run away from the besieged city in fear (I.18, 52 a). But for
a Pyrrhonian, this is by no means an inconsistency or an unintended contra-
diction. On the contrary, it is a purposely produced, methodical opposition of
opinions: the traditional opinion that fear is manifested in a physical paralysis
is contrasted with the opinion, expressed through particular cases, that fear can
also be expressed in frenzied movement. There is no general pattern of fearful
behavior.
Montaigne introduces yet another example for another opposing opinion. He
remarks that fear sometimes affects a group of people and refers to a battle that
Germanicus led against the Alemanni, in which two big crowds ran in two dif-
ferent directions in fright (I.18, 52 b). Here Montaigne is pointing out a phenom-
enon of what today would be called crowd psychology. Fear can be contagious,
arising not simply from the fact that every single member of a group relates to
a certain formal object. This illustrates the limitation of an explanatory model
that looks only at individuals, analyzing the genesis of fear only in regard to the
given formal object. Of course, Montaigne does not claim that we must replace
the traditional model with a different one that posits collective emotions, nor
that a comprehensive model should be developed that describes both individual
and collective fear. In fact, he presents no model at all, contenting himself with
citing an individual case that casts doubt on the opinion that fear is always an
individual phenomenon. As a skeptic, all he wants to do is to present a contrary
opinion and thus to unsettle a dogmatic position.
Furthermore, Montaigne cites a number of cases in which soldiers were par-
alyzed with fear and had to be roused by their leaders. To these examples, he
adds, “The thing I fear most is fear” (I.18, 53 c). It is noteworthy that he takes
the first-person point of view here, passing immediately from the account of
soldiers to his own appraisal of fear. Evidently, what matters to him is not how
the soldiers’ fear is in fact constituted, but the impression it makes on him and
what subjective opinion about fear it inspires in him. But it is no less noteworthy
that he calls attention to the phenomenon of meta-fear, which receives little or
no consideration in the conventional theories.35 If fear as a sensual movement
relates to a bad, hardly escapable object, as Aquinas and his successors claimed,
it would seem to be always an external, sensually present object that is perceived
14
or imagined. Thus a person fears the wolf (the classic example dating back to
Avicenna) or Purgatory (the example discussed repeatedly in the theological
literature). Montaigne points out that fear itself can be such an object: that is,
not immediately present fear, but imagined fear. In meta-fear, a person is afraid
he might become afraid in the future—when the enemies attack, for example.
Hence it is not surprising that Montaigne attaches great importance to the im-
agination as a productive power, producing objects itself.36 He does not explain,
however, exactly how such objects originate and become the object of meta-
emotions. Here too, it is not his intention to develop a model or a theory of
his own that might be presented as an alternative to traditional theories; he is
content with pointing out a possible case and thus broadening the field of study.
At the end of the essay, he broadens it once again. Among the Greeks,
Montaigne writes, there is a fear that is caused by celestial powers and affects
whole nations. This is a “panic terror,” he says, which causes the wildest actions
and cannot be controlled (I.18, 53 c). How exactly this fear arises and where it
occurs is not important to Montaigne. It only matters that there exists, or can
exist, a fear that has no natural cognitive cause. It is not produced by any percep-
tion or imagination, but arises through direct divine influence. Thus he presents
once again an opinion in opposition to the established opinion that fear as a sen-
sual movement must be connected with a sensual–cognitive activity. Montaigne
does not claim that there is no such connection; he only points out that it can
sometimes be absent. In this way he shows that, although some cases perhaps
can be explained by referring to sensual movements, not all cases can. The con-
trary opinion refutes the established opinion’s claim to universal validity.
The reference to often-neglected cases of fear plays a central role in two other
essays as well. In the third essay, Montaigne calls attention to the following phe-
nomenon: “We are never at home, we are always beyond. Fear, desire, hope proj
ect us toward the future and steal from us the feeling and consideration of what
is” (I.3, 8 b). This remark is immediately followed by references to Plato and
other classical authors, which indicates that here too Montaigne has an estab-
lished opinion in his sights: in this case, the opinion that we should know our-
selves and we achieve this goal by ignoring external circumstances and actions
completely, to concentrate on our own mental states—including the emotions.
To this conception, Montaigne objects that such concentration does not lead
to any special knowledge, revealing the true self, but, on the contrary, distracts
from it. If we are afraid of being killed, we imagine the future moment of our
death, imagine the pain, and wonder perhaps what may come after death. But
all of these thoughts relate to a projection of ourselves, not to the person we ac-
tually are. Hence we cannot claim that self-knowledge can be gained from intro-
spection. If we want to know who we actually are, we should rather observe our
142
own behavior and physical condition, however trivial and transitory it may be.
Montaigne therefore insists that he is “constantly adorning” himself (II.6, 273
c), moment by moment, without discovering any kind of emotional constants,
yet without describing a stable self to which the emotions could be ascribed.37
In the very next essay, Montaigne points out another frequently overlooked
phenomenon. Emotions need an outlet and must hence be acted out against con-
crete things—sometimes even against things that have nothing to do with the
causes and immediate objects of the emotions. For example, people who have
gambled and lost money tear up the cards or swallow the dice in anger. Xerxes
had the sea put in irons and wrote threats to Mount Athos. Cyrus held back a
whole army for several days to avenge himself on the river Gyndus for the fright
he had suffered in crossing it (1.4, 15 a). What do these strange actions demon-
strate? They call our attention to the fact that it is not enough just to identify the
formal object of an emotion. We must also consider an additional object, which
we may call the outlet object. A gambler who loses is angry about something
(the loss of money) but acts out that anger through something else (swallowing
the dice). And Cyrus takes revenge on something (the river Gyndus) but acts out
his revenge through something else (delaying the army). The important thing to
note is that the formal object and the outlet object need not have anything to do
with one another. Anger and revenge can be discharged on any object, however
ridiculous. That is why an emotional act often appears unjustified or irrational.
In truth, however, it is entirely justified. Montaigne notes that we must always
give the soul “an object to aim at and act on” so that it finds its footing (1.4,
14 a). Otherwise there is a danger that the emotion will increase and suppress
everything else. No clear thoughts and no relaxation are possible if there is no
outlet object. Hence the justification for the apparently unfounded acting out
of an emotion lies in the concern for one’s own psychological well-being. We
will examine more closely in Section 3.5 what importance that concern has and
what importance is therefore attached to acting out the emotions. For the mo-
ment, it may suffice to recall the skeptical method: Montaigne responds to the
established opinion that explains an emotion exclusively in regard to its formal
object by presenting a contrary opinion that calls attention to the outlet object.
Although this does not refute the traditional opinion, it demonstrates that it is
too narrow.
Montaigne also chooses this method in the essay “Of Anger.” It is striking
that, in the first section of that essay, he explicitly mentions Aristotle and
Plutarch (and Aristotle again in the last section), thus making it plain which
established authors he is grappling with. In their conception, which was largely
followed by medieval commentators such as Aquinas, anger is identified by at
least four essential characteristics:38
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First, anger has a cognitive characteristic, because it is always aimed at a

person who is believed to have committed a wrong that must be avenged. The
anger is not aimed at persons in general, but at a certain person whose act is
appraised as wrong.
Furthermore, anger has a social characteristic. Aristotle specified that anger
concerns not just any wrong, but a wrong committed against oneself, or a person
close to one, by someone who is not entitled to do so. That means that the angry
person must perceive social roles. Only a person who finds that a close rela-
tive or friend has been beaten, for example, can become angry, because he feels
connected to the victim. A person who feels no social connection is at most
surprised or disconcerted, but not angry.
Because anger, like any other psychic state, also has a material aspect in addi-
tion to the formal, anger always has a physical characteristic. This is manifested
in a warming in the region of the heart, Aristotle finds, and expressed in a
certain behavior, as Plutarch in particular states. Thus the angry person’s face
swells, he turns red all over, and he raises his voice.
Finally, there is also the characteristic of rational controllability, because the
angry person is not simply at the mercy of his emotion, but can moderate it,
suppress it, or replace it with another emotion, for example, by reappraising
the situation and asking himself whether a wrong has really been committed.
Naturally an angry person doesn’t always succeed in rationally controlling the
emotion, but he can and should at least aspire to do so. Because he has beliefs
and acts of volition, unlike animals, he is practically obligated to use this ra-
tional instrument, thus not simply passively suffering his emotion, but actively
directing it.
How does Montaigne respond to this traditional conception? Let us examine
the first story he tells: “How many times have I had a good mind, as I passed
along our streets, to set up some trick to avenge little boys that I saw being flayed,
knocked down, and bruised by some father or mother in a fury and frenzy of
anger!” (II.31, 540 a). The first thing that catches our attention is that it is not the
author himself nor a member of his family who has been wronged. It is the chil-
dren of strangers who have been beaten. Nonetheless, Montaigne, on observing
it, immediately becomes angry. Thus we can formulate a contrary opinion to the
traditional opinion in regard to the second characteristic of anger: Anger is not
always connected to a certain social role and to the care for one’s own interests.
It is enough that any person is wronged.39 The example is illuminating in an-
other respect too. Strictly speaking, it describes two cases of anger. Montaigne
is angry, and at the same time the parents beating their child are angry. In a
word, Montaigne is angry about the angry parents. This is another example of a
meta-emotion, but this time in relation to another person’s emotion, not one’s
14
own. But the angry parents have not been wronged. We can hardly imagine
that a small child could have done anything that could be called an injustice. It
doesn’t even have the categories of right and wrong. Nevertheless, the parents
are driven by anger. Why? Perhaps because they are tired and irritable; perhaps
because anger has accumulated in them and they need an outlet object; perhaps
for some other reason.40 In any case, we can formulate a contrary opinion here
too, this time in regard to the first component of anger: Anger is not always
connected with the determination of an injustice. It is perfectly open whether
there is a cognitive state at all and what its intention is.
What consequences does Montaigne draw from this little story? He does not
propose any thesis, such as the claim that anger has nothing to do with the first
two components and is characterized only by a certain behavior. First, he merely
neutralizes the traditional conception, illustrating by a counterexample that it
may perhaps be able to explain some cases, but certainly not all cases. Thus he
achieves (at least temporarily) an equivalence: the traditional opinion that anger
has a cognitive and a social characteristic is balanced by the opinion that these
are by no means essential characteristics.
But Montaigne does not stop at this point; he goes on to report other cases.
He recounts, for example, that Plutarch, while having one of his slaves whipped,
remained calm and said, “Am I red? Am I foaming at the mouth? Does any word
escape me that I shall have to repent? Am I quivering? Am I trembling with
rage? For I tell you, those are the true signs of anger” (II.31, 542 a). Here anger
is identified by its physical characteristic, in accordance with the traditional
model. But then Montaigne immediately appends the following story: “Archytas
of Terentum, coming back from a war in which he had been captain-general,
found everything in a mess in his household, and his lands lying fallow through
the bad management of his steward; and having sent for him, he said: Go! If
I were not angry I would thrash you properly!” (II.31, 542 a). This is an example
to show that someone can be angry without seething, blustering, or becoming
physically violent; the angry man limits himself to giving an order. We might
call this a cold anger that is characterized precisely by the absence of a physical
change. This too achieves an opposition of opinions: the traditional conception
that anger is always manifested in a certain physical behavior is opposed by the
conception, supported by an individual case, that such a behavior can also be
absent. However, Montaigne does not draw any general conclusion, such as the
thesis that anger is only accidentally manifested in a certain behavior. He does
not propose any thesis at all, contenting himself with presenting an individual
case to cast the traditional conception into doubt.41
Montaigne introduces yet another example to neutralize this conception.
He tells of a soldier who is sent foraging together with a comrade and returns
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without him. His lord, Piso, got so angry that he wanted to hang him on the spot.
When the soldier was on the gallows, the comrade arrived, saying he had lost his
way. Everyone expected Piso to release the soldier, but he was seized with even
greater anger and had the soldier and his comrade executed, and the hangman
too because he hadn’t carried out the first hanging immediately. Why didn’t Piso
overcome his anger? Montaigne notes tersely, “It is a passion that takes pleasure
in itself and flatters itself ” (II.31, 542 a), thus calling attention to the inner dy-
namics of anger. It can work itself up, and it can be present even when there
is no longer any cause for it, and no longer any injustice detectable. Indeed, it
can even prevail against a cognitive appraisal. Although Piso has found that no
wrong has been done either to him or to one of his men, he is completely in the
grip of anger. This example neutralizes once more the opinion that anger is sub-
ject to certain cognitive conditions, and at the same time advances a contrary
opinion to rebut the opinion that anger is rationally controlled. If an emotion
can go on burning like a fire once kindled, it cannot always be moderated or
completely done away with by beliefs and acts of volition—not even by cor-
rect and appropriate beliefs.42 Emotions are sometimes practically immune to
rational activities. Montaigne pointedly writes at the very end of the essay on
fear: “Our hand does not guide it, it guides our hand; it holds us, we do not hold
it” (II.31, 545 a). Thus he indicates that the assumption that emotions are lower
sensual states that we direct through higher rational activities is an illusion.
An advocate of the traditional conception might respond at this point that
the criterion of rational controllability is to be understood, not in a descriptive,
but in a normative sense. Even if emotions are in fact not always controlled, they
should always be subject to a rational control. As rational persons, we should
moderate ourselves, suppress negative emotions, and, most of all, avoid the
actions they evoke. The fact that we do not always succeed in doing so does not
affect this normative demand.
Naturally this too is an opinion with which Montaigne was quite familiar
through the reception of classical authors (primarily Plutarch and Seneca, in
addition to Aristotle). Philip Hallie has aptly called it the fundamental idea of
an “ethics of inward government.”43 In other words, emotions must be inwardly
guided and controlled, and must not be simply acted out without restraint.
Montaigne sets this normative opinion in opposition to another: “I advise that
we rather give our valet a slap on the cheek a little out of season than strain
our inclination to represent this wise bearing. And I would rather produce my
passions that brood over them at my expense” (II.31, 543 b). Sometimes it is
better not to control an emotion, but simply to accept it and act it out spon-
taneously. “Inward government” causes more damage than letting anger blow
up like a storm and then die down again, because accumulated or suppressed
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anger can have fatal consequences both for the angry person and for the person
against whom the accumulated emotion suddenly discharges its force. This
neutralizes the traditional conception once again, this time in regard to the
fourth component. The opinion, which at first appeared plausible, that anger is,
or, in the normative version, should be rationally controlled is opposed by the
equally plausible opinion, supported by personal experience, that it sometimes
should not be controlled. Of course, this does not mean that control is never
appropriate—only that individual cases are arguments against making the as-
piration to control into a general norm. As a skeptic, Montaigne abstains from
making a general judgment, and hence makes no normative judgment.
The examples of sadness, fear, and anger discussed up to now show that
Montaigne strictly applies a dynamic Pyrrhonian method by repeatedly
introducing new opinions, and never bringing the process of weighing and bal-
ancing to a conclusion. An objection could nonetheless be raised at this point
against the interpretation that this procedure is motivated by skepticism. Is it not
possible that Montaigne is simply demanding a richer theory than that supplied
by Aristotle, Plutarch, Aquinas, and other authorities? The numerous examples
show that a comprehensive explanation of the emotions must take into account
different physical behaviors, as well as meta-emotions and emotions that are not
rationally controlled; that different causes and the outlet objects of emotions
must be examined; and that dispositions must be included in the field of study
alongside actual emotions. Montaigne is not trying to withhold judgment and
to neutralize any theory of the emotions, but to replace the existing theories
with a more complex one that is able to explain more cases and more aspects of
the known cases. Hence his goal is not to overcome a dogmatic position, but to
improve such a position.
Montaigne would be pursuing such a goal if, after assessing the current sit-
uation, he performed a systematic examination and classification of the var-
ious cases in order to develop a richer theory. But this step is lacking, and for
methodological reasons. To proceed systematically, he would have to study the
individual cases with a view to their typical characteristics and assign all those
cases that show similar characteristics to one class or category. Then he would
have to develop a schema that sets the various categories in relation to one an-
other and perhaps subordinates them to one highest category. Such a procedure
would necessitate an abstraction, because he would have to filter out the typical
characteristics, that is, the criteria for assignment to a category, out of all the
characteristics of the individual cases. But Montaigne is opposed to precisely
this process of abstraction. He points out that we should not form any general
category and no general judgment about several individual cases, because “for
so many actions, we need so many individual judgments. The surest thing, in
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my opinion, would be to trace our actions to the neighboring circumstances,

without getting into any further research and without drawing from them any
other conclusions” (II.1, 241 a; cf. II.11, 311 a). Thus we should aim for contextu-
alization, not for abstraction. Each individual case must be examined as given,
in its specific context with a multitude of characteristics. Only when its many
different relations to other cases are examined can it be described adequately.
What matters is the richness of these relations and thus the specific nature of the
individual cases. Any theory that develops a general schema for the individual
cases neglects the context in which they are embedded. Theories are therefore
inappropriate per se, however complex they may be, because they are always
aimed at generalization. We should not replace a simple theory with a complex
one, but instead reject the general character of all theories on account of the di-
versity and mutability of contexts.
The question then arises, however, of whether this rejection itself is not the ex-
pression of a theoretical position, or, to put it more precisely, of a metatheoretical
position: All theoretical explanations that are aimed at generalization are to be
replaced by descriptions of individual cases. This would seem to be the funda-
mental thesis of particularism. Isn’t Montaigne, in spite of his skeptical inclina-
tion, really a dogmatist who simply wants to exchange a universalist position
for a particularist one? Not necessarily. It is important here to bear in mind
the distinction mentioned in Section 3.2 between assertoric and nonassertoric
statements. If Montaigne were to make the assertoric claim that there are in
the world only isolated events and that we describe the world adequately only
if we present these events in as much detail as possible, then he would indeed
be a particularist. But he makes no such claim, and in fact he abstains from all
metaphysical theses about the structure of the world. He leaves the question un-
answered of what there actually is in the world: only isolated events, or events
as well as genera and species of events, and perhaps even universal natures. He
presents only how the world appears to him and the description that practically
imposes itself. We might summarize his procedure as follows: When he tries
to grasp the abundance of events that present themselves to him, he cannot
help describing them as particular events that are always embedded in specific
contexts. How they are constituted is beyond him.
This illustrates clearly what is meant by Montaigne’s famous chosen motto,
“I distinguish” [distinguo].44 He distances himself from the scholastic technique
of making distinctions that, although it too examines individual cases, tries to
establish general schemas by identifying typical characteristics. These are then
ordered hierarchically by classing several species of cases in a genus and sev-
eral subspecies in a species. An exemplary display of this method is Thomas
Aquinas’ treatise on the emotions. He opens it by designating passio as the
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genus, in which he goes on to distinguish among different species (such as the

passio of light and that of the body), and finally defines the passio of the soul–
body unity as the relevant species (STh I–II, 22.1). In his classification of the
eleven basic emotions, this species is then divided into subspecies, ultimately
creating a detailed schema in which every single emotion can be arranged. The
goal of this procedure is to differentiate among species and subspecies by spe-
cific distinctions while at the same time setting them in relation to one another
to form a comprehensive order.
Montaigne opposes this systematic procedure when he states that one should
always distinguish individual cases from one another, but not produce any gen
eral schema. Those who undertake distinctions after the scholastic method not
only miss the context of the individual cases, but also assume that there are
typical characteristics of the individual cases, and indeed characteristics that
are stable and permit an unambiguous classification into certain types and
subtypes. But how can we be certain that there really are such stable charac-
teristics? Things and situations change in our observations constantly, so that
we can at most name some characteristics at a certain moment, which could
be quite different a short time later. Hence Montaigne points out that he must
offer a new description of things over and over again and never reaches the
point of naming stable characteristics that could form a basis for categorizing
them into species and subspecies. This is the goal of his previously mentioned
“painting”: “I do not portray being: I portray passing. Not the passing from one
age to another, or, as the people say, from seven years to seven years, but from
day to day, from minute to minute” (III.2, 611 b). If we cannot describe a stable
being, it is impossible to create an order of being in the scholastic sense, that is,
an order that reaches from the highest being (God) by means of various genera
and species to a diversity of subspecies. We can only show which processes of
change present themselves momentarily, and we are induced to paint a dynamic
picture of the world—a picture in which the interrelation of things is also con-
stantly changing.
Because Montaigne repeatedly emphasizes the succession and the changes
of things, some commentators have ascribed to him a Heraclitan view of the
world.45 We must use caution here, however: Montaigne does not propose any
metaphysical thesis. He does not claim that things in fact constantly change,
or that there are, strictly speaking, only processes, and the world is constantly
in transformation. He reports only how it appears to him and how he believes
he can describe it adequately. As a skeptic, he does not want to set a new meta-
physics, such as a metaphysics of process, in the place of a metaphysics of sub-
stance. His goal is more modest. He wants to “portray,” or describe in detail, the
changes that momentarily appear to him subjectively (whether or not they are
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grounded in objectively existing processes) as accurately as possible. Hence he

cannot establish a static order of being.
Naturally this has consequences for the analysis of emotions. If it is impos-
sible in principle to establish a metaphysical order on the basis of stable charac-
teristics, then no order can be established for the emotions either. Neither can
the emotions be definitively assigned to a certain genus, nor can different spe-
cies and subspecies be defined. Hence it is not because he is insufficiently sys-
tematic or because of a desultory, too associative style that Montaigne does not
propose his own alternative to Aquinas’ classification of emotions. He forgoes a
classification for methodological reasons: if there can be no order of being, then
there can be no order of the emotions.
3.4 Is a Systematic Order of the Emotions

Possible?
The strict application of the Pyrrhonian method, leading to a renunciation of
theories, raises a fundamental problem. Why does Montaigne still mention dif-
ferent kinds of emotions if he considers a static division into kinds to be in-
admissible? Why are individual essays explicitly titled “Of Sadness,” “Of Fear,”
“Of Anger,” “Of Solitude,” and so on, if there are no such general categories?
A strict skeptic would have to limit himself to the presentation of individual
cases without using such a categorization. For each case, he would have to de-
scribe the cause, the formal object, the outlet object, the physical manifestation,
and much more—in fact, he would have to describe the changes in every single
emotion in all its stages. Or, to express it in Montaigne’s own terminology: he
would have to paint another picture from minute to minute, and a picture of the
numerous emotions as they appear to him, not as they really are. This would
mean, of course, that he could present only a sequence of personal impressions
without ever producing a systematic order. Why then do the titles suggest such
an order?
At first glance there seems to be a plausible answer to this question. Although
what Montaigne produces here—as in many other areas—is not a realistic order,
it is a nominalistic one. In the dispute between realists and nominalists on the
problem of universals, which had shaped debates in metaphysics and in the phi-
losophy of language since the late Middle Ages, Montaigne takes the second po-
sition.46 That is, unlike Thomas Aquinas and his successors, Montaigne denies
that there are universal natures or forms that really exist and are instantiated in
the world. Consequently, he also denies that such natures are responsible for
individual objects’ or states’ belonging to types or categories. Hence it is inad-
missible to call anger, for example, a natural type of emotion that is rooted in
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the universal nature of angriness—a nature that occurs in all individual states of
angriness and connects them together into a unity. As a nominalist, Montaigne
does not commit himself to the assumption of such a nature. He assumes that
there are only individual entities in the world. Species and genera arise only
from the fact that these entities are collected in uniform groups by general
names. These names are arbitrarily applied linguistic expressions, however,
without any grounding in a universal nature. Thus Montaigne writes, “There is
the name and the thing. The name is a sound which designates and signifies the
thing; the name is not a part of the thing or of the substance, it is an extraneous
piece attached to the thing, and outside of it” (II.16, 468 a). When we say anger
is an emotion, we are sticking a general label, so to speak, on all the individual
states of angriness. But this label has nothing to do with the states themselves
and could be removed again at any time. Strictly speaking, the order that is
created among the emotions is therefore only an order of the names, not of
the emotions, and it can tell us something only about our linguistic system of
classification.
It is tempting to ascribe such an argument to Montaigne. Since Hugo
Friedrich’s influential study, it has been claimed again and again that Montaigne
is a nominalist, and even that he practiced a “nominalistic linguistic criticism.”47
The nominalistic classification of the emotions would then be nothing but an
expression of this criticism. But, on a closer examination, such an interpretation
proves to be inadequate. First, there is a conspicuous tension between it and
Montaigne’s basic skeptical attitude. How can he maintain a position in regard
to universals, whether realistic or nominalistic, if he is applying the Pyrrhonian
method, which is aimed at neutralizing positions? If he really claimed that there
are in the world only individual entities that we group into kinds by means of
general linguistic expressions, then he would be asserting a thesis both of meta-
physics and of the philosophy of language, thus taking the attitude of a dogma-
tist. But this is precisely the attitude that he wants to overcome by his unstinting
comparisons of opinions and contrary opinions.
We must also note that, in the passage just cited, Montaigne points out only
that a word merely designates a thing while remaining extraneous to it and is
thus not intrinsically connected with the thing. In so doing, he is alluding to
the famous opening chapter of De interpretatione in which Aristotle states that
a word is only a sound that is used to designate a thing.48 This use is a matter
of convention and could be changed at any time; there is nothing that naturally
connects the sound and thing. In this observation, Aristotle opposes the con-
ception that there is a natural connection between the two, and that one could
grasp the structure of a thing merely by apprehending a word. In the beginning
of the essay “Of Glory,” Montaigne recalls it to emphasize that there is nothing
15
in a name. Names are merely a matter of convention and can tell us nothing
about the structure or the import of the things they designate. But he does not
take a position in the debate on universals, as he has said nothing about the spe-
cific function of general expressions.
The dispute between realists and nominalists arises only with the question
of how it happens that we use not only particular expressions, but also general
ones, and wherein generality is founded. The nominalists—primarily Ockham
and the Ockhamists in the 16th century—give a clear answer to these questions:49
Although there are only individual entities in the world, they naturally have
similarities and dissimilarities. We are equipped with a cognitive apparatus that
associates the similar entities with one another and groups them by means of a
general concept. For this concept, which arises in us naturally and which we all
form in the same way, we then use a different expression depending on our lan-
guage community. This expression is subject to convention and can be changed,
but the concept is applied by nature and cannot be changed.50 Applying this
nominalist approach to the discussion of the emotions yields the following ex-
planation: Although there are only individual states in the world, such as this
or that particular anger, all of these states have natural similarities that we can
apprehend and that prompt us to form a general, natural concept that refers to
them. We then express this concept in a spoken language by means of the con-
ventional expression “anger” (or ira in Latin, colère in French, etc.). The founda-
tion for the general expression thus lies in the concept, that is, in a mental entity,
and not in a universal nature.
None of this is found in Montaigne. Neither does he refer to the triad of
thing–concept–expression, nor does he state that spoken expressions owe their
generality to natural concepts. He does not discuss the questions that are cen-
tral for all nominalists: by what cognitive processes such concepts come about,
what structure they have, and in what way they exist in the mind. As a skeptic,
he strictly refrains from all theoretical opinions, including an opinion about
natural concepts. Hence it would be inappropriate to see his description and
division of various kinds of emotions as the expression of a nominalistic theory.
It would be equally inappropriate to see it as the expression of a theory of
the soul, such as a theory that names various faculties and distinguishes the
emotions in the concupiscent faculty from those in the irascible faculty (as
Thomas Aquinas or, in the 16th century, Cajetan proposes), or divides the lower
emotions in the sensual faculty from the higher ones in the volitive faculty (as
Duns Scotus and Ockham postulate). Whatever form such divisions may take
in detail, they always presuppose a thesis: namely, that the soul has parts that
are faculties. This thesis in turn is a component of a position that Montaigne
knew—namely the Aristotelian position—but that he only presents, like any
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other position, and does not assert. In the “Apology,” he explicitly mentions the
Aristotelians, asking critically, “To accommodate the impulses they see in man,
the diverse functions and faculties that we sense in us, into how many parts have
they divided our soul? How many seats have they assigned to it? Into how many
orders and stages have they split this poor man, besides the natural and percep-
tible ones, and into how many functions and occupations? They make him an
imaginary republic” (II.12, 401 a). Evidently the Aristotelians divide the soul, or
the whole person, by postulating various faculties and explaining the genesis of
mental states—including emotions—with reference to an interaction of these
faculties. That is, they argue in this wise: only if there is a sensual–apprehensive
faculty that produces the perception of an injury and a rational–apprehensive
faculty that at the same time forms the judgment that it is a wrong to be atoned
for—only then can the sensual–appetitive faculty become active and produce
the reaction of anger.
Against the assumption of interdependent faculties ordered in such a way,
Montaigne now advances the contrary opinion that it makes a human being
into “an imaginary republic” [une chose publique imaginaire], in other words a
complex structure in which there are acting faculties, similar to politicians and
officials fulfilling specific functions in a hierarchical order. But the assumption
of such a republic lacks a substantial justification. Whereas in a real republic we
can actually see the individual politicians and officials and their hierarchy, in the
case of a human being some sort of internal functionaries are only postulated;
there is no empirical evidence of their existence and hierarchical ordering.
We do not see how the sensual–apprehensive and the rational–apprehensive
faculties impinge on the sensual–appetitive faculty; we can observe only indi-
vidual states of the soul—that is, strictly speaking, only their physical expres-
sion. Thus we see only this or that particular outbreak of anger, but no faculties
that produce a prior perception and judgment, thus somehow eliciting anger.
Furthermore, the assumption of internal faculties only shifts the basic problem
and does not solve it. For if the initial question of why a person can produce
emotions is answered by saying it is because faculties act like internal agents,
then the question immediately arises as to why the agents can act and produce
something. Where do they get their causal power? And what allows us to dis-
tinguish individual agents and arrange them into a whole network? As long as
these questions are not answered, the reference to faculties is an empty gesture.
Thus Montaigne calls attention to the classic homunculus problem that any
theory of faculties must address.51 As was shown in Section 1.2, an Aristotelian
can certainly deal with this problem. He can first point out that faculties are
not agents, but only mechanisms that have no causal power in themselves. The
critical point for an Aristotelian is that there is no conglomeration of agents
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in an “imaginary republic,” but a single agent—the whole person—who alone

can act. Second, we must observe that these mechanisms are not arbitrarily
assumed. Rather, the empirical observation of states that show specific char-
acteristics (such as the cognitive and motivational characteristics of emotions)
permits the inference of certain mechanisms. Hence the assumption is not of
arbitrarily many “orders and stages,” but only as many as are necessary to ex-
plain the given states. But Montaigne does not undertake a detailed evaluation
of the Aristotelian position. As a skeptic, he contents himself with suggesting a
contrary opinion, thus representing the Aristotelian opinion as implausible and
in need of explanation at least. This also damages the plausibility of a theory that
attempts to classify the emotions by reference to faculties.
How then is it still possible, not just to accumulate individual cases, but to
distinguish different kinds of emotions and thus to establish a certain order?
A Pyrrhonian skeptic can appeal to the conventions in his community, and
not because he believes in them, but because he has grown up with them and
follows them out of habit. Montaigne uses precisely this approach, inasmuch as
he calls attention to habit or custom, and even devotes a separate essay to it. We
are induced by custom to see things in a certain way, to classify and evaluate
them. In doing so, we do not consciously choose one order or another. Rather,
habit creeps in and gradually brings us around to using an ordering schema. It
is “a violent and treacherous schoolmistress. She establishes in us, little by little,
stealthily, the foothold of her authority” (I.23, 77 a). Its function is ambivalent.
On the one hand, it relieves us of having to examine and describe every indi-
vidual case in detail. But at the same time it has the result that we no longer
observe the individual case attentively. “Habit stupefies our senses,” Montaigne
succinctly states (I.23, 78 c). We no longer pay attention to the particularities of
the individual case, but instead notice only those of its many characteristics that
we are accustomed to and that therefore appear relevant to us. That does not
mean, however, that those are in fact the relevant characteristics or the ones that
definitively connect all the individual cases with one another. Nor does it mean
that we have purposely selected those characteristics. We have simply become
accustomed to them, just as we become accustomed to day-to-day actions.
For the emotions, this means that we perform a habitual classification. When
we group individual cases under rubrics such as “anger” or “fear,” the reason
is simply because we have become accustomed to seeing some characteris-
tics as relevant and sorting the diverse multitude of individual cases by these
characteristics. Thus we become accustomed to calling it anger when we see
someone trying to get retribution for a wrong suffered while showing strong
physical excitement. Perhaps we have even become accustomed to calling other
cases anger too, such as the case of cold anger, lacking the characteristic of
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physical excitement, mentioned in the previous section. We are guided in this

habitual classification by our surroundings, by classical texts, and by established
conceptions. But if we allow ourselves to be influenced by custom in this way,
that does not mean that we make a conscious decision and choose this clas-
sification as opposed to that one. Nor does it mean that it is the only possible
or the only correct classification. Montaigne explicitly mentions the diversity
of customs: very different habits occur depending on the historic and cultural
situations. Hence one’s own classification and evaluation of the emotions is
nothing but an expression of culturally conditioned habit. All descriptive and
normative attitudes that are purportedly given by nature or by reason turn
out on closer examination to be a product of habit: “The laws of conscience,
which we say are born of nature, are born of custom. Each man, holding in in-
ward veneration the opinions and the behavior approved and accepted around
him, cannot break loose from them without remorse, or apply himself to them
without self-satisfaction” (I.23, 83 c).
As Montaigne shows, based on numerous examples, this has far-reaching
consequences. If he and the people around him are outraged by and reject the
eating of human flesh or the killing of one’s aged parents, the reason is not that
there is a natural, universally valid law that prohibits these acts. The reference
to such a law is a rationalistic delusion. The actual reason lies in the fact that
certain moral customs and laws have become established in his culture and that
everyone who has grown up with them has internalized them—not least be-
cause they are afraid of sanctions if they violate them. In other cultures, people
may be accustomed to completely different customs and laws. In this refer-
ence to different habits, Montaigne directly adopts the tenth trope of Sextus
Empiricus, that is, the application of the Pyrrhonian method to the relativity of
various cultural contexts (PH I.145).
This thrust of cultural relativism, which manifests itself in several essays,52
has immediate consequences for the discussion of the emotions. If every clas-
sification and evaluation is based on internalized mores and customs, then the
classification of the emotions is also contingent on culture. Montaigne uses
the categories “anger,” “fear,” etc., because he has become accustomed to this
classification in his culture—other cultures may have other systems of classi-
fication. Thus a systematic classification is certainly possible, but not because
there is a solid metaphysical foundation for it. Unlike the realists, Montaigne
does not claim that there are universal natures that are instantiated in indi-
vidual emotional states and determine what kinds they belong to. And, unlike
the nominalists, he does not support the thesis that a stable, natural similarity
connects the individual states with one another and allows us to form general
concepts of their kinds. He doesn’t support any thesis at all, but only points out
15
that, because of his culturally conditioned habit, he cannot do otherwise than

to refer to groups or categories of emotions. As Pierre Villey notes in his edito-
rial remarks, for the early essays in which Montaigne presents different kinds
of emotions, we can even identify specific sources from which he drew inspira-
tion.53 He mainly follows these sources when he mentions sadness, fear, or anger
as categories.
The reference to habit and cultural background raises two problems, how-
ever. First, why has a certain classification become customary in a culture? Did
it come about quite arbitrarily or is it somehow rooted in the emotions classi-
fied? And, second, why have members of the culture internalized the classifica-
tion? Is the habitual adoption of a system of classification a product of education
and a social (possibly legally framed) system of sanctions? Or is there some-
thing in the emotions themselves that prompts this internalization? That these
questions need to be answered can be illustrated independently of Montaigne’s
text by a fictive example. Suppose we discover a foreign tribe of people, live
with them, and gradually learn their language. After a certain time, we find that
the members of this tribe use a certain word when they receive good food and
seem to be happy. But they use the same word when a member of the tribe dies,
and they weep and appear sad. And finally, they also use this word when a bear
attacks the village, and they run away and seem to be afraid. We are confused.
How it is possible that they use the same word for such different emotions?
What reason do they have for this apparently unintelligible classification? And
why should we adopt this classification if we live with them for an extended pe-
riod? The individual emotions have characteristics that do not fit together and
resist a uniform classification. We would therefore find it difficult to get used to
this classification, even if there are sanctions against violating it.
As this example may illustrate, it is not sufficient to refer to an established
classification and habit. The motivation for a certain classification must also be
understandable. That motivation cannot lie in the mechanism of sanction alone
but must—at least in part—be justified by the things classified. The things must
be connected with one another somehow (perhaps in a way that is unintelli-
gible to visitors of a foreign tribe). Montaigne is aware of this problem. For that
reason, he does not refer only to the established customs and their internaliza-
tion as habit, but also to the relations between the individual things: “As no event
and no shape is entirely like another, so none is entirely different from another.
An ingenious mixture on the part of nature. If our faces were not similar, we
could not distinguish man from beast; if they were not dissimilar, we could not
distinguish man from man. All things hold together by some similarity; every
example is lame, and the comparison that is drawn from experience is always
faulty and imperfect; however, we fasten together our comparisons by some
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corner” (III.13, 819 c). Here Montaigne points out that the things are connected
with one another by similarities and dissimilarities, although not by any natural
belonging to a kind. For there are similarities and dissimilarities within a kind
as well. Furthermore, we cannot assume that there are fixed kinds at all. Rather,
we must look carefully at every individual case and ask how it is connected with
another case. This results in chains of similarity. These chains can arise in dif-
ferent ways, but they always motivate us to distinguish groups or categories of
things. For this reason, the habitual classifications do have a grounding in the
things classified, although it is not a universally valid grounding.
Montaigne does not explain in detail how the similarities arise. Nor does he
analyze what prompts us to produce such variable chains. His brief remarks
point toward a model, however, that was elaborated by Ludwig Wittgenstein in
the 20th century and that has become influential in connection with the term
“family resemblance.” Wittgenstein shows, using specific examples, that we do
not group individual things, such as games, in a category simply by naming an
essential characteristic. We can point to different characteristics that connect
some games with one another, but not others. Some games are played alone
and others in groups, for example; some games are played only for amusement
and others as tests of dexterity; some are played with the goal of winning and
others just to pass the time, etc. Although games are connected with one an-
other in many different ways, there is no single characteristic that would join
them all together. Hence Wittgenstein writes, “For if you look at them you will
not see something that is common to all, but similarities, relationships, and a
whole series of them at that.”54 We can build a chain using these relationships
that connect all games with one another although no constant characteristic
is found in every link of the chain. Thus the first and second of many games
can be connected by characteristic a, the second and third by b, the third and
fourth by c, etc. All of them are then connected with one another without there
being a constant characteristic of games. For this reason, Wittgenstein writes
that “the concept ‘game’ is a concept with blurred edges.”55 It would have sharp
edges only if there were one or more characteristics that are found in all games
and only in games. Only then could we give a definition of games—that is, for-
mulate necessary and sufficient conditions. But that is not possible if there are
only chains of characteristics. From this finding, Wittgenstein does not draw
the conclusion that the term “game” should be abandoned for lack of distinct
outlines, and that we should avoid speaking of a category or group of things that
corresponds to this term. Rather, he says that we should give attention to the
family resemblances: in other words, the given characteristics that concatenate
the individual things—board games, ball games, card games, etc.—with one an-
other. Depending on which similarities we look at, the contours of the concept
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can vary. Hence it is not a rigid concept. The same can be said of many other
general terms. They pick out a category or group of things, not because all those
things show one essential characteristic, but because they are concatenated with
one another by family resemblances.
In Wittgenstein we find a fully developed form of what Montaigne only
suggests. But the critical point is that Montaigne too calls attention to the var-
ious similarities that connect individual cases with one another without taking
an essentialist position. Montaigne too says “every example is lame” because we
cannot name all the typical or essential characteristics on the basis of one case or
a small number of cases. Rather, we must examine each case to find its connection
to another; hence Montaigne’s frequent listing of cases that are partially similar
to one another, but partially different. This is not mere literary play, or the ex-
pression of an obsession with quirky details, but a methodologically motivated
procedure: only when similarities and dissimilarities are precisely identified
can individual cases be concatenated with one another. Of course, Montaigne
does not claim that these cases actually have—in Wittgenstein’s terms—family
resemblances. As a skeptic, he abstains from all claims. He describes everything
from his own personal viewpoint and presents the things as they appear to him.
Or, as he describes his plan, “I study myself more than any other object. That is
my metaphysics, that is my physics” (III.13, 821 b). He studies which similarities
and dissimilarities he notices and how the things seem to him to be connected
with one another. Thus he can form general categories only on the basis of his
impressions of the individual cases. And because those impressions are con-
stantly changing, each new appearance of the concatenation of cases yields new
categories.
Taking this skeptical and anti-essentialist method into account, we see that
Montaigne finds an elegant answer to the question of how a classification of
emotions can still be possible. He distances himself from two extremes. First, he
repudiates a strong metaphysical position that claims that there is something in
the emotions themselves that relates them to one another in a definite way and
determines a certain classification once and for all. To that position, he objects
that there are many different similarities and dissimilarities that repeatedly
permit new classifications. At the same time, he also rejects a radically construc-
tivist position according to which a classification would be possible only thanks
to social conventions and sanctions internalized by habit. Against that position,
he argues that there are in the emotions (as in other things) similarities and
dissimilarities that suggest a certain classification. For, even if this classification
is variable and differs with the given culture, its origin is not perfectly arbitrary
or random. Hence a socially established and habitually learned classification
(such as that which Montaigne takes from Aristotle, Plutarch, Aquinas, and
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other classical authors) has a foundation in the emotions, even though it is not
stable and can always be changed by a new concatenation of individual cases.
3.5 Natural Moderation Instead

of Control
Emotions are not simply objects that we can describe from a safe distance, com-
pare with one another, and perhaps classify. They are states or processes that
often take hold of us whether we want them or not. Fear simply comes over us;
anger besets us; and we are carried away by joy. How should we deal with that?
As we have seen in the first two chapters, the scholastic Aristotelians propose a
certain kind of control. As naturally caused states, emotions cannot and should
not be suppressed, but directed by beliefs and acts of volition. Depending on
the situation, they should be moderated, heightened, or commuted into other
emotions. How exactly they are supposed to be controlled is determined in
part by a rational evaluation of the given situation and in part (or wholly, for
voluntarists such as Duns Scotus and Ockham) by voluntary assent or rejection.
Montaigne cannot adopt this conception, not only for the simple reason that,
as a skeptic, he does not agree to any opinion, whether it is intellectualistic, vol-
untaristic, or anything else. Examining his attitude toward traditional theories
of the soul presented in Section 3.4, we see that two other reasons also prevent
him from adopting the thesis of rational control. First, such a thesis implies
that there are internal control mechanisms through which the higher, rational
faculties act upon the lower, sensual faculties. But, as we have seen, Montaigne
rejects the assumption of an “imaginary republic” and hence the postulation
of hierarchically ordered faculties acting upon one another. And second, the
thesis presupposes that general principles and normative rules are apprehended
in the higher faculties and then applied to concrete situations. Thus Thomas
Aquinas explicitly wrote that we can moderate fear or anger by examining the
object of the given emotion in the light of general principles (STh I, 81.3). But
Montaigne opposes the conception that we could apprehend such principles
once and for all and apply them to individual cases. Again and again, he says we
must examine each case individually and refrain from subordinating cases to
a general principle. For this reason he mentions only how the individual cases
appear to him at one moment or another. But if he can appeal to only subjec-
tive impressions, and not to general principles, he cannot evaluate and possibly
change emotions with reference to general principles.
If there is no rational control, what way of dealing with emotions is pos-
sible? Montaigne describes the attitude of Pyrrhonian skeptics as follows: “They
lend and accommodate themselves to natural inclinations, to the impulsion
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and constraint of passions, to the constitutions of laws and customs, and to the
traditions of the arts” (II.12, 374 a). Skeptics live in accordance with nature and
thus in accordance with the emotions that arise naturally. This presupposes no
assent to the emotions, much less a positive evaluation. When skeptics are beset
by fear or seized with anger, they live in accordance with these emotions, not
because they believe that these are the appropriate emotions, nor because they
believe they should follow an emotion rather than a sober reflection. They live,
as Montaigne explicitly writes, in accordance with the “constraint” [contrainte]
of the emotions—in other words, because they cannot do otherwise than accept
them as they arise and influence their actions.
Montaigne adopts this practical attitude, as his dissociation from the
Aristotelians and the Stoics indicates. The Aristotelians, he says, try to moderate
all strong psychic impressions—including the emotions—whereas the Stoics do
not permit them at all or repudiate them. But for his part, he cannot do otherwise
than simply to accept them (I.12, 31 b). He candidly calls himself a “naturalist”
who lives in accordance with nature and wants to understand how emotions
come about through natural processes.56 In the essay “Of Anger,” discussed in
Section 3.4, he recounts what that means in concrete terms: when he is beset
by anger over a servant, he admits the emotion and gives the miscreant a slap;
he does not suppress the anger. It is noteworthy that he does not describe this
simply as a natural fact that he must permit for better or for worse. Instead, he
praises the outburst of anger, like the expression of other emotions, as some-
thing positive: “I would rather produce my passions than brood over them at
my expense; they grow languid when they have vent and expression. It is better
that their point should operate outwardly than be turned against us” (II.31, 543
b). If emotions are suppressed or denied, they accumulate, which makes them
only more intense and unpredictable. It is therefore better to give them free rein,
both for the person who is seized by an emotion and for the person who is the
object. The servant would suffer more if Montaigne’s anger were to accumulate
in him for weeks, then discharge forcefully. If the anger discharges immedi-
ately, not only is Montaigne psychically purged, but his servant too is imme-
diately made aware that he has done something wrong. Otherwise, he would
fall victim to an outburst of inexplicable rage at a later time, or the outburst
would strike someone else, someone completely innocent. Montaigne points
out that our emotions sometimes strike a completely unexpected person or
thing (which we have called the “outlet object”) and explicitly warns against this
phenomenon, which only causes strife: “Let us give each [anger] its head, and
we shall always be at peace” (11.31, 544 b). Here we see clearly that Montaigne
considers a control or suppression of the emotions inappropriate not only on
theoretical grounds. There are practical arguments against it too. Controlling
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the emotions can backfire when apparently moderated or tamed aggressions

suddenly burst forth.
One might object at this point that this critique of the model of rational control
is aimed at best at a caricature, and not at the model itself. Most of all, it misses
the basic idea of the Aristotelian model, which concerns not a repression, but a
transformation of the emotions. A person who is angry should not suppress his
anger, but overcome it through a certain knowledge, such as the knowledge that
no wrong has been committed, or if a wrong has in fact occurred, that the per-
petrator has apologized. In this way the anger is not accumulated, but relieved.57
Although people by nature have certain emotions, they are fundamentally dif-
ferent from animals, which cannot gain insights and can never transform their
emotions. Those who overlook this fact fail to recognize something that also
belongs to human nature: the capacity for rational reflection. Furthermore, it
would be inappropriate to act out every emotion as something natural, irresist-
ible, because there are also harmful emotions. If a quick-tempered person acts
out every fit of rage, he will strike innocent people. Hence we must observe not
only the natural character, but also the appropriateness of emotions, and act out
only those that are in fact appropriate.
Montaigne would be vulnerable to this objection if he contrasted rational
control simply with the unrestrained acting out of any emotion. Then he would
be advocating a form of primitive emotivism. Or, to be more precise, because
as a skeptic he does not maintain any position, but simply lives in accordance
with nature, he would be taking an emotivistic attitude that can be summarized
in the following formula: “Whenever an emotion takes me, I act it out as some-
thing natural that compels me.” Montaigne is far from taking such a radical at-
titude, however. Even in those essays in which he praises acting out an emotion,
he points out the limits. For example, he notes, “To behave rightly, we ourselves
should never lay a hand on our servants as long as our anger lasts” (II.31, 540
a). He would also stop parents from beating a child in anger and is seized with
anger himself at the sight of them (II.31, 540 a). They commit a wrong when they
act out their anger without restraint.
These statements are noteworthy, because they illustrate that, when
Montaigne speaks of a life in accordance with nature, he does not mean simply
an unbridled acting out of emotions. He does not equate human beings with
animals, who cannot do otherwise than yield to every instinct and every surge
of emotion. Again and again he emphasizes that we must control ourselves and
moderate the emotions. He even devotes a whole essay to the topic of mod-
eration, writing plainly, “I like temperate and moderate natures” (I.30, 146 c).
By this, of course, he means not just people who moderate the bad emotions
and the vices they engender, but also those who keep their good emotions and
16
virtues in check. Excessive virtue is just as much anathema to him as unbridled

vice. Only those who avoid both extremes lead an appropriate life. Hence it is
not surprising that he tries to keep extreme emotions away. When he describes
persons who are so seized by sadness that they see only death as a way out, he
excepts himself, noting that he is not so gripped by “violent passions” (I.2, 8 b).
Violence, exuberance, and extravagance are what he wants to avoid.
This advocacy of moderation, however, is surprising, and perhaps even in-
comprehensible. How can Montaigne say that we should admit emotions as nat-
ural states, but at the same time insist that they should be kept in check? It seems
as though he were simultaneously taking both a Pyrrhonian and a dogmatic
attitude. As a skeptic, he points out that we have no criterion to distinguish good
emotions from bad ones, and that we cannot apply any control mechanisms to
moderate or eliminate the bad ones. But as a dogmatist, he seems to demand,
just like the Aristotelians, that we should control ourselves and avoid or over-
come excessive emotions. Only moderation affords both every individual and
the whole community a good life.
In view of this tension, it is not surprising that various interpreters have
taken the view that Montaigne is not a skeptic at bottom. The Pyrrhonian at-
titude, they say, is only a starting point from which to surmount or question
traditional opinions, but ultimately he takes a certain position, and hence a dog-
matic attitude, behind which there is a certain ethical, if not political, agenda.
He aspires, says David Lewis Schaefer, to a “radical transformation of the po-
litical and social order” by replacing the moral and religious conventions with
the autonomous subject, expressing itself freely but at the same time controlling
its own impulses and emotions and leaving room for other subjects to develop
themselves as well.58 Max Gauna goes so far as to find that Montaigne postulates
an “ethics of compassion” based on general principles, including the principle
that the emotions of other living beings must be respected as well as one’s own.59
Must the demand for moderation really be understood as an abandonment
of the skeptical attitude? And does Montaigne ultimately rely on ethical prin-
ciples? These questions can be answered only if we look more closely at what
prompts him to remark again and again that emotions should not be simply
acted out without restraint. A suitable place to start is the essay “Of Moderation,”
in which Montaigne says what prompts him to regard himself and other people
as beings who control themselves. He asks, “But to speak in good earnest, isn’t
man a miserable animal? Hardly is it in his power, by his natural condition,
to taste a single pleasure pure and entire, and still he is at pains to curtail that
pleasure by his reason [par discours]: he is not wretched enough unless by art
and study he augments his misery” (I.30, 148 a). Here Montaigne is pointing out
an anthropological fact: we human beings are so constructed that we naturally
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make use of all our abilities—including rational abilities—and hence we not

only perceive and perhaps enjoy things, but immediately think about how the
things are constituted, why they give us enjoyment, and why we are entitled to
enjoy them in the first place. Whether we like it or not, as rational beings we are
designed, one might say doomed, to engage in reflection. Although we may be
able, in some situations, to switch off our rational abilities, so to speak, and sur-
render ourselves to an unrestrained enjoyment, sooner or later we switch them
back on and ponder what consequences acting out our enjoyment has for our-
selves and our fellow human beings. This is a difference between us and animals,
which have numerous cognitive abilities in common with us, but are unable to
think critically about their own actions.
The reference to rational abilities is not new, of course, but Montaigne’s point
is that he sees these abilities not as a special gift, but as a natural fact, pos-
sibly even a burdensome fact. That is, in slightly overstated terms, the misery of
humans consists in the fact that they are rational beings and, for better or worse,
reflect on their own actions. The crucial point here is that the rational abilities
belong to human nature in the same measure as all other human abilities. Hence
thinking and reflecting impose themselves on humans just as perception, im-
agination, desire, and sensation do. Living in accordance with nature therefore
means not merely living according to the primitive drives and spontaneously
arising emotions. It also means living in accordance with the naturally arising
reflections. In Montaigne’s description of the skeptics’ lives, quoted earlier in
this section, he explicitly writes that they live in accordance with the “natural
inclinations.” These inclinations include the rational as well as the sensual.
This shows clearly that Montaigne need not abandon his skeptical attitude
and become a dogmatist when he calls on people to reflect on and, if neces-
sary, moderate their emotions. He is simply recommending a life in accordance
with our natural abilities, including the rational abilities, that we cannot, and
should not, defy. At the end of the Essays he sums up: “I accept with all my heart
and with gratitude what nature has done for me, and I am pleased with myself
and proud of myself that I do. We wrong that great and all-powerful Giver by
refusing his gift, nullifying it, and disfiguring it” (III.13, 855 b). Montaigne does
not limit the gifts of nature to sensual perceptions and emotions, but includes
among them opinions, which arise from rational reflection. These too form part
of our natural equipment and are to be welcomed as long as we compare them
with other opinions and do not let them solidify into dogmas.
In view of this broad conception of nature, we must qualify the blanket state-
ment that Montaigne opposes a control of the emotions. If what is meant by such
a control is the regulated acting of higher, rational faculties on lower, sensual
faculties, then Montaigne does oppose it, because he considers a hierarchical
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ordering of faculties and the assumption of an internal regulating mechanism

to be mistaken. But if that control is conceived in the sense of an activation of
all natural abilities, then it can and indeed must take place, for only then does
a person exploit all his resources—the rational as well as the sensual. Or, to ex-
press this more cautiously: In this case, there is no rigid control, but there is a
naturally arising reflection on the appropriateness of the emotions—both one’s
own and those of other persons. This reflection allows new emotions to arise or
existing ones to be moderated.
But how does this reflection come about? If it appeals to general principles
and applies them to specific cases, then Montaigne still ends up taking a dog-
matic attitude. One can appeal to principles only if one agrees with them and
considers them relevant—in other words, if one supports a certain position.
Montaigne does not choose this approach, however, as his remarks on cruelty
show. Cruelty, in his view, is the worst vice; one he rejects completely. He writes
in no uncertain terms, “Among other vices, I cruelly hate cruelty, both by na-
ture and by judgment, as the extreme of all vices” (II.11, 313 a). By cruelty he
means the quality of certain actions, namely those that are aimed at the sense-
less torturing of victims and committed purely for the pleasure of torturing. “All
that goes beyond plain death,” he writes succinctly, “seems to me pure cruelty”
(II.11, 314 a; repeated in II.27, 530 a). Thus if we not only kill a prisoner, but
torture him or threaten him with torture beforehand, we are acting cruelly. In
doing so we destroy not only his body, but also his mind, because the expecta-
tion of torture makes life so unbearable to him that he wishes death on him-
self. Montaigne illustrates this with an example. When a soldier condemned
to die was imprisoned in a tower and expected a cruel execution, he rammed a
rusty nail into his neck to escape the impending torture. When he didn’t die, he
pushed the nail into his abdomen too. The guards found him in this state and
dragged him before the judges, who announced that he would be beheaded. He
thanked them for the “unhoped-for mildness of their condemnation,” saying
he had tried to kill himself only to escape a much worse death (II.11, 314–315 c).
This example is noteworthy in two respects. First, it illustrates that, for
Montaigne, there are acts not only of physical cruelty, but also of psychological
cruelty. The mere threat of torture, which raises images of unbearable pain in
the imagination, can be so cruel that it breaks a person’s will to live. There can be
no justification for this. Even if a legally incontestable death sentence has been
issued, there is no legitimation for presenting a prisoner with the prospect of a
very painful death, and then relieving him, so to speak, by announcing a quick
death at the last minute.60 Nor is there any legitimation for actually executing
someone in a cruel way. In an explicit criticism of the tortures that were common
during the wars of religion in his day, Montaigne says that roasting and eating
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dead bodies, as practiced among some savages, seems to him less horrible than
mutilating living bodies (II.31, 314 a).61 In more prosaic terms: at least those who
mutilate their victims only after their death don’t inflict unnecessary pain.
Second, Montaigne’s example of the captive soldier is also noteworthy be-
cause it emphasizes the victim’s point of view. It does not discuss the perpetrators
and their intentions, but instead shows the effects of cruel acts (whether merely
threatened or actually performed) on the victim. The change of perspective in
Montaigne is dramatic if we compare his description of cruelty with that found
in Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas too condemns cruelty, but only as a certain mental
attitude of the perpetrator. A person who acts cruelly shows a “harshness of the
mind” [austeritas animi] and punishes beyond the appropriate measure (STh II–
II, 159.1, ad 1). This harshness is what is bad; it ruins the character and must be
vanquished. But Aquinas was not interested in the questions of how exactly that
harshness was expressed, what acts it resulted in, and what the consequences
of those acts were for the victims. He took only the perpetrator’s point of view,
and, what is more, he took a purely psychological point of view, because he
considered only the mental attitudes and not the concrete acts. Montaigne, by
contrast, considers the victim and describes the degree of destruction caused by
the cruel acts. In so doing, Montaigne opens up, as Daniel Baraz has shown in
detail, a new approach to the phenomenon of cruelty that we may call a quanti
tative approach: it becomes possible to compare different cases of cruelty with
one another by describing the given degree of destruction of a victim.62 An act
can be more or less cruel depending on how much it destroys the victim’s phys-
ical or psychological integrity. Montaigne does not limit himself to cases of
prisoners and other human victims. He also mentions cases of animals that are
cruelly chased in the hunt and finally surrender to save themselves further suf-
fering. Here too, he is less interested in the questions of the hunters’ intention in
tormenting the animals and how that intention spoils character, but concentrates
on a description of the victim. The hounded and exhausted stag, he reports,
“throws himself back and surrenders to ourselves who are pursuing him, asking
for our mercy by his tears” (II.11, 316 a). This is not simply a naive, anthropomor-
phic description of an animal, as one might perhaps suspect. Montaigne here
clearly states that the consequences of the cruel acts must be considered even in
the case of an animal, which must not be seen as a mere object.
But why does Montaigne feel abhorrence or even hate toward cruelty? What
elicits this emotional reaction in him? We may start by noting what he does not
name as his reasons. He does not say he rejects cruelty because it goes against
moral principles. Nor does he say he considers it bad because it damages the
character and keeps a person from doing good deeds and attaining the ulti-
mate goal of blessedness. Nor does he claim, as one might expect in view of
165
the theological context in the 16th century, that cruel actions violate religious
beliefs, such as the principle that God’s creatures must be respected and hence
must not be tormented. He states, rather, as previously quoted, that he hates cru-
elty “both by nature and by judgment,” and adds: “But this is to such a point of
softness that I do not see a chicken’s neck wrung without distress, and I cannot
bear to hear the scream of a hare in the teeth of my dogs, although the chase is
a violent pleasure” (II.11, 313 a). Montaigne apparently has a sensitive spirit that
recoils from killing and even from the sight of a killing. He is still more repelled
by the sight of cruel acts that are committed merely for pleasure. Thus it is not a
rational insight or a moral precept that elicits abhorrence in him, but a natural
disposition. His statement is a further indication that, as a skeptic, he lives in ac-
cordance with nature, that is, in accordance with the naturally caused reactions
to cruel acts. He also emphasizes his understanding of the self-description “I
am no philosopher”; we are to grasp it not only in the antitheoretical sense pre-
viously referred to—that is, as a distancing from the scholastic philosophers
who take a position on every question. It is equally meant in a practical sense.
Montaigne sees himself not as a philosopher who analyzes problems calmly and
distantly. Because of his sensitive spirit, he feels immediately affected; he reacts,
depending on the situation, with abhorrence or enthusiasm, with wonder or
boredom. He is neither able nor willing to overcome these spontaneous emo-
tional reactions.63
If he said only that much, he would be taking the attitude of a primitive
emotivist, letting himself be guided simply by his mood and the spontaneously
kindled feeling of compassion. But Montaigne is aware that there are also neg-
ative feelings that arise just as naturally as the positive ones: “Nature herself,
I fear, attaches to man some instinct for inhumanity” (II.11, 316 b). A person
could have an unfeeling or even a sadistic spirit instead of a sensitive one, and
spontaneously feel joy at the victim’s pain. Such a person would also be living
in accordance with nature in acting cruelly. Why shouldn’t he follow his nat-
ural inclination and feelings? At this point we must observe the second reason
Montaigne gives: he rejects cruelty not only by nature, but also by judgment
[par jugement], in other words, through the use of the rational abilities. These
abilities become active the moment a perception occurs. Suppose Montaigne
witnesses a chicken being strangled. Then he not only hears a shrill cry that
makes him spontaneously shudder, but he also evaluates the situation and asks
himself: Must the chicken suffer? Is great pain being inflicted on it? Is it really
necessary to strangle it? These and similar ideas also cause him to feel abhor-
rence. The feeling is stronger in those cases in which he observes the torture
of a human being. Then the idea immediately comes to him that the act is a
destructive one being performed out of pure pleasure in tormenting, and he is
16
seized with abhorrence. Thus there is, in addition to the natural disposition, a
rational source too for the emotional reaction. A sadistically disposed person
can and must draw on this source. As a rational being, he also has thoughts like
the following when he torments a victim: Must the victim suffer? How badly is
he harmed by the suffering? And what causes me to inflict this suffering upon
him? If he were to reject or suppress these thoughts, he would be acting against
his rational nature.
The critical point is that the rational source does not consist of one or more
general principles that a person comprehends and applies. It consists rather in
the fact that a person makes concrete reflections by means of natural rational
abilities. The question arises of what consequences this act has in this situation
for this victim. That alone is enough to elicit compassion with the victim and
abhorrence toward the cruelty. Montaigne illustrates this by asking in regard to
the prisoner condemned to death: “For what can be the state of a man’s soul who
is waiting twenty-four hours for death broken on a wheel, or, in the old fashion,
nailed to a cross?” (II.27, 530 a). We are seized with compassion as soon as we
imagine the concrete torments. We do not need general principles from which
to derive a moral duty to compassion.
Montaigne describes case by case what reflections and mental images are
evoked and how they determine the emotional reaction; he does not refer to
a general pattern or a regulating mechanism. In view of his refusal to assume
internal hierarchies of faculties, he cannot invoke any such mechanism. He can
only point out that he, just like any other person, is endowed by nature with an
abundance of abilities that act simultaneously and evoke compassion with the
victim. Thus the emotional reaction follows from a natural disposition, and is
not the product of a reflection that presupposes special knowledge. If the reac-
tion occurs repeatedly, it results in the virtue of compassion as a certain attitude
toward victims. “My virtue,” he writes, “is a virtue, or I should say an innocence,
that is accidental and fortuitous” (II.11, 311).64 It is fortuitous because it follows
from the repeated interaction of the natural abilities and is not planned or labo-
riously acquired by rational efforts.
Montaigne is aware that this conception of virtue contrasts with the tradi-
tional one.65 He discusses the traditional theory of virtue at length at the be-
ginning of the essay “Of Cruelty.” The traditional doctrine understands virtue
as a second nature that is acquired step by step by exercise in good deeds—an
arduous enterprise that requires constant practice and patience. As a skeptical
counterdiscourse, Montaigne contrasts this conception with another—not to
refute the traditional theory, but only to show that it offers just one possible
explanation for virtuous behavior: virtue may be laboriously acquired in some
cases, but by no means in all cases. People by nature have a sensitivity for the
167
suffering of their fellow human beings and animals, so that they spontane-
ously produce the suitable reflection on seeing a suffering creature, which in
turn elicits an emotional reaction. In some people who have a sensitive spirit
(such as Montaigne himself with his propensity for “softness”), this sensi-
tivity may be more marked than in others, but all people by nature have the
ability to notice the suffering of other living beings and to allow it to guide
their emotional reactions. The critical point here is that activating this ability
does not presuppose grasping general principles, but only drawing attention to
individual cases.
This explains how we are to understand the skeptical life in accordance with
nature. It is neither a life of bestial submission to spontaneous urges and desires,
nor a life of rationalistically deducing the instructions for appropriate emotions
from general principles. It is, rather, a life in which the sensual and rational
abilities are applied, and a natural sensitivity for the suffering of other living
things forms the basis for emotional reactions. By the same token, this clarifies
what is meant by moderating the emotions. Such moderation comes about not
through rational control, but through the simultaneous use of all abilities and
special attention to our natural sensitivity. By considering the consequences
for others of acting out our emotions—for animals as well as for our fellow
human beings—we become aware of their suffering and moderate or change
our emotions. For Montaigne’s examples, this means: When the parents who
beat their children in anger become aware that they are causing unnecessary
suffering, they rein in their outburst. When the hunters who chase an animal to
its death become aware of the animal’s suffering, they moderate their joy in the
hunt. When the people watching an execution see how the maltreated prisoners
suffer, they curb their lust for cruel practices. Of course, this does not mean that
they moderate the primitive emotions right away. On the contrary: often they
delight in the suffering of other creatures because they have become accustomed
to tormenting them. These habitual acts harbor “the true seeds and roots of cru-
elty, tyranny, and treason,” as Montaigne unsparingly states (I.23, 78 c). If we
want to motivate ourselves and others to moderate excessive emotions, we must
begin by discarding our bad habits and rediscovering our natural sensitivity to
the suffering of others. In a word, we must apply a strategy of raising sensitivity.
This is achieved primarily by paying special attention to suffering, thus taking
the victim’s point of view. This is why Montaigne gives detailed descriptions of
suffering prisoners and animals. Only if we give attention to each individual and
consider how they are physically or psychologically harmed can we reassert our
natural sensitivity to suffering, which has been buried to a certain extent by habit.
The Pyrrhonian motto of life in accordance with nature is thus to be un-
derstood not only just in a descriptive sense, but also normatively: we should
168
activate our natural abilities, and we should develop our natural sensitivity for
the suffering of others. Of course, this demand is not founded on any norma-
tive principle, and cannot be definitively justified. Rather, it is the result of nu-
merous experiences collected and the observation of other living beings.66 Once
we have observed how destructive cruel acts are to human beings and animals,
and we have also experienced how our cruel habits ruin our character, we in-
evitably come to the conclusion that cruelty should be avoided. Equally inevi-
tably, we come to the realization that the natural sensitivity to the suffering of
others should be reinforced. Hence Montaigne, at the very end of the Essays,
praises Nature as “a gentle guide” and says she shows him the right path that
“we have confused . . . with artificial tracks” (III.13, 855 b). Only if we return to
this path and let our natural sensitivity guide us can we produce the appropriate
emotions.
When we consider this orientation toward nature, it becomes clear that
Montaigne does in fact advocate “ethics of compassion,” as Max Gauna has
found. These are not ethics oriented on principles, however, but a special form
of naturalistic ethics: From the development of our natural abilities and our
natural sensitivity for other living beings, emotions arise that we should allow
to guide us. The fundamental emotion among these is compassion, which not
only motivates us to appropriate actions, but also induces us to moderate exces-
sive emotions. In this way Montaigne diverges from the rationalistic agenda of
the Aristotelians, who explain a moderation of the emotions by reference to the
recognition of general principles of action.
As tempting as Montaigne’s approach may be as an alternative to the
Aristotelian-scholastic theories, it does pose a number of questions and
problems. Three fundamental problems may be mentioned here. The first of
these concerns naturalism. Montaigne assumes that every person is endowed
by nature with all the resources necessary to produce the appropriate emotions
and moderate excessive emotions. He opposes the view that an external con-
trol or even outside support is necessary: “There is no one who, if he listens
to himself, does not discover in himself a pattern all his own, a ruling pattern,
which struggles against education and against the tempest of the passions that
oppose it” (III.2, 615 b). It seems as if Montaigne here were settling on a cer-
tain essentialism, in spite of the numerous references he makes elsewhere to
the changeability of one’s own person: Each person has an inner core that
not only determines what he is as an individual, but also what he should be.
If each person allows this inner core to guide him, he produces the appro-
priate emotions. Hence Montaigne can say of himself, “I have my own laws
and court to judge me, and I address myself to them more than anywhere else”
(III.2, 613 b).
169
But who makes sure that this court in fact judges justly? Or, to express it
less metaphorically: what assurance is there that one’s own nature produces the
appropriate emotions? Montaigne seems to trust that there is a kind of equi-
librium between naturally kindled urges and desires and equally naturally
caused reflections—an equilibrium that allows a person to produce the appro-
priate emotions. But that is a strong assumption, and its plausibility is easily
questioned by means of concrete examples. Think of the case of the sadist pre-
viously mentioned who naturally takes pleasure in tormenting other people and
animals. If every person has his “own pattern” that he should obey, then the
sadist too must be allowed simply to obey his pattern. There seems to be no way
to refer to universal moral principles that the sadist too is supposed to accept.
There are no such principles, and even if there were, they would be external
laws, and not each person’s own. That means, of course: the sadist produces his
emotions, which are appropriate to him, on the basis of his own pattern.
Is Montaigne thus compelled to accept sadistic emotions just as he does all
other natural emotions? Not at all. He can point out that a person’s “own pat-
tern” is not given as a fixed and unchangeable inner nature. After all, he often
states that every person is in a continuous process of change. He says of him-
self in a famous passage, “I have no more made my book than my book has
made me—a book consubstantial with its author” (II.18, 504 c). It is not the
case that the author first had a certain pattern or nature and then composed the
Essays; it is by writing and constantly revising this book that he became a cer-
tain person. A person’s own nature is something that develops and takes shape
only gradually; indeed it is something that never attains a definitive state, but
is constantly evolving. In Montaigne’s case, it has developed to a high degree
through his study of texts and through his writing of his own text. In many
other cases, it develops through simple experiences of everyday life and through
interacting with other people. Because these experiences never come to a con-
clusion, the person’s “own pattern” or nature is never completely finished. For
the sadist, this means he does not simply have a given pattern, for good or ill,
that makes him take pleasure in tormenting. His pattern too is changeable, and
he too is capable of a sensitivity for the suffering of others, although because
of certain experiences he has never been able to develop it, or he has buried
it. But he can be brought to pay attention to that suffering by the strategy of
sensitivity-raising previously described. In concrete terms, that means that he
can be brought to see the victim’s point of view and to imagine what it means
to experience tormenting treatment himself. And one can prompt him espe-
cially to abandon certain habits that have made him insensitive to the suffering
of others. Whether he then in fact develops a sensitivity is of course unknown.
And whether he is able to overcome mechanisms he has acquired through habit
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that cause him pleasure in inflicting torments is by no means ensured. But at

least one can try to foster a sensitivity in him. Hence he cannot claim that his
“own pattern,” given once and for all, produces the appropriate emotions. The
critical point is that such a pattern must first be developed. Hence it is not sur-
prising that Montaigne repeatedly refers to the importance of an education that
does not dull human beings into rigid, insensible creatures, but instead makes
them receptive to their own suffering and that of others.67
But how is it even possible to develop or change one’s “own pattern”? And
how can that lead to producing appropriate emotions and to moderating or
eliminating inappropriate ones—especially sadistic ones? These questions lead
directly to a second problem. As we have repeatedly found, Montaigne rejects
the thesis that emotions could be controlled by internal regulating mechanisms
because he considers it unreasonable to assume distinct parts of the soul that act
upon each other. Nevertheless, he does not concur with the extreme conception
that no control is possible at all; rather, he points to the rational abilities that
are active together with other abilities. But how exactly do the various abilities
work together? Suppose we bring a sadist to pay attention to the suffering of a
tormented victim. How exactly does the perception arise in him that someone
is being made to suffer unnecessarily? And how does that perception give rise to
the moral judgment that that suffering is unjustifiable and that cruelty is unac-
ceptable? Montaigne says of himself that he has fortunately been endowed with
a nature that elicits in him abhorrence toward cruelty (II.11, 312 a). But he does
not explain the mechanisms by which this nature functions, in other words,
how his abilities to perceive and form a moral judgment are interconnected.
And he says nothing at all about how such judgments could be elicited in other
people—in a sadist, for example. There is thus a danger of the “imaginary re-
public” that he criticizes—the ordered interconnection of inner faculties—being
simply replaced with a “black box”: nothing is known about the interaction of
various abilities. They are simply given by nature and they cooperate, in the
ideal case, so that they induce even a sadist to form the right moral judgment
and produce the appropriate emotions. But we cannot know how nature brings
about this interaction.
Is the coordination of the abilities a mystery? It is true that Montaigne com-
pletely refrains from offering anything like a circuit diagram of distinct abilities or
faculties. But that does not mean he completely disregards control mechanisms.
As Bernard Sève has shown, he refers to a number of rules that, if followed,
lead to the correct application of the abilities of perception, imagination, judg-
ment, and feeling emotions.68 One of the most important rules is that a person
should not withdraw into himself through introspection, but should enter into
dialogue with others. Montaigne writes, “The most fruitful and natural exercise
17
of our mind, in my opinion, is discussion” (III.8, 704 b). In discussion with

others our attention is brought to certain situations; we are brought to perceive
them from different points of view, to judge them in different ways, to compare
the judgments with one another, and to form a reasoned judgment ourselves.
We are likewise prompted to amend or supplement judgments we have already
formed. The critical point is that we must look outward and strive for a coor-
dination of our own abilities in coordination with others. We might call this a
strategy of externalizing: instead of looking inward and asking ourselves how
the perceptive faculty is connected with the faculty of judgment, and how an ap-
propriate emotion can arise through this connection, we should look outwards
and ask how others perceive and judge a situation and what emotion they arrive
at. We can then sharpen our own perception and our own judgment in a pro-
cess of deliberation, which leads to the formation of a nuanced emotion. For the
particular case of the sadist, this means that it is not very productive for him to
ask himself how he can produce an appropriate emotion by correctly activating
his faculty of perception and judgment. Instead he must examine other people’s
reports of their perception and judgment. Only when he finds that they find
the suffering of the tormented creatures shocking, and that they themselves feel
compassion at the sight of that suffering, and that this reaction elicits in them
abhorrence of all cruel acts—only then will he change his own perception and
perhaps arrive at the judgment that cruelty is unjustifiable. In this way he can
eventually feel abhorrence himself. There is no guarantee, of course, that he will
in fact arrive at this emotion. But if there is any chance at all that he can be
moved to overcome his spontaneous pleasure in tormenting and to produce ab-
horrence, it can only be through such an external mechanism.
In view of this externalism, it is understandable why Montaigne repeatedly
mentions how important it is to talk with friends, read, study historic documents,
be aware of classical authors, and peruse travel reports. This allows a process of
deliberation to take place, and the confrontation with an abundance of other
people’s reported perceptions and judgments sharpens our own. And naturally
our own emotions are transformed as well. For the more we change our own
perceptions and judgments in view of other people’s, the more the emotions
elicited by those perceptions and judgments change as well. After all, although
they are elicited in a natural way, they always arise in the context of certain
perceptions and judgments. The moment this context changes, the emotions
also begin to change.
In the light of externalism it is also more understandable what the goal of the
skeptic’s comparing and balancing of opinions is. For the classical skeptic, the
goal was peace of mind. Montaigne, however, finds no peace. He hurries from
one opinion and one story to the next and is constantly in turmoil. Does that
172
mean that he completely abandons the goal of peace of mind? Not necessarily.
We can also understand him as reinterpreting peace of mind. To him it means
not the detachment or serenity of an individual who withdraws into himself,
but the individual’s self-positioning in a social environment. By comparing
other people’s opinions, by contrasting opinions of earlier ages with contempo-
rary ones, and by questioning traditional opinions, the individual continually
changes his perspective. He sees himself as a person who continuously develops
his “own pattern” in a social context and so finds his own peace of mind only in a
constant development of the mind. Such development always includes changes
in the individual’s emotions.
Finally, Montaigne’s naturalistic approach raises a third problem. Suppose we
agree with him that people have a natural sensitivity for the suffering of others
and can reinforce this sensitivity in the dialogue with others, and hence can
naturally develop compassion. But why should we develop compassion? And
why should we moderate excessive emotions on this basis? It seems as though
Montaigne were committing a naturalistic fallacy: the observation that we have
compassion through an activation of the natural abilities prompts him to state
that we should have compassion. He explicitly mentions a “general duty of hu-
manity” and specifies that it is a duty not only toward human beings and ani-
mals, but also toward plants (II.11, 435 a). All living beings must be respected,
and cruel acts must be avoided toward all of them. But on what grounds do
we have this general duty? Montaigne hints at an explanation: “We owe justice
to men, and mercy and kindness to other creatures that may be capable of re-
ceiving it. There is some relationship between them and us, and some mutual
obligation” (II.11, 318 a). Montaigne does not go into any more detail as to the
basis of this obligation, but we may understand his terse allusions as follows: The
fact that we interact with others and that they, just like us, are living beings with
particular abilities (in the case of humans and animals, primarily the ability to
sense pain) brings with it an obligation. We should respect them, be merciful,
and avoid causing them suffering because they have a special status as living
beings. In this way the naturalistic fallacy can be avoided. That we should have
compassion with others is not grounded simply in the fact that we in fact do
have compassion, but in their special status. This raises a new problem, how-
ever: Why does an obligation arise from this status alone? Why should we re-
spect others just because they are living beings (or, more precisely, because they
are living beings with whom we interact)? And why is it therefore proper to have
compassion with them when they suffer? An obvious answer could be this: be-
cause it is a fundamental moral principle that we should have compassion for
all living beings, especially those who are capable of pain. But Montaigne as a
skeptic cannot appeal to a principle. How then can he argue that we should feel
173
compassion? And how can he argue further that we should moderate excessive
emotions in order not to harm others?
Definitive answers to these questions are not found in the Essays. This need
not necessarily be considered a deficit, however. As Jerome Schneewind has
shown, Montaigne’s crucial contribution to the modern debate in moral phi-
losophy consists precisely in the fact that he rejects apparently obvious answers
that were widely accepted in his day.69 The moral obligation to moderate ex-
cessive emotions arises not from a divine law, not from a law innate in each
person—indeed, not from any law. As a skeptic, Montaigne cannot and will not
appeal to the thesis that there are universal moral laws that must be obeyed.
The critical question for him is rather how we can establish moral laws, or per-
haps only appropriate rules of behavior, through strategies of raising sensitivity
and processes of deliberation. How can we induce a sadist to consider the suf-
fering of others, to observe the value judgments of others, and so come to the
realization that it is wrong to torment victims? How can we prompt him to ac-
cept others as living beings capable of pain at all? Simply pointing out a divine
or naturally given law would hardly help. It is crucial that he develop a moral
sensitivity through personal experience and through accounts of many indi-
vidual cases. And this takes place only if he looks critically at the acts that are
elicited by his emotions and their effects. Hence a look outward is necessary
here again—a look that allows a person to gradually develop rules to moderate
his emotions. Little wonder that Montaigne untiringly presents examples of the
effects of emotions and moves from one example to another. In his view, the
question of how we should deal with our emotions can be answered only if we
describe exactly how we in fact deal with them, and what positive and neg-
ative consequences this has. Only then can we find contextually appropriate
rules. Montaigne’s methodological thrust lies not least in this rejection of the
search for universal, eternal laws in favor of contextually appropriate strategies
of behavior.
174
175
René Descartes
A Dualist View of Emotions
4.1 A Mechanistic Theory

of Feelings?
“[T]‌he teachings of the ancients about the passions are so meagre and for the
most part so implausible that I cannot hope to approach the truth except by
departing from the paths they have followed” (PA I.1; AT XI, 327–328; C I, 328).1
By these harsh words in the very first section of his late work The Passions of the
Soul [Les passions de l’âme] (published in 1649), Descartes makes it plain that
he intends to distance himself from his predecessors and go his own way in the
debate on the emotions. In doing so, he takes a position that contrasts with both
of the traditions we have examined in the preceding chapters.
He rejects the explanatory model of the Aristotelian scholastics (Thomas
Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, William of Ockham, and their successors) with
whom he was familiar from his education in the Jesuit college at La Flèche.2 In
his view, we inevitably go astray when we speak of emotions as actualizations
of a faculty, whether it is the sensual–appetitive or the volitive faculty. For then
we assume that there are distinct parts or areas within the soul and that the
emotions can be attributed to a certain area. For Descartes, there are no distinct
areas. The soul is a “pure substance” (AT VII, 14; C II, 10) that cannot be divided.
Hence he abandons right from the start the search for the right faculty and a cir-
cuit diagram showing how distinct faculties are interconnected.
At the same time, Descartes also distances himself from Montaigne and the
French moralists of his time who proposed, instead of a theory of faculties, a
detailed description of individual emotions and pointed out the diversity of
emotional expressions in different life situations. In the face of this skeptical
and sometimes antitheoretical attitude, Descartes insists that it is indispensable
to look for a general explanation of the structure, genesis, and effects of the
emotions. Only such an explanation, which should rest on a solid empirical
foundation, makes it possible to specify the typical characteristics of emotions
and produce a taxonomy of the various kinds of emotions.
175
176
What, then, would a suitable explanation look like? In a metaphysical re-

spect, according to Descartes, it should build on a dualism: emotions should
be conceived of as states that are anchored in mind and body—two really dis-
tinct substances—and that therefore have a mental and a physical component.
Only by looking at both components and their causal connection can we an-
alyze emotions appropriately. And only by considering the differences in the
components can we explain why there are different kinds of emotions. In a
methodological respect, an explanation should build on a scientific descrip-
tion. Descartes emphasizes that he wants to study emotions neither as an or-
ator nor as a moral philosopher, but “as a natural philosopher” (PA, prefatory
letter; AT XI, 326; C I, 327). In concrete terms, that means he analyzes joy by
describing how certain brain states (configurations of small corpuscles called
“animal spirits”) arise from a stimulation of the nerves and elicit mental states
called “perceptions,” which in turn produce other mental states, as well as phys-
ical movement. In the process, he explains all physical processes by mecha-
nistic principles, that is, with reference to the pressure and thrust of corpuscles.
The more precise this explanation, the more exactly the causes and effects of
emotions can be identified.3
In view of this clear dissociation from his predecessors, it is not surprising
that Descartes dispenses with discussing distinct parts of the soul, and indeed
explicitly refuses to do so.4 He chooses a radical strategy: what the Aristotelians
ascribe to the sensual soul, including the “lower” emotions as sensual–appetitive
states, Descartes attributes to the mechanistically functioning body, and conse-
quently defines it as a purely physical state that by itself is not an emotion. This
strategy is particularly visible in the analysis of animals’ emotions, which were
the starting point for scholastic Aristotelians such as Duns Scotus and Ockham.
They claimed that a sheep is afraid of a wolf just as a person is because the sheep
too has sensual–appetitive states. All that is added in a human being is an intel-
lectual activity (that is, a judgment about the wolf) and possibly a higher emo-
tion (abhorrence as the product of a rejection of the wolf). Hence, although the
human emotion is more complex than that of a sheep, a sheep too, as a living
being with a sensual soul, has a genuine emotion. To this view, Descartes objects
that a sheep consists only of a body that has nerve stimulations, brain states,
and other mechanistically explainable states. But it has no mind, and thus no
perception in the sense of a mental state. Because an emotion always consists of
a physical and a mental component, a sheep is incapable in principle of having
an emotion. We fall prey to an anthropomorphism and commit a fallacy if we
infer from its physical behavior, which may look similar to the fearful behavior
of a human being, that it has an internal emotion. Only a human being who
17
René Descartes 177
has a mind can in fact be afraid, because only in such a being do the nerve
stimulations and brain states elicit perceptions.5
Even this simple example shows the high price that Descartes pays for his re-
jection of the Aristotelian explanatory model: sensual emotions are completely
mechanized. The only true emotions—that is, those of a human being—stand
in contrast to the pseudo-emotions of a merely physical organism that functions
purely mechanistically. But even if we are willing to pay this price and look only
at the human emotions, at least four fundamental problems arise.
The first problem concerns the basic assumption that emotions consist of a
physical and a mental component. It seems at first as if Descartes would simply
conceive them as composite states that can be divided into their components
and ascribed partly to the body and partly to the mind. But this impression is
deceptive. Descartes states that three basic notions are necessary to describe a
human being adequately: one for the body and its states, another for the mind
and its states, and a third for the mind–body unity and its states (AT III, 665; C
III, 218, 691–692; C III, 226–227). Emotions, like sensory perceptions, fall under
the third notion. The crucial point here is that this notion is not reducible to the
first two because the mind–body unity is a unit sui generis. That is, body and
mind are “very closely joined and, as it were, intermingled” and “form a unit,”
as Descartes writes in the “Sixth Meditation” (AT VII, 81; C II, 56). Hence the
states of this unity must be understood as special states that are more than mere
conglomerates of physical and mental states. Fear, for example, is not simply a
composite of a brain state and a perception that can be readily decomposed, but
a total state that affects body and mind in the same way. Descartes goes so far
as to claim that the mind is so closely connected with the body that “we should
recognize that what is a passion in the soul is usually an action in the body” (PA
I.2; AT XI, 328; C I, 328). Thus the total state can be seen as having two sides: on
the side of the mind, it is something passive (a perception elicited by physical
impact); and on the side of the body it is something active (a brain state acting
on the mind). But how can there be one state with two sides if, from a meta-
physical viewpoint, there are two substances? And how can there be a close
connection of mind and body if these are not only really distinct substances, but
in fact different kinds of substances? After all, each of the two substances has its
own attribute and hence its own structure. Thus they cannot form a unity, but at
most a conglomerate of two differently structured things.
Closely linked to this problem of unity is a second problem: the famous
problem of interaction. Even if the two really distinct substances are connected
with one another, they do not seem to be able to interact. For how is something
that has extension supposed to be able to act on something that thinks? How
178
is a brain state supposed to be able to elicit a perception in the mind? And how
is that supposed to engender an emotion? Descartes’ statement that the pineal
gland connects the two substances with one another, and that the body acts on
the mind through it, is no help here (PA I.31–34; AT XI, 351–355; C I, 340–341).
For even if all brain states are somehow bundled in this gland, it remains a
mystery as to how this physical (hence extended) organ is to act on the mind.
In this view, the pineal gland is simply conceived, in the sarcastic expression of
Daniel Dennett, as a kind of “fax machine to the soul,”6 yet it remains unclear
how it can communicate something to a nonextended substance. The problem
is aggravated by the fact that Descartes, in the case of the emotions, assumes not
only that the body acts on the mind, but also vice versa: that the mind acts on
the body. He writes that the activity of the mind or the soul “consists entirely in
the fact that simply by willing something it brings it about that the little gland
to which it is closely joined moves in the manner required to produce the effect
corresponding to this volition” (PA I.41; AT XI, 360; C I, 343). To moderate the
fear of the wolf, for example, we must simply produce an act of volition through
which a new configuration of corpuscles arises in the pineal gland. How can
that be possible? Now the will seems to be conceived as a kind of magic wand
that elicits new brain states.7 But the reference to a magical process is not an ex-
planation, especially if the chosen methodological frame is that of mechanistic
science.
A third problem immediately arises. Suppose body and mind are in fact
connected with one another in such a special way that the body can elicit a
perception in the mind. What, then, is the mental component of an emotion?
Descartes describes it as follows: “The perceptions we refer only to the soul are
those whose effects we feel as being in the soul itself, and for which we do not
normally know any proximate cause to which we can refer them” (PA I.25; AT
XI, 347; C I, 337). It seems as though the mental component was simply a feeling
that is immediately given and that we localize in the soul or the mind, although
we cannot specify its cause in the body and cannot relate it to an external ob-
ject. Descartes mentions only the felt effects of a perception, but no object that
is represented by the perception, much less judged. For the example of fear, this
means that when a person sees a wolf, a certain brain state elicits a perception
in her mind. Through that perception, the person immediately has a feeling of
fear, which she is able to distinguish from a feeling of joy or hope. Yet this mere
feeling is not intentional—it does not relate to the wolf and does not represent it
as something dangerous. Thus Descartes seems to have lapsed into a primitive
theory of feelings, as various commentators have charged,8 and to have lost sight
of the basic fact that the Aristotelians had found before him and that present-day
cognition theorists also emphasize: emotions normally relate to objects or states
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René Descartes 179
of affairs outside one’s mind and body, and this distinguishes them from mere
feelings, such as feelings of hunger or pain. Descartes even seems to advance a
purely mechanistic theory of feelings. After the description of the mental com-
ponent of emotions previously quoted, he continues, “Such are the feelings of
joy, anger and the like, which are aroused in us sometimes by the objects which
stimulate our nerves and sometimes also by other causes” (PA 1.25; AT XI, 347;
C I, 337). Thus it is the impact of external objects on the body that mechanically
elicits nerve stimulations, and consequently brain states, which in turn are re-
sponsible for the emergence of feelings. Cognitive acts of perception, appraisal,
or judgment are not mentioned in this connection. It seems as though, to ex-
plain emotions, we must consider only mechanistic processes in the body and a
“feeling box” connected to it. But then nothing further is said about the feelings
except that they are immediately present.
Finally, a fourth problem arises too. Although Descartes states in the preface
to The Passions of the Soul that he wants to proceed strictly as a scientist and
avoid moral discussions, he writes at the very end that “all the good and evil
of this life depends” on the emotions, and he urges his readers to learn “to be
masters” of them (PA III.212; AT XI, 488; C I, 404). He goes so far as to claim
that “there is no soul so weak that it cannot, if well-directed, acquire an abso-
lute power over its passions” (PA I.50; AT XI, 368; C I, 348). Spinoza rejects this
statement as an exaggerated, rationalistic claim.9 How should an absolute power
be possible if emotions are brought about through the impact of external objects
and the mind is unable to change or suppress these natural causal processes
at will? We can’t simply turn the brain states and the feelings elicited in us on
and off, no more than we can turn feelings of hunger or pain on and off at will.
Besides the strong rationalistic claim, it is remarkable that Descartes pursues a
goal of moral psychology and philosophy, in spite of his insistence on a scientific
approach. He wants to shows how we can master our emotions and lead a good
life. This intention raises the question, however, of how a scientific investigation
can lead to such a result. How can an analysis of brain states and mental feelings
show whether and how we can direct emotions and so lead a good life? It is one
thing to study physical and mental states and their causal interconnection de-
scriptively, but it is something different altogether to declare normatively which
states are necessary for a good life and how those states are to be brought about.
In view of these questions and unanswered riddles, one might get the im-
pression that Descartes raises more problems with his theory of the emotions
than he solves and provides at best a negative backdrop for appropriate theories,
in particular for cognitivistic theories that insist that emotions are more than
mechanistically elicited feelings. Such an appraisal would be mistaken, however.
Like the scholastic Aristotelians, Descartes conceives emotions as cognitive
180
states, and he too finds that they cannot be simply dissected into a physical and a
mental component. He also concurs with those Aristotelians in the assumption
that emotions can, and indeed must, be cognitively controlled. If he deviates
from them, it is primarily in his choice of a metaphysical frame. For that reason,
we begin by examining that frame more closely. Only afterward will we ana-
lyze in a second step how Descartes explains the special structure of emotions
with recourse to the key concept of representation. Third and finally, we will ex-
amine what kind of control of the emotions is possible and by what cognitive or
other processes it can take place. Only when we have thus embedded Descartes’
theory of the emotions in the context of his metaphysics and theory of repre-
sentation (taking into consideration other scientific and philosophical writings
besides The Passions of the Soul)10 can we judge the extent to which he in fact
deviates from “the teachings of the ancients about the passions” and where his
approach solves old problems and perhaps raises new ones.
4.2 The Functional Unity of Body and Mind

At the beginning of The Passions of the Soul, Descartes states that “we are not
aware of any other object which acts more directly upon our soul than the body
to which it is joined” (PA I.2; AT XI, 328; C I, 328). This connection makes it
possible for emotions to arise as special states pertaining to the unity of body
and mind, and not just to the body or just to the mind. In earlier letters too,
Descartes refers repeatedly to this unity and writes that it is not an arbitrary
relation between two substances (like that, for example, between two material
substances that coexist spatially and temporally), but a connection of a partic-
ular kind (AT III, 691–692; C III, 226–227; AT IV, 346; C III, 278–279). He says
that body and mind are “united in a real and substantial manner” and together
amount to “a true ens per se,” and not an accidental compound of two substances
(AT III, 493 and 508; C III, 206 and 209). How should we conceive of such a
unity? And in what way do emotions pertain to this unity?
There seems at first to be an easy answer. Strictly speaking, Descartes does
not commit himself to a metaphysical dualism, but to a trialism, as he assumes
three kinds of substances: purely physical, purely mental, and physical–mental.11
All three kinds are nonreducible substances. For this reason, Descartes, as pre-
viously mentioned, writes that three and not just two basic notions are neces-
sary. The important point is that the notion of the physical–mental substance is,
just like the other two, a “basic notion” [notion primitive], and hence pertains to
something elementary that cannot be further analyzed: a body–mind substance.
Although in describing this third kind of substance we refer in part to physical
aspects and in part to mental aspects, in fact and in truth these are unitary states
18
René Descartes 181
pertaining to a single substance. When, for example, we describe the fear of a

human being, we refer in part to nerve stimulations and brain states and in part
to feelings. However, this is only an expression of our inability to apprehend
these unitary states as such, and to ascribe them to a single substance. Descartes
therefore states that “what belongs to the union of the soul and the body is
known only obscurely by the intellect alone or even by the intellect aided by
the imagination” (AT III, 691–692; C III, 227). We are unable to apprehend and
categorize appropriately the states of the third kind of substance. If we have any
grasp at all of these states, it is only through our personal experience. Thus we
cannot discern exactly what fear is, for example, although anyone who is afraid
can observe that it is the state of a body–mind substance.
Although such an explanation rightly emphasizes the fact that the connec-
tion of body and mind is a special unity, it is too quick to assume that every
basic notion pertains to exactly one substance. For Descartes, however, there
can be no physical–mental substance that is one substance. There is a simple
reason for this. Every substance is distinguished by a single attribute, and we
can become aware of a substance by recognizing its attribute (AT VIII-1, 25;
C I, 210). The attribute determines the nature of a substance. But if there were
a physical–mental substance, it would have two attributes: as a physical sub-
stance it would have extension, yet as a mental substance it would have thought.
That means that it would have two natures at once. But, for Descartes, this is
unthinkable. One substance can have only one nature. It would lead to a self-
contradiction if we were to ascribe two natures to one substance (AT VIII-2,
349–350; C I, 289). That would amount to claiming that there is a substance that
is divisible (inasmuch as it is physical and has an extended nature) and at the
same time indivisible (inasmuch as it is mental and has an unextended nature).
Hence there can be no trialism, at least not in the strong sense that the mind–
body unity is a single substance. Consequently, emotions cannot be states of a
single substance. However closely the physical and mental components may be
connected with each other, they must be ascribed to different substances.
Some of those interpreters who referred to a trialism became aware of this
problem and therefore tried to give an alternative explanation.12 Paul Hoffman
in particular advanced the thesis that the reference to a substance or to an ens
per se must be understood in a hylomorphic sense.13 A mind–body unity is not
simply the product of a merging of two incompatible substances, but a unitary
substance that results from the joining of matter and form. Hence the fact that
it has two natures is not a problem. For, just as Aristotle defines a human being
with reference to two essential components, Descartes too identifies two distinct
components—an extended one and a thinking one. And just as for Aristotle the
form is that which makes a substance into a unitary object of a certain kind, for
182
Descartes too the mind or the soul is responsible for the fact that a human being
is a unitary object and different from other kinds of objects.
There are in fact several passages in which Descartes uses a hylomorphic
vocabulary. In a letter to Regius, for example, he writes that the human soul is
“the true substantial form of man” (AT III, 503 and 505; C III, 208), and he states
both in the early Rules (AT X, 411; C I, 40) and in the later Principles (AT VIII-1,
315; C I, 279) that the soul is that which “informs” the body. In the Fifth Set of
Replies, he comments that, if the soul is conceived of as “the ‘first actuality’ or
‘principal form of man,’ ” it should be understood only as “the principle in virtue
of which we think” (AT VII, 356; C II, 246). It is striking that Descartes here
not only quotes but purposely uses the hylomorphic vocabulary to explain the
unity of body and mind. Thus it seems as though he would insist, like Thomas
Aquinas, that the human soul or the mind is something like the structural prin-
ciple, or the form, for the body, and not a partial form, but a comprehensive sub-
stantial form. In doing so, he would be dissociating himself from the pluralists
discussed in the second chapter, who postulated three forms.14 And of course he
would also be distancing himself from the reductive materialists who think the
mind is nothing but a composite of material corpuscles.
But does Descartes really advocate a hylomorphism? One might immediately
object that this is absurd because he opposes hylomorphism repeatedly, seeing
it as the fundamental evil of Aristotelian metaphysics. He scoffs that forms are
“pure chimeras” that explain nothing (AT III, 212). He also points out emphat-
ically that he explains the physical world by referring not to dubious forms, as
the Aristotelians do, but only to material corpuscles and their compounds (AT
II, 200; C III, 107).15 If he considers the Aristotelian approach so worthless as a
basis for explanation, he cannot reintroduce it by the back door to explain the
unity of body and mind.
Such an objection would fall short of the mark, however. Descartes makes it
clear that he considers hylomorphism meaningless as an explanation of material
objects. But this does not exclude the possibility that he could consider it mean-
ingful in regard to other objects, such as human beings. Thus he writes that he
used to understand the gravity of a body as an internal quality or form that is
present throughout the body and pulls it downward. But he was mistaken, for he
had been simply transferring the idea of the mind–body relation to the gravity–
body relation. But in regard to mind and body, it is by no means unreasonable
to assume a particularly close relation: “This is exactly the way in which I now
understand the mind to be coextensive with the body—the whole mind in the
whole body and the whole mind in any one of its parts” (AT VII, 442; C II, 298).
Thus we might distinguish between two fields of explanation. In the field of
purely physical objects, Descartes holds it unreasonable to make hylomorphic
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René Descartes 183
assumptions. In this field, reductionist explanations are appropriate, because we

can trace a property such as gravity to the properties of the material particles.
In the field of physical–mental objects, however, no reductionist explanation is
possible. Here we must assume a special entity that is present as a whole in the
whole body, structuring it.
Does this mean that Descartes limits his criticism of hylomorphism to
Aristotelian physics and joins with the Aristotelians in their explanation of the
mind–body unity? There are at least three arguments against such an interpre-
tation, at least if we consider the scholastic variant of Aristotelianism that was
prominent in the early 17th century through the influence of Thomas Aquinas.16
A first reason arises from the definition of matter. As we found in Section 1.2,
matter for Aquinas is something potential that must be actualized. Hence the
soul, as a form, is responsible not only for endowing a piece of matter with a
number of faculties, but also for an actual piece of matter, and thus a natural
body, coming into being. Descartes’ view is different. For him, a body, including
a human body, is always an actual piece of matter that is composed of many
corpuscles. It always has a certain extension and does not need to be made into
an extended piece of matter by a soul. Descartes therefore states that a body is
nothing else but an object with a certain length, breadth, and depth (AT VIII-
1, 42; C I, 224). In his view, it would be inappropriate to postulate forms in the
Aristotelian sense: if there is nothing to be actualized, then no actualization
principle is necessary. If he nonetheless mentions forms, he does so only in a
certain respect: the soul as a substance joins not with one part or another of
the body, but with the whole body, and consequently it is present in the whole
body. It permeates and informs the whole body. This is of course a point that the
Aristotelian authors, such as Aquinas, also mentioned. But whereas they saw it
only as a consequence of the actualization principle (that is, if the soul actualizes
the potential body, it must do so in the whole body), Descartes disputes this
function and with it the core of hylomorphism. For him, the soul is present in
the body that is in itself actual.17
There is another reason not to ascribe a hylomorphic conception to Descartes.
Aquinas assumes that the soul is present in a body not only as the principle of
actualization, but also as the life principle. It is responsible for a body having
vital functions such as nutrition, digestion, and reproduction. Consequently,
he disputes that a dead body is still a body at all. In his opinion, that usage
of the term is homonymic.18 When we apply the expression “body” to a living
body and to a corpse, we are erroneously using one expression for two very dif-
ferent things. Descartes uses a different argument. For him, the soul is not the
life principle. In a clear refutation of the Aristotelians, he states, “So as to avoid
this error, let us note that death never occurs through the absence of the soul,
184
but only because one of the principal parts of the body decays” (PA I.6; AT XI,
330; C I, 329). Thus if asked what is responsible for the difference between a
living body and a corpse, we must answer: the fact that, in the corpse, an impor-
tant organ—such as the heart or lungs—has decayed, and thus the whole body
can no longer function. The decay comes about in a purely mechanical way,
namely by the individual components of the organ disintegrating and no longer
interacting. Descartes illustrates this conception by a comparison with a watch.
Just as the watch stops when an important component no longer interacts with
the other parts, the human body dies when an organ no longer cooperates with
the others. The soul as a life principle plays no part in this; indeed, it would be
unreasonable to assume such a principle in addition to the interacting parts of
the body.19
This leads directly to a third reason not to ascribe to Descartes a hylomorphic
conception. For Aquinas, the soul of a human being is responsible for an abun-
dance of tasks: not only the vital functions, but also perception, locomotion,
imagination, and thought. For this reason, he distinguishes different functional
domains and thus different faculties of the soul. The vegetative faculty is respon-
sible for the basic functions such as reproduction and nutrition; the sensual
faculty for perception and imagination; the intellectual faculty for thought and
reflection. As we saw in Chapter 2, although there was disagreement among
Aristotelians after Aquinas as to how to explain the relations among the indi-
vidual faculties, it was undisputed that the soul as a form has several faculties.
In this point too, Descartes rejects the traditional conception. He states that the
soul has just one function, namely thought (PA I.17; AT XI, 342; C I, 335), and
he emphatically refutes the assumption of distinct faculties. In his view, there is
even a metaphysical argument against postulating a plurality of faculties. If we
were to postulate several faculties and attribute them to individual parts of the
body (the nutritive faculty to the stomach, the perceptive faculty to the sensory
organs, etc.), we would inevitably be dividing the soul into parts. But something
that has parts can always decompose. Only if the soul has no parts is it a “pure
substance” that cannot perish (AT VII, 14; C II, 10). Hence Descartes insists that
we cannot ascribe several functions to the soul, nor localize them in specific
parts of the body. This means, of course, that his references to the soul as the
form of the body are no longer to be understood in an Aristotelian sense. The
form is at most understandable as a thought principle. This is precisely what
Descartes is expressing when he says, first, that we can describe the soul as the
“principal form of man,” then, more specifically, that we must understand this
as “the principle in virtue of which we think” (AT VII, 356; C II, 246). His highly
qualified use of the traditional vocabulary by no means signifies that he also
subscribes to the scholastic Aristotelians’ complex concept of form.20
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René Descartes 185
If Descartes adopts neither a trialistic nor a hylomorphistic position, how

then must we understand his reference to the mind–body unity as a substan-
tial unity? It is tempting to suspect that his diction is nothing but a rhetorical
strategy intended to mask the fact that he in truth advocates a dualist position
that does not admit such a unity. Stephen Voss has claimed in this sense that
Descartes marks “the end of anthropology,” as there is no room in his dualist
metaphysics for man as a nonreducible unit.21 Those who define the human
being as a composite of two really distinct substances are compelled, whether
they like it or not, to conceive a person as a mere composite, and thus to explain
seemingly unitary states such as perceptions, sensations, and emotions as com-
posite states that can by analyzed into two components.
But such an interpretation of Descartes only gets us out of the frying pan
and into the fire. Instead of a hylomorphism that is incompatible with some of
Descartes’ fundamental statements, this reading accuses him of a crude dualism
that is incapable of adequately explaining certain phenomena. Fortunately, how-
ever, there is a third interpretation that distinguishes between two descriptive
levels, the metaphysical and the functional. That Descartes makes such a distinc-
tion is apparent as early as the “Sixth Meditation.” There, after first emphasizing
that a human being is composed, in a metaphysical view, of two really distinct
substances, he immediately points out that there is nonetheless a close connec-
tion between these substances, and justifies this as follows:
If this were not so, I, who am nothing but a thinking thing, would not
feel pain when the body was hurt, but would perceive the damage purely
by the intellect, just as a sailor perceives by sight if anything in his ship is
broken. Similarly, when the body needed food or drink, I should have an
explicit understanding of the fact, instead of having confused sensations
of hunger and thirst. (AT VII, 81; C II, 56)
Evidently the close connection between body and mind is necessary for
pragmatic reasons. We wouldn’t survive if detrimental changes in the body
were not immediately followed by changes in the mind that prompt us to take
steps to ensure the body’s continued functioning. Descartes even uses teleo-
logical vocabulary to justify the connection: “For the proper purpose of the
sensory perceptions given me by nature is simply to inform the mind of what
is beneficial or harmful for the composite of which the mind is a part” (AT
VII, 83; C II, 57). In doing so, of course, he does not commit himself to the as-
sumption of internal final causes that miraculously connect the body and mind
and cause nerve stimulations to be connected to mental perceptions. The tele-
ological vocabulary must be understood here in a functional sense: the task of
sensations of hunger and pain is to call attention to physical needs or injuries.
186
For this reason, the body and mind are so closely connected with one another
that whenever a physical change occurs, a mental state immediately arises that
reacts to that change and motivates an action.
When we take these statements into consideration, it is clear that there is a
view that distinguishes three domains, in spite of the metaphysical limitation
to two substances and their states. First, we can consider the purely physical
states (such as circulation and respiration) that occur independently of mental
states and arise only through the body’s internal mechanism. Second, we can
consider the purely mental states (such as mathematical or logical thinking)
that occur independently of physical states and arise only through the connec-
tion of individual thought acts. And, third, we can consider the physical–mental
states (such as sensations of pain and feelings of fear) that arise through a phys-
ical state, immediately eliciting a mental state that motivates actions to protect
the body. Because these “mixed” states can occur only if body and mind are
interrelated, they require a special unity of these two substances. Hence it is not
surprising that Descartes mentions three basic notions even though he assumes
only two substances. The third basic notion is necessary from a functional per-
spective and not from a metaphysical perspective.
Descartes illustrates the functional perspective by an amusing example. If an
angel were to inhabit a human body, it would not have the sensations and feelings
we have but would simply observe the physical changes brought about in the
body by external objects (AT III, 493; C III, 206; AT V, 402; C III, 380). It would
be a neutral observer of the body. Why? In the angel, body and mind would not
be interrelated, and mental states would not have the function of calling atten-
tion to changes in the body and evoking a reaction. The angel would observe an
injury more or less as a passerby observes it when he sees a bleeding body at the
scene of an accident. The angel in the body would be a purely accidental combi-
nation of two substances that does not yield a unity and consequently does not
result in any interrelated states. Hence the angel–body unity would be a mere
conglomerate or, in technical terms, an ens per accidens. A human being, by
contrast, who reacts to physical changes because of his sensations, is an ens per
se, in other words, an essential mind–body unity. If we were to look at the body
and mind only separately, we would be ignoring precisely this unity and with it
the special class of “mixed” states.
The emotions are states that belong to this special class. Descartes explicitly
classifies them together with sensations. Thus, in the Principles of Philosophy, he
writes that, in addition to the purely physical and the purely mental states, “we
also experience certain other things which must not be referred either to the
mind alone or to the body alone. These arise [ . . . ] from the close and intimate
union of our mind with the body. This list includes, first, appetites like hunger
187
René Descartes 187
and thirst; second, the emotions or passions of the mind which do not con-
sist of thought alone, such as the emotions of anger, joy, sadness and love” (AT
VIII-1, 23; C I, 209). In The Passions of the Soul too, sensations and emotions are
classified together, namely as those states in which physical and mental states
are connected with one another and interrelated “by means of the nerves” (PA
I.22; AT XI, 345; C I, 337). Of course, that does not mean that emotions such as
anger and love are no different from feelings of hunger and pain. As we will see
in Section 4.3, there is a considerable difference in their representational con-
tent. But in regard to function they are similar, because in both the physical and
mental states are interrelated and hence must be analyzed in their respective
relations.
To avoid misunderstandings, let me add that the reference to a close connec-
tion and interrelation of the physical and mental states is not to be understood
as meaning that there are intersubstantial states that are rooted both in the body
and in the mind.22 To postulate such states would contradict a fundamental
metaphysical thesis of Descartes. For him, states are nothing other than modes,
that is, ways in which a substance is constituted or arranged (AT VIII-1, 27; C
I, 211). Thus they are not autonomous entities that are plugged into the sub-
stance, so to speak, and can be grounded either in just one substance or in two
substances.23 Every mode is the state of one substance. Hence the “mixed” states,
from a metaphysical viewpoint, can only be connections of two modes that exist
in different substances. Nevertheless, the two really distinct modes can be so
interrelated that whenever a physical state arises, a corresponding mental state
immediately arises that has the function of calling attention to the physical state
or of eliciting other mental and physical states. When we take this interrelation
into consideration, we can understand why Descartes says that the active and
the passive are two sides of the same thing. In saying so, he is not claiming that
there is a single mode that is active and passive at the same time. He is rather
pointing out that we must consider a complex overall state that is composed of
an active mode in the body (a brain state that acts on the mind) and a passive
mode in the mind (an elicited perception). Hence he specifies that we can call
such a state a single thing only to a certain extent, namely, to the extent that this
thing “has these two names on account of the two different subjects to which it
may be related” (PA I.1; AT XI, 328; C I, 328). Thus, from a metaphysical view-
point, there are two subjects, that is, two carriers of different respective modes,
which are so closely interrelated, however, that the active mode always immedi-
ately elicits the passive mode.
This shows clearly that Descartes by no means marks the “end of anthro-
pology,” even if he rejects traditional hylomorphism and adopts a dualism.
He too can call a human being a unity, emphasizing that certain physical and
18
mental states are to be considered not in isolation, but in their interconnection.

Does this answer to the problem of unity also solve the problem of interaction?
Not at all. The fact that certain physical and mental states are connected with
one another does not explain how they are connected. Most of all, it does not
explain how the body (or the pineal gland as the body’s pivotal organ) is sup-
posed to act on the mind to elicit a state in it, and conversely how the mind is
supposed to act on the body to produce a movement in it. On the contrary, the
problem is now aggravated, because Descartes explicitly uses causal vocabu-
lary, as, for example, when he says that “various movements in the brain” cause
“our soul to have various different sensations” (PA I.13; AT XI, 338; cf. 355; C I,
333; cf. I, 341). How then should states in the body have an effect in the mind if
the two substances are of different kinds? The close connection and functional
unity between body and mind doesn’t change the metaphysical fact that they are
substances with different attributes.
This would in fact be a fundamental problem if Descartes claimed that the
two substances acted upon each other in the literal sense, impressing some-
thing upon each other or communicating states to each other. But he expresses
himself more cautiously. He says, for example, that there are states in the mind
“corresponding to the various different sorts of movements” in the pineal gland
(AT VIII-1, 316; C I, 280), or that movements in the body “can stimulate” the
mind to certain states (AT VIII-1, 320; C I, 284). He also writes that, in the case
of a sensory perception, the states in the sensory organs and the brain states
arising from them give the mind “occasion” to produce perceptions (AT XI,
149). All of these expressions clearly illustrate that Descartes is referring to a
correlation: whenever state x is present in the body, state y follows in the mind.
Such a correlation is also possible between substances of different kinds. They
do not have to produce states of the same kind, but only corresponding states.
Descartes also explains why they correspond. Nature, he says, has arranged it
so that a certain physical state is always followed by a certain mental state. For
example, he notes that states in the brain “are ordained by nature to make [our
soul] have such sensations” (AT VI, 130; C I, 167; similarly at AT XI, 143; C I,
102), and that, in the case of an injury, “nature has laid it down that this motion
should produce in the mind a sensation of pain” (AT VII, 87; C II, 60).
These statements suggest that Descartes holds a nomological conception of
causality: there are natural laws that coordinate certain physical states with cer-
tain mental states. The advantage of such a conception is that we do not need
to postulate any mysterious action of an extended substance on a nonextended
one. It also offers a plausible reason why there are regularities in the occurrence
of “mixed” states: the natural laws determine that certain kinds of states are
always coordinated. Thus an injury to the foot (or a brain state resulting from
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it) is not arbitrarily coordinated with a feeling of pain one time and a feeling of
pleasure another time. Rather, every occurrence of a foot injury is always coor-
dinated with a feeling of foot pain. For this reason, when a feeling of foot pain
occurs, we can be certain that the foot is injured. If there were no such regularity,
the feeling would not motivate us to take action to protect the injured foot.
However, if we ascribe such a nomological conception to Descartes not only
with reference to sensations, but also in regard to the emotions, a problem
arises.24 Descartes claims that the assignments of mental and physical states in
the emotions can be changed, because “although nature seems to have joined
every movement of the [pineal] gland to certain of our thoughts from the be-
ginning of our life, yet we may join them to others through habit” (PA I.50; AT
XI, 368; cf. 361; C I, 348; cf. I, 344). For the sake of illustration, let us consider the
example of fear of the wolf. From the beginning of our life, it is ordained that the
sensory impressions of a large, shaggy, growling animal elicit a brain state in us
that correlates with a mental feeling of fear. This correlation is naturally given,
but we can change it so that, in future, one and the same brain state correlates
with a feeling of joy or admiration. How can this be possible? Descartes refers to
a process of habituation. That is, if we see the wolf every day and discover over
time that it doesn’t hurt us, then although the same brain state is still elicited
in us (because the sensory impressions that cause it do not change), this state
gradually becomes linked to a different mental perception. In this way we grow
accustomed to perceiving the wolf as a faithful companion and not being afraid
of it. This does not happen suddenly, of course, and the process of habituation
can also fail. But in principle it is possible to change the assignments of physical
and mental states, and in fact we can even purposely want to change them. That
is, we can bring ourselves by an act of volition to submit to the process of habit-
uation and thereby overcome the fear.
This seems to conflict with a nomological conception. If there are laws that
determine the correlation, then it is in principle not changeable, even by a
willful decision. A characteristic of laws of nature is that they apply unshakably
and without reservation to everything within their domain. If Descartes now
claims that we can voluntarily change the correlation, he cannot mean that we
can break a natural law. He must be assuming that there is no correlation by nat-
ural law, and we determine the connection between physical and mental state in
each individual case.25
Descartes would have to deviate from a nomological conception if he held
the opinion that laws of nature are immutable and have an absolutely necessary
validity. But he does not hold that opinion. Rather, he holds that laws of nature
are not eternally and immutably given, created by an act of volition.26 Most laws
are created by God. Because God is absolutely free, he can change them, as he
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can change anything else in creation, even if in fact he does not change them.
This is true even of apparently unshakeable laws such as the one that determines
the correlation of a foot injury and a feeling of pain. In the “Sixth Meditation,”
Descartes states, “God could have made the nature of man such that this par-
ticular motion in the brain indicated something else to the mind” (AT VII, 88;
C II, 60). God could have ordained that the foot injury coincided with a feeling
of pleasure—indeed, he could so ordain it at any moment by an act of voli-
tion. Although this would be inexpedient, because we would then take no ac-
tion to protect the injured foot, it would nonetheless be possible. The law that
determines the coordination of physical and mental states is only hypothetically
necessary:27 if God does not change the correlation given by natural law, then a
foot injury is necessarily connected with a sensation of pain.
Now, in the case of the emotions, it is not only God who can change the
correlation, but also we ourselves. That is, there are certain correlations that
are within our power to change. Descartes writes that it is precisely because of
this power that he experiences in himself that he can understand how God is
able to intervene and change something in the world (AT V, 347; C III, 375). In
other words, in the case of fear: Only as long as we do not change the given cor-
relation, a brain state caused by wolf impressions is necessarily connected with
a feeling of fear. But we can change the correlation through an act of volition
that instigates a process of habituation, and the brain state can thus be gradu-
ally connected with a feeling of joy or admiration. Strictly speaking, we do not
change a law of nature, because Descartes designates as laws only the laws of
motion, which are ordained by God.28 But we do change something that has a
law-like character: namely, the constant correlation of states.
Taking into consideration this assumption of a merely hypothetical necessity,
we can see that Descartes seeks a middle way between two extreme positions.
On the one hand, he wants to avoid the position that assumes a perfectly contin-
gent or arbitrary connection between physical and mental states. A person who
holds such a position can hardly explain why there are regular connections and
why we are able to correlate not only individual occurrences, but also types of
occurrences. On the other hand, Descartes rejects the position that postulates
an absolutely necessary connection. This position can elegantly explain the reg-
ularity, but not the possibility of change. Yet the changeability of emotions is of
central importance if we are to master them—as Descartes explicitly calls on us
to do (PA III.212; AT XI, 488; C I, 404). Only if we can control the mental re-
action to physical states can we master naturally elicited emotions. Otherwise,
we would be nothing more than psychophysical machines, always connecting a
given physical state with the same mental state.
19
René Descartes 191
But how are we to understand the proposition that we can voluntarily change
the correlation of mental and physical states? Descartes gives no explicit answer
to this question. We can understand him, however—with the help of a distinc-
tion that Fred Dretske has introduced in the contemporary debates—as dis-
tinguishing two kinds of causes in reference to the act of volition.29 First, these
acts can be triggering causes because they can cause certain brain states, and
thus body movements, on the basis of a predetermined correspondence. Thus
my decision to raise my arm, for example, can trigger an arm movement, be-
cause there is a law that determines that whenever such a decision is made, the
corresponding movement follows. Second, acts of will can also be structuring
causes, because they can determine which correlations should obtain; in other
words, which mental state should go along with a given physical state. Thus
my voluntary decision to look at the wolf again and again and accustom my-
self to the sight of it can cause the brain state to be followed by joy instead of
fear. Although in this way I do not change any law of nature (the laws of mo-
tion are unaffected), I do intervene in the natural order by constructing a new
correlation.
But how can I intervene in the natural order to change a correlation?
Descartes does not address this question, probably because—unlike Spinoza,
whose position we will discuss in the following chapter—he considers it a fun-
damental fact that there is no absolutely necessary order. Any order, including
the physical–mental order, is changeable by an act of volition. The fact that the
human mind has a special position that allows it to change the correlation of
physical and mental states seems to be equally fundamental to Descartes. He
told Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia, who persistently asked him for an explana-
tion of this correlation, that it can be understood only by avoiding metaphysical
speculation and concentrating “on the ordinary course of life and conversation”
(AT III, 692; C III, 227; cf. AT V, 222; C III, 358). This may appear at first glance
to be simply an evasive answer, but it is not. Descartes is calling attention to
a theoretical point: fundamental metaphysical facts cannot be traced to other
facts for the purpose of explanation. They are—to use Wittgenstein’s phrase—
the bedrock that turns our spade.30 Hence we can at most illustrate fundamental
facts by presenting practical examples and by recourse to personal experience.
At this point it is plain that Descartes’ explanatory frame is at least as rich
in metaphysical assumptions as the Aristotelian frame. Whereas the scholastic
Aristotelians assume that it is possible to change the emotions because there
are different faculties of the soul and the higher ones can act on the lower,
Descartes—although he rejects such a hierarchy within the soul—assumes
that the mind and body are hierarchically ordered. In his view, emotions are
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changeable because the mind is metaphysically so constituted that it can estab-

lish new correlations and thus new body–mind relations. In slightly exaggerated
terms: the mind is a being similar to God which can change the natural order.
Of course, it can only do so sometimes, and of course it can also fail. It often
happens that someone wants to get accustomed to the sight of the wolf and
change his mental state but is still seized with fear every time. A person can at
most strive for a new correlation of physical and mental states, but there is no
guarantee that it will in fact come about. But it is critical to note that it can at
least be attempted and in some cases achieved. Although we do not act per-
fectly, as God does, we can at least try to change the natural order. This means,
of course, that we can try to change the unity of body and mind. That unity is
thus to be understood as dynamic: as something that is not given once and for
all, but can be individually shaped.
4.3 Emotions as Representations
If emotions are overall physical–mental states, they cannot be reduced either
to purely physiological processes or to mere perceptions. But what do we mean
by perceptions as one of their constitutive components? Up to now, it seemed
as though they were feelings, that is, states that have a purely phenomenal
content. Descartes uses the terms “overall perceptions, sensations [sentimens]
or emotions of the soul” (PA I.25; AT XI, 349; C I, 338) and writes that, of all
perceptions, those are relevant here “whose effects we feel as being in the soul
itself ” (PA I.25; AT XI, 347; C I, 337). Thus he calls attention to the fact that, in
the case of a fear or a joy, we have a feeling in the soul and not in a part of the
body—a feeling that we can distinguish from other feelings. Does this mean that
the mental component of an emotion is nothing but a state with a phenomenal
content?
Such a conclusion would be mistaken, as a look at the “Third Meditation”
shows. There Descartes points out that emotions also have a representational
content. He explains this by first noting that there is nothing else in the mind
but thoughts, and then stating that some thoughts are “as it were the images of
things,” such as the idea of a human being, God, or an angel. These are ideas in
the strict sense. Then he continues, “Other thoughts have various additional
forms: thus when I will, or am afraid, or affirm, or deny, there is always a par-
ticular thing which I take as the object of my thought, but my thought includes
something more than the likeness of that thing. Some thoughts in this category
are called volitions or emotions, while others are called judgements” (AT VII,
37; C II, 25–26). Evidently, Descartes is making a distinction here between two
kinds of ideas. Some are mere ideas, whereas others—including the affects or
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emotions—have in addition certain forms. This distinction raises at least two

questions. In what sense are ideas as mental states “as it were the images of
things”? And what is meant by the additional forms that the emotions have?
Let us begin with the first question. One might get the impression that
Descartes conceives of ideas as pictorial representations, that is, as depictions
of objects. In such a conception, little pictures that resemble external objects
would be painted in the mind as if on an inner canvas. But this impression
would be misleading. As an example, Descartes mentions the idea of God, an
immaterial object of which we can form at most a concept, but not paint a pic-
ture, as we might paint a picture of a tree or a table (unless we start with anthro-
pomorphic notions and paint, strictly speaking, not God, but an old man with
a beard). Descartes also points out that even the ideas of material objects need
not resemble the objects (AT VII, 39; C II, 27). Thus, on the basis of astronomic
calculations, we can form an idea of the sun that does not depict a large hot
object, but represents a physical structure. Why then does Descartes mention
pictures? He only claims that ideas are as it were images of things, emphasizing
their intentional character. Just as pictures—at least realistically painted ones—
are always pictures of something, ideas too are always ideas of something—of
material objects (such as the sun), of immaterial objects (such as God), or of fic-
titious objects (such as a chimera). But why are ideas intentional? Because they
have an “objective reality” (AT VII, 40–41; C II, 28). They represent an object
in the mind, fully independently of whether and how that object exists outside
the mind, and in a way the idea even contains the object within themselves. For
Descartes, the thesis that the sun, for example, has an objective reality means
nothing else than that it exists in the mind with a particular “mode of being”
(AT VII, 102–103; C II, 75). He distinguishes explicitly between two modes of
being: an objective one in the mind, and a material (or “formal”) one in the sky.
Descartes’ reference to two modes of being can be understood as aiming at a
distinction between different kinds of instantiation.31 Every object has a certain
essence that can be instantiated in different places. In the mind, it is instantiated
as a thought object, and therefore has an objective reality there. Precisely this is
what gives an idea intentionality. In a word, the fact that the essence of an object
is instantiated in the mind makes it an idea of something. This has an immediate
relevance for the emotions. If they too are ideas, they too must have an objec-
tive reality and hence represent something. They cannot be mere feelings with
a purely phenomenal content. It is this point that Descartes illustrates with his
examples. Thus he states that love relates to objects that appear good and bene-
ficial and hate to objects that appear bad and detrimental (PA II.79; AT XI, 387;
C I, 356). Love and hate are thus directed at something, and in them too, the
corresponding objects must have an objective reality.
194
However, in the passage of the “Third Meditation” just quoted, Descartes

writes that emotions have “various additional forms” (AT VII, 37; C II, 26).
This leads to the second question: what is meant here by forms? Forms in the
Aristotelian sense are certainly not what is meant, as Descartes rejects hylomor-
phism, as we have seen. He is referring here to the way in which we can relate to
something. He says we can have an idea of something by wanting something, by
being afraid, or by affirming or denying. In modern terms, we could call this an
adverbial determination or modification: we can think of something yearningly,
fearfully, affirmatively, etc. Emotions, then, are not mental states that somehow
exist alongside or in addition to representational ideas, but are themselves ideas
that have two distinguishing characteristics: (a) their representational content
(the “objective reality”), and (b) the modification of their representing. Because
Descartes mentions not only the example of being afraid, but also those of
affirming and denying, we could understand (b) simply as a propositional at-
titude. That would be a premature interpretation, however. After all, there are
various modifications, and one of them is the propositional (paradigmatically,
the case of affirming or denying), whereas another is the nonpropositional,
which is typical of many cases of emotions. We are afraid or joyful not only
by affirming that something is thus and so, but we are also afraid of something
or joyful about something. And in fact, when Descartes defines the individual
emotions, he mentions only those that are directly related to objects, not to
propositions. He writes, for example, that wonder is related to a new object that
is yet unknown (PA II.53; AT XI, 373; C I, 350). Hence emotions do not (at least,
not necessarily) require a propositional attitude, but only a certain modification
of object-related representing.
How does this modification come about? And how is it different from other
modifications? These questions can be answered only by a closer look at the
object that is represented in a given emotion. Descartes distinguishes six basic
kinds of emotions. Besides wonder, the most fundamental are love, hate, de-
sire, joy, and sadness (PA II.69; AT XI, 380; C I, 353). We will discuss the prin-
ciples of classification and the order of the emotions in Section 4.4. For the
moment, we are interested in the question of the object of these fundamental
kinds of emotions. According to Descartes, all of them relate to an object that is
evaluated in a certain respect: in wonder, the object is evaluated as something
new and unknown; in love, as something good and beneficial without regard
to time; in hate, as something bad and detrimental without regard to time; in
desire, as something that will be good in the future; in joy, as something good
in the present; in sadness, as something bad in the present. Evidently, all six
cases are concerned not simply with how an object is constituted in itself, but
how it is to a person upon whom it acts and how that person consequently
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René Descartes 195
appraises it. The appraisal of an object as good or bad is pivotal.32 Hence we

might say that the given object is represented with a normative property. This
leads in turn to an answer to the question of how the modification arises that is
characteristic of emotions: the moment we ascribe to an object in a representa-
tion not only descriptive properties, but also normative ones, we apprehend it
not neutrally, but lovingly or hatefully, joyfully or sadly, and so on, depending
on those properties. Precisely this distinguishes emotions from perceptions, in
which no normative properties are ascribed to the object. Thus it is one thing to
see a wolf, representing it as big and dark, and another thing to be afraid of it,
representing it as bad and dangerous. Furthermore, emotions are also different
from sensations, such as pain, that likewise refer to something and thus have
a representational content (the injured foot, for example, in the case of a foot
pain), but that are elicited as only a kind of alarm signal and do not represent
specific normative properties.33
The finding that emotions have a normative dimension is of course not
new. Descartes’ scholastic predecessors and contemporaries had pointed out
that emotions represent objects as good or bad. As we have already seen in
Chapter 1, many authors followed Avicenna in appealing to special properties,
such as dangerousness and badness, which exist in objects as intentiones and are
communicated to a person. Precisely this assimilation of normative properties
is responsible for the emergence of an emotion, and not merely a state of per-
ception or imagination. Descartes now builds on this tradition by referring
likewise to normative properties, but at the same time dissociates himself from
it by rejecting the theory of intentiones and with it the assumption of special
properties in the objects. Material objects that act on a person have merely geo-
metric and kinematic properties. Other persons, as body–mind units, addition-
ally have mental properties. But neither material objects nor persons have in
themselves properties such as goodness or badness. Rather, they are good or bad
for someone, depending on how this person is constituted, what she needs, and
how she appraises an object with reference to her needs. Descartes emphasizes
that one and the same object can elicit very different emotions in different per-
sons (PA I.39; AT XI, 358; C I, 343). This is due not only to the fact that different
persons have their own respective physiological and anatomical structures, but
also to the fact that they appraise an object differently, depending on the con-
text and their life experience. That is, more concretely: a wolf is appraised as
dangerous by a hiker who encounters it in the wild, but as harmless by a keeper
in a zoo.
Thus, although normative properties are not part of the objects’ metaphys-
ical equipment, it is critical that these properties be ascribed to them. In a word,
only if objects are represented in a normative respect do emotions emerge, that
196
is, ideas that are different from other kinds of ideas. What is the difference,
then, between emotions and value judgments? Value judgments too involve the
appraisal of objects as good or bad. But in Descartes’ view, there are two dis-
tinguishing characteristics. First, emotions are not judgments, but mere ideas.
Judgments are composed of two elements, namely an idea and an act of assent
or rejection, which is always an act of volition (AT VII, 56–57; C II, 39–40; AT
VIII-1, 18; C I, 204).34 A person who judges that wolves are dangerous must
not only form a certain idea of wolves, but must also agree by an act of voli-
tion that wolves are in fact dangerous. A person who is afraid of wolves, how-
ever, needs no act of will. She must only represent wolves as dangerous and
need not judge that they are dangerous. This seemingly small difference can be
of great importance in some situations. An arachnophobe, for example, need
not judge that spiders are in fact dangerous animals. She must only represent
spiders as dangerous animals, perhaps by activating a certain mental image or
certain memories of spiders. That is why she can say without self-contradiction
that although she judges them to be harmless, she nonetheless has a sponta-
neous mental image of dangerous animals. A second critical difference between
emotions and value judgments is that emotions arise only in someone who is
affected, or has previously been affected, by a sensory impression of an object.
Descartes explicitly writes that emotions are “excited by objects which stim-
ulate the senses, and that these objects are their principal and most common
causes” (PA II.51; AT XI, 372; C I, 349). Value judgments, by contrast, can also be
evoked by mere reflection or reports, without a sensual contact existing or ever
having existed. A person who reads books about wolves and draws conclusions
about their physical strength and aggressiveness from a zoological description
can arrive at the judgment that wolves are dangerous without ever having seen a
wolf. But only someone who directly encounters a wolf (or activates a memory
of such an experience), and thus has visual and other sensory impressions,
becomes afraid.35 Of course, someone who reads a scary story about wolves can
also become afraid, but not because of a mere judgment: she becomes afraid
because of the sensual impressions that she activates and develops into specific
mental images while reading.
We have seen so far that emotions have a representational content because
they are ideas and refer to objects. We have also seen that they represent objects
not only in a descriptive, but also in a normative, respect, and that they are
bound to sensual impressions. The question arises, however, of whether this is
true of all emotions without exception. At a certain point, Descartes notes that
sometimes “we feel sad or joyful without being able to say why” (PA II.51; AT
XI, 372; C I, 349). He seems to be suggesting here that there are also emotions
that are not related to objects and must be understood rather as nonintentional
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René Descartes 197
moods. Thus a person can be in a joyful mood without being able to say what
she is joyful about.36
Are there, then, emotions that do not represent anything? If Descartes were
to grant that there are, his whole theory of the mind would be incoherent.
In the “Third Meditation,” where he explains what we mean by thoughts or
mental states, he emphasizes that all ideas are, as it were, pictures of things and
thus have a representational content. The question is only whether they occur
with an additional form—that is, with a modification of the representing—or
without it. How then could there be emotions as ideas that are not intentional?
But on a closer examination, it becomes apparent that Descartes does not as-
sume any such strange states. The context in which he observes that we are
sometimes joyful or sad without being able to say why is a discussion of the
causes of the emotions. He points out that, in the normal case, their cause is
an external object that acts upon the senses and elicits a certain brain state.
But in some cases, the mind itself can be the cause, namely when it activates
memories or reflects; furthermore, sometimes a brain state that apparently
occurs more or less by chance is the cause. The problem is that we cannot al-
ways say exactly what the cause is. When a person is joyful, for example, she
cannot always say precisely what elicited her joy. Is it the old friend who un-
expectedly turned up? Or is it the memory, now activated by her own mind,
of earlier experiences with the friend? Or is it perhaps only a constellation
of brain states occurring by chance, elicited by the old friend, sunny weather,
good food, and other factors? The crucial point is that the unanswered ques-
tion is only that of the exact cause. This does not affect the finding that the joy
has an object. Nor does it affect the fact that, in the normal case, this object can
be determined more or less exactly.
Even when we can specify exactly which object an emotion represents, the
question arises as to the emotion’s epistemic value. Does it represent the ob-
ject correctly, so that we can know it as it really is, or is it only an incorrect,
perhaps even an illusory, representation? This question is pertinent primarily
because the representational content was explained with reference to “objective
reality.” This reality, we noted, is due to the fact that the essence of an object is
instantiated in the mind. Thus my idea of wolves, for example, has an objec-
tive reality because the essence of wolves is instantiated in my mind. Does that
mean that the essence of wolves is instantiated in my mind precisely when I am
afraid of wolves? And have I then come to know through this instantiation what
the essence of wolves is? That would be advantageous, of course, because then
I would have recognized what wolves are through the mere fact that I am afraid
of wolves. That representational access to them would procure me a perfect ep-
istemic access at the same time.
198
This would be ideal, but unfortunately it’s not that simple. Descartes points
out that we have an epistemically correct access to objects in the world only
by means of clear and distinct ideas. Emotions, however, are ideas “which the
close alliance between the soul and the body renders confused and obscure”
(PA I.28; AT XI, 350; C I, 339). They represent objects only as those objects are
made accessible to us by the senses. These remarks naturally raise the question
of how exactly the confused and obscure ideas represent the sensually accessible
objects.
Unfortunately, Descartes’ use of the expression “confused and obscure” is it-
self rather obscure. We can distinguish two basic usages, however.37 The first is
what we may call the psychological usage. In this sense, a confused and obscure
idea is contrasted with a clear idea, which “is present and accessible to the at-
tentive mind,” but also with a distinct idea, which “is so sharply separated from
all other perceptions that it contains within itself only what is clear” (AT VIII-1,
22; C I, 207–208). Presence is the relevant criterion here: only a clear and dis-
tinct idea is completely present and accessible, and only such an idea can be
separated from all other ideas. A confused and obscure idea, on the other hand,
is not quite present and accessible, and it is unclear how it is to be separated
from other ideas. It is present in the same way as a blurry picture with unclear
contours. We do not know exactly what we see in the picture, or indeed whether
we see something concrete at all.
But Descartes speaks much more often of a confused and obscure idea in an
epistemic usage. In this sense, such an idea is again contrasted with a clear and
distinct idea, but now the relevant criterion is that of truth: only a clear and dis-
tinct idea represents an object as it truly is; hence only a clear and distinct idea
is a veridical idea (AT VII, 80; C II, 55–56; AT VI, 33 and 38; C I, 127 and 130;
AT VIII-1, 17; C I, 203). A confused and obscure idea, by contrast, represents an
object in a misleading way. Such an idea represents an object with properties
that do not belong to it, but that arise rather from the sensory impressions in
the perceiver. Descartes explains this contrast using the particularly illustrative
example of wax in the “Second Meditation” (AT VII, 30–31; C II, 20–21). If we
observe a piece of wax before and after it melts, we represent it first as some-
thing hard, yellow, and fragrant, and afterward as something liquid and almost
without color and odor. We then ascribe to it changing properties that arise and
pass away with the particular situation of perception and that are not among
the stable, essential properties of the wax. We cannot rely on this confused and
obscure representation. Only if we disregard the perception and represent the
piece of wax purely mentally do we grasp the sole fact that it has extension, that
is, an essential, immutable property. And only then do we have a clear and dis-
tinct representation on which we can rely.
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René Descartes 199
As this example illustrates, there is a direct connection between the con-

tent and the epistemic value of a representation. Only ideas that represent only
the essential properties of an object, and do not mix with them any sensory
properties, are correct and reliable ideas. Confused and obscure ideas are dif-
ferent from these in that they are contaminated, so to speak. They represent other
properties in addition to the essential ones, without clearly distinguishing be-
tween the two. Thus an idea gained on the basis of a visual perception represents
the piece of wax both as something extended and, in the same degree, as some-
thing yellow. This idea would be correct only if it indicated that the extension
alone is a property of the wax, whereas the yellowness is a property that arises
only from the sensory impressions in the perceiver and is merely attributed to
the wax. Because the idea does not make this critical difference clear, it is not
veridical; it does not represent the object as it is in itself.
This has a consequence for the emotions. If they are only confused and ob-
scure ideas, they cannot be veridical. They are “contaminated,” because they
represent not only the essential properties, but also sensory and normative
properties. This is not surprising, of course. If emotions are bound to the sen-
sual presence of objects, they must represent them as they are sensually given.
If I become afraid of a wolf by seeing it, I represent it with a certain color, a
shape, and other visual properties. In addition, emotions mix in the normative
properties previously mentioned, doing so in different ways depending on the
standpoint, and sometimes in a distorted way. “But often,” Descartes writes to
Princess Elisabeth, “passion makes us believe certain things to be much better
and more desirable than they are” (AT IV, 284; C III, 263–264). This is easy to
illustrate. A person who falls in undying love with someone ascribes to him or
her all kinds of admirable properties. She considers the loved one the smartest,
most humorous, and most charming person, even if a purely objective look
finds that there are others who surpass the loved one in these regards. Emotions
induce us to exaggerate some aspects in our appraisal while masking out others.
Are emotions then devoid of epistemic value? Not at all. They definitely rep-
resent objects with their essential properties. And because they have an objec-
tive reality, the essence of the given object is instantiated in them. The problem
is that they are epistemically excessive, so to speak, because they represent other
properties in addition to the essential ones. Just like sensory perceptions, they
mislead us into judgments that are sometimes false. Descartes refers to such
ideas as “materially false” (AT VII, 43 and 233; C II, 30 and 163) because they
supply the material for false judgments.38 Nonetheless, we need these ideas. For
if we were to limit ourselves to clear and distinct ideas, we would recognize,
strictly speaking, only that material objects are extended, and we would be un-
able to find out which objects are present to us and what concrete extension
20
they have. The example of the wax illustrates this quite clearly. If we were to
apprehend the wax purely mentally, independently of any sensual presence, we
could arrive at the knowledge that it is extended. We could do this because we
would realize that something that falls within the concept of a body also falls
within the concept of extension. But we could not say whether this or that piece
of wax is present to us, much less specify its exact length, width, and height. To
do that, we must see it or feel it. Only sensory access gives us the knowledge of
a concrete thing with a concrete extension.39
The case of the emotions is analogous. If we were to apprehend a wolf purely
mentally, we could know that, like any other body, it is extended, but we could
not make any statement about whether this or that wolf is present, nor about
its concrete extension and hence about its shape. Only when a wolf is sensually
present in fear can we apprehend it as this animal with this length, width, and
height. Of course, this is not the only way to apprehend it as a concrete animal.
We could also limit ourselves to a neutral description, as, for example, when
we examine it as zoologists. But that would presuppose that we purposefully
keep a certain distance from the wolf. In the normal case, we see it fearfully, and
so obtain an access to its special properties. Hence the fact that emotions, like
sensory perceptions, are “materially false” does not imply by any means that
they are utterly false and worthless. We must unpack, metaphorically speaking,
the material they supply and distinguish between the two kinds of properties
represented: the geometric and kinematic properties, which are inherent in the
objects, and the sensory and normative properties, which originate in us on the
basis of our sensory impressions and our spontaneous appraisal. If we make this
distinction, we can arrive at a correct knowledge of properties in two different
domains.40
Emotions are epistemically relevant, and even indispensable, in yet another
respect. We receive at every moment a great abundance of sensory impressions
that elicit numerous mental states. On a hike, for example, when we encounter
a wolf, we see not only the animal, but also the bushes behind it, several trees,
boulders, and much more. How are we able to pick the wolf out of these nu-
merous objects and direct our attention to it? In the contemporary debate, this
is called the “frame problem.” We must create a frame for what is relevant in a
given situation and remove everything else from the frame. Ronald de Sousa
has pointed out that the emotions have epistemic importance in precisely this
regard.41 They create the necessary frame and so allow us to discern not just any
thing, but exactly what is important for us. Thus it is the fear that induces us to
pay attention to the wolf and not to the bushes or the boulders. Fear focuses our
cognition on what is important for survival.
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Descartes himself pointed out this function. The fundamental emotion of

wonder, he wrote, “makes us learn and retain in our memory things of which we
were previously ignorant,” and likewise “the other passions may serve to make
us take note of things which appear good or evil” (PA II.75; AT XI, 384; C I, 354).
Emotions are thus responsible for directing our attention, and create a frame in
two respects: first, they make us pay attention to new things and ignore familiar
things; second, they also make us sort the things present to us into categories
and avoid those that are bad for us. Both of these functions can be illustrated
using the example of the wolf. When someone, seeing a wolf for the first time
in her life, is startled and immediately becomes afraid, this emotion makes her
ignore the familiar bushes, trees, and boulders, and concentrate fully on what
is new and threatening. If she were not afraid, she would produce pictures of all
the things present indifferently, like a camera, without highlighting anything—
without even making a distinction between the familiar and the unknown. And
even if a person is already familiar with wolves, fear makes her appraise the
suddenly appearing wolf as dangerous and directs her attention to it. Fear is a
kind of filter that lets what is harmless pass through, retaining only what is dan-
gerous. It is a filter with a pragmatic function. It retains what is dangerous so that
we can take protective action. But this pragmatic function presupposes an epi-
stemic one: only if a person recognizes what is dangerous and concentrates on
it does she become aware of what is threatening her and what steps she should
take to protect herself against. From this perspective, the distorting effects of
emotions are not simply detrimental because they lead to false judgments; on
the contrary, they are beneficial and important. Only if a person represents the
wolf as exceedingly big and threatening will she fully concentrate on it and be
motivated to take action to protect herself. The same is true of positive cases.
Only if a person represents a loved one as exceedingly smart and charming does
she direct her whole attention to that person and take action to maintain the
relationship.
Finally, emotions have a third epistemic function. Besides perceptions and
sensations, it is primarily the emotions that call our attention to the unity of
body and mind so that we do not discern ourselves merely as conglomerates
of two substances. Descartes says it is probable that “the soul felt joy at the first
moment of its union with the body, and immediately after it felt love, then per-
haps also hatred, and sadness” (AT IV, 604; C III, 307). Only because of these
emotions does every human being recognize, even before she is capable of elab-
orate judgments about the mind–body unity, that such a unity in fact exists.
This is precisely the difference between a human being and an angel who might
happen to be lodged in a human body. An angel would be able to apprehend its
20
own mind and the body joined to it, but would not discern any unity—simply
because it would not feel any joy or sadness that might indicate that physical and
mental states are functionally interrelated. Hence emotions are not simply mis-
leading or epistemically inferior because, unlike clear and distinct ideas, they
do not permit a prompt knowledge of the body and mind with their essential
properties. Rather, they have an epistemic value that the clear and distinct ideas
do not have, because they make it plain that there is a certain kind of functional
unity that is different from a mereological whole or from a mere conglomerate
of two substances.
A problem arises at this point, however. How can emotions provide an
epistemic access to our own mind– body unity if they represent external
objects? After all, the representation of external objects does not include self-
representation, least of all the representation of a unity. In my fear of the wolf,
for example, how am I supposed to apprehend myself as a particular unity if
I represent only the wolf as something big and threatening? To answer this ques-
tion, we would do well to examine more closely the official definition of the
emotions that was mentioned at the beginning of this chapter.
Descartes opens the discussion on emotions by characterizing them as
perceptions, and goes on to say that there are three classes of perceptions. Some
are related to external objects that stimulate our senses (such as the perception
of a color); others are related to our own body or a part of it (such as feelings of
hunger or pain); others still are related to the soul. Only the perceptions of the
third class are passions in the strict sense, that is, emotions. Of these, Descartes
writes, “The perceptions we refer [qu’on raporte] only to the soul are those
whose effects we feel as being in the soul itself, and for which we do not
normally know any proximate cause to which we can refer them” (PA I.25;
AT XI, 347; cf. 349; C I, 337; cf. 338–339). This “referring” is the critical point
here. Emotions are referred to the soul, not to an external object and not to a
body part. But what kind of reference is meant here? One might suspect that
Descartes means a representational relation. Then an emotion would represent
two objects at the same time: an external object and the person’s own soul or
mind. But this interpretation proves inadequate if we consider that Descartes’
expression is not représenter, but rapporter. This cautious phrasing must be
taken seriously. If he were thinking of a representational relation, he would
have to ascribe to an emotion two representational contents, and thus two ob-
jective realities, at the same time. But nothing in the official definition of ob-
jective reality indicates that such a thing is possible. There Descartes explicitly
refers to one thing that has such a reality and exists in a certain way in the
mind (AT VII, 161; C II, 113–114). Furthermore, when he mentions a reference,
he cannot be thinking of a referring judgment. As we have seen by now, an
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emotion as an idea lacks an act of volition and thus the second necessary com-
ponent of a judgment.42
What is meant, then, by “referring” the emotions to the soul? Comparing the
emotions with the two other classes of perceptions offers an answer. Perceptions
of the first class are referred to external objects because we assume that the
perceived properties exist in the objects and elicit the perceptions. A person who
looks at a tree, for example, and sees the color green spontaneously assumes that
the color is in the tree and is the cause of her perception of green. This person
is mistaken, because in the tree itself there are only geometric and kinematic
properties. In mistaking something that is not the cause for the true cause, the
person makes a false causal imputation. The case of perceptions of the second
class, namely physical sensations, is analogous. A person who feels foot pain
assumes the pain is in the foot and elicits a mental sensation. But in the foot
there is only an injury, which consists of nothing other than a changed arrange-
ment of the material particles. This person too assumes a false cause. The case of
the emotions, perceptions of the third class, is similar: we refer them to the soul
because we assume it is the cause. Descartes specifies that we make this refer-
ence because it is in the soul that we feel the effects of the emotions, for which
we “do not normally know any proximate cause.” When we become afraid of
the wolf, we do not know exactly what elicited our fear (a certain property in
the wolf, our appraisal of the wolf, a chance combination of brain states?), and
for that reason we assume that the soul itself caused the fear. But in this we are
mistaken. Strictly speaking, if we wanted to specify the cause, we would have to
refer to two causes, the “ultimate” or distal cause and the “proximate” cause (PA
II.51; AT XI, 371; C I, 349). The distal cause is the external object with geometric
and kinematic properties that acts upon our senses; the proximate cause is a
brain state that elicits a mental perception.
Thus a characteristic of an emotion is that it coincides with a false causal as-
sumption. Naturally, this assumption has in turn a representational content (the
person’s own soul is represented as the cause of the emotion), but it is not a com-
ponent of the emotion. Hence the emotion itself does not have a twofold repre-
sentational content. For the example of fear, this means that we must distinguish
between two acts, each with its own content: (a) the fear of the wolf (represen-
tational content: the wolf with certain sensual and normative properties), and
(b) the reference to the soul (representational content: the soul as the alleged
cause of the fear). Why should we experience ourselves in this situation as a
special mind–body unity? If there were only (a), we would represent only an
external object. Because of (b), we have a self-representation, although not a
clear and distinct one. We do not apprehend what our soul is and what it really
causes. We apprehend only the soul to the extent that it is closely connected
204
with the body and to the extent that perceptions are elicited in it. Because we
do not notice that the body and not the mind elicits these perceptions, we mis-
take the mind for their cause. Because only the mind–body unity is present to
us, we cannot say what is really caused by the mind and what is caused by the
body. Ironically, it is precisely this false assumption that the mind is the cause
that demonstrates to us the particularly close connection and unity of body
and mind.
The fact that a false assumption, and thus an incorrect representation, has
an important function casts an interesting light on Descartes’ whole theory of
representation. According to Bernard Williams’ influential interpretation, this
theory serves to construct a new system of knowledge based exclusively on cor-
rect representations. Descartes wants to show how, by eliminating all obscure
and confused representations, we can achieve an objective standpoint from
which the world can be described as it really is by means of clear and distinct
representations. Then we can gradually overcome the subjective standpoint
from which we make descriptions that are one-sided or completely false. Or, to
express it in Williams’ words: we can gradually achieve an “absolute conception
of reality.”43
If we examine Descartes’ theory of representation on the basis of The Passions
of the Soul and not the Meditations, a more complex picture appears. The goal
then consists not simply in filtering out the clear and distinct representations
and eliminating the obscure and confused ones; on the contrary, the emotions,
which are obscure and confused representations, are then particularly im-
portant. For they show us what effects objects have on us, what normative
properties we attribute to them, and how we need them to apprehend ourselves
as body–mind units. This does not imply giving up our aspiration to an absolute
conception, of course, because the clear and distinct representations continue
to have a special epistemic function. But that conception is now supplemented
by another one. The goal is not only to determine how objects are constituted
from an objective viewpoint—that is, what geometric and kinematic properties
they have. Additionally, we also want to observe how they are from a subjec-
tive standpoint; that is, how we experience them and what situation-dependent
properties we attribute to them. A complete system of knowledge must address
both conceptions.
4.4 Wonder and the Taxonomy of Emotions

Descartes is not content to distinguish the emotions as a separate class of
perceptions. Within this class too he makes distinctions, producing a taxonomy
of different kinds of emotions. He defines a total of six basic types (wonder, love,
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hate, desire, joy, sadness), with numerous other types subordinate to them. As
with Thomas Aquinas, who defined eleven basic types, the list is not so inter-
esting in itself. What is important is rather the criteria by which it is constructed
and how the basic types are distinguished from one another.
Because Descartes emphasizes that he wants to study the emotions as a nat-
ural philosopher, we might expect him to designate physiological or other phys-
ical criteria. This expectation is reinforced by the fact that, in the second part
of The Passions of the Soul, he deals at length with the physiological causes and
effects of the emotions. He depicts in detail mainly outward signs (gestures, fa-
cial expressions, etc.) as their effects. Thus Descartes explains that joy “renders
the color brighter and rosier because it opens the valves of the heart and so
causes the blood to flow more quickly in all the veins” (PA II.115; AT XI, 413; C
I, 368). Sadness, conversely, causes paleness because it closes the heart’s valves,
restricting the flow of blood. Today, of course, these descriptions seem very ru-
dimentary and terribly mechanistic. But at their core is a physiological theory
that could form the basis of a corresponding physiological classification of the
emotions: different outward signs can be seen as symptoms indicating different
kinds of emotions. Descartes would then be taking his place in a medical tradi-
tion that attempts to classify the emotions by symptomatic analysis.
He does not choose this path, however, stating instead that we must consider
the objects of the emotions. To list the basic types and establish an order, we
must describe their objects with respect to “the various ways in which they may
harm or benefit us, or in general have importance for us” (PA II.52; AT XI, 372;
C I, 349). Thus it seems as though Descartes would choose the formal object as a
system of classification, just as his Aristotelian predecessors did, and give partic-
ular attention to the normative properties of this object (good or bad, beneficial
or detrimental). But why doesn’t he choose a physical criterion if he considers
the physical signs so important? The main reason is that there is no unambig-
uous correspondence of emotions and physical signs. At most, we can identify
typical signs that occur and are discernible on most occurrences of a certain
kind of emotion. But what usually appears need not always appear. Descartes
illustrates this by an example (PA II.117; AT XI, 414; C I, 369). Usually, a person
pales when he is sad, but often the opposite happens, and the sad person’s face
reddens. The reason is that other emotions are present at the same time, such
as love or desire. These also evoke physical signs, including blushing, and then
observing the body is not sufficient by itself to determine which sign is brought
about by which emotion.44 Faced with an aggregation of physical signs, we can
give at most a conjecture as to which mixture of emotions might be present.
There is another reason not to choose physical signs as criteria for the classifi-
cation of emotions. In Section 4.2, we saw that there are no absolutely necessary
206
laws that assign certain physical states to certain mental states and vice versa.
God can always change the assignment, and so can a human being. A person
can undertake a process of habituation and stop becoming afraid, for example,
when he is in a brain state evoked by a wolf. He can also accustom himself to
not blanching or weeping when he is sad. Consequently, if we want to describe
the correspondence of emotions and physical signs, we must consider a person’s
individual history. It is not enough to refer to universal laws that assign weeping
to sadness, for example, and laughing to joy. Although Descartes grants that
there is such a close connection between mind and body that a certain physical
activity (weeping, laughing, etc.) normally coincides with a certain emotion,
he goes on to say that “we do not always join the same actions to the same
thoughts” (PA II.136; AT XI, 428; C I, 375). What connection there is depends
on the individual process of habituation, and sometimes on social conventions
and norms.45 For this reason we can never unambiguously infer a certain kind
of emotion from a certain physical sign. Such statements can be made at most in
regard to an individual. Thus we can say, for example, this person expresses sad-
ness, as a result of his socialization and his process of habituation, in the form
of weeping and blanching; another person may express this emotion differently.
Descartes’ qualifying statement that the same expression does not always
occur illustrates that he does not choose the methodological path taken by
present-day proponents of a theory of basic emotions—those who try to iden-
tify and distinguish the basic kinds of emotions based on a description of facial
expressions.46 They assume that certain facial features express specific emotions,
regardless of culture and individual life histories. By pointing out the possi-
bility of individual differences, Descartes calls attention to the dubious induc-
tive reasoning underlying such a theory. The fact that a certain correspondence
between emotions and physical signs has been observed in some (and perhaps
in numerous) cases does not justify the claim that it must occur in all cases.47
Furthermore, with his remark that the regular assignment can be changed by
habituation and other processes, Descartes also reveals an implicit metaphys-
ical presupposition. Anyone who claims that we can always infer a certain kind
of emotion from a physical sign is assuming that there are absolutely necessary
(and not just hypothetically necessary) laws that determine that correspond-
ence. This is a strong and by no means self-evident assumption about the nature
of laws and calls for justification.
If it is not the physical signs, then, but the respective objects that consti-
tute the criterion by which the emotions can be classified, it is easy to suspect
Descartes of advancing a theory of formal objects like that of Thomas Aquinas
and his successors. After all, Aquinas too said that it is always the objects that
matter in a certain respect: that is, insofar as they are good or bad. This is the
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difference between emotions and perceptions, for which the objects are rele-
vant only insofar as they elicit a sensual stimulus. Aquinas adds, however, that
there are two kinds of objects, and thus two basic types of emotions, namely the
“concupiscent,” which are directed at the good or bad objects as such, and the
“irascible,” which are directed at such objects insofar as they can be attained or
avoided only with arduous effort (STh I–II 23.1). According to Aquinas, two dif-
ferent faculties are responsible for these two kinds of emotions.
But Descartes rejects precisely this thesis, for two reasons (PA II.68; AT XI,
379; C I, 352). The first is metaphysical in nature. If we were to associate two
kinds of emotions with two different faculties, we would be assuming two parts
within the soul. But Descartes insists, as was mentioned at the beginning of this
chapter, that the soul, unlike the body, has no parts. In saying so, he seems to
assume that faculties as parts must be understood in the sense of mereological
parts. This is not an accurate characterization of Aquinas’ metaphysical model,
however. For Aquinas, the parts of the soul are only manifestations of the soul
that is present in different areas as a multifunctional principle of activity and
life. Nonetheless, Descartes’ critique is not merely based on a misunderstanding.
It expresses a fundamental disagreement in regard to the internal structure of
the soul. Whereas Aquinas and other scholastic Aristotelians see the soul of a
human being as capable of different activities (from reproduction to thought),
and hence encompassing different faculties, Descartes ascribes to it only one
faculty, the faculty of thought.48 The emotions too can be produced, with regard
to their mental component, only by this one faculty, and can thus be only states
of thought.
The second reason for rejecting the division between concupiscent and iras-
cible emotions is that this traditional division assumes that all emotions relate
to objects that are present as good or bad. For Aquinas and other scholastic
philosophers, the only question was whether these objects can be aspired to
(or avoided) readily or with effort. Descartes’ objection is that this conception
overlooks an important emotion, in fact the most fundamental one: that of
wonder (admiration). Wonder occurs before an object is evaluated as good or
bad, beneficial or detrimental. The condition for this emotion is only that an ob-
ject be present as something new and unknown (PA II.53; AT XI, 373; C I, 350).
In fact, it is striking that Aquinas and his successors didn’t mention wonder
as an emotion. If they mentioned this phenomenon at all, it was only as part
of the description of various epistemic attitudes that a person can take. They
stated that we can regard a thing with wonder, surprise, or curiosity, and they
described wonder as an attitude that a person has toward a thing whose cause is
fully unknown. The paradigmatic case they cited is a miracle, which seems to vi-
olate the natural order, and whose cause is inexplicable. For Aquinas, a miracle
208
is something that is “in itself filled with admiratio” (ScG III.101.1). Admiratio
here means both wonder and admiration. We wonder at the inexplicable mir-
acle, and at the same time regard it with admiration, and indeed with a cer-
tain awe.49 Of course, this attitude is limited to a small number of inexplicable
things; in most cases we are merely surprised or curious.
At this point, Descartes breaks with tradition, and in two respects. First,
he states that wonder is not merely an attitude toward miracles, but toward all
objects that seem “unusual and extraordinary” (PA II.70; AT XI, 380; C I, 353).
That is, wonder occurs when we see for the first time an unusual animal, an ex-
traordinary building, or even just a spectacular sunset. These are not miracles
that are outside the natural order, but things and states of affairs that are parts
of that order. Whether and how the causes of these objects can be known is un-
important. Second, Descartes also distances himself from the tradition because
he counts wonder among the emotions and not among the epistemic attitudes,
which are distinct from and at most linked to emotions. As Lorraine Daston has
shown, he is thus one of the founders, along with Francis Bacon and Thomas
Hobbes, of a theory of the “cognitive passions.”50 But why is wonder a passion
or an emotion? First, because, like love, hate, and many other emotions, it is
elicited in a person by the impact of an object, and is thus a passion, that is, a
state of suffering. And second, it is a passion because like other emotions it has a
motivational power: it makes us want to turn toward the new object.
But how does wonder come about? Descartes notes that it is caused by “an
impression in the brain, which represents the object as something unusual and
consequently worthy of special consideration” (PA II.70; AT XI, 380; C I, 353).
This statement is astounding. How can a brain state—that is, a configuration
of material particles—represent something? In Section 4.3, we found that only
mental states represent, and they do so only when they have an objective reality.
But material particles cannot have such a reality. Furthermore, it has not been
explained why wonder as the most fundamental emotion does not presuppose
a judgment. If it is caused by an impression that represents something as unu-
sual, the immediately represented object must have been compared with other
objects and judged to be particularly rare. Suppose I find myself standing for
the first time in front of the Eiffel Tower. I can represent this edifice as extraor-
dinary and worthy of consideration only if I compare it with others and judge
that it is bigger and more monumental than anything I have ever seen before.
My wonder at the Eiffel Tower is then based on a judgment, and, unlike purely
sensually elicited states of joy or sadness, it is not a fundamental emotion at all.
To solve these problems, let us first examine Descartes’ statement that an
impression in the brain represents something. In this context, he is using
a causal conception of representation that is aimed only at designating the
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relation between a material state and its cause. An impression in the brain then
represents an object in the same sense in which smoke represents fire. In the
Treatise on Man, Descartes sometimes refers to “figures” or “images” in the
brain that have been imprinted on the brain (AT XI, 174 and 176–177; C I, 105–
106). Here too, he does not mean that they have an objective reality in the tech-
nical sense or a representational relation to the external objects. The important
thing is only that there are configurations or patterns of particles that have an
unambiguous causal relation to objects. It is not necessary for these patterns
to be somehow apprehended or consciously perceived. They only have to be
mechanically generated, and hence as effects they refer to their causes. Just as
smoke indicates fire, the pattern in the brain points to an external object.
But how can this object be indicated or represented as something new?
Descartes is not presupposing a judgment here. He is simply emphasizing that
a new pattern arises that up to now has not been connected with any mental
state. In the appendix to his scientific writings, he illustrates the imprinting of
a pattern with a picture of a brush whose stiff bristles punch small holes in a
smooth surface (AT XI, fig. 30). In exactly such a mechanical way, an external
object acting on the brain by means of sensory stimuli imprints a new pattern.
The mere fact that this pattern does not yet have a mental correlate is enough to
elicit surprise, amazement, or wonder.
Descartes demonstrates here a methodological stroke that Gary Hatfield has
aptly called the strategy of a “machine psychology.”51 Cognitive functions are
explained as far as possible as purely mechanical processes. For an object to
be present as something new and unknown does not presuppose, as it did for
the Aristotelians, that phantasms are formed, compared, and evaluated with the
aid of the faculty of imagination. Much less does it presuppose that an object
must be assigned to a certain category with the aid of the faculty of judgment.
It is sufficient that a new pattern has been “imprinted” in the brain. This is also
possible in animals, of course. A new pattern is also imprinted in a lion seeing
an antelope for the first time, and it too at first freezes. We are inclined to say of
the lion, just as we would of a human being, that it is amazed. But in the lion,
the reason for freezing is only that the new pattern is not yet associated with any
movement; the coordination of neuronal and motoric states is not yet deter-
mined. Strictly speaking, however, there can be no wonder in the lion because
no mental perception can be elicited.52
In a human being, however, a perception is elicited, so that the object is also
mentally present in an idea and for the first time. This startles the person, so
to speak, so that he is motivated to examine the object more closely, to com-
pare it with other objects, and perhaps even to make it the object of scien-
tific investigations. In the Search for Truth, an unfinished text in the form of a
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dialogue, Descartes emphasizes the importance of wonder for science. Eudoxus,

one of the three participants in the dialogue, tells the other two that he feels no
passion to learn any more. He has already learned everything important, he says,
and now has “all the truths” that can be found (AT X, 501; C II, 402). Epistemon
contradicts him and sarcastically remarks that a person who makes such a claim
must be very happy indeed. In his eyes, it is wonder at the unknown that drives
us to learn more and more. It has a heuristic function, because it motivates not
just a body movement (as in the case of fear, for example, which motivates a
movement of flight), but an investigation of the unknown and hence the acqui-
sition of many representations. This shows once again that an emotion, although
it is not a clear and distinct representation, is beneficial, indeed indispensable,
for the acquisition of knowledge. If we never wondered at new, unknown things,
we would not have anything to do with them. Consequently, we would not try to
examine them and gain as complete a representation of them as possible. Thus
Descartes calls attention to a point that is raised again in contemporary debates
as well: we need emotions to start processes that generate knowledge.53 It would
be nonsense to separate emotions as purely phenomenal states from the cogni-
tive states, or to assume that they are cognitively detrimental because they pro-
vide a distorted and incomplete image of our surroundings. However, Descartes
is not maintaining the strong position that emotions in themselves generate
complete knowledge or replace all other cognitive states. In themselves, after all,
they are merely obscure and confused representations, as was explained. But by
motivating us to form clear and distinct representations, they are indispensable
for the process of knowledge acquisition. And although this process should cul-
minate only in clear and distinct representations, the very beginning of the pro-
cess would not come about without the emotions—and especially wonder.
Descartes underscores this knowledge-generating function by distinguishing
between the positive and negative uses of wonder. Wonder is detrimental in
“those afflicted with blind curiosity, i.e. those who seek out rarities simply in
order to wonder at them and not in order to know them” (PA II.78; AT XI, 386;
C I, 356). Here Descartes builds on the traditional criticism of curiosity that has
been advanced again and again since Augustine,54 and injects it into a context of
scientific theory. As long as wonder at the new does not go beyond mere fact-
collecting and uncomprehending admiration, it is detrimental and does not
start a knowledge-generating process. Only when someone is driven by wonder
to study things yet unknown and to discern their causes, then mere curiosity
becomes interest in knowledge, and only then is the emotion beneficial. Thus
wonder is not a positive emotion per se, but the right use makes it one.
Here we see Descartes’ attempt to combine the project of a scientific anal-
ysis of the emotions with the requirement of action theory or moral philosophy
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René Descartes 211
that we must try to master the emotions. The fact that wonder occurs in cer-
tain situations is a natural fact that is elicited by a newly “imprinted” brain pat-
tern. How this pattern arises and how it differs from other patterns that elicit
other emotions is a scientific problem, which is to be addressed accordingly
with scientific methods (and for Descartes, that always means with the methods
of mechanistic physiology). But the way in which wonder is then used—that is,
whether it is used to generate epistemic processes—is not a scientific problem.
The critical question then is what goals a person pursues and how he uses
wonder to achieve his goals. For Descartes, good goals are precisely those that
serve the acquisition of knowledge. Hence a person deals appropriately with his
wonder only if he uses it for these goals. And he can master it only if he avoids
mere curiosity. In short, a naturally caused emotion must be used as a means to
achieve an epistemic goal.
Of course, there are other goals besides epistemic ones, first and foremost
the goal of self-preservation. Descartes therefore points out that emotions show
us what is good or bad for us, and that we use them appropriately only if we
pursue what they indicate as good and avoid what they indicate as bad. He
emphasizes that “this same consideration of good and evil is the origin of all the
other passions” (PA II.57; AT XI, 374; C I, 350). The fundamental emotions are
love and hate, which indicate what is good or bad without regard to time; desire,
which indicates something to be good or bad in the future; and joy and sad-
ness, which indicate what is good and bad in the present.55 Descartes refers here
to the system of classification that was primary in the Aristotelian authors: the
normative appraisal of the object (good/bad) and the temporal dimension
(present/future). That does not mean, however, that he also concurs with his
predecessors’ explanation of these criteria. We have already seen this in regard
to normative appraisal in Section 4.3. For an emotion to show us something
as good or bad does not mean that it represents a real property of the object.
It only means that we appraise something as good or bad in the emotion. And
we do so not because something is good or bad in itself, but because it appears
so to us. Descartes expresses this clearly in his definition of love, stating that it
“impels the soul to join itself willingly to objects that appear to be agreeable to
it” (PA II.79; AT XI, 387; C I, 356). Different things appear beneficial depending
on a person’s situation and life history. An emotion such as love therefore says
nothing about how something is in itself, but only how it is represented by a
person in a concrete situation.
But how does a person come to represent an object as good or bad? Or, in
general terms, how does a normative dimension emerge? Descartes does not
offer a precise answer to this question. His remarks on the different kinds of
emotions suggest, however, that he gives it consideration on two levels. The first
21
and most fundamental is what we may call the biofunctional level: an object is
represented as good or bad if it elicits a physiologically beneficial or detrimental
state in the body. Descartes illustrates this in regard to love and hate (PA II.97–
98; AT XI, 401–402; C I, 363). If an object produces a regular pulse, “a gentle
heat in the chest,” and a good digestion, a positive appraisal and hence love co-
incide with it. If, conversely, it produces an irregular pulse, stabbing heat, and
nausea, then a negative appraisal and, accordingly, hate coincide with it. The de-
scription of the physiological details is less important here than the explanatory
scheme: A certain pattern of positive or negative physical states correlates with
a positive or negative appraisal, yet without a conscious evaluation or judgment
occurring. The natural function of the physical states is to elicit the appropriate
appraisal so that we can take suitable action for self-preservation. Thus the nat-
ural function of an irregular pulse and nausea is to elicit the spontaneous ap-
praisal “caution, bad object!” and the ensuing protective action for the body. The
nub of this biofunctional explanation is that it does not presuppose a complete
normative system or obedience to normative rules. The mere occurrence of cer-
tain physical states is enough to elicit a positive or negative appraisal.
In addition, however, there is also a second level, on which an object is pur-
posely compared with others and evaluated. We might call this the cognitive–
evaluative level. Descartes considers this level mainly in discussing the varieties
subordinate to the fundamental emotions. He states, for example, that esteem
and contempt are varieties of wonder. Esteem arises when we represent to
ourselves “the value of the object” and determine that this value is very great.
Conversely, in contempt we consider that the value is little (PA III, 149; AT XI,
443–444; C I, 383). Evidently it is not sufficient in this case for a beneficial or det-
rimental physical state to occur. We must compare an object that elicits wonder
with other objects and judge it on a value scale. This in turn presupposes that
we have such a scale, and thus a normative category. And of course it also
presupposes that we form judgments. Thus the emotions that arise on the basis
of such a demanding appraisal cannot be fundamental emotions. Rather, they
build on those that arise on a biofunctional level.
What about the temporal dimension, the other classification criterion besides
the normative? It seems at first as though Descartes would simply concur with
the Aristotelian authors in this regard. As we saw in the first chapter—Thomas
Aquinas is exemplary among them—they too distinguished between present
and future objects. In Descartes’ justification for this distinction, however, we
see that he differs significantly from the tradition. Aquinas distinguished among
love, desire, and joy by examining a whole process. In love, he wrote, we aspire
to a good object; in desire, we pursue such an object when it is absent; and in
joy, our desire comes to a conclusion when the object is present (STh I–II 23.4).56
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René Descartes 213
The three emotions are three stages in what we must understand as an actualiza-
tion process. In the first stage, love, the faculty of aspiring to a good object is ac-
tivated by the presence of a good object. In the second stage, desire, the faculty
is increasingly actualized by the person’s unstinting pursuit of the good object.
And in the third stage, joy, the actualization process is completed, because the
person now possesses the good object. Descartes explains these three emotions
quite differently. What connects them with one another is simply the fact that,
in all of them, a good object is represented. What distinguishes them is the kind
of representation involved. In love, a good object is represented, with no further
specification; in desire, it is represented insofar as it lies in the future; and in joy,
it is represented insofar as it is already in our possession (PA II.79, 86, and 91;
AT XI, 387, 392, and 396; C I, 356 and 358–361). Neither a special faculty nor a
given stage in the actualization of a faculty is important here.
This difference is far more than a detail in the description of the various basic
kinds of emotions. Rather, this specific point reveals a fundamental difference
in the metaphysical frame. The Aristotelians describe and classify emotions in
the frame of a psychology of faculties, and accordingly they ask what object
actualizes a faculty and how the actualization takes place. Descartes, on the other
hand, is interested only in the question of how representations are produced
by the impact of external objects or by remembering. Consequently, for him
emotions can be classified only by reference to different kinds of representation.
Up to now it seemed as though the external, immediately present causes
were also the objects that were represented in the emotions and as if we could
classify all the different kinds of emotions with reference to their causes or the
represented objects. Usually, this is the case. Love, for example, can be distin-
guished from hate by the fact that, in the case of love, an object that is atemporally
good elicits a mental representation and is also the object of this representation;
in hate, conversely, an atemporally bad object is the cause and the represented
object. But there are exceptions in which the cause and the object do not coin-
cide. Descartes gives an amusing autobiographical example of such a case. As
a child, he writes, he liked a girl who was cross-eyed. Later, when he saw cross-
eyed persons, he spontaneously felt attracted to them because of their crossed
eyes (AT V, 57; C III, 322–323). In this case, the object of his later sympathy is
not identical with the cause. The cross-eyed persons Descartes saw in later life
did not produce the emotion, but only reactivated it. The reason is a transfer-
ence effect: the original cause was represented in a certain respect (namely, as
cross-eyed) and evaluated as good; all later persons who were represented in the
same respect were then evaluated likewise. Hence Descartes also felt affection
or even love for them. The interesting thing about this example is that a pat-
tern of representation and evaluation arises that can then be separated from the
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original cause and applied to other objects. The critical factor in the emergence
of an emotion is, then, not that the original cause is still present and producing
sensory impressions, but that the pattern is reactivated.
This example clearly illustrates that what immediately elicits an emotion is
only of secondary importance for Descartes. Perhaps a mere picture of a cross-
eyed person, or an actor playing a cross-eyed person, would have been sufficient
to elicit the emotion. The important thing is which representation arises and
how an object is then evaluated. Hence the differentiation and classification of
the emotions are guided primarily by the represented object, not by the original
cause. And for that reason, it would be inappropriate to suppose that Descartes’
analysis of emotions is only scientific. It is true that Descartes considers a sci-
entific analysis important and even indispensable in regard to the genesis of
emotions, because such an analysis reveals how external objects act on the body
and elicit mechanical processes that lead to certain brain patterns and so to cer-
tain mental states. But from the point of view of classification, such an analysis
is not sufficient. Only by investigating how the given object is represented and
normatively identified can we distinguish different types of emotions.
4.5 Self-C ontrol through Self-R espect

Because emotions are only produced by objects acting upon us and eliciting
brain states in us, they seem to be states that we suffer and cannot control our-
selves. Thus a person is seized with wonder when a new object appears and
causes a new brain pattern in her. Because every brain pattern correlates with
a certain mental state, we cannot choose whether we want to be seized with
wonder—it just happens. It is precisely this passive character of the emotions
that Descartes has in mind when he calls them states of “suffering” (passions)
and emphasizes that “it is often not our soul which makes them such as they are,
and the soul always receives them from the things that are represented by them”
(PA I.17; AT XI, 342; C I, 335). His whole mechanistic analysis of brain patterns
that are caused by external objects serves the purpose of explaining their passive
character. We would be denying facts of nature and outrageously overestimating
ourselves if we were to believe—as the Stoics did, for example—that we could
eliminate emotions or limit ourselves to a small number of positive emotions.
We cannot remove or change at will what is caused in us by outside influences.
It is striking, however, that Descartes does not maintain the blanket thesis
that all emotions without exception are naturally caused states over which we
have no influence. He cautiously writes that often—but by no means always—it
is not our soul that makes the emotions such as they are. Sometimes our soul
can exert an influence and change existing emotions, or even produce new ones.
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René Descartes 215
We saw this clearly in Section 4.2, in which the metaphysical frame of Descartes’
theory of the emotions was described. According to Descartes, there is only
a hypothetically necessary correlation between naturally caused brain patterns
and mental states. The correlation is necessary only as long as it is not changed
by the soul. Hence emotions are not merely states that we suffer, but also states
that we ourselves can control. How can this be possible? How can Descartes
first insist that emotions originate through natural processes of causation, and
then grant nonetheless that they can be expressly controlled and changed? To
answer this question, we must examine a particular emotion, that of générosité.
This emotion creates the conditions under which such control is possible at all.
As we have seen, wonder is the most fundamental emotion. If it coincides
with an appreciation of an object, esteem results. And if this appreciation is for
oneself, the result is self-esteem. The basic form of self-esteem, for Descartes,
is générosité. In Descartes’ 17th-century French, this meant something dif-
ferent from the generosity or magnanimity denoted by the French word (and its
English cognate) today. In the 17th century, générosité was understood primarily
as an attitude toward oneself, not toward others.57 This generosity arises at first
occasionally when a person feels self-esteem in a certain situation because she
freely exercises her will and so determines her action. But it can also solidify
into a general attitude, and thus a form of virtue, if a person repeatedly exercises
her will and so becomes a self-determined person. In a word, self-esteem arises
through self-determination, which is due to the exercise of one’s will. This is
expressed clearly in Pierre Corneille’s tragedy “Cinna.” Augustus Caesar, the
main character in the play, must defend himself against various conspiracies. At
first he hesitates, unsure as to how he should proceed, but then he pulls himself
together, takes his fate in his hands, and shows générosité. What does that mean?
Augustus summarizes it in the following statement: “I’m master of myself as of
the world; I am so, I will to be so.”58 This attitude is evident in his subsequent
behavior toward other persons, such as his magnanimous treatment of his
opponents. For, the moment he is master of himself, he can act toward others
with self-assurance, and put mercy before judgment. The prerequisite, however,
is an attitude toward himself. Augustus must first see himself as someone who
does not allow himself simply to drift along or be compelled to actions by others,
but who exercises his own will and determines his own actions. Magnanimity
and generosity toward others arises from this générosité, which is a form of self-
esteem. Descartes conceives it in this way:
Thus I believe that true generosity [générosité], which causes a person’s self-
esteem to be as great as it may legitimately be, has only two components.
The first consists in his knowing that nothing truly belongs to him but
216
this freedom to dispose his volitions, and that he ought to be praised or

blamed for no other reason than his using this freedom well or badly. The
second consists in his feeling within himself a firm and constant resolu-
tion to use it well—that is, never to lack the will to undertake and carry
out whatever he judges to be best. (PA III.153; AT XI, 445–446; C I, 384)
Descartes is referring here to a self-esteem that we acquire through a contin-

uous use of our will. This does not exclude the possibility that esteem for others
arises from it as well. A person who has learned to appreciate the exercise of her
own will appreciates the same activity in others and will esteem them as persons
who purposely decide on certain actions and do not act because they are driven
or merely perform movements like automata. Descartes emphasizes that this
is the reason why “we do not prefer ourselves to anyone else and we think that
since others have free will just as much as we do, they may use it just as well as
we use ours” (PA III.155; AT XI, 447; C I, 385). We are all equal insofar as we as
persons have a free will and exercise it. We are all self-determined persons, then,
with self-esteem. Precisely this is the difference between us and animals, which
have no will, but are at most prompted because of their disposition or specific
training to perform body movements that sometimes look like actions. Strictly
speaking, however, movements that are not based on an exercise of the will are
not actions. And a living being that does not exercise a will of its own is not ca-
pable of self-esteem.
But why is self-esteem based on wonder as a fundamental emotion? This
question can best be answered using the now-familiar example of the wolf.
Suppose a wolf suddenly appears before a hiker. The hiker is amazed at this
extraordinary animal and is first seized by fear. But then she pulls herself to-
gether, forces herself to evaluate the situation more carefully, and says to herself,
“I want to be my own master, stand my ground, and not simply run away. I will
force myself to bring my fear under control.” In this case, of course, self-esteem
is not a form of wonder. Self-esteem is rather based on wonder and would not
arise without it. For if the hiker had not wondered at the wolf, she wouldn’t have
activated her will to bring the spontaneously emerging emotion under control.
The crucial point here is that self-esteem does not arise from a neutral attitude.
If the hiker had looked at the wolf indifferently, as she did at the bushes and trees
beside it, she would have had no grounds to pull herself together and make a
willful decision.
When we consider this genesis of générosité, it is not surprising that Descartes
claims it is based on wonder. Only a person who is as if startled and seized
by a basic emotion obtains an opportunity to exercise her will. And only such
a person can exhibit a self-determined reaction and change her subsequent
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René Descartes 217
emotions. But Descartes’ explanation of générosité just quoted also specifies that
not just any use should be made of the will, but a good use. What characterizes a
good use? Nowhere in the texts devoted to the emotions does Descartes discuss
this obvious question. He does address it in the “Fourth Meditation,” however,
where he draws a distinction between the use of the will and the use of the
intellect (AT VII, 56 ff.; C II, 39 ff.). The intellect, he writes there, is respon-
sible for producing representations. The will, on the other hand, is responsible
for assenting to the representations, and thus for forming judgments. A person
makes good use of the will when she gives her assent, not to all representations,
but only to those that are clear and distinct.59 Only thus do true judgments arise.
This too can be illustrated. Suppose I am standing in front of a tree and form
a number of representations based on the sensory impressions received, such
as representations of a certain color, size, and shape. These representations are
not in themselves judgments, and hence have no truth value. Only if I form a
judgment, such as “this object is green,” does something arise that is true or
false. And, for Descartes, that means that only if, in addition to the intellect,
which forms the representations of an object and the color green, the will too
becomes active and gives its assent to these representations—only then does a
true or false judgment arise. In this case, unfortunately, a false judgment arises,
because the material object is not green; it has only geometric and kinematic
properties. Green is a sensory property that arises in the observer from the
visual impressions. To judge truly, I would therefore have to form the judgment
“this object has a certain composition of corpuscles that reflects the light so that
a perception of green arises in me.” Why don’t I form this judgment? Because
the will precociously gives its assent to unexamined representations, and pays
no heed to whether the representations are in fact clear and distinct, or only
obscure and confused. The cause of a false judgment is thus not in the intellect,
which simply supplies a number of representations, but in the will, which does
not examine them and gives its assent to obscure and confused representations.
We make good use of the will only if we give our assent after examining the
representations, and then only to the clear and distinct ones.
This explanation of the good use of the will refers of course to an epistemo-
logical context in which we want to avoid false judgments and thus mistakes.
Even in this context, however, Descartes emphasizes two points that are also
relevant to générosité. First, every human being disposes freely of her acts of
volition and thus of her assent to each representation. No one is compelled to
give assent to certain representations, no matter how evident they may seem
at first glance. There is always the possibility of examining the representations
and refusing one’s assent. Second, Descartes states that it is not sufficient simply
to have the ability to form acts of volition and thus acts of assent. We must
218
also be determined to exercise this ability so that only the clear and distinct
representations are given our assent. That is, we must have something like an
epistemic virtue, which we gradually acquire by educating ourselves to avoid
assenting prematurely and by examining the representations carefully. The
whole epistemological program that Descartes develops in the Meditations is
ultimately aimed at the acquisition of such a virtue: we become epistemically re-
sponsible only if we examine all representations and give our assent only to the
clear and distinct representations. Only then are we able to form true judgments
and build a robust system of knowledge.
In light of this view of the will, we can understand what Descartes means by
générosité. It is, first, an act of volition by which we decide, with self-awareness
and self-determination, not to assent prematurely to every emotion. If we re-
peatedly form such an act of volition, the disposition arises to form such an
act in the future. Or, to put it succinctly: a volitive virtue arises from the re-
peated exercise of the will.60 Thus the hiker who is no longer disposed to ac-
cept her spontaneously arising fear at the sight of a wolf has acquired a virtue,
examines her emotion and asks herself whether it is really appropriate. But what
are the criteria for that examination? In the epistemological context, the criteria
are clarity and distinctness. These cannot be the relevant criteria in this case,
however, because all emotions are obscure and confused representations. If we
tried to filter them for clear and distinct representations to which to assent, no
emotions at all would be left. What then should we look for in placing our as-
sent? In the description of générosité previously quoted, Descartes says that a
person who makes a good use of his will is firmly resolved “never to lack the will
to undertake and carry out whatever he judges to be best.” What the best things
are depends on the given situation and cannot be determined once and for all
cases. What is important here is not the detailed definition of the best things,
but the fact that one should assent to emotions only with an eye for what is
judged to be the best. Thus a person handles her emotions responsibly and with
self-determination only when she does not prematurely assent to all of them,
but only to those that are in accord with what she judges to be best.
What this means in concrete terms can be illustrated once again in the ex-
ample of the wolf. No hiker can be held responsible for becoming afraid at the
sight of a big, ravenous beast. We bear responsibility, not for the spontaneous
emergence of the emotion, but for dealing with it. And the only responsible
person is one who doesn’t accept that fear prematurely but asks herself what is
best for her. If the hiker now judges that it is best for her to escape the wolf and
to survive, she must examine whether the emotion serves that goal. Is fear con-
ducive to survival? Or is it dangerous because it prevents level-headed thinking?
Wouldn’t it be appropriate to suppress the fear and replace it with a different
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René Descartes 219
emotion, such as audacity? Only if the hiker proceeds in this way, withholding
her assent, does she act responsibly. And only then does she act out of self-
esteem, understanding herself as a person who is not simply at the mercy of fear,
but reacts to it with self-determination by exercising her own will.
The good use of the will can also be illustrated in relation to the fundamental
emotion of wonder. If someone is confronted with a new object and won-
ders at it, she bears no responsibility for this spontaneously arising emotion.
It is elicited by a natural process, namely the impact of the new object and the
“imprinting” of a new brain pattern. Here again, we are responsible only for how
we deal with the emotion. That is, we must ask ourselves what the best goal is
to pursue in dealing with a new, unknown object. If we conclude that the goal
can only consist in an acquisition of knowledge, we must ask further: Is wonder
conducive to the acquisition of knowledge? Or is it an impediment, because we
regard the new object full of wonder and only admire it, but do not analyze it?
Here again, we must not assent to the emotion prematurely. We must examine
whether it is in accord with the goal of gaining knowledge. Descartes therefore
points out that wonder is not good in itself, but only if it is correctly applied. If
its purpose is merely astonishment, it is “an excess of wonder, and it can never
be other than bad” (PA II.73; AT XI, 383; C I, 354).
As the two examples show, purposely controlling our reaction to emotions
requires not only that we use our own will and not simply allow emotions to
overpower us. It also requires us to reflect and ask ourselves what the best goal
is that an emotion should serve to pursue. Hence controlling the emotions al-
ways requires volitive and cognitive activities. For a control to come about, how-
ever, we must observe that emotions need not be accepted as they are naturally
caused. That is, it is one thing to let natural states arise in us, but giving them
our assent is something else entirely. By emphasizing this difference, Descartes
agrees in a central point with the voluntaristic authors we examined in the
second chapter. They too, primarily Duns Scotus and Ockham, stated that we
can do nothing to oppose the sensual emotions. Only if the will becomes ac-
tive and grants or refuses its assent do volitive emotions arise, which are always
higher-order emotions and based on judgments. Only then can there be any
question of responsibility for and a possible control over the emotions.
But the question immediately arises of how such a control is supposed to
take place. How can the existing emotions be changed or new ones brought
about through the good use of the will? Suppose the hiker facing the wolf were
to say to herself, “I will not accept the fear spontaneously appearing in me, but
instead ask myself what the best goal for me is, and give my assent only to the
emotion which is conducive to that goal.” This alone does not dissipate the fear,
and no new emotion arises. Only the condition for a change to occur has been
20
brought about. Which concrete steps must be taken next in order for the fear to
disappear and another emotion to take its place? The simplest step, of course,
would be simply to connect a naturally caused brain pattern with a different
perception, and so produce a new emotion. For the hiker, this would mean that
she must simply connect the brain pattern that the wolf causes in her with a state
that represents the wolf as a friendly, companionable animal. By doing so, she
would directly enter a state of joy.
This explanation is not open to Descartes, however, because he insists that
there are correlations of brain patterns and mental states that we cannot change
in a given moment. The will cannot magically intervene and suddenly assign a
brain state to a different mental state. However, as suggested in Section 4.2, the
will can start processes of habituation by which a different correlation is gradu-
ally produced. In fact, Descartes claims that “even those who have the weakest
souls could acquire absolute mastery over all their passions if we employed suf-
ficient ingenuity in training and guiding them” (PA I.50; AT XI, 370; C I, 348).
What does such training look like? Descartes compares it with training an an-
imal. Although animals have no mental states, they do have correlations of neu-
ronal and motoric states. Descartes’ examples are as follows: When a dog sees
a partridge, the resulting brain state correlates with a movement of running to-
ward the bird. And when it hears a rifle shot, the resulting brain state correlates
with a movement of flight. But a dog can be trained to stand still at the sight of
a partridge and not to run away at the sound of a rifle. Of course, this cannot
be achieved all at once. But by a process of habituation, the dog can be induced
to produce different correlations. Or, to be more precise, the dog itself does not
produce new correlations: rather, they are brought about in the dog when suit-
able stimuli “rewire” the neuronal and motoric states.
New correlations can also be produced in a human being in a similar way.
The critical difference from the dog is, of course, first, that the correlations are
between neuronal and mental states, and second, that a human being is not
trained by others (although this is not excluded) but trains herself. A person
can decide for herself to undergo a process of habituation to “wire” a brain state
to a different mental state. This decision itself distinguishes her as a person who
acts with self-determination. To illustrate this, let us look once more at the ex-
ample of the wolf and the hiker. When the hiker sees a wolf for the first time,
she cannot help becoming afraid. But she can decide to accustom herself to the
sight, for example, by looking at wolves regularly in zoos and nature preserves
and at picture books about wolves. Then she would become accustomed to the
sight of wolves as something familiar and harmless. Similar to the case of the
dog, Descartes would call this a new connection or “wiring” that comes about
gradually. The crucial point is that a momentary intervention in the assignment
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René Descartes 221
of the brain state to a mental state is not necessary, nor is a conscious cognitive
process in which the sensory impression is interpreted differently. All that is
necessary is that the hiker decide to undergo the process of habituation through
which, after a certain time, new correlations arise.
It is noteworthy here that Descartes admits subpersonal processes of change,
processes that take place without a person being conscious of them. The hiker
takes no more notice than the dog of how a new “wiring” is produced to make
her react to the wolf with joy and not with fear. She notices only the result of
the process of change. Nonetheless, it is a process that she has initiated her-
self, because she purposely decided to undergo the habituation. Or, to put it
briefly: the hiker is not conditioned by others, but has conditioned herself, and
thereby voluntarily brought about an emotional change.
There is another way to change emotions without a momentary intervention
in the correlations between neuronal and mental states. Descartes describes
it as follows: “Our passions, too, cannot be directly aroused or suppressed by
the action of our will, but only indirectly through the representation of things
which are usually joined with the passions we wish to have and opposed to the
passions we wish to reject.” (PA I.45; AT XI, 362–363; C I, 345). Suppose a person
is spontaneously gripped with abhorrence or even hate when she sees a person
who previously betrayed her. The reason for the spontaneous abhorrence is that
she represents this person as bad or perhaps harmful. To overcome that abhor-
rence, then, she must try to produce different representations. Thus she must
recall the positive aspects of this person and imagine how, in spite of the treach-
erous behavior, the person was helpful and even empathetic in some situations.
These changed representations will then result in a changed emotion, such as
sympathy, perhaps even joy. Unlike the process of habituation, this change is
not simply a “rewiring” of neuronal and mental states; the brain pattern that
was imprinted by the observation of the treacherous behavior is still present
and still elicits spontaneous abhorrence. The change is elicited by additional
representations being mobilized, which all have a neuronal basis, of course. The
more representations are present, the more nuanced the appraisal of the person
is and the more the abhorrence is overcome. This change is also different from
the process of habituation in that it is carried out consciously. We must actively
mobilize an abundance of representations and imagine differently the person
who at first glance is repulsive. But, like the process of habituation, this process
too is a voluntarily initiated one. A person who wants to overcome this abhor-
rence purposely withholds her assent to that emotion and decides to represent
the other person differently.
Finally, there is yet a third way to change an emotion voluntarily. Descartes
points out that, in addition to the emotions in the strict sense, which are caused
2
by objects acting upon us, there are also “internal emotions,” which are elicited
by a mental activity alone. Descartes explicitly calls them émotions to distin-
guish them from the externally caused passions. He gives two examples to il-
lustrate the genesis of these emotions (PA II.147; AT XI, 441; C I, 381; also AT
IV, 601; C III, 306). When a husband buries his dead wife, he is spontaneously
afflicted with sadness. This is an externally caused passion that he cannot de-
fend himself against. But at the same time, he can also think that her death is a
relief to him; this in turn causes him joy. This internally caused emotion “has
such power that the concomitant sadness and tears can do nothing to diminish
its force” (PA II.147; AT XI, 441; C I, 381; also AT IV, 601; C III, 306). Thus it
is a reflection alone on the positive consequences of the death that can kindle
a new emotion—an emotion that can coexist with and, because of its inten-
sity, perhaps even supplant the externally caused emotion. Descartes’ second
example too illustrates the causal power of mental activities. When we read in
a book about extraordinary adventures or see them performed on the stage, we
are moved by the impressions we receive of fear, joy, love, or hate, depending on
the situation. But at the same time, we can reflect that we put ourselves in these
states by reading or going to the theater. By doing so, we have “an intellectual joy
which may as readily originate in sadness as in any of the other passions” (PA
II.147; AT XI, 441; C I, 381; also AT IV, 601; C III, 306). In either case, we do not
change the externally caused emotion, strictly speaking, but overlay it with an
inner emotion, and so restrict it in its effects.
Thus there are processes of habituation, the mobilization of alternative
representations, and the generation of purely mental emotions that allow us to
change existing emotions or weaken their effects. Descartes’ key idea is that
these allow him to reconcile two theses that at first glance seemed incompatible.
He can retain the idea that emotions ordinarily arise through physical processes
and consequently call for a scientific analysis. Even the internal emotions do not
replace these externally caused emotions but arise at most in addition to them.
At the same time, Descartes can also maintain that emotions can be controlled
by mental processes—primarily through the activation of acts of volition and
representations—and hence also call for an analysis with reference to cogni-
tive theory. The critical question is not merely of which emotions arise through
physical processes, but of how we, as self-determined persons, deal with them,
how we change their representational content, and how we supplement them
with additional, reflexively produced emotions.
However, Descartes’ thesis that we can control our emotions builds on two
strong premises that he assumes as if they were self-evident, although they are
not. The first assumption, which we have touched on several times, concerns the
rejection of an absolutely necessary order in the world. According to Descartes,
23
René Descartes 223
all of the seemingly necessary causal relations, including that between mind and
body, can be changed by an act of volition. This is the case primarily for God, who
can intervene in the world at any time, but secondarily also for human beings,
who can change the correlations between physical and mental states. Only be-
cause there is a changeability in principle is it possible for human beings to ini-
tiate processes of habituation by the use of the will so that different correlations
arise. In his description of self-esteem, which is the prerequisite for a good use
of the will, Descartes notes that this use “renders us in a certain way like God by
making us masters of ourselves” (PA III.152; AT XI, 445; C I, 384). By this remark
he emphasizes that we human beings occupy an exceptional position in nature.
Unlike inanimate things, and also unlike plants and animals, we are not simply
at the mercy of processes regulated by laws of nature, but can change existing
processes or initiate new processes ourselves. We can determine a new “wiring”
of physical and mental states, and also produce emotions through purely mental
reflection. But what reason do we have to assume this exceptional position? On
what grounds can we claim that human beings are autonomous beings who are
able to intervene in nature? Spinoza raised precisely these questions, showing
that Descartes’ analysis of the controllability of emotions is persuasive only as
long as we are willing to conceive of human beings as godlike beings standing
practically above nature. Hence we will examine in the next chapter what
consequences ensue if we do not follow Descartes on this point and conceive
instead of human beings as living beings who are subject, like all other things,
to an immutable natural order.
Descartes tacitly assumes another premise as well. When he claims that an-
yone can become master of his emotions through the good use of the will—
indeed, anyone can “acquire an absolute power” over them (PA I.50; AT XI, 368;
C I, 348), he is proceeding from an individualized and rationalistic conception.
Everyone, regardless of social practices, is able, solely through his willpower
and his representational faculty, to change existing emotions and produce new
ones. Hence the therapy that Descartes proposes to master the emotions is al-
ways an individualistically conceived therapy that—in contrast to Montaigne—
is not geared toward established mores, conventions, and social interaction, but
focused on the individual’s use of the will. This individual is, of course, not a
purely mental substance, but a mind–body unity. Nonetheless, it is always an
individual unity that tries to guide the emotions solely by mobilizing its rational
abilities. But is that possible? Can emotions be isolated from the social con-
text? And is it possible to control the emotions without social interaction? These
questions too will be examined in the next chapter.
24
25
Baruch de Spinoza
Emotions as Psychophysical Units
5.1 A Naturalistic Approach

The authors discussed up to now all agree that, although the emotions originate
through natural processes of causality, we are not at their mercy. We can mod-
erate, control, and to some extent overcome them by suitable rational processes.
According to the Aristotelians, we are able to do so because, unlike animals, we
have higher cognitive faculties that allow us to act on the emotions kindled in
the lower faculties, or even to produce emotions directly in the will. According
to Descartes, control is possible because we can redefine the connections be-
tween physical and mental states and are also able to change the representa-
tional content of our emotions. Even Montaigne, who takes a skeptical attitude
toward a theory of hierarchically ordered faculties, admits that the rational fac-
ulty is part of our natural endowment, just as the faculties of perception and
imagination are, and that we can moderate our emotions through a balanced
use of all the faculties. The critical question that is debated by all these authors is
not whether the naturally caused emotions can be changed and hence mastered,
but how this is possible. How can we purposely influence the causal processes
that spontaneously produce joy, fear, anger, and many other emotions in us and,
if possible, bring them under control?
In his principal work, the Ethics Demonstrated in Geometrical Order (post-
humously published in 1677), Spinoza rejects this question as nonsensical.1 The
assumption that a person could somehow intervene in the world and change
causal processes by means of his rational faculty implies a conception of “man
in nature as a dominion within a dominion” (3praef, G 137). We would then
be claiming that a human being has special powers that miraculously enable
him to transform the causal order. Spinoza quite openly criticizes Descartes,
who made this assumption and even claimed anyone could understand from
his own actions how God acts. For if a person observes in himself how he can
elicit a physical state by means of a mental state, and can even redefine the cor-
respondence between mental and physical states, he can discern, to a certain
extent, how God determines causal relations in the world.2 In such a situation,
225
26
he experiences himself as a godlike, autonomously acting being. This is the as-

sumption that Spinoza rejects. We do not hold any special position that would
allow us to momentarily change naturally caused states, much less to manipu-
late the laws of nature responsible for the mutual correspondence and the reg-
ular succession of states. Like all other living beings, we are a part of nature and
subject to the laws that govern all of nature. It would be a fundamental mistake
to assume human beings have a special nature, because “nature is always the
same, and its virtue and power of acting are everywhere one and the same, i.e.,
the laws and rules of nature, according to which all things happen, and change
from one form to another, are always and everywhere the same” (3praef, G 138).
That means, of course, that human emotions also originate within that single
nature and occur in accordance with certain laws. It is inevitable that external
objects that act upon us produce perceptions and mental images, which in turn
elicit emotions. No rational faculty can break this chain of causation or change
it by an act of will.
Spinoza’s approach is strictly naturalistic: human emotions are natural phe-
nomena that, like all other such phenomena, can be explained with reference to
universal laws of nature.3 If we know these laws and the prior causal history of
a human being, we can specify which emotions occur—indeed, must occur—in
him. There are no gaps in causality in which a rational faculty could intervene.
It is all the more surprising, then, that Spinoza too nonetheless insists that we
can change our emotions. He devotes the whole fifth part of the Ethics to the
“power of the intellect,” with the aim of showing “how great its dominion over
the affects is, and what kind of dominion it has for restraining and moderating
them” (5praef, G 277). This announcement appears confusing. How can the in-
tellect exercise a dominion if it cannot intervene in nature as a godlike actor and
change something in it? Spinoza goes so far as to claim that the freedom specific
to human beings is apparent in the regulation of their emotions. But how is this
thesis compatible with the conception that the occurrence of all states in the
world—including the human emotions—is precisely determined through uni-
versal laws of nature and their preceding causal history? Doesn’t the assumption
of freedom contradict causal determinism?
Closely connected with this problem is another one. Spinoza repeatedly states
that we can find the suitable “remedy for the affects” through the purposeful use
of our reason (5praef, G 280). The more we endeavor to form clear and distinct
ideas, the less we are beset by the emotions and the more they cease in fact to
be passions in the strict sense, that is, states that are forced upon us and that we
suffer (5p3). All the discussion in the fourth and fifth parts of the Ethics is aimed
at providing instructions for a rationalistic therapy: we should learn to use our
reason correctly in order to arrive at clear and distinct ideas and so conquer
27
Baruch de Spinoza 227
the passive emotions brought about in us by the impact of external objects. But
how is such a conquest supposed to succeed if we, as a part of nature, are always
subject to external influences and can never break the causal chain? I can try as
hard as I want to form a clear and distinct idea of the predator that is attacking
me, and I can even try with all my strength to understand the prior causal his-
tory that has led to my facing this animal now. This will not prevent its fierce
appearance from eliciting vivid perceptions in me that in turn elicit fear. How is
a rationalistic therapy supposed to work in this case? And how am I supposed
to be able to initiate such a therapy if I am not an autonomous being, standing
virtually above nature, and able to decide, all natural processes notwithstanding,
whether I want to form clear and distinct ideas or not? Producing ideas is a nat-
ural process that, like any other process, is causally determined.
But the problems go deeper still. The naturalistic explanatory strategy is
based on the thesis that all natural phenomena are explicable by reference to the
same laws because there is only one uniform nature, which Spinoza equates with
an all-encompassing substance. The individual persons to whom we normally
attribute emotions are, strictly speaking, nothing but modes—that is, states
or ways of being—of this one substance. Because modes always belong to the
one substance and are only conceivable through it (1def5), they are not autono-
mous entities. How then can Spinoza claim that a person can use his reason and
remedy his emotions? Being a mere state, a mode cannot become active and un-
dertake something. If anything is active here at all, and somehow taking action,
it is only the comprehensive substance to which a mode belongs. And if we say
that an emotion is changed through an activity, that means, strictly speaking,
that nothing but the mode of a mode is changed. This alone suggests a bizarre
metaphysical picture.4 What does it mean to say that an emotion belongs, not
to an independent individual thing, but to a mode of a substance? Furthermore,
the picture has a confusing consequence, which was pointed out by Pierre Bayle
in the late 17th century. If there is only one substance, and all people are merely
its modes, we cannot call upon anyone to change his emotions, nor can we hold
anyone responsible for his emotions. It is only the all-embracing substance that
acts and can change something. Because Spinoza explicitly equates this sub-
stance with God (4p4d), we must, according to Bayle, say that it is God alone
who loves and hates, and likewise it is God alone who can change love and hate.5
What sense is there in the references to the “power of the mind” that an indi-
vidual person allegedly has? Is there any place at all, in the metaphysical frame
Spinoza chooses, for individual human beings and an individual responsibility
for emotions?
Finally, there is yet a fourth fundamental problem. To the Aristotelian authors
and to Descartes, changing emotions did not mean simply changing purely
28
mental states. Because they conceived of emotions as physically grounded

states or processes, it was always physical states too that must be changed. For
Descartes, the importance of the physical state was central. When he insisted
that we must use our will to master the emotions, he did not mean we should
merely bring mental representations under control. In his view, we should also
influence the body and produce new states in it too. Descartes even maintained
that our will can produce new brain patterns by directing our attention.6 When
I face a wild animal, for example, I can force myself to pay attention to the
bars separating it from me. According to Descartes, this causes me to impress
different patterns upon my brain, which in turn produce different mental
representations. This may not always succeed, and in any case not right away,
but in principle it is possible to control physical processes directly through an
effort of the will.
Spinoza discards this view, remarking sarcastically that he “would hardly
have believed it had been propounded by so great a Man, had it not been so
subtle” (5praef, G 279). He considered it out of the question that a mental ac-
tivity can exert a direct influence on physical processes. For Spinoza, mental
things and physical things fall under two different attributes that are causally
self-contained and can be conceived only through themselves (1p10, 3p2). That
is, more concretely: when I concentrate on the bars, I cannot produce any new
brain patterns, but at most a new mental representation or a new connection of
the existing representations. The physical brain patterns can be directly changed
only by other physical things (such as light rays impinging on the eyes). But
then how can a “power of the intellect” or the will change the physical portion
of emotions? How is a control of the physical processes and states possible at all
if the domains of the mental and the physical are causally self-contained?
As readers of Spinoza’s Ethics, we must address all of these questions, which
lead directly to fundamental metaphysical questions. It is not enough to analyze
only those parts of the work in which the emotions and their regulation through
the “power of the intellect” are explicitly discussed. Hence we will examine, first,
how Spinoza explains the subjects of emotions, the connection of physical and
mental states, and the causation of those states within a comprehensive causal
order. Only then can we identify exactly what kind of states emotions are and
how they can be classified. This done, we can then analyze in a third step what
is meant by the “power of the intellect,” how far that power reaches, what can
be changed by it, and what cannot. Only when we examine the metaphysical
frame can we understand how Spinoza can refer to a natural causation of the
emotions and at the same time maintain that a transformation of the emotions
is nonetheless possible.7
29
5.2 The Metaphysical Frame: Monism

and Causal Order
At the heart of Spinoza’s metaphysics is the thesis that there is only one sub-
stance in the world; indeed, that the world, strictly speaking, is nothing but
one all-embracing substance. It is identical with God and has infinitely many
attributes, two of which are discernible to us: thought and extension. All objects
that we designate in day-to-day life as individual things are nothing but modes
of the one comprehensive substance, and each such thing must be conceived as
falling under its attributes.
When we formulate the fundamental thesis in this abbreviated form, much
remains unclear, but we see immediately that Spinoza—to use Peter Strawson’s
expression—is pursuing the project of a revisionary metaphysics.8 His intention
is not to confirm or qualify our everyday references to individual things existing
independently from one another and exhibiting numerous properties. Nor does
he want to adopt the traditional theological terminology used by all the other
authors discussed up to now, for he does not refer to a God who, as creator of
the world, is distinct from it and precedes it. For Spinoza, God and the world are
inseparable. For both the day-to-day parlance and the traditional theological
parlance, Spinoza substitutes a new manner of speaking, one based on a revised
metaphysical conception. Only if we accept such a revision are we able, in his
view, to give a correct description and analysis of seemingly familiar things, in-
cluding the emotions. For we must discard the opinion that emotions belong to
individual things that exist independently and act autonomously if we are to un-
derstand appropriately what constitutes emotions, how they are brought about,
and to whom they must be ascribed.
Courageous and refreshing though Spinoza’s revisionary approach may be,
it appears incomprehensible at first glance. What does it mean to say there is
only one substance? And how does Spinoza arrive at the thesis that objects—
including individual persons—are nothing but modes of this substance? To an-
swer these questions, we must examine two traditional conceptions of substance
which Spinoza builds on, connecting them to one another in a surprising way.
The first of these is the Aristotelian concept that defines “substance” in terms
of predication.9 Thus a substance (or, more precisely, a first substance) is that of
which something can be said, but that is not itself said of something else. This
explanation is readily demonstrable. The substance Socrates, for example, is that
of which something is said (e.g., “Socrates is a person” or “Socrates is pale”), but
we cannot conversely say Socrates of something else (e.g., “A person is Socrates”
would sound strange). If we then want to specify the relation of the substance to
individual properties that are said of it, we can do so in terms of inherence, that
230
is, with reference to the relation of being in something. Such properties are in
a substance (as, for example, the individual paleness in Socrates), but the sub-
stance is not conversely in a property (it would be nonsense to say that Socrates
is in the paleness). In short, a substance is that of which individual properties
are said, and in which individual properties inhere.
The second conception of substance, found in Descartes, is based on cau-
sality. The critical question for Descartes is whether something depends for its
existence on something else. Consequently, he states, “By substance we can un-
derstand nothing other than a thing which exists in such a way as to depend
on no other thing for its existence.”10 This explanation too is readily demon-
strable. Socrates, for example, must have parents in order to exist. The parents
in turn need parents as their causes, etc. We can follow the chain of causality
until we come to the first cause, God, who needs no other cause. He alone is
causally perfectly independent. Thus Descartes states, “And there is only one
substance which can be understood to depend on no other thing whatsoever,
namely God.”11 This means that, strictly speaking, only God can be called a sub-
stance. Descartes was not so strict, however; he referred to mental and physical
things as substances in addition to God. But he was conscious that this was an
imprecise use of the expression “substance.”
This imprecision is what Spinoza wants to avoid. For him it is certain that
only that which is causally perfectly independent can be a substance. At the
same time, however, he builds on the Aristotelian conception, stating that only
that which is not said of anything else can be a substance, and hence cannot
be understood or conceived with reference to something else. This leads him
to the following definition: “By substance I understand what is in itself and is
conceived through itself . . . ” (1def3). This definition combines the causation
theory and the predication theory most concisely: a substance is that which is
causally independent (and hence is in itself) and at the same time has concep-
tual priority (and hence is conceived through itself, not through another thing of
which it is said). But what is it that is causally dependent on a substance, is said
of a substance, and is hence conceived through a substance? Spinoza answers
this question too by combining the Aristotelian and the Cartesian conceptions.
Like Descartes, he claims that it is a mode, that is, a “way of being” or a state.12
And, building on Aristotle, he explains the relation between the mode and the
substance in terms of inherence: the mode is in the substance and can be under-
stood only with reference to the substance. This leads Spinoza to the following
definition: “By mode I understand the affections of a substance, or that which is
in another through which it is also conceived” (1def5).
What is surprising about Spinoza’s procedure is that he develops out of two
conceptions, each of which seems plausible in itself, a new conception that at
231
first glance appears implausible or at least counterintuitive. Trees, animals, in-

dividual persons, and many other objects that we normally describe as inde-
pendent things now turn out to be entities that are not independent (because
they depend on causes) and, strictly speaking, not things (because as dependent
entities they are mere modes). Then what kind of entities are they? For Spinoza,
the answer is clear: they are mere states of a substance that are produced by it
(the definition by causation theory), are conceptually dependent on it (the defi-
nition by predication theory), and are in it (the definition by inherence theory).13
Now perhaps it may be clear how Spinoza arrives at the revisionary con-
ception that individual things are only modes. And it may also be discernible
how he defines emotions metaphysically: they are states of the modes, and thus
modes of modes.14 If we say, for example, that Peter is happy and Mary is sad,
that means nothing else than that Peter, as a mode of substance, and Mary, as
another mode, have certain states—thus other modes (also called “affections”).
The reference to modes may still seem unclear, however. How are we to imagine
individual persons as nothing more than modes? And how are we to imagine
the peculiar modes of modes? An illustration may be helpful here. Imagine the
world as a gigantic planet with fiery lava seething inside it. Sometimes the lava
escapes, erupting from the surface of the planet and forming a volcano. Then we
may say that the planet is volcanically active in a certain place. We can also de-
scribe the properties of that place by saying, for example, that the volcanic site is
very hot and yellow. The crucial point here is that we use an adverbial expression
(“volcanically”), referring not to an isolated object but to a state of the planet;
we then characterize this state by qualitative expressions (“hot,” “yellow”). In a
similar way, we can imagine Spinoza’s substance as a kind of gigantic planet that
exhibits different states at various sites: it is Peter-like in one place and Mary-
like in another. We can then describe these sites more precisely in regard to
certain points in time by saying, for example, that the substance is happy at the
Peter-like site and sad at the Mary-like site. Each of these expressions describes
the mode of a mode.
Note that, although we distinguish different kinds of states, in such a de-
scription we nonetheless describe only states of the substance. Thus we do not
indiscriminately ascribe everything to the substance directly. This allows us to
refute Bayle’s objection, previously mentioned, that Spinoza’s theory inevitably
results in our having to ascribe everything directly to God as the comprehensive
substance and hence to admit that it is always only God who loves and hates.
For Bayle, this is patent nonsense, and not just because God would then be
the bearer of all emotions, but also because God might then have to have two
conflicting emotions at the same time.15 But Bayle overlooks the fact that it is
not God directly who has each emotion, but—figuratively speaking—a certain
23
site of God. Thus we should say it is the x-like site that loves and the y-like site
that hates. Because these are two distinct sites, God can have diverse or even
conflicting emotions at the same time. (For comparison: there is no problem
in claiming that, right now, the planet is hot at the volcanic site and cold at the
desert-like site.) Spinoza expresses the distinction between the whole substance
and the respective states of the substance by a terminological distinction be-
tween two natures, natura naturans and natura naturata (1p29s). The first of
these natures is that which causes, that is, the substance as a whole that is active
by means of an inner power, producing states. The second nature is that which
is caused, that is, the state that is produced. The crucial point is that they are not
two natures that are separate or that act upon one another. There is only one na-
ture or one substance, but it can be looked at in two respects.
This last statement calls for justification, however. Even if we follow Spinoza
in saying that objects are only modes of a substance and emotions are only
states of those modes, it is still not plausible that there is only one substance.
Why should there not be several substances, existing at the same time or at dif-
ferent times, each of which has its own modes? To return to our analogy: why
should we not assume that there are many planets, each with its own volcanoes,
deserts, etc.?
We have already suggested an answer to this question and thus an argument
for the famous monism thesis. According to the definition by causality, only
that which is perfectly independent, and thus has no cause, is a substance. But if
there were several substances, we might ask how they originated. Must there not
be something that is responsible for this plurality? Must there not be one ulti-
mate substance that caused all of these substances? If there is in fact such a sub-
stance, then only it is perfectly independent; it then is the sole substance in the
strict sense. But if there is no such ultimate substance, it remains unanswered
why the numerous substances exist at all; hence there is no reason for their ex-
istence. But Spinoza holds that everything must have a reason. He holds a posi-
tion of “explanatory rationalism,” as Jonathan Bennett has aptly called it.16 There
must always be an explanation for complex facts—an explanation that reduces
the complex facts to simple ones. The existence of numerous substances would
be a complex fact, and would have to be traced to something simple, namely the
existence of an “original substance.”
This answer is still not satisfactory, however. One might object that Spinoza
himself points to the possibility of self-caused substances. In the very first def-
inition, he states, “By cause of itself I understand that whose essence involves
existence, or that whose nature cannot be conceived except as existing” (1def1).
Couldn’t we postulate that there are numerous substances, all of which are
causes of themselves and that have no causes in common? To return to the
23
metaphor of the planet, it could be that numerous planets originated at the same
time without having any superplanet as their common cause. This would cer-
tainly be compatible with explanatory rationalism because that position allows
the existence of numerous self-explanatory planets or substances. All of these
can be conceived as existing, although they cannot be traced to an ultimate,
common cause. Every explanation comes to an end at some point, and that
point is reached when we come to simple, self-caused substances.
Now we must look at another basic concept that plays a central role in the
monism thesis. There is not only the substance that is identical with God, but also
attributes of the substance. Spinoza’s official definition of God is as follows: “By
God I understand a Being absolutely infinite, i.e., a substance consisting of an
infinity of attributes, of which each one expresses an eternal and infinite es-
sence” (1def6). It is striking that attributes, in this definition, are not referred
to as things or properties in addition to the substance, nor as entities caused by
the substance.17 Rather, attributes express the essence of the substance, and be-
cause there are infinitely many attributes, they express the essence in infinitely
many ways. In the definition of attributes, Spinoza goes even further, writing
that he understands attributes as “what the intellect perceives of a substance, as
constituting its essence” (1def4). Thus an attribute not only expresses the essence
of the substance—it is the essence of the substance.18 But what does that mean
exactly? The best way to explain it is by using the modern concept of structure.
An attribute is the structure of the substance by which it is distinguished and
that it manifests in each of its states. To illustrate this, let us look again at the
planet. If we ask what distinguishes it as a planet, we can answer thus: a geolog-
ical structure that is manifested at each individual site. Therefore the volcano,
the desert, and all other regions of the planet have such a structure, although
it is manifested in different ways at each individual site. The planet also has
other structures too, such as a chemical and a physical structure; perhaps even
a biological and a meteorological structure. In any case, we can identify several
structures that are in fact in it and not arbitrarily ascribed to it. Every single struc-
ture determines the planet, and always the whole planet. The structures cannot
be attributed to isolated parts or regions, locally isolated from one another.
Analogously, we can also say that the substance has numerous structures, even
infinitely many, as Spinoza states, and that each structure is found throughout
the substance. Hence we can give infinitely many descriptions of the substance.
Spinoza advances this proposition in order to show that there can only be one
substance (1p14). For if the substance, which is identical with God, has infinitely
many structures, there can be no other substance that has other or additional
structures. God is a kind of supersubstance that combines all structures. If we
were to assume one or more other substances, they would be subordinate to this
234
substance, as they would have only a subset of all structures. And they could
always be conceived of with reference to the supersubstance, which also has the
given subset (in addition to other subsets). However, if they are conceived not
through themselves, but with reference to something else, they do not fulfill the
fundamental requirement for a substance in the terms of predication theory,
that is, that they not be said of others and not be conceived through others.
In a word, substances that have only a subset of structures are not substances.
Therefore there can be only one substance, namely the supersubstance, which is
the only one that is conceived through itself and thus is self-explanatory.
Of course, that does not eliminate all the problems. We can still ask what the
reference to infinitely many attributes means. Descartes had mentioned only
two attributes, thought and extension, and Spinoza too discusses only these two.
He mentions them as being the only ones that we can discern and describe (2p1–
2). Hence the question arises of what is meant by all the other attributes.19 What
concerns us here, however, is not so much the details of the basic metaphysical
thesis as its consequences for the theory of the emotions. If the all-embracing
substance has describable attributes or structures, then they are manifested at
every place, that is, in every mode. Everything that is attributed to a mode must
then be explained in regard to these structures. Thus, when we speak of Peter’s
joy and Mary’s sadness, we cannot do so in an absolute sense, but only with
reference to a structure. That is, we must say, “Peter is happy insofar as he has a
thinking structure,” or “Peter is happy insofar as he has an extended structure.”
But to which structure must we refer if we want to describe an emotion ad-
equately: the thinking or the extended structure? Spinoza’s answer is unambig-
uous: we must refer to both structures. This follows from his definition of the
emotions. He states that they are “affections of the Body,” that is, states with
an extended structure, but he adds that they are “at the same time, the ideas of
these affections” (3def3). By ideas he always understands thought episodes with
a representational content, that is, something with a thinking structure. This
yields the following metaphysical scenario: If we want to describe joy or sad-
ness, we must first look at a living being, which is a mode of the comprehensive
substance. Because that substance has two structures that are discernible to us, it
follows that a mode, and every state of that mode, also has those two structures.
Thus every emotion has an extended and a thinking structure at the same time
and can therefore be described as something physical and as something mental.
But what does it mean for a mode (and every state of a mode) to have two
structures? Two answers come to mind. The first is as follows: Strictly speaking,
the mode is not a single mode, but a composite mode consisting of two parts.
One part belongs to the physical domain and has an extended structure; the
other belongs to the mental domain and has a thinking structure. Some states
235
of the composite mode—including the emotions—are so complex that they are

rooted in both parts, and hence have two structures. If we understand Spinoza
in this way, he closely follows Descartes in defining the emotions as composite
states, as we saw in Chapter 4, Section 4.2. In this case, Spinoza diverges from
Descartes only in denying a plurality of substances, but follows him in accepting
a metaphysical thesis of parallelism: there are two domains that exist in parallel,
each with its own particular structures. Emotions are composed of states of both
domains.
But we can also formulate a second answer: there is no connection between
two domains and there are no composites; there is a single mode that has, as a
whole, both an extended structure and a thinking structure. Depending on the
structure under consideration, the mode must be described as physical or as
mental. If we understand Spinoza in this way, he departs strongly from Descartes
and maintains a metaphysical thesis of identity: emotions are not composed
of states of two domains, but are unified states that have two structures at the
same time. The state described as physical is identical with the state described
as mental, just as the volcanic crater described in physical terms is identical with
that described in chemical terms.
Both interpretations have been defended in the literature.20 On a closer exam-
ination, the second one proves to be more appropriate, and not only because it
avoids the strange consequence that, although there is only one substance, there
are two separate domains within that substance. The second interpretation is also
more appropriate from an exegetic point of view, because Spinoza explicitly says
that “a mode of extension and the idea of that mode are one and the same thing,
but expressed in two ways” (2p7s; see also 3p2s). Thus there are not two modes
that belong to different domains and are somehow connected with one an-
other, but a single mode that is variously “expressed” and hence can be variously
described. More concretely, this means that Peter, as a mode of the substance,
can be described both as something extended and as something that thinks, and
therefore joy, as one of his states, can likewise be characterized in two ways.
At this point, we might ask doubtfully what it means for a mode to be
“expressed in two ways.” The most plausible explanation is this: two structures
are manifested in a mode, and they are manifested in such a way that both are
present throughout the mode. This can be easily illustrated in the comparative
example of the volcano. There is not one part that has a physical structure and
another part beside it that has a chemical structure. Rather, a physical structure
and a chemical structure are manifested in the whole volcano, and we can de-
scribe each of its craters, mounds, slopes, etc., with reference to either structure.
Of course, for Spinoza it is critical to distinguish carefully between the two
descriptions. He stresses that each attribute must “be conceived through itself ”
236
(1p10), and causal connections can be found only within an attribute. This
means that we must always specify the structure with reference to which we
describe something, and that we can set something in relation to other things
only within that structure. Thus we can say, for example, “Peter, insofar as he
is something which thinks, influences Mary with his beliefs, insofar as she is
also something which thinks,” but it would be inadmissible to say, “Peter, in-
sofar as he is something physical, influences Mary by shaking his head, insofar
as she is something which thinks.” That would be an arbitrary jump from one
structure to the other. Consequently, in explaining emotions we must always
stay within one structure, and we can specify how emotions are connected with
other mental states (beliefs, acts of will, etc.) only within the thinking structure
or how they are connected with other physical states (head movements, nerve
stimulations, muscle contractions, etc.) within the extended structure. Suppose
Mary is seized by a deep sadness and practically in the throes of depression. If
we want to examine how this happened, we can go about it in two ways. First,
we can analyze how her sadness, as a mental state, was brought about by other
mental states. What fears, what unfulfilled hopes, what disappointments have
put Mary in these states? Second, we can study how her sadness, as a physical
state, was caused by other physical states. What diminished hormone secretion,
what reduced synaptic activity, has put her in this physical state? It is important
that we do not jump arbitrarily from one explanatory model to the other. In
Spinoza’s terminology, this means that only intra-attribute explanations are ap-
propriate explanations. For this reason it is critical that explanations always take
place in an intensional context. No matter whether we are examining an emo-
tion under its physical or its mental aspect, a clause such as “insofar as” or “in
regard to” must always be specified, even though it is one and the same emotion
that we examine in either case.21
If we understand Spinoza in this way, he advances a thesis of parallelism, but
not in the sense of postulating two distinct domains. In this reading, his paral-
lelism thesis is subordinate to the identity thesis and states only that there are
two structures for a single domain, that is, the whole substance or world, and
hence two ways of describing it. At this point, however, we can ask a critical
question: why can’t one of these structures ultimately be reduced to the other so
that eventually (at least in the ideal case) there will be only one description of
the emotions? Why doesn’t Spinoza believe, as the reductive or the eliminative
physicalists of today do,22 that when we have perfected neuroscientific theory, if
not before, we will describe all emotions as neuronal states and the mental vo-
cabulary of everyday usage will be obsolete?
The reason is that the two structures are responsible for very different
properties that cannot be reduced to each other. If, on the one hand, an emotion
237
is examined in regard to the thinking structure, it is an idea, that is, “a con-

cept of the mind” (2def3) and refers to something. Thus it has an intentional
property. If, on the other hand, an emotion is examined in regard to the ex-
tended structure, it is a physical state that is composed of corpuscles and, like
everything corporeal, is either in motion or at rest (2p13ax1). Then it has geo-
metric and kinematic properties. But intentional properties are in principle not
reducible to geometric and kinematic properties. No matter how precisely we
specify the position and motion of individual corpuscles, it will not enable us
to give an explanation that relates one state to another. In examining Peter’s joy,
for example, suppose that we can give a complete mechanistic explanation for
the brain patterns by analyzing the positions, arrangements, and movements of
corpuscles in full detail. No matter how precise this explanation may be, it will
always concern only geometric and kinematic properties, not intentional ones.
It will never explain why and how the joy is related to the gift Peter received
for his birthday. To explain that specific relation, we must change to the other
explanatory level. We must examine Peter’s beliefs, wishes, hopes, etc., and ex-
plain how, in the light of all these intentional states, the state of joy came about.
In doing so, of course, we do not explain why there is intentionality in the first
place. It is something elementary that is made possible by the thinking structure
and is always present together with the extended structure. But at least we make
it comprehensible why precisely this intentional state occurs.
In view of this nonreductionistic approach, it is not surprising that Spinoza
writes, in the definition the emotions previously cited, that he understands
emotions as “affections of the body” and “at the same time, the ideas of these
affections” (3def3). Evidently, he does not want to reduce mental states to phys-
ical ones, showing that ideas are nothing else but physical affections. Such a
procedure would be doomed to failure, in his view, because it neglects the fact
that intentional properties are not reducible.23 And the geometric and kinematic
properties are likewise irreducible. Hence emotions must always be examined
and explained with reference to both kinds of properties.
But where exactly must we begin to give such an explanation? At what point
must we begin if we want to explain, for example, why Peter is in a state that,
under physical aspects, is describable as a certain brain state and under mental
aspects as joy about his birthday present? For Spinoza, the answer is clear: we
must refer to a causal order, and explain how this state has been caused by
earlier states. No state arises from nothing. Indeed, for Spinoza, no state arises
by chance. Everything is integrated in a necessary causal order (1p29). Thus,
if we want to explain why Peter is now happy, we must examine a number of
earlier states, such as his wish for a certain thing and his friends’ discovery and
fulfillment of his wish.
238
In the light of this causal order, it is not surprising that Spinoza refers, not
to isolated states, but to an “order and connection” of states, which he describes
under mental aspects as ideas and under physical aspects as material things
or states (2p7). If we want to give a complete explanation, we must explain
the causal order under both aspects. Thus we must demonstrate how Peter’s
state was caused under mental aspects by other mental states (wishes, beliefs,
intentions, etc.) and under physical aspects by other material states (brain states,
nerve stimulations, etc.). If we could specify each link in the causal chain, we
would not only be able to explain why Peter is now in this particular emotional
state, but we could also say in full detail what constitutes this state. Its exact con-
stitution has been determined by the causal chain.
It is striking, however, that Spinoza does not merely claim that there is a prior
causal history for every emotional state. That would be a relatively anodyne
thesis to which everyone might agree. Spinoza advances the much stronger thesis
that there is only one possible prior history, and that it completely determines
which state occurs at a given moment. Or, as he puts it, “Things could have been
produced by God in no other way, and in no other order than they have been
produced” (1p33). Because God for Spinoza is identical with nature, that means
nothing else but that all things—and all emotions—must have been brought
about in nature exactly as they in fact were brought about. There is no alterna-
tive to the causal history. Thus it had to happen that Peter had a certain birthday
wish, that his friends fulfilled that wish, and that he is now happy.
Evidently, Spinoza advocates not only determinism, but necessitarianism.24
He not only claims that a state is determined by the prior causal history, but
holds in addition that it is not possible that different prior histories, and thus
different courses of the world’s history, could have led to a certain state. This
strong thesis arouses wonder, however, if not open rejection, when we apply it
to emotions. Must all emotions really have originated through exactly one prior
causal history exactly as they have in fact originated? Are no different prior
histories possible? We can easily imagine that Peter is now happy because his
sister living in Australia has arrived unexpectedly and not because he received a
certain gift. We can even imagine that there is no necessary prior causal history.
Perhaps his sister obtained a cheap flight at the last minute and decided just by
chance to come for a surprise visit. Perhaps she turned up by chance and elicited
Peter’s joy quite unexpectedly.
In fact, it appears as if many states often occur by chance. Hence we speak
of contingent states (or contingently true statements about such states) in
contradistinction to necessary states. But Spinoza rejects precisely this wide-
spread conception, demonstrating once again that he is pursuing a revisionist
project. He does not want to confirm the common references to chance and
239
contingency; on the contrary, he wants to expose them as unfounded. When

we make statements such as “Peter’s sister arrived quite by chance,” or “Peter
could just as easily not have been happy,” we only reveal our ignorance. We do
not know every detail of the prior causal history, and so we imagine possible
alternatives. But that does not mean that there are in fact alternatives; it means
only that we imagine them. If we had complete knowledge of Peter, his sister,
her travel plans, the flights available at a certain moment, etc., we would under-
stand that no other consequence was possible. What we call chance is nothing
but “a defect of our knowledge” (1p33s1). We are unable to trace the prior causal
history in all its ramifications, and so we assume there are different possible
courses of the world’s history. If we could overcome this defect, we would find
that, in view of a comprehensive causal order, there is only one single course of
the world’s history.
But why then did many philosophers before Spinoza (and after him too, of
course) advance the thesis that there are in fact contingent states and events?
Why did Ockham and Descartes, for example, insist that joy and other emotions
occur not by necessity, but only because of a certain causal history that could
have been completely different? Spinoza himself provides an explanation: All
those who reject comprehensive necessity assume that God has ordained cer-
tain laws of nature that he could change at any time. They “compare God’s power
with the power of kings” (2p3s) and suppose that God could freely ordain dif-
ferent laws at different times. In that case, one causal history or another would
obtain, depending on the laws momentarily in force. But, according to Spinoza,
all those philosophers who assume metaphysical contingence are mistaken in
assuming an unrestrictedly omnipotent God who is able to choose this or that
course of the world’s history. They are making the unreasonable assumption
that God is a kind of personal authority standing outside the created world (as a
king stands outside the people he rules) and ordaining a certain causal order—
an order that he could change at will. But God does not stand outside the world.
God is the world, because he is nothing else but the one comprehensive sub-
stance. Therefore God cannot intervene in the world from outside it and ordain
different causal orders.
This argument shows clearly the consequences of the rejection of a personal
conception of God for the problem of causality. If there is no personal God,
there can be no one who ordains a causal order and may also be able to change
it. The causal order can only be something that is given in God and thus in the
whole world from the beginning. And this order determines once and for all
how the states and events in the world are connected with one another. This
is of course critical for the discussion of the emotions. For Spinoza, questions
such as “Wouldn’t it have been equally possible that Peter’s sister didn’t visit?”
240
and “Would it have been possible for Peter not to be happy?” are absurd. Within
the one causal order, it was necessary that the sister arrived, and it was likewise
necessary that this event made Peter happy. If we want to explain emotions, we
must always consider the causal history in which they are embedded and that
they must originate given a certain history. Those who assume, as Ockham did,
that the world could have taken a completely different course (because God
with his absolute power, which is bound only by the law of noncontradiction,
could suddenly intervene and change the causal history or momentarily replace
joy with another emotion) overlook this critical point.25 And those who argue,
as Descartes did, that we can change a brain state and thus change an emotion
by an act of will, also neglect the fact that a change in the causal order is not
possible. In Spinoza’s view, the assumption that someone could produce any
state with absolute freedom—that is, without being bound to a given order—is
nonsense. With a slightly polemical undertone, he states, “Those, therefore, who
believe that they either speak or are silent, or do anything from a free decision
of the mind, dream with open eyes” (3p2s).
Now one might get the impression from Spinoza’s necessitarianism that he
advocates a passivity model in which emotions are produced by an inevitable
causal order. In this case, a person would always suffer emotions passively. Even
pleasant emotions such as joy would be produced with inexorable necessity.
Thus Peter would be made happy by the inevitable fact that his sister has come
to visit—whether he likes it or not, whether he makes an effort or not. But this
would be a distorted account, because it would consider only the external cau-
sation. For Spinoza, however, the internal causation is at least as important.
At the very beginning of the third part of the Ethics, which deals exclusively
with emotions, he makes the programmatic statement, “Our mind does certain
things and undergoes other things” (3p1). But how can there be an internal ac-
tion or causation? Here we must look at another central element in Spinoza’s
metaphysics in addition to his necessitarianism: the thesis that every object is
characterized by an internal aspiration [conatus]. Spinoza introduces this thesis
by stating, “Each thing, as far as it can by its own power, strives to persevere in
its being” (3p6). Note that he says this of “each thing,” that is, not only of per-
sons, but also of trees or animals. Hence this “striving” is not to be understood
in a psychological sense as willing or intending. Spinoza also mentions an ap-
petite or drive [appetitus] that is situated on a subpersonal level (3app, G 190).
What could he mean by that?
We might suspect that Spinoza is merely building on a thesis that Descartes
had already advanced in his physics: the proposition that all bodies strive to
remain in their position if not hindered by other bodies. Descartes pointed out
that small balls, once set in motion, continue to move in a straight line if they are
241
not hindered. He explicitly called this a “striving” [conatus].26 Some interpreters

see the reference to “striving” merely as an allusion to the principle of inertia,
which Spinoza draws from physics, generalizing it to apply to all objects—
including persons: everything strives to remain in its present state.27 Such an
interpretation neglects two important details, however. First, Spinoza claims
that everything strives “as far as it can by its own power [ . . . ] to persevere in its
being” (3p6). This reference to an internal power goes beyond Descartes, who
saw the body’s “own power” as consisting only of the geometric properties.28 To
Descartes, little balls do not strive to continue moving in a straight line because
they are driven by an internal power, but because they receive power from out-
side, that is, from a dynamic entity. For Spinoza, on the other hand, each body
has an internal power and is thus dynamic in itself. And, second, it is striking
that, at least when it comes to body–mind unions, Spinoza not only says that
they strive to remain in their present state, but that they strive to increase that
state. He writes, for example, that the mind strives to imagine “those things
that increase or aid the body’s power of acting” (3p12). This presupposes that
there is more than a mere principle of inertia, because increasing a state requires
an internal power.
Thus it is clear that all objects (including persons, of course) not only pas-
sively suffer something because they are embedded in a causal order, but also
actively produce something because they have an internal power. But where
does this power come from? Because objects are, strictly speaking, merely
modes of the one all-embracing substance, the power can only come from that
substance. Spinoza indicates as much by saying that God is the “immanent, not
the transitive, cause of all things” (1p18). To phrase it loosely, that means that
God, or the substance, is the power plant for all objects.29 It is permanently ac-
tive and makes everything in it dynamic. Here again, the analogy of the planet
may offer a helpful illustration. To the question of why a volcano has an internal
power and is able to spew lava, the answer must be this: because it forms part
of the active planet whose interior is constantly seething. Similarly, the answer
to the question of why a person has the internal power to produce something
herself must be this: because she forms part of the active substance. This makes
her a “quasi-substance”30 that is able to act and is not merely subject to external
influences.
This has an immediate relevance for the problem of the emotions. In light
of necessitarianism, it seems as if all of a person’s emotions were inevitably
produced in her and she can only receive or “suffer” them. But if we consider the
internal power, we see that a person can also produce emotions herself and thus
field something against the passively imposed emotions. Of course, this does
not mean that the necessary causal order is somehow suspended or abrogated.
24
The external causal order is only supplemented by an inner one. How this is
possible becomes clear on a closer examination of the structure and classifica-
tion of the emotions.
5.3 Passive and Active Emotions

Spinoza explains the structure of the emotions by positing three basic emotions,
and then he explains how other emotions are based on them. The basic emotions
arise immediately from the internal power that every person possesses. The
most fundamental emotion is nothing other than the desire to preserve one’s
own power and with it one’s perfection. If that power is in fact preserved, and
even increased, joy arises; if it is diminished, sadness ensues (3p11s). This defi-
nition of the three basic emotions seems at first glance clear and easily under-
standable, but on a closer examination, it raises a number of problems.
The first of these is the question of what kind of desire is meant here. The
striving [conatus] to remain as one is and to increase one’s own power, introduced
in the previous section, is a nonpsychological aspiration ascribed to all things,
including simple plants. But suddenly an aspiration is characterized as psy-
chological. Spinoza explicitly calls it a cupiditas (3p11s) that underlies all other
emotions. How does this special form of aspiration arise? It is nothing other
than a form of the universal striving that naturally arises in highly developed
beings. Desire is “appetite together with the consciousness of it” (3app, G 190;
also at 3p9s). The moment a living being attains a certain degree of complexity,
it not only aspires to self-preservation and the increase of its power but is also
conscious of that aspiration. Just compare a green plant with an animal and a
human being. The plant aspires to go on existing and to grow. This is visible in
the fact that it reaches toward the light, for example. But it has no consciousness
of this aspiration. A cat lolling comfortably in the sun has a similar aspiration
and, in addition, a rudimentary consciousness of its aspiration. It perceives sen-
sually that the light and warmth are good for it, and it feels a need or a wish to
go on lying in the sun, even though it cannot articulate that wish in language.
A human being has a more highly developed consciousness. He too feels the
desire to soak up the sun, but can also say exactly what he wants, and even re-
flexively apprehend that he has that desire. From the plant to the human being,
there are thus increasingly complex forms of aspiration.31 All forms, whether
with or without consciousness, are expressions of an internal power and thus of
a dynamism inherent in each object.
This is a further example of the methodical naturalism that Spinoza ap-
peals to in all his explanations. The typically human desire does not arise from
nothing and is not sharply separated from all other forms of desire. Rather, it is
243
the manifestation of a desire that is found throughout nature, from plants to cats
to humans. Hence it is not an intrinsically rational phenomenon. Of course, in
us humans, it is more often expressed in rational form, as, for example, when we
articulate in language what we desire and when we go on to give reasons why.
But, for Spinoza, this rational form is not a necessary condition for desire. Even
a baby who has not developed language or an animal that has at most a sensual
consciousness desires something. Desire is present in nonrational living beings
too, in rudimentary form. It merely increases in complexity in fully developed
rational beings, in which it is accompanied by a consciousness articulated in
language. Don Garrett therefore calls the explanatory frame to which Spinoza
appeals an “incremental naturalism”: the more complex the construction of a
living being, the more complex its states and properties, including its desire.32
Incremental naturalism not only allows Spinoza to link emotions closely to
basic physiological processes, but also enables him to avoid the sharp oppo-
sition between human beings and animals that permeates Cartesian theory.
For Descartes, it is clear that animals cannot have true emotions because they
have only brain states, and thus lack an essential element of emotion, namely
mental ideas. Therefore, in his view, the statement that a cat desires something
or is joyful can only be misleading.33 Spinoza’s view is different. He ascribes true
emotions to animals because they too are driven by an inner aspiration and
even have a consciousness of this aspiration. Of course, he does not claim that
animals and human beings have exactly the same emotions. On the contrary, he
points out “that the affects of the animals which are called irrational (for after
we know the origin of the mind, we cannot in any way doubt that the lower an-
imals feel things) differ from men’s affects as much as their nature differs from
human nature” (3p57s). The reason for the difference, however, lies solely in the
different degrees of complexity. As complex organisms, human beings have a
more highly developed mind; in addition to their sensual consciousness they
also have a linguistic, even a reflexive, consciousness, whereas animals do not.
But this does not change the fact that animals have genuine desire, and thus
genuine emotions. A cat too can feel joy when it lolls in the sun and can feel
sadness when it is deprived of food.
But this closer relation between animals and people raises another problem.
Who or what has basic emotions here: a mere organism— that is, a cat
organism—or a mind? Spinoza would no doubt reject this question as being
incorrectly posed. We are not dealing with an opposition between organism
and mind. According to the metaphysical identity thesis explained in the pre-
vious section, physical and mental states are not really distinct from one an-
other. Hence the physical states (at least, the brain states, we would no doubt
add today) of a sufficiently complex organism are always mental states as well.
24
Thus, if a cat desires something, there is not just an organic desire, but always
a mental one too. And, for Spinoza, that always means there are ideas that rep-
resent something. Conversely too, of course, there is no purely mental desire
in a human being, but always a physical desire too. The two forms of desire go
together like the two sides of a coin.
In the light of the metaphysical identity thesis, we can also understand what
joy and sadness consist in. These two basic emotions also have two sides, so to
speak. If a being is able to develop in a given context, its power increases in both
physical and mental respects. Conversely, if it is prevented from developing, its
power is diminished in both respects. If the cat, for example, is able to lie in the
sun undisturbed, its organism is strengthened. It is then able to absorb sensual
impressions without restriction and to produce a number of brain states. By the
same token, its mind is also strengthened and able to form specific perceptions
of the things around it. Joy is nothing other than this twofold optimization and
thus an increase of power. This increase, in turn, presupposes a basic desire. If
the cat did not have the urge or the wish to go on living and optimally satisfy its
needs, it would not be able to enhance its well-being. This wish too must always
be considered in physical and mental respects.
This point must be emphasized to prevent any one-sided interpretations.
Spinoza’s approach is not a neurobiological one, even though he is occasionally
hailed as a pioneer of such an approach.34 After all, he does not claim that the basic
emotions are nothing but physical states that could be completely described in
the frame of a neurobiological theory. Nor does he advocate a purely cognitivistic
approach, although he is occasionally classed in the cognitivistic camp.35 He does
not accept the conception that emotions are nothing but mental states with a
representational content, much less the thesis that emotions can be equated with
judgments. His key concept is that of emotions as Janus-headed states that have
both a physical and a mental structure and hence call for a twofold analysis.
But how is it that living beings increase or diminish their power? Why do
they not always remain constant? The answer seems simple: because every
living being is subject to external influences. If the cat were not chased off the
sundeck, it would simply remain lying there, and would not change its state. The
same is true of us humans. If we did not stand in causal relations to other things
and constantly receive new sensory impressions that elicit new perceptions and
ideas in us, we would not undergo any changes either. Spinoza emphasizes this
point when he characterizes emotions as “affections” (3def3). The critical nu-
ance is their passive character. We “suffer” emotions because we are affected
by other objects. As we saw in the previous section, we cannot escape being
affected. Whether we like it or not, we are embedded in a causal order, and our
power is therefore constantly being increased or diminished.
245
No less noteworthy than the reference to external influences is the dynamic

character of the emotions. Strictly speaking, these are not states, but processes
that go on for a certain time and bring a change with them. This is expressed in
the description of the basic emotions. Spinoza writes that he understands joy to
be the emotion “by which the mind passes to a greater perfection,” and sadness
that “by which it passes to a lesser perfection” (3p11s). Thus it is not a matter of
being in a state, but of transiting from one state to another. It would therefore
be inappropriate to describe the joy of a cat or a human being simply by taking
a snapshot of a being lolling in the sun and then saying, “Look, this being is
joyful!” Rather, we must observe the being over a certain period and describe
how it feels progressively better and increases both its physical and its mental
powers. That is, we must consider how it becomes joyful. Of course, we can still
say that it is joyful, but in doing so we are only picking out a moment from the
whole process.
Thomas Aquinas and other Aristotelians had pointed out long ago that
emotions must be understood as processes and not as static states. As we saw in
Chapter 1, Section 1.3, however, their thesis is based on momentous metaphysical
assumptions. The Aristotelians had conceived of these processes as the actuali-
zation of faculties, and therefore called them “movements” [motus].36 Spinoza’s
argument is completely different. Like all anti-Aristotelian authors of the early
modern period, he dispenses with all references to faculties and concentrates on
living beings, which he conceives of as dynamic body–mind unions. He is in-
terested only in the question of how causal influence can result in an increase or
decrease of these unions’ power. Hence he also dispenses with all the references
to formal causes that the Aristotelians always used in explaining the faculties.
Spinoza is interested only in efficient causes, that is, in the external objects that
act upon an object and change its state positively or negatively.
So far, we have found very generally that emotions always presuppose an as-
piration and a change in power. But what does that change consist in, especially
in regard to its mental aspect? What does it mean, for example, to say that joy
consists in an increase in mental power? To answer this question, we would do
well to examine more closely the general definition of the emotions, which is
where the mental aspect is explained:37
An affect which is called a passion of the mind is a confused idea, by which
the mind affirms of its body, or of some part of it, a greater or lesser force
of existing than before, which, when it is given, determines the mind to
think of this rather than that. (3app, G 203)
It is conspicuous here that an affect, or an emotion, is equated with an idea, thus
with a representation that refers to something. This is remarkable. Spinoza does
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not appeal to a mere feeling or a phenomenal experience, and he does not claim
that the increasing or diminishing power consists in a strengthened or weakened
experience. What is important to him is that something is represented. But what
kind of representation is involved here? Spinoza specifies that an affect is a con-
fused idea. Such an idea is present whenever something is not represented ex-
actly as it is in fact constituted, but only inadequately: that is, incompletely and
mixed with other things. Spinoza goes so far as to claim “that the mind has, not
an adequate, but only a confused [and mutilated] knowledge, of itself, of its own
body, and of external bodies, so long as it perceives things from the common
order of nature” (2p29s). Whenever we are affected by other things, we have
confused ideas and thus a confused knowledge. We then represent the things
only as they appear to us, not as they in fact are. When I am hungry and hear my
stomach rumbling, for example, I have a confused idea of my stomach. I repre-
sent it as something that emits strange noises, but of course I have no clue as to
how my stomach is actually constituted. Nor do I know whether the noise in fact
emanates from my stomach or from another internal organ. My representation
is incomplete and perhaps even false, for perhaps my stomach is not causing
any rumbling.
The case is exactly the same with an emotion caused by an external influ-
ence. It represents something, but incompletely and perhaps even falsely. But
what object does it represent? In the definition cited, Spinoza gives an unambig-
uous answer: it represents the person’s own body, because it is of the body that
“a greater or lesser force of existing than before” is affirmed. Thus, when I am
joyful, I represent my body as vital and full of energy, and indeed as more vital
than at an earlier time. And when I am sad, I represent it as more feeble and
weaker. The crucial point here is that I do not represent the body as it in fact is,
and as it might be described by a physiologist. I represent it as it appears to me
in the current situation: confusedly, and thus inadequately. This is an important
point. Spinoza is not pursuing a scientistic agenda according to which we could
evaluate emotions as reliable indicators of the actual constitution of the body in
a way similar to the evaluation of a cardiogram. Emotions are always subjective
representations that indicate the properties our body is momentarily perceived
to have. A person who is seized with fear, for example, may perceive in himself
a racing pulse. But that doesn’t mean that a significantly higher pulse rate is ac-
tually present; only that it appears so to this person, whether or not objective
measurements would confirm it.
Spinoza’s reference to confused ideas is noteworthy in another respect too. If
externally caused emotions are only ideas of this kind, then they do not prima-
rily represent external objects. Peter, in his joy, does not represent his birthday
present or his sister’s surprise visit. He represents rather his own body, and he
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represents it as full of energy and vigor. But is that not implausible? It may well
be that we relate to our own body in an emotion, but at most as a supplemen-
tary or secondary object. The primary object is always an object specified in a
certain respect. That was precisely the main thesis of Thomas Aquinas and his
successors, who pointed out that emotions have a “formal object” and can be
classified with reference to their respective objects. Spinoza seems to lose sight
of this representation in referring only to the reference to one’s own body.
On a closer look, however, we can see that Spinoza does not neglect the rep-
resentation of external objects. True, he interprets it in a new way, stating that
“all the ideas that we have of bodies indicate the actual constitution of our own
body more than the nature of the external body” (3app, G 204). Peter, in his joy,
does indeed represent his birthday present, but only to the extent that it elicits
a state of increased physical vitality in him, not to the extent that it has in it-
self certain properties. That is why his joy says more about his own state than
it does about the nature of the gift. External objects are only indirect objects of
representations: they are represented to the extent that they are the causes of
our own physical states. This point also plays a central role in Spinoza’s theory
of perception.38 He does not claim that our perception is solipsistic, that we only
ever perceive our own body. External objects can be perceived, but our percep-
tion of them is mediated through the affections they cause in our own body
(2p26). This mediation explains why we often have an incomplete or distorted
perception of external objects. Spinoza illustrates this by an example. Why do
we perceive the sun as an object that is only 200 feet away from us, even if we
know very well that it is much farther away (2p35s)? Because it creates certain
physical impressions in us that make it appear quite close. From this and similar
examples, Spinoza draws the conclusion that we should not credulously pos-
tulate that objects are represented in perception as they are in fact. They are
represented only as they appear to us on the basis of physical impressions.
The same can be said of the emotions. They too relate only indirectly to the
external objects and represent them only as they appear to us on the basis of
physical impressions. That does not mean, however, that they have no epistemic
value. They do tell us something about the external objects, and in a most im-
portant respect for that matter, because they represent them to the extent that
they increase or diminish our physical power. But emotions do not indicate
what geometric and kinematic properties the objects have. Hence they are of
little use in a physical investigation.
If emotions have only a limited epistemic value, the question nonetheless
arises as to what exactly they represent and to what properties they give us an
epistemic access. The Aristotelians had always insisted that they tell us some-
thing about the normative properties because they indicate whether an object
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is good or bad. From the scholastic-Aristotelian perspective, that is true even

in the case that no normative judgments are made. Even the sheep, which has
no ability to form judgments, apprehends the wolf in its fear as something bad
and dangerous. This apprehension of normative properties is the only thing that
motivates it to flee. Would Spinoza agree with that? It seems at first as though
he would take a decidedly anti-Aristotelian position. In a famous, often-quoted
passage, he notes “that we neither strive for, nor will, neither want, nor desire
anything because we judge it to be good; on the contrary, we judge something to
be good because we strive for it, will it, want it, and desire it” (3p9s; cf. 4praef, G
208). Here Spinoza seems to dispute the reality of normative properties and to
claim that things are not good or bad in themselves, thus motivating us to strive
for or to avoid them. Only by the fact that we strive for or avoid them do they ac-
quire a normative property. In view of this obvious reading, it is not surprising
that Spinoza has been called a “revisionist” in the debate on normativity.39
Caution is called for here, however: Spinoza is not a revisionist in the sense
that he holds an antirealistic position. He does not claim that there are no norma-
tive properties such as being good or bad, or that they are at best created by our
will and aspiration. For him too, there is no doubt that certain things are good
and others bad. He states, however, that they are not good or bad in themselves,
but always for something upon which they act. Hence normative properties are
to be understood as relational properties, not as absolute properties.40 In a word,
“being good” must always be understood in the sense of “good for x.” The re-
lational character is clearly expressed in Spinoza’s definition of the Good. He
writes, “By good I shall understand what we certainly know to be useful to us”
(4def1). The critical point here is that something is good from our point of view
only if it is useful to us. From the point of view of other beings, other things may
be good, namely those that are useful to them. But what is good for us is not
clear from the outset. We must first find out what is useful to us. How should we
go about that? The best way is to pay attention to what increases our power and
what we therefore desire. As soon as we have determined that, we have found
something we consider good. Thus our normative judgment comes not at the
beginning but at the end of a process in which we find out what is useful to us.
If we understand Spinoza in this way, we can still call him a revisionist, but
not one who disputes the existence of normative properties; we can only call
him a revisionist who disputes their absolute existence. In his view, it makes no
sense to examine objects in isolation and classify them as good or bad. Only
when they are set in relation to specific living beings is it meaningful to speak
of their normative properties. And what properties they have for a being can
be seen in the fact that they increase or decrease that being’s power. With refer-
ence to the classic example of the sheep and the wolf, this means that Spinoza
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would by no means dispute that the wolf is dangerous. But he would hasten
to add that it is dangerous to the sheep, not to a wolf cub, and that this can be
seen in the fact that it makes the sheep tremble, that is, it diminishes the sheep’s
physical power.
In this light we can now answer the question as to the epistemic value of the
emotions. Although they offer us no access to the absolute properties of an ob-
ject, they do give us access to some relational properties, because they indicate
whether an object is useful or detrimental and thus good or bad for a certain
living being. The key aspect of this finding is that they do not indicate these
properties directly, but only through the physical states. Primarily, they repre-
sent only the increase or decrease of our own physical power, but secondarily
they also represent the fact that the impinging object is good or bad, and for that
reason produces the increase or decrease in power. What does Peter’s joy repre-
sent when he receives a birthday present? Primarily, it represents his increased
physical vitality, but secondarily it also represents the fact that the gift is some-
thing good for him and that it therefore increases his vitality. The perception
of his changed physical state is the path, so to speak, that leads to the relational
normative property. That is why Spinoza maintains, in the definition cited, that
an emotion “determines the mind to think of this rather than that.” Thus Peter,
in his joy, is determined to think of the gift rather than the table on which it lies
or the chair beside the table. It is the gift, which is beautiful and good for him,
that elicits his increased vitality, and not the chair or the table.
The representation of an external object plays a central part in the definition
of all the emotions that build on the three basic emotions. Spinoza mentions
almost fifty emotions in all, ranging from love and hate to shame and longing.41
Yet his goal is not to draw up a complete list. More could be added at any time.
As Ursula Renz aptly remarks, from a contemporary point of view we might add
such phenomena as workaholism or chat addiction.42 Spinoza himself writes
that there are as many kinds of emotions as there are kinds of objects (3p56s).
The moment new objects appear (such as the Internet in our time), new kinds
of emotions arise too. Hence it is not important to go through every single emo-
tion in the list and look for any that might be missing. Rather, we must examine
the criteria by which the list is produced.
The most important criterion is the representation of the external object that
increases or diminishes our power. A different emotion arises depending on
which object is represented and how. By this criterion we can distinguish nu-
merous emotions. Let us look at some examples. Love is joy in conjunction with
the representation of the cause of that joy (3p13s). A person who loves would
like to conserve that cause and thus further increase his power. Hate, conversely,
is sadness in conjunction with the representation of the cause of that sadness.
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A person who hates would like to eliminate that cause and thus avoid a further
decrease in his power (3p13s). Hope is joy in connection with the representa-
tion of a useful thing that is yet uncertain (3p18s). The hopeful person aspires to
increase his power in the future. Despair, conversely, is sadness in connection
with the representation of a detrimental, unavoidable thing. A person in despair
sees no way of averting the decline of his power (3app, G 194). These examples
illustrate Spinoza’s appeal to a compositional principle: all emotions are either
basic emotions (desire, joy, or sadness) or consist of a basic emotion and a rep-
resentation of the cause of that basic emotion.43
In addition to the compositionality principle, Spinoza also appeals to a prin-
ciple of association. He points out that we love or hate an object if we imagine
that it is similar to something good or bad that once acted upon us—even if the
object itself does not act on us (3p16). We then associate the immediately pre-
sent object with the one present earlier that increased or decreased our power
and transfer the emotion to it. Imagine that someone had a very good teacher
in his childhood who supported him and for whom he felt fondness or love as
a result. If he now, as an adult, sees a person who is similar to the teacher, he
spontaneously feels fondness or love for that person, although the person does
nothing good for him. The mere similarity is sufficient to associate this person
with the teacher and to transfer the love to him. Naturally the association prin-
ciple also applies to negative emotions—unfortunately, we might add. Spinoza
himself alludes to the case of xenophobia (3p46), examples of which are easy
to give. Suppose someone was once robbed by a stranger whose skin was a dif-
ferent color. When he later sees someone on the street with a similar skin color,
aversion or hate arises in him, without the passerby’s having done anything to
him. On the basis of the association principle, he simply transfers his hate of the
criminal to the passerby. Of course, here too, the association comes about only
by means of a representation. Only if the person represents the passerby as sim-
ilar to the criminal, then the two are associated with one another, and only then
is the hate transferred.
Spinoza’s theory of the emotions can be seen here to be thoroughly rep-
resentationalist: different kinds of representations lead to different kinds of
emotions—indeed, different emotions are nothing but different representations.
Moreover, there is no purely phenomenal or other characteristic that would be
crucial for the differences between the emotions. Even the motivational char-
acteristic can ultimately be reduced to representations and striving as a fun-
damental condition for any emotion. Thus we are motivated to aspire to good
things because we represent them in love as good for us and we are driven by
the aspiration to conserve everything that is good for us and that increases
our power.
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But can a representationalist approach capture the full variety of emotions?

Let us examine once more the case of Peter, who is happy on receiving a birthday
present. What exactly is the difference between joy, love, hope, and confidence?
Pure joy is present if Peter simply represents his increased vitality without
heeding the gift that elicited that vitality in him. Because he has a confused idea,
he may somehow represent the gift along with his increased vitality, but without
giving it any importance. Peter concentrates only on his vitality. He feels love if
he pays careful attention to the gift and desires to keep it. In this case, he still
has a confused idea, but it is somewhat clearer because he now distinguishes
between the primary object (his physical vitality) and the secondary object (the
gift). Peter feels hope if he has not yet received the gift but imagines how he will
receive it and how it will increase his vitality. And he feels confidence if he not
only imagines but is fairly certain that he will receive it.
As the example illustrates, it makes no difference what category the object
represented belongs to. Love can just as well relate to a material object as to a
person. It is likewise irrelevant how long the emotion lasts. Hope can extend
over ten minutes or ten years. And finally, it does not matter whether the repre-
sentation is correct. Peter can be confident even if he is mistaken in his assump-
tion that he is fairly sure to receive the gift. The only crucial factor here is that he
represents the object in a certain respect: as something good that increases his
power. Because a normative property is only a relational property, Peter need
not represent the gift as something absolutely good, but only as something good
for him that increases his power. Other persons may represent it completely dif-
ferently and accordingly not feel love, hope, or confidence.
Spinoza is evidently able to explain the differences between the emotions
as purely representational differences. Furthermore, he is able to make the
transition from one emotion to another understandable as a representational
transition. In an explanation, he writes, “Confidence, therefore, is born of hope
and despair of fear, when the cause of doubt concerning the thing’s outcome is
removed. This happens because man imagines that the past or future thing is
there, and regards it as present, or because he imagines other things, excluding
the existence of the things that put him in doubt” (3app, G 194). How then can
Peter transform his hope for the gift into confidence? There are two possible
ways. He can concentrate on the gift in such a way that he imagines it as al-
ready present, close enough to touch. Then he will consider it impossible that
something could prevent him from receiving the gift. Or he can think of the
fact that his friends have already told him they would be sure to fulfill his wish.
Then he will exclude everything that might make receiving the gift seem less
probable. Because mental images and ideas are nothing but representations,
changed representations result in hope changing to confidence. Of course, there
25
are many representations involved (representations of the gift, of Peter’s friends,

of the impending visit, etc.), and so a whole representational net must be woven
to change an emotion. Here again, the correctness of the representations is ir-
relevant. Whether it is true that Peter’s friends want to fulfill his wish does not
matter. It matters only that Peter represents them as wanting to do so. This alone
suffices to turn the mere hope into confidence.
However, there are not only emotions that are elicited through a person
being affected by objects or other persons, and representing them more or less
confusedly. Spinoza points out that, in addition to these passive emotions, there
are also active ones that we produce ourselves “insofar as we act” (3p58).44 We
act only if we are the adequate cause of our representations (3def2), and we can
be such a cause only if we produce adequate ideas (3p1). In that case, we rep-
resent our own body, and also the objects acting upon us, as they in fact are.
However, it is not simply a matter of representing individual objects as exactly
as possible. As early as the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect, Spinoza
holds that ideas represent not just individual objects or events, but relations
between them. With ideas, we can “see together the means and causes, how
and why such a thing was done” (I, §62). Thus with an idea we apprehend not
only that something is the case, but also why it is the case, and thus we can give
explanations by specifying the respective causes. Hence our representations in-
terlock to form a whole network of explanations—in fact, they constitute this
network. In a letter Spinoza also mentions the close connection between repre-
sentation and explanation, writing that the “the idea or definition of the thing
expresses the efficient cause.”45 We have a complete idea (and thus a definition)
only if we can completely specify the cause of an object, that is, if we can explain
why it has become as it is, and why, based on its causal history, it has certain
properties. Of course, it is only in rare cases that we are able to do so. Usually we
can specify the causes only incompletely, and therefore we have only inadequate
ideas.46 Those we have are “like conclusions without premises” (2p28d), as we
are not able to construct a comprehensive explanatory framework containing
all causes. In a word, the explanatory chain is usually incomplete and does not
match the causal chain in detail.
Precisely this is the case when we have passive emotions. They consist of
inadequate ideas and are only incomplete and confused representations of the
physical states and their causes. When Peter receives a gift, he apprehends his
spontaneously increasing vitality (and thus the increase in his physical power)
as well as the gift that elicits this positive change in him, but he apprehends all
that only very confusedly. He is not able to explain exactly what elicited his
physical state, much less to specify the cause of that cause—the causal chain ac-
cessible to him is short and fragmentary. By contrast, when he forms an active
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emotion, he has an adequate idea, that is, a representation that establishes a

complete explanatory framework and allows him not only to determine that he
is more vital, but also to realize exactly what has put him in this state. The better
the explanatory framework, the more detailed his representation of the links in
the chain of causation. Thus he discerns that he has not received just any book
as a birthday present, but exactly the one he mentioned in a conversation with
his friends, and he realizes that they were paying attention at the time. The fact
that he can establish this framework makes him happy.
As this example illustrates, the state that arises in an active emotion is not
necessarily different from that which arises in a passive emotion. But the state
arises in a different way. Peter can become happy by suddenly receiving an un-
expected gift; then he has a passive emotion. Or he can become happy by under-
standing that his friends picked out for him exactly the book he wished for; then
he produces a change himself and has an active emotion. Spinoza is interested in
precisely this internal causation, even if no difference is outwardly observable. It
may not be apparent from looking at Peter how the joy arose in him, and yet it
is crucial whether he produced the joy himself or not.
There is a critical difference between passive and active emotions, however.
The active emotions are always positive, Spinoza writes (3p59), because they
always build on the basic emotions of desire and joy. This thesis seems sur-
prising at first glance. Why should the mere fact that we establish a complete
explanatory framework suffice to elicit joy and emotions that build on it (love,
hope, etc.)? Couldn’t sadness or another negative emotion originate in that way?
Imagine, for example, that someone learns of the death of a close friend, thinks
carefully about the causes of that death, and completely apprehends the chain of
causation that led from the outbreak of illness to death. Why should this person
be joyful? The sadness over the loss of his friend is not overcome by his under-
standing of causal connections.
Spinoza would draw a distinction here. By sadness, he understands only
“the fact that the mind’s power of acting is diminished or restrained” (3p59d).
Understood in this way, the person reflecting on his friend’s death does not
become sad, because his mental power is not diminished. On the contrary, his
power is increased, because he is able to trace the chain of causation in full de-
tail. This gives him joy—not about his friend’s death, of course, but about the
knowledge he has acquired. But this does not prevent him from continuing to
grieve about his friend’s death. The passive emotion is not simply eliminated
by the active one. The two emotions can exist at the same time. Spinoza points
out, however, that whenever two opposite emotions coexist, the stronger one
impedes or completely cancels out the weaker one (4p7). Thus, if the grieving
person reflects more and more intensely how the death came about after a long
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illness, and if he comes to understand more and more about the medical details,
then the knowledge and hence the joy, or at least contentment, about this knowl
edge increasingly takes the center stage. In the extreme case, it can even happen
that the person obsessively studies medical analyses and completely represses
his grief. Conversely, however, it can also happen that he cannot bring himself
to think about the reasons for his friend’s death. In this case, he is completely
consumed with grief and has no attention for medical knowledge. Consequently,
he has no joy or contentment. Thus there is a kind of competition between a pas-
sive and an active emotion: the stronger one is, the more it weakens the other.
But why can a person be active at all? The key to answering this question lies
in the theory of inner striving [conatus] previously outlined. Because a person
is a dynamic unit, he or she is able to connect representations with one another
and construct explanatory frameworks. For Spinoza, this is the core of ration-
ality and thus of the rationally constituted emotions. We are not rational in that
we suppress or eliminate passive emotions. Because these emotions are elicited
in us by an inevitable causal order, we cannot suppress them. Rather, we are ra-
tional in that we gain understanding of the causal order. In doing so, we produce
new emotions that change us internally and motivate us to different actions.
5.4 An Intellectualistic and Egoistic Error?

Spinoza’s thesis that we have active emotions only when we ourselves connect
representations with one another and thereby construct explanatory frameworks
is yet another expression of his thoroughly representationalist approach. But this
approach itself may evoke surprise and even disbelief. Why should emotions,
considered in mental respects, consist of nothing but representations? And why
should the active or passive character of the emotions depend only on whether
we ourselves are the adequate cause of those representations? Spinoza seems to
be overlooking a simple fact, namely, that emotions, in addition to their repre-
sentational nature, also have a phenomenal nature: it feels a certain way to be
happy or sad, to be in love or to be hateful. Indeed, the active or passive char-
acter of the emotion is closely connected with this immediate feeling. We can
have the feeling under control to a certain extent (if the feeling of hate is mild,
for example), or we can be at its mercy (if the feeling of hate is so intense that it
overpowers us). Spinoza doesn’t seem to give this any attention, however. Hence
it is not surprising that some commentators come to the conclusion that he had
no interest in the phenomenal dimension of the emotions.47 Others go one step
further, claiming that his representationalist frame is too narrow to permit any
consideration of that dimension.48 Even those interpreters who attempt as far as
possible to defend Spinoza find that the key feature of his theory is that he does
25
not postulate any particular phenomenal qualities. Thus Michael Della Rocca
observes, “There is no feeling of love, no burning affection over and above the
representation of an object as the cause of an increase in power.”49 However,
this affirmation of the representationalist approach may only reinforce the im-
pression that Spinoza’s attitude is an exaggerated intellectualism that misses the
point of an emotion. Without an immediately experienced feeling, without a
burning affection, is love really love?
Another objection also presents itself. Spinoza always seems to assume an
individual whose power is increased or decreased, and he seems to observe
that individual without any social context. For him, the critical question is only
whether the individual is himself the adequate cause of his emotions, and if not
(which is usually the case), what external causes are involved. Of course, these
external causes can also include other people, but they are no more important
in this respect than rocks, trees, animals, and many other causes. Whether love,
for example, is elicited by a human being or by a cat is irrelevant—the impor-
tant thing is that the person or the cat is represented as a good object. Because
“good,” according to Spinoza, is to be understood in a relational sense, another
person cannot be good and precious in herself. She is only good for someone
and only to the extent that she increases that person’s power. Because everyone
strives by nature to preserve and to increase their power, every person should
surround herself only with people who are good and useful to her. Consequently,
Spinoza states, “Since reason demands nothing contrary to nature, it demands
that everyone love himself, seek his own advantage, what is really useful to him,
want what will really lead man to a greater perfection . . . ” (4p18s). This is a
concise expression of an egoistic maxim: each person should love himself—not
his neighbor—and use others only instrumentally, that is, to his own advan-
tage.50 But doesn’t that summary overlook another key characteristic of many
emotions: the fact that they are related to others in a noninstrumental way?
Is not perfect friendship characterized by a person loving another for his own
sake, as Aristotle famously wrote, and not because he is useful?51
If we examine these two critical objections, Spinoza’s theory of the emotions
seems to lead us into two errors, an intellectualistic one and an egoistic one. But
it is worth our while to take a closer look at these objections and a rebuttal from
Spinoza’s perspective before we accuse him of errors. Let us first examine the
accusation that Spinoza blots out the phenomenal dimension. In this regard, we
must note that it is not only the representation of external objects that Spinoza
takes into account. As we discussed in Section 5.3, an external object is only the
indirect object of a representation. The direct object is always the person’s own
body, or, more precisely, the positive or negative change in the person’s physical
state. Every idea is related to an external object only to the extent that the object
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affects one’s own body (2p16d; 3app, G 204). Hence it would be misleading to
ascribe to Spinoza the cognitivistic position that an emotion refers only to ex-
ternal objects or consists only in a judgment about such objects. When Peter is
happy, he relates not only to his birthday present, but also, and in fact primarily,
to the increasing vitality of his body. And when Mary is sad, she relates not only
to the death of her friend, but also to her own dejection, which was elicited by
the news of the death. Again, that does not mean that the person’s own vitality
or dejection is represented precisely. There is only a confused, inadequate idea,
representing at most some characteristics of the person’s own physical state and
giving only a rudimentary indication of what caused it. Perhaps Peter perceives
only an increased energy in his body—he feels strong enough to lift an elephant.
But he is unsure exactly what that vitality consists of and brought it about. Only
if he had an active emotion, and thus an adequate idea, would he be able to dis-
tinguish precisely between his own physical state and the external objects, and
only then could he specify the exact constitution of his own state.
No matter whether the idea is inadequate or adequate, in either case an emo-
tion primarily represents one’s own physical state, and to that extent it has a
phenomenal component. To have a certain feeling, or a phenomenal experience,
means nothing other than to relate to oneself and perceive physical changes
in oneself. Thus Spinoza by no means denies the phenomenal dimension of
emotions; he only explains it in a representationalist frame. Experiencing joy or
sadness is nothing other than representing changes of one’s own body.52
However, the question immediately arises why Spinoza chooses a repre-
sentationalist explanatory frame. Why doesn’t he assert that the phenomenal
dimension is a dimension sui generis? For that matter, why doesn’t he plead
for the radical antireductionist thesis proposed by some philosophers in the
present-day debate: the thesis that we must accept the phenomenal dimension
as something fundamental even if we will never be able to explain it?53 The ap-
parent reason is that Spinoza describes emotions in mental respects as ideas
and conceives of ideas in turn as representational states. That is, he defines them
as concepts that refer to something and thus represent something (2def3). If
he were to claim that emotions are, in mental respects, ideas, but in addition
to their representational characteristic they also have a phenomenal one, he
would be referring to something that is not covered by the definition of ideas.
He would be writing a check on insufficient funds, so to speak. If emotions are
in mental respects ideas, then all of their characteristics must be explained as
representational characteristics.
But why must emotions be explained in such a strictly representationalist
frame? Why does Spinoza exclude the possibility of ascribing other character-
istics than representational ones to these ideas? The most important reason is
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probably his explanatory rationalism, mentioned in Section 5.2. To Spinoza,

there must be an explanation for everything. Nothing can be assumed as an
inexplicable yet nonetheless fundamental fact. Hence there are, when we are
confronted with a seemingly inexplicable fact, only two possibilities: either
we can reduce it to another fact that is explainable, or we can show that it is
self-explanatory.54 But the phenomenal dimension of emotions is not self-
explanatory: the mere fact that we have an experience of joy or sadness does
not explain that experience. Thus this dimension must be reduced to something
else, namely the representational characteristics of ideas. Then we can give an
explanation for it after all: we can show that the special experience consists in
a certain form of self-representation. Moreover, we can then make it plain that
emotions necessarily have a physical component, because they primarily repre-
sent our own physical states. A bodiless being could not have emotions, and thus
no phenomenal experience, because it would lack the crucial representation.
A persistent defender of the thesis that the phenomenal dimension is not
reducible to the representational dimension might be dissatisfied with this ar-
gument and lodge the following objection: Let us imagine there are zombies
that look just like us and have the same representations as we have, but wander
through the world with no feelings. If they receive a gift, they thank the giver po-
litely and pull up the corners of their mouth in a smile so that we think they are
happy. They can also give a description of the gift and of their own body, thereby
demonstrating that they have various kinds of representations. But they feel no
joy. Must we not grant that, although these zombies have a well-developed rep-
resentational capability, they lack a basic dimension?
From Spinoza’s standpoint, this objection is not persuasive. Either the zombies
are in fact the same as we human beings are, and thus have representations of
their own physical states, or they have in fact no feeling of joy. In the first case,
they perceive in themselves an increased vitality upon receiving a gift, and by
that token have a true feeling of joy. In the second case, the reason why they
have no feeling of joy can only be that their representation of their own phys-
ical states is deficient or completely lacking. The assertion that they have a self-
representation and yet no feeling is an empty assertion that lacks all evidence.
The burden of proof is not on the defender of a representationalist explanation,
but on the critic: he must show that the assumption of a being with full repre-
sentational ability, but without internal experience, is a coherent assumption at
all—ideally, by demonstrating that there is in fact such a being. The reference to
a fictional case proves nothing, and merely serves to illustrate the critics’ own
misleading intuitions. One might say, with Daniel Dennett, that the zombie ex-
ample is a pure “intuition pump.”55 In any case, it is not sufficient to demon-
strate the nonreducibility of the phenomenal dimension to the representational
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dimension. Furthermore, Spinoza would reject the assumption of a thought

experiment on general principles. Because he always argues in the light of ne-
cessitarianism, he would state that the actual world is the only possible world.
For him, it makes no sense to speak of other possible worlds in which there are
zombies.
We may turn now to the second objection: the accusation that Spinoza
neglects the social dimension of the emotions and makes an egoistic error. Here
we must examine the function of other people in the genesis of emotions. Most
important, other people can be the cause of the change in our own power. We
love or hate other people when they increase or diminish our power. In this re-
gard, they are no different from animals or material objects, which also change
our power. Whether it is a cat or another person that rubs up against me and
increases my physical well-being is unimportant. In either case, the important
thing is that there is a cause of my well-being. And in either case, the cause is
represented along with the physical change, for I represent the cat or the other
person to the extent that they increase my well-being.
In addition, however, other people have yet another function that Spinoza
introduces as follows: “If we imagine a thing like us, toward which we have
had no affect, to be affected with some affect, we are thereby affected with a
like affect” (3p27). We might call this an imitation effect. It is easy to illustrate.
Suppose we see at a funeral how another person is seized with profound grief
and weeps. Then we too are spontaneously overcome with grief and perhaps
begin to weep ourselves. Similarly, if someone is seized with ebullient joy and
laughs out loud, we start laughing too. Emotions can be contagious, so to speak.
The crucial point here is that we are infected only if something similar to us has
an emotion. But only other people are similar to us, not animals or material
objects. The more like us they are and the better we apprehend the similarity, the
more spontaneously we catch their emotions.56
Spinoza is able to explain a number of emotions with reference to the im-
itation effect, including pity and rivalry (3p27s). Pity arises when we sponta-
neously adopt another person’s sadness; we sympathize with them. Similarly,
rivalry arises when we spontaneously adopt another person’s desire; then we
strive with them for the same goal. In these cases, it is important to note that no
conscious decision is made and no reflection takes place. When we see a crying
child who has lost her favorite toy, we feel pity not because we reflect that it is
bad for the child, nor because we decide to take the child’s part. Pity arises in us
spontaneously—the child’s weeping itself makes us sad too.
But why do we catch another person’s emotions? The reason lies in the asso-
ciation principle outlined earlier. Because the other person is similar to us and
because we observe this fact, we associate ourselves with her (what is good or
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bad for her is also good or bad for us) and transfer her emotions to ourselves.
At this point, however, the question arises of what kind of similarity is relevant
here. As adults, we are in some respects dissimilar to a child who has lost her
toy. Why are we nonetheless so similar to her that we are infected by her sad-
ness? Representation plays a key role here once again. When we see the child,
we apprehend her, not as an arbitrary living thing, but as a human being whose
crying has been provoked by the loss of her toy. We immediately associate her
tears with the memory of our own, provoked in our childhood by the loss of
a precious object. And our own tears expressed a decrease of our own power.
Thus we identify with the child and catch her sadness because the representa-
tion of her diminished power spontaneously evokes the memory of our own
diminished power. We could not be infected by the mechanical tears of a robot,
because we would not represent it as a human being whose power is diminished,
but only as an automaton in which a program is running. This would produce
in us at most admiration for the perfect program, but not evoke a memory of
our diminished power. If we should happen to be moved to tears by a robot, for
example by watching a clever film about a pitiable robot, the only reason would
be that we observe in it a similarity to ourselves, so that the association principle
applies, just as it does with the child.
As this example illustrates, the imitation effect occurs only if a person has
had a certain experience herself. Only if we ourselves have experienced the
painful loss of a precious object can we evoke the memory of it and identify
with the child. This also explains why there are certain people who are emo-
tionally dulled and do not feel pity. They have never had the experience of their
own power being diminished, or else—probably the more frequent case—they
have buried that experience, so to speak, and are unable to evoke a memory of
it. They cannot be infected with the child’s sadness because they cannot let the
experience of their own sadness arise in themselves.
Up to now we have examined cases in which other people play an important
role in the genesis of emotions, but not a genuinely social role. All of these cases
were concerned either with how other people directly elicit an emotion in an
individual or with how people imitate each other’s emotions. No importance
has been given to the social relations in which other people stand to the given
individual, how other people approve or disapprove of the individual’s behavior
in the light of social conventions. One might even get the impression that social
relations have been intentionally blotted out. Up to now, all that mattered was
how other people increase or diminish our own power or evoke the memory
of such an increase or decrease. Does that mean that social relations are unim-
portant for Spinoza? Not at all. He explicitly presents emotions that are possible
only in the light of social relations and socially grounded norms.
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Probably the most striking example is shame, which is defined as follows:

“Shame is a sadness, accompanied by the idea of some action which we im-
agine that others blame” (3app, G 199). This is a complex emotion containing
three representations. First, it encompasses the basic emotion of sadness, and
thus a representation of one’s own diminished power. A person who is ashamed
feels powerless and weak. Second, this emotion includes the representation of
a certain action one has committed, such as a theft. Third, it contains the rep-
resentation of a blame of this action. We imagine that others consider the theft
reprehensible and make moral or legal accusations. The third representation is
the most important here. A person who is ashamed represents not only herself
and her own behavior, but also other people, to the extent that they point out
a violation of norms and pronounce a sanction. This presupposes that other
people are far more than just external causes (as animals and material objects
are) who merely increase or diminish our own power. Other people are persons
who notice a violation of norms and hold us accountable for that violation. And
this presupposes in turn that there is a social structure in which norms have
validity. If other people related to us only as trees or snakes do, they would not
be able to censure our behavior, and we would not be afraid of their blaming
us. Spinoza explicitly calls attention to this fear by drawing a precise distinction
between shame [pudor] and a sense of shame [verecundia] (3p39s; 3app, G 199).
Shame occurs momentarily, that is, at those moments when we are sad about
an action that others censure. The sense of shame, however, is a continuous
fear or timidity about the fact that others could express blame. It is precisely
this fear that keeps us from committing blameworthy actions. That is, more
concretely: we do not commit theft because we are afraid of the situation in
which we are caught red-handed and are ashamed before the police officer who
documents that action. Of course, this fear exists only because we are constantly
aware of a social sanction that could affect us and because we represent other
people as persons who pronounce this sanction.
The subtle distinction between shame and the sense of shame is of course
important from the point of view of social philosophy because it illustrates how
Spinoza explains obedience to social norms. That obedience is due to the in-
ternalization of a mechanism of sanctions, and thus to the presence of a nor-
mative system that is constantly sustained by other persons. The distinction is
no less noteworthy, however, in connection with the theory of the emotions. It
calls attention to the fact that Spinoza includes among the emotions not only
momentarily occurring states, such as shame, but also states of long duration
or character traits, such as the sense of shame. Most of all, however, it shows
clearly that other people as members of a social structure play a constitutive
role for some emotions. We cannot feel shame and the sense of shame unless
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we represent other people as persons who are vigilant about the observation of
norms and who sanction violations of norms.
But why is a sanction relevant to us? Why do we care whether other people
blame us for misconduct? Once again, the reason for this lies in our basic aspi-
ration to preserve our existence and to increase our own power. If others cen-
sure us, our power is restricted. It is therefore in our interest to obey socially
established norms and avoid sanctions. Spinoza would even say that it is in our
interest to be virtuous. He understands virtue as “nothing but acting from the
laws of one’s own nature” (4p18s), and we act according to those laws whenever
we increase our own power. Thus, if we make every effort not to steal and con-
sequently do not need to be ashamed of a theft, the reason is not that we are by
nature social beings who accept norms, nor that there is an innate normative
system that we obey. The reason lies in an egoism: we do not want to be impeded
in increasing our own power, and therefore we try to avoid negative sanctions.
This is of course not a naive egoism, but an “enlightened egoism,” as Steven
Nadler has noted.57 It is enlightened because we think of the consequences of
our actions and therefore avoid doing certain things that would be favorable
to us in the short term, but result in sanctions and the corresponding negative
emotions in the long term.
The remarkable thing about Spinoza’s explanatory approach is that he
considers the social dimension of certain emotions, but integrates it in a model
that is centered on the individual and his striving for self-preservation. He does
not claim that we must overcome egoism in order to be capable of emotions
such as love or shame. Unlike Aristotle and his successors, Spinoza does not
hold that we love friends for their own sake: we love them because they in-
crease our power. Nor does he claim that we are ashamed because we fail to
attain an objective ideal of good action: we are ashamed because the blame that
others direct at us restricts our power. Nonetheless, it is precisely this enlight-
ened egoism that enables us to build stable social relationships and thus to ob-
tain as many positive emotions as possible. How can we maintain friendships
the longest? By not seeking our own short-term advantage and exploiting our
friends; by respecting them with their needs, thus ensuring that they remain fa-
vorable to us in the long term and help us to increase our power. And how can
we avoid shame? By respecting established norms, thus avoiding the censure of
others and preventing the decrease of our power.
Yet this form of enlightened egoism still rouses the suspicion that other
people have only an instrumental value. They are relevant to me only to the
extent that they increase my power as much as possible. But why should I re-
spect their needs, which may be in conflict with mine, and why should I enable
them to have as many positive emotions as possible? Why should I, considering
26
only my own long-term advantage, not take the risk that they cannot optimally
increase their power? Spinoza’s answer to this question is at first glance sur-
prising: “When each man most seeks his own advantage for himself, then men
are most useful to one another” (4p35c2). By the very fact that I seek my own ad-
vantage, I am apparently useful to the other, who likewise seeks her own advan-
tage, and I enable her to really have (or potentially have) positive emotions just
as I do. It is not a question of my helping another to increase her power at the cost
of impeding my own striving for increased power, or conversely impeding her
striving to the advantage of mine. On the contrary, the more I follow my aspira-
tion, the better the other too can follow her aspiration and increase her power.
This thesis rests on the assumption that the individual striving for self-
preservation also has a collective utility because the greatest possible activity
of each individual opens up spaces for the activity of others. “Man is a God to
man” (4p35s), Spinoza pointedly writes, contradicting Hobbes’ famous state-
ment that man is a wolf to man. We are “divine” to one another when we reduce
the passive emotions through our activity and thus enable others to become
active as well. Then everyone can make optimum use of their rational abilities.
We can illustrate this once more using the example of fear of a dog. Suppose
I am facing a barking dog, not alone, but together with a child. As long as I am
passive and simply allow myself to be overcome by the fear produced in me
by perceptual impressions, I am detrimental to the child. I infect her with my
fear and prevent her from forming her own judgment about the dog. If, on
the other hand, I become active, evaluate the dog carefully, and come to the
conclusion that it is harmless, I not only neutralize my own fear, but help the
child to oppose her spontaneously elicited fear—in the best case, with a posi-
tive emotion. Then I can say to her, “Look how it stops in front of us. It is the
neighbor’s harmless dog and is only barking to say hello. Isn’t that nice that it
recognizes us?” In this case, I build an explanatory framework and induce the
child too to think about why the dog is barking and why she should not be
afraid of it; indeed can even be happy about it. In a word, the more active I am
myself, the more active the child is too, and the more she opposes her passive
emotion with an active one.
As the example shows, an enlightened egoism does not have negative
consequences for other people—at least, not if it is associated with the opti-
mistic assumption that everyone can be rational in the same way.58 If the striving
for preservation of our own power is expressed in the mobilization of our own
rational abilities, then a kind of rational space arises in which our fellow human
beings are involved. Not only do I create an explanatory framework by which to
guide my emotions, but others too are able to make such connections and react
accordingly.
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5.5 A Rationalistic Therapy

Evidently it is of central importance to Spinoza whether a person produces
emotions on the basis of his own rational activity or merely allows himself to
be overpowered by spontaneously elicited emotions. Hence it is not surprising
that he explains in detail how we can behave actively and so free ourselves from
“human bondage.” The whole fourth part of the Ethics and many propositions
in the fifth part are devoted to explaining this liberation. They serve to develop
a rationalistic therapy that can be summarized in the following formula: we
should establish as many explanatory frameworks as possible and thereby pro-
duce active emotions. In this way we can alleviate, and in the best case neu-
tralize, the passive emotions that originate involuntarily in us.
As appealing as this therapeutic proposal sounds, it is surprising to find it
embedded in the metaphysical frame that Spinoza develops in the first part of
the Ethics. It appears astounding at first glance, especially in the light of his
necessitarianism. How can Spinoza first state that all things and all events are
brought about necessarily (1p29) and at the same time say that we should en-
deavor to “live according to the guidance of reason” (4p35) and produce active
emotions? Does it make any sense at all to follow rational guidance if everything
happens exactly as it must? Doesn’t necessitarianism have the consequence of a
fatalism that makes all rational endeavors pointless?
In view of these questions, it is not surprising that Spinoza was repeatedly ac-
cused of having deprived himself by his necessitarianism of the basis on which
to offer a therapy. Pierre Bayle polemically wrote that “nothing can be more
needless than the instructions of this philosopher.”59 If everything happens by
necessity, then the behavior of every single person is also determined. It is no
use urging a person to any rational understanding or to any particularly activity.
Even Spinoza’s own philosophizing, Bayle found, must then be determined by a
necessary order, without Spinoza’s having any freedom in the matter.
It may indeed appear as if necessitarianism precludes any mention of
freedom, and so precludes the freedom to produce active emotions. But the
appearance is deceiving. We must note that the necessitarian remarks at the
beginning of the Ethics form only the general frame for all subsequent remarks.
They maintain only that all events are involved in a comprehensive chain of cau-
sation, but do not specify exactly how they are involved in it.60 Most important,
they say nothing about what role rational activities play in the chain of causation
and how they relate to other kinds of activities. Spinoza’s primary goal is only to
reject the assumption of uncaused events. Because all events have a cause, they
must all be bound up in a chain of causation. And because there is no personal
God who alternately chooses this or that chain of causation, all events must be
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bound up in one single chain of causation. But that still leaves undetermined
what relevant factors there are in this chain, and how many. Only an analysis
of the individual things responsible for the occurrence of a certain event can
show which factors are critical for a given event. In more concrete terms, that
means: Peter’s present joy cannot be for no reason. And there cannot be a gap
in causation in which someone intervened to produce that joy. On the contrary,
there is an uninterrupted causal history leading up to that joy. What factors are
relevant for this history, however, is still unknown. Peter’s friends visiting and
his receiving a gift may be among those factors, and so may the reflections Peter
himself has undertaken.
Furthermore, we must consider Spinoza’s principle, introduced in Section
5.2, that there are not only external causes, but also internal ones. Objects in the
world, especially people, are not simply inert heaps of matter that are impinged
upon and set in motion by outside forces, but dynamic units that have their own
internal impetus. Hence they are not mere objects acted upon from outside,
but always objects with powers of their own. In our discussion of a compre-
hensive causal order, we must always consider external and internal causes—
even if it is a necessary order. So it would be inadmissible to claim that joy was
produced in Peter solely by external causes, such as the presence of a gift and
visual impressions of that gift. Although those causes are an important factor,
it is only one factor. Another factor, which is at least as important, is how Peter
combines the perceptual impressions with other impressions and with beliefs,
and how he thereby constructs an explanatory framework. When Spinoza calls
attention to the fact that references to contingent events are based on a “defect
of our knowledge” (1p33s1), he is alluding to our deficient knowledge of both
internal and external causes. Thus we might perhaps think Peter is overcome
with joy completely by chance because we cannot discern how he has processed
the various impressions and placed them in an explanatory framework. Only if
we had complete knowledge of all his earlier and present reflections would we
understand why he is happy.
Of course, this explanation might provoke the objection that there is no
freedom in spite of the presence of an internal cause. Given his earlier and pre-
sent reflections, Peter cannot help constructing a certain explanatory frame-
work and becoming joyful. Why does Spinoza nonetheless refer to freedom? To
answer this question, we must examine his conception of freedom more closely.
In present-day debates, it is often assumed that at least two conditions must be
met for a person to act freely.61 First, a person must act of his own accord and
not be compelled to act by others. Thus I do not act freely if I am compelled
at gunpoint to hand over my money. Second, a person must have alternatives.
Even if I am not under any external coercion, I do not act freely if I can’t help
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spending all my money as soon as I get it because of a pathological compulsion.

To act freely, I must be able to choose between at least two options. These two
conditions apply to purely mental acts as well. Thus I am free to have certain
thoughts only if, first, I am not compelled to do so by others (for example, be-
cause they manipulate me under hypnosis), and second, I am not determined to
think one single thought (for example, because I cannot help thinking exactly
this thought due to a pathological fixation).
What is special about Spinoza’s conception is that he deviates from this
seemingly self-evident understanding of freedom, accepting only the first con-
dition, but not the second (which is often called the principle of alternative
possibilities). This follows directly from his definition of freedom: “That thing is
called free which exists from the necessity of its nature alone, and is determined
to act by itself alone” (1def7). The critical point is that a free thing exists of it-
self (and not, for example, by being brought into existence by others and hence
being dependent on others) and acts of itself (and is not compelled to act by
others). In a word, autonomy is crucial, not the existence of alternative possible
actions. Because only the comprehensive substance is perfectly autonomous in
its existence, only it is absolutely free. All modes of the substance, including all
human beings, are always dependent for their existence on the substance and
on other modes, and hence are not perfectly free. As dynamic units, however,
they can maintain their existence and can to some extent act of themselves. Thus
they have at least a certain degree of freedom. The more they act of themselves,
rather than being determined in their actions by others, the more free they are.
In regard to the emotions, this means: the more a person produces emotions
by himself, and not by being acted upon by other people or objects, the more
free he is.
Obviously it is irrelevant whether a person has the option to produce one
emotion or another. The only important thing is whether he produces an
emotion—even if it is the only one available to him—by himself. Peter is free
only if he produces the joy about the gift himself, that is, by reflecting that his
friends fulfilled his long-standing wish and that his overall condition is thereby
improved. He would be unfree if the joy was elicited in him simply by hypnosis
or by the ingestion of a drug. Of course, Peter is free only to a certain degree.
Because perceptions and mental images are constantly being elicited in him,
including perceptions and mental images of his birthday present, he is always
subject to external influences. Thus he does not produce his joy completely by
himself. But he can at least try by suitable reflection to produce the joy him-
self as far as possible. Whether he has other options is irrelevant. In light of
existing reflections and mental images, perhaps he cannot help understanding
that his friends have fulfilled his wish, and thereby he becomes joyful. The only
26
important thing is how he attains this emotional state, and not so much which
state it is.
This explanation may help to make it clear that Spinoza takes a compatibilist
position: a necessary causal order and individual freedom are compatible with
one another, because it is not relevant for a free action whether the principle of
alternative possibilities is fulfilled. The only criterion is whether the principle
of self-causation is fulfilled. By constructing an explanatory framework (and
for Spinoza this always means: by forming the most adequate ideas possible),
a person can subjectively change his emotion, even if, from an objective view-
point, given a certain constellation of external and internal causes, he could
not help producing precisely this change. Suppose Peter is at first sad that only
two friends came to his birthday party. Then he learns that the other invited
guests were unable to come, but they thought of him and were involved in
procuring his gift. If Peter combines these items of information and constructs
an explanatory framework, he can counter his passive sadness with an active
joy. If someone now objects that Peter could not help producing joy given the
information and his prior causal history, we can reply that this external view is
irrelevant for Peter. The only critical question for him is whether he is able to
construct an explanatory framework in the given situation. For that reason, it
is worthwhile for him to make rational efforts, or—as Spinoza would say—to
follow the “guidance of reason.” Even if he fails to produce an emotional change,
the effort is worthwhile because he is then not simply in an externally imposed
state but understands why he is in that state.
Of course, the goal is to produce a change, and therefore we must examine
how an emotional state can be changed through a person’s own activity. Spinoza
presents a total of five ways and summarizes them in one place (5p20s). Because
these five ways have repeatedly been called implausible or completely mis-
taken,62 we must clarify two things at the outset. First, Spinoza does not claim
that we can always succeed in changing our emotions. Nor does he maintain
that we have complete power over them through the “guidance of reason.” On
the contrary, he rebuts the Stoic position, which he considers excessively ration-
alistic, by the objection that it would be unreasonable to say we can gain com-
plete power over the emotions (5praef, G 278). Such power is excluded for the
simple reason that we are always subject to external influences. We can never
escape them completely; at most we can try to oppose them by an internal ac-
tivity. Whether and to what extent we succeed must be examined case by case.
Second, we must bear in mind that changing emotions by a “guidance of
reason” is only one possible change. The physical change is at least as impor-
tant, and Spinoza refers to it before the various cognitive therapies by stating
that ideas always coincide with physical states and that the causal order of ideas
267
is parallel to that of physical states (5p1). This does not mean that we can al-
ways change the physical states directly. If a person wants to alleviate his sad-
ness, he can take a pharmacological approach and ingest certain medications
that change his neuronal states. This physical change alone will bring with it a
change in mental states. Of course, because it is effected from the outside, the
change is not due to the person’s own activity. But it is a genuine change none-
theless, and one that Spinoza examines alongside that elicited by a cognitive ac-
tivity. The key feature of the metaphysical thesis that physical and mental states
are identical is that they can both be changed by acting on the physical or the
mental side. They are two sides of the same coin.
Nonetheless, it is striking that Spinoza devotes little attention to the physical
therapy, but discusses the cognitive therapy at length. Let us examine one after
another the various possible ways of changing emotions that Spinoza suggests.
The first way consists, in Spinoza’s terse phrase, “in the knowledge itself of
the affects” (5p20s). He expands on this cryptic remark in an earlier proposi-
tion: “Each of us has—in part, at least, if not absolutely—the power to under-
stand himself and his affects, and consequently, the power to bring it about that
he is less acted on by them” (5p4s). A person has clear and distinct knowledge
of an emotion only if he has an adequate idea of it, and he has an adequate idea
only if he constructs an explanatory framework. An idea is completely adequate,
moreover, only if there is a complete explanatory framework—in other words,
if we can specify all the parts of the causal chain that led to a certain emotion.
But why should that make us suffer less from the emotion? Let us examine
a concrete example. John often has anxiety attacks when he is in a department
store. Although there is no danger, he is virtually strangled by fear. What can he
do? He can try to find out the cause of the apparently groundless attacks. Perhaps
he will then discover that he was once left alone in a department store when he
was a baby and felt completely lost. That event marked him so profoundly that
the memory of it comes up again and again when he is in a department store.
He involuntarily associates the current situation with that of his childhood and
returns to the same state of fear. Although this understanding of the causal his-
tory and the association mechanism will not make the fear stop right away, at
least it has the consequence that he suffers less from it. He understands now
why he becomes afraid and learns to cope with it. Perhaps he will even be able
to gradually reduce the fear, because the better he recalls the causal history, the
better he can defeat the association mechanism.
The critical point is that the emotion is not eliminated as if at the push of
a button. Perhaps it will never be completely eliminated, but John suffers less
from it because he now not only observes that it occurs, but also understands
why it occurs. By gaining this understanding, he is less at the mercy of the
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spontaneous associations and more free in Spinoza’s special sense of freedom.

He is active inasmuch as he constructs explanatory frameworks and is not
merely affected by fear. We might say that, even if his fear does not disap-
pear, he gains a different attitude toward it. He accepts it as a state that, for
better or worse, arises again and again because of his biography, and in this
way he makes it his own. We may commend this to the attention of those
interpreters who think it is naive to assume that we could change an emotion
through mere understanding. Martin Lin, for example, remarked that a de-
sire for sensual pleasures is not diminished by gaining understanding of evo-
lutionary processes and knowing how that desire originated through natural
selection.63 We can reply that the desire is in fact not diminished, or at least not
automatically. But diminishing it is not the primary goal. Spinoza claims, not
that emotions always disappear right away because of understanding gained,
but that we are—as previously cited—“less acted on by them.” If we gain an un-
derstanding of evolutionary processes, we suffer less from a desire to the extent
that it no longer overwhelms us and we no longer have a guilty conscience,
perhaps, when it occurs again. Then we understand why certain sensual stimuli
elicit desire in us and accept this as a fact of nature.
An affinity with the Stoic conception is apparent here, although Spinoza
distances himself from the Stoics.64 At the beginning of Chapter 2, Section 2.1,
mention was made of the story of Aulus Gellius, who made a sea voyage with a
Stoic philosopher. When they encountered a heavy storm the philosopher was
spontaneously seized by fear and was powerless to stop it. He could control
only his judgments, and thus his attitude toward the menace of death and also
toward his own fear. Spinoza too would emphasize precisely this point. The pri-
mary goal is not to do away with a fear that inevitably arises through sensual
impressions. The important thing is one’s attitude toward that fear. We suffer less
from it if we understand why it arose, indeed had to arise, and then let it arise
and pass away again like other natural states.
Spinoza closely ties this explanation of a shift in attitudes to his necessitari-
anism by stating, “Insofar as the mind understands all things as necessary, it has
a greater power over the affects, or is less acted on by them” (5p6). Insofar as
the philosopher in the middle of the storm understands that the images of huge
masses of water inevitably elicit fear in him, he is no longer terrorized by that
fear. He accepts it as something natural, in the same way as he accepts feelings
of hunger and thirst as unavoidable. And to the extent that John understands
that his childhood experience and the association mechanism inevitably elicit
anxiety attacks, he too is no longer terrorized. It would be not only useless, but
foolish to rebel against something that must occur because of a certain causal
history.
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But at some points Spinoza goes beyond the simple thesis that we suffer
less through understanding because we accept an emotion as inevitable.
Sometimes he advances the stronger thesis that an emotion is in fact alleviated.
He mentions the following example: “For we see that sadness over some good
which has perished is lessened as soon as the man who has lost it realizes that
this good could not, in any way, have been kept” (5p6s). In some cases this may
be plausible. Just imagine that the Stoic philosopher brought a box of his valu-
able books with him aboard the ship, and during the storm the box was carried
off by a wave. The understanding of how it happened will not only lead to his ac-
ceptance of his own sadness about the loss, but may also have the consequence
that he reduces his sadness. For if he learns that the storm raged not only at sea,
but on land as well, where it tore down his house, then he realizes that he could
not have saved his books in any case. This understanding alone diminishes his
sadness. Or, to express it in general terms: the more adequate the ideas, the
more completely the explanatory frameworks are constructed and the more the
emotional states produced are appropriate reactions to unavoidable events.
As plausible as this explanation may seem in regard to some cases, it appears
implausible or downright cynical when we examine other cases. Suppose a
couple loses their five-year-old daughter when she is run down and killed by
a speeding motorist. They are seized by deep grief. Then they learn that the
motorist was driving under the influence of alcohol, that he had had alcohol
problems for some time because he was in the middle of a divorce, that his di-
vorce was preceded by years of problems in his marriage, and that those problems
had their roots in traumatic early childhood experiences. The parents compre-
hend a complete chain of causation leading from the motorist’s childhood to the
fatal accident. Does that reduce their grief? Hardly. Even if we understand that
an event unavoidably had to occur as it did, given a certain causal history, that
does not mean that we accept the event and adjust our emotional reactions. It
may be that the parents, in spite of their complete understanding of the causal
history, revolt against their daughter’s death and, far from reducing their grief,
they combine it with anger over the speeding motorist’s outrageous biography.
Doesn’t Spinoza take an extreme rationalistic position in claiming that an un-
derstanding of the necessity of events gives us a power over the emotions?
Here we must be careful. First, we must observe the nuance previously
mentioned: Spinoza does not claim that an understanding gives us a perfect
power over the emotions. He observes only that it can give us power to a cer-
tain degree. Perfect power is not possible because we are always subject to
perceptions and mental images that act upon us, and because we also have our
own prior history that influences the formation of our emotions. We would
be a kind of rational monster if our emotions were exclusively determined
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by rational understanding. Thus, even if the parents have a perfect knowl

edge of the motorist’s biography, they will also have many memories of their
daughter, as well as expectations and wishes about how her life could have con-
tinued. Hence their emotions are determined by a mixture of causal factors.
Furthermore, we must consider that Spinoza has an ideal rather than a real sit-
uation in mind when he points out that sadness is reduced by understanding.
We reduce a passive emotion only in the case in which we are completely active
and produce the appropriate emotion completely by ourselves. But usually we
are not completely active. We let spontaneous reactions overpower us again
and again without drawing on an understanding. That is why we are only par-
tially rational and often find ourselves in emotional conflicts. Thus the parents
may feel pity for the motorist because of their understanding of his unfortunate
biography, but at the same time they feel anger and grief because they are re-
peatedly overwhelmed by images of their daughter supplied by their memory
and imagination. They would have to place themselves in the ideal situation of
a neutral observer in order to look only at the unavoidable causal history. As
long as this ideal situation is not attained (and it never can be attained because
the ideas present are never exclusively adequate ideas), the emotional conflict
is inevitable.
Let us turn now to the second possible form of cognitive therapy. Spinoza
says this consists in the fact that the mind “separates the affects from the thought
of an external cause, which we imagine confusedly” (5p20s). This is a direct ref-
erence to the explanation of those emotions that build on the basic emotions.
As we saw in Section 5.3, such emotions are composed of two elements: a basic
emotion (desire, joy, or sadness) and a representation of the cause of the given
basic emotion. Thus hate is sadness combined with a representation of the cause
of the sadness (and thus with the decrease in one’s own power). If we want to
gain power over hate, we must separate the emotion from the thought of the
external cause. How can this be possible? There seems at first to be an easy an-
swer: the best thing to do is to stop thinking of the external cause and turn our
attention to other things. A person who is obsessed with hatred of his neighbor,
for example, and blames him for everything that is bad in his life can best over-
come this emotion by ceasing to think of the neighbor and concentrating on
more beautiful things, such as the blossoming flowers and the children playing
in the garden.
But this explanation would hardly be persuasive. Jonathan Bennett remarked
sarcastically that, if the usefulness of a cognitive therapy consists only in dis-
traction, one might just as well go swimming, listen to Wagner, or go to sleep.65
And there is a deeper problem as well. If Spinoza were to postulate that we can
simply switch off or replace our thoughts of the external cause, he would be
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committing himself to a doxastic voluntarism—in other words, to the position

that we can determine our thoughts voluntarily. But he rejects this position
when he objects to Descartes that it is nonsense to assume a particular entity
called “will” that could determine what thoughts we would and wouldn’t like
to have at the moment (2p48–49). Actual thoughts are the product of a long
chain of perceptions, mental images, and earlier thoughts, and they arise in-
evitably whether or not we want them to. Thus it would be absurd to assume
a person could voluntarily switch off his thoughts of the neighbor and switch
on thoughts of flowers and children. And finally, the simple question arises of
what would be achieved if it were possible to switch off such thoughts. If hate
is composed of sadness and the thought of the cause of that sadness, then, after
the thought is switched off, sadness still remains. Perhaps sadness is better than
hate, but it is still a negative emotion. Is it enough to replace one negative emo-
tion with another?
Spinoza’s proposal would be susceptible to all these objections if it were in
fact as simple as it appears at first glance. A few details must be borne in mind,
however. Spinoza does not claim, as Bennett supposes, that mere distraction
is sufficient. A person who separates a thought should not stop his cognitive
activity (for example, by going to sleep), but should have a different cognitive
activity. In an explanation, Spinoza explicitly states the goal “that the affect it-
self may be separated from the thought of an external cause and joined to true
thoughts” (5p4s). Thus the goal is not merely separation, but at the same time
reconnection with another thought that is true—that is, one that represents an
object and its effect on oneself as it in fact is. This is also made clear in the pas-
sage previously cited in which Spinoza mentions the separation of a thought.
There he specifies that he is not referring to just any thought, but to the thought
that confusedly represents the external cause. When this idea is separated, it
must be replaced by another that is as clear and distinct as possible. The clearer
and the more distinct it is, the better it represents the external cause as it in
fact is.
With these clarifications in mind, Spinoza’s therapeutic proposal appears
more nuanced. The goal of the separation is to replace a confused idea with
a true one. For this to take place, no entity called “will” needs to intervene,
switching off one thought and switching on another. All that is needed is for
a larger explanatory framework to be constructed. The confusion of an idea
arises from the fact that it is incompletely connected with other ideas, and thus
inadequate.66 The more we overcome that inadequacy, and the more completely
an idea is connected with other ideas, the more comprehensive and dense is
our explanatory framework. Nothing needs to be voluntarily separated; on the
contrary: everything available must be taken into account—perceptions, mental
27
images, earlier thoughts. The example of the person who hates his neighbor
may serve to illustrate this. That person’s error is that he has a confused repre-
sentation of his neighbor. Perhaps he believes his neighbor killed his cat and
poisoned the rosebushes. If he now separates this representation, he does not
need to suppress an idea by force of will, but to weave as dense a network of
representations as possible. To that end, he must investigate why the cat died and
why the rosebushes wilted. If he then finds out that the neighbor was completely
uninvolved (the cat was hit by a car; the roses were overfertilized), and in fact
the neighbor offered his help on many tasks, then the person obtains a clearer
and more distinct representation. He does not simply switch thoughts on and
off but produces as complete an interconnection as possible among all thoughts.
In this way he succeeds in not representing his neighbor as a villain any longer,
and thus his hate for the neighbor disappears. And if the neighbor really did
kill the cat and poison the rosebushes? Then, too, the hate would disappear (in
the ideal case, at least) the moment the person gains an understanding of his
unfortunate biography. A person who understands that someone traumatized
by childhood experiences finds an outlet for his inner conflicts in apparently
senseless actions can feel concern or even pity for his neighbor, but not hate.
But isn’t there a negative emotion left over? If we subtract the representation
from hate, which is composed of sadness and a representation of the external
cause, then sadness is still left. Is it ultimately impossible to gain anything by
overcoming a confused representation? Not at all. Hate arises from representing
an external object in such a way that it diminishes one’s own power and so elicits
sadness. But if we change that representation, for example, by appraising our
neighbor as a friendly, obliging person, we no longer apprehend him as some-
thing threatening that diminishes our own power. As a result, sadness no longer
arises. In the best case, the sadness is even replaced by a friendly attachment.
If it turns out that our neighbor does in fact have evil intentions, the sadness
still disappears the moment we comprehend his whole biography and represent
him as someone who cannot help performing destructive acts as an outlet. This
quite clearly shows Spinoza’s strictly representationalistic explanatory strategy
once again: when confused representations are replaced by clear and distinct
ones, this does not merely remove a component from a negative emotion but
transforms the whole emotion.
Now let us examine the third way of gaining power over the motions by
cognitive activities. Spinoza writes that it consists “in the time by which the
affections related to things we understand surpass those related to things we
conceive confusedly, or in a mutilated way” (5p20s). The objective here is evi-
dently not to alleviate or overcome an emotion momentarily. The crucial fact is
rather that a change takes place over a longer period: an emotion that is based
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on a confused representation is gradually supplanted by another that is based

on an understanding, that is, on a clear and distinct representation. This is easy
to illustrate using the example of the dog. The person who is afraid of the dog
because he thinks it is a threatening guard dog will gradually overcome his fear
when he understands that it is the neighbor’s harmless pet. Of course, there is
no guarantee that the emotional transformation will in fact take place. Perhaps
the dog’s ferocious appearance is so intense that the fear can never be defini-
tively conquered. Nor is there any guarantee that the transformation takes place
quickly. Depending on the intensity of the fear, it may take days or weeks before
it declines. But at least it is possible in principle to alleviate or overcome the fear
because changing a representation always changes the emotion.
This explanation may be persuasive in regard to the present example, but
it arouses objections when applied to other examples. Thus one might ask
whether overcoming a confused representation always leads to overcoming the
corresponding emotion. Suppose someone is at first afraid of the dog because
he represents it quite confusedly as a dangerous guard dog. Then he investigates
and finds out that it is in fact a guard dog, a particularly vicious Rottweiler that
has been trained with severe methods. In this case, doesn’t the increasing clarity
and distinctness of the representation lead to a more intense fear? Furthermore,
we can critically ask whether one emotion is really gradually alleviated by an-
other. Isn’t it possible that a permanent conflict exists between two emotions?
Or couldn’t it be that an equilibrium occurs?67 Just imagine that someone buys
an old house and spontaneously loves it because he represents it as a comfort-
able home that elicits well-being in him. With time, however, he notices that the
house is urgently in need of renovation and consumes vast amounts of time and
money. Then he represents it as something burdensome that reduces his well-
being. Nonetheless, he can still represent it and love it as a comfortable home.
Perhaps over time a love–hate relation will develop in which the two conflicting
emotions have equal weight. Why should one emotion be diminished over time
by the other?
These objections are justified, but, on a closer examination of Spinoza’s spe-
cial conception of confusion, they can be refuted. Spinoza explains that concep-
tion in the second part of the Ethics, in which he gives his definition of truth
and falsity. In his view, “falsity consists in the privation of knowledge which
inadequate, or mutilated and confused, ideas involve” (2p35). Thus representing
confusedly means representing something only deficiently and hence falsely.
We represent an object with only some of those properties that it has, or we
ascribe properties to it that it does not have. The resolution of this confusion
consists in a gradual approximation of a correct representation that represents
all those properties and only those properties that the object really has. The
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more correct the representation is, the better we understand how the object
is really constituted. On the basis of this understanding, we then produce the
emotion that is adequate to the object—not because we are overwhelmed by the
emotion, but because we come to the conclusion that an object constituted thus
and so merits a certain emotional attitude. Thus a person who understands that
the dog is in fact a dangerous Rottweiler no longer reacts with spontaneous fear,
but with caution, and perhaps with a certain equanimity or even curiosity. He
understands then how we must confront the animal and in which situations it is
or is not dangerous, and he behaves toward it rather like an experienced animal
trainer. Hence his fear does not increase, but in fact diminishes and gives way to
a different emotional state. The crucial point here is that the new state is brought
about actively. An animal trainer is not surprised by equanimity, but puts him-
self in this state by appraising the animal accurately.
In regard to the second objection, we must bear in mind that objects are
never good or bad absolutely, but always in regard to a certain person and in a
certain respect. For this reason, it is quite possible that different representations
of an object are formed in different respects, and accordingly produce different
emotions. These emotions can of course conflict with one another, or may bal-
ance each other out. It may well be, for example, that the owner of the old house
represents it positively in respect of its living quality (and thus loves it), but
negatively in respect of the amount of work and money it consumes (and ac-
cordingly hates it), and that one respect or the other tips the scales depending
on the given situation. Spinoza does not claim that only one representation
predominates over time and therefore only one emotion remains. He merely
points out that, with time, the clear and distinct representation supplants the
confused one. But confusion, or conversely clarity and distinctness, always
exists in a certain respect. Thus we may at first have a confused representation
of the house in a financial respect (for example, by estimating the expense of
renovation as small), and then an increasingly clear and distinct representation
(by drawing up a correct appraisal). Then the emotion that is elicited by a clear
and distinct representation in this respect will prevail over that which is based
on a confused representation.
But why should clarity and distinctness prevail over confusion? The main
reason is that a clear and distinct representation brings with it stability. When
we have a clear and distinct representation, we no longer ascribe first one prop
erty and then another to an object, and we do not ascribe to it a property that
it merely seems to have. Rather, we then ascribe to it all those and only those
properties that it in fact has, regardless of the situation in which we discern it.
Furthermore, as Spinoza notes (5p7d), we ascribe to it those properties—such
as rest and motion—that it has in common with other objects and never loses.
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From this stable representation, a stable emotion arises that prevails over the
unstable one. A person who has once discerned how the Rottweiler is really
constituted will no longer be deceived. A person who represents the dog only
confusedly, by contrast, vacillates between fear and curiosity, depending on the
situation in which he perceives it and which properties he ascribes to it.
The fourth way of performing a cognitive therapy consists “in the mul-
tiplicity of causes by which affections [ . . . ] are encouraged” (5p20s). Here
Spinoza underscores that we should not limit our attention to a single cause.
If we relate to “more and different causes which the mind considers together
with the affect itself, it is less harmful” (5p9). We might call this a strategy of
differentiating. By considering as many causes as possible, we can gain an accu-
rate picture of why we have a certain emotion. The more accurate this picture
is, the more the emotion changes. Let us consider once more the example of the
person who hates his neighbor. He hates him because he blames him and only
him for the death of his cat and the wilting of his rosebushes. How can he alle-
viate or completely overcome his hate? He should first consider whether he is
blaming the neighbor justly for these acts. But, second, he should also consider
whether his hate does not have other causes as well. Is he simply projecting his
own accumulated frustrations at his neighbor? Or does the neighbor remind
him of an unfriendly teacher from his childhood, so that he transfers his hate
by the association principle from the teacher to his neighbor? Or is he secretly
envious of his neighbor because the neighbor has a bigger house on a better
lot? The more clearly he recognizes the true causes of his hate and the better he
understands how he is consciously or unconsciously blaming his neighbor, the
better he can reduce his hate. For example, he can force himself to distinguish
clearly between his former teacher and his present neighbor and so defeat the
association mechanism. Or he can understand that it is unreasonable to proj
ect all his frustrations on his neighbor. In a word, understanding the causes of
the hate leads him to expose some of the causes as untenable, and the hate is
alleviated accordingly.
The fifth way of treating one’s emotions is closely connected with the fourth.
It lies “in the order by which the mind can order its affects and connect them to
one another” (5p20s). That is, a confused order should be made into one as clear
and distinct as possible. Then one emotion can be seen to be produced by an-
other, and it also becomes clear where a questionable causal connection has been
made. The order can then be revised accordingly. A person who understands
that his hatred of his neighbor was produced by unjustified envy can reduce it
by eliminating the envy and thus the causal connection between envy and hate.
Spinoza goes so far as to claim that an understanding of the causal
connections leads to an avoidance of the mutual reinforcement of emotions in
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social relations. That is, we can react to hate or anger, not with hate or anger of
our own, but with love or nobility (4p46). Why? Because we understand that
a hateful person only becomes more hateful if we respond with hate ourselves.
And such a person has a negative effect on our own well-being. Hence it is
better to alleviate that person’s hate by the most positive emotional reaction
possible. Only then does his hate diminish, and only then does he cease to
compromise our well-being. A noteworthy aspect of this explanation is that
it builds on the principle of enlightened egoism: it is in our own interest not
to answer hate with hate, because only in this way can the decrease of our
own power be avoided. This presupposes, however, that we first understand
the consequences of answering hate with hate. Here again, the more accu-
rate our picture of the causal context, the more specifically we can break the
connections and reduce an emotion.
All five of the therapies that Spinoza proposes evidently build on the thesis
that passive emotions can be reduced or eliminated only if there is an under-
standing of their genesis and structure. Such an understanding presupposes
in turn the construction of an explanatory framework that is as comprehen-
sive as possible. This requires an active mind, which is just as much a com-
ponent of the comprehensive causal order as other objects. This approach
enables Spinoza to explain how it is possible to transform emotions within a
natural order, not to influence them from outside. There is no doubt that this
elegant approach fits smoothly in the frame of a methodological naturalism,
but it raises critical questions. In conclusion, two central problems may be
mentioned.
A first problem arises from Spinoza’s repeated statement that only a free
person acts in accordance with the guidance of reason, because only such a
person produces emotions by himself (4p59d, p68d). The frequent refer-
ence to the “dictates of reason” [dictamen rationis] underscores the fact that
reason involves a prescriptive and not merely a descriptive dimension. Indeed,
Spinoza states explicitly that reason makes demands. “It demands,” he says,
“that everyone love himself, seek his own advantage [ . . . ], want what will
really lead man to a greater perfection” (4p18s). But in what sense can reason
demand something? Normally, demands are understood as being prescriptive
instructions that one can follow or not. Thus the demands to pay a sum of
money and to present identification are instructions that we can obey or not.
Although we must expect sanctions if we resist these instructions, in principle
we can refuse to obey them. But can we resist the dictates of reason? One argu-
ment that we cannot is Spinoza’s explicit denial that there is a particular entity
called “will” that can assent to or refuse an instruction. In his view, the alleged
will is only the mental expression of the aspiration [conatus] that is inherent in
27
every living being and responsible for every living being’s striving to preserve
its power (3p9s; 3app, G 190). To put it crudely, we might say the will is merely
an internal motor that drives every living being. But it is not an entity that
could assent to or reject a demand. The question therefore arises as to whom a
prescriptive instruction is being given, and indeed whether such an instruction
is given at all.
Rüdiger Bittner has claimed that Spinoza’s references to the dictates and the
guidance of reason are “mere vestiges of tradition”68 that no longer have their
original meaning, because it makes no sense to speak of commands where there
is no entity that could obey or refuse a command. But, in that case, the pre-
scriptive instruction that every person should be active and produce emotions
by himself ultimately makes no sense either. No one can obey or refuse such an
instruction by a decision of the will. Rather, every person is always more or less
active and produces emotions because of his internal striving. The degree of ac-
tivity depends on the individual’s history, which likewise cannot be determined
voluntarily. The question inevitably arises, however, of whether it is still appro-
priate to demand that every person should become active and take the steps just
described to reduce passive emotions and produce active ones.
To illustrate this, let us examine once again the case of the person who is
spontaneously seized with a hatred of his neighbor. If he was raised to ask
himself critically whether he has a good reason for hating, or whether he is
not simply projecting his frustrations on his neighbor, or perhaps transferring
his hatred of an earlier teacher to his neighbor by the association principle,
then he cannot help constructing explanatory frameworks and reducing his
hate. His biography has induced him to display a certain degree of activity and
to take action against the passive emotion. He has not decided for or against
the dictates of reason, but has acted as he had to act in view of his individual
character.
This inevitability of his action is reinforced by the necessitarianism that
Spinoza espouses, as we have seen. If there is a single causal order in which
all objects are embedded, then every person is also a component of that order,
and his degree of activity is determined by the prior causal history. No one can
choose whether they want to be more or less active, whether they want to take
more or less action against their passive emotions—everyone is active to the
extent that they must be active in accordance with their individual histories.
However, this exacerbates the problem that the prescriptive dimension loses
its meaning. To exhort someone to become active, construct explanatory
frameworks, overcome confused ideas, and thus reduce passive emotions makes
sense only if the person has freedom, that is, if he can choose whether or not he
would like to become active. But if his degree of activity is already completely
278
determined by prior history, then he has no freedom. This of course casts doubt
upon the agenda of a cognitive therapy, or at least changes its character. It is no
longer a prescriptive agenda, because the goal can no longer be for a person
to decide to become as active as possible and put his ideas in better order. The
agenda has at most a descriptive character. It shows how active a person in fact
is, in light of his prior causal history, and to what extent he is able to overcome
the confusion of his ideas.
A second problem also arises from necessitarianism. As we have seen, the
freedom that each person has does not consist in choosing between various
alternative actions. How every individual acts at every moment is determined
by the necessary comprehensive order. Freedom consists only in the fact that
every person is the cause of his actions—including the mental actions with
which he builds explanatory frameworks and produces active emotions. In a
word, everyone becomes free by acquiring knowledge and acting on the basis
of that knowledge. But what is that freedom worth if it does not open up any
new possibilities for action? Isaiah Berlin put his finger on this problem when
he criticized that Spinoza prematurely equated a gain in cognition with a
gain in freedom: “Freedom from error, from illusion, fantasy, misdirection of
emotions—certainly all these. But is this the central meaning of the word as
we commonly use it in philosophy or common speech?”69 Berlin’s answer was
decidedly negative. Our understanding of freedom includes not only being free
from something, especially from confusion in our thinking, but also, at least
in equal measure, being free for something, namely for an action that we can
choose from among a number of possible actions. But it is precisely this positive
freedom that is lost in Spinoza’s conception.
In his defense, one might reply that that is the key feature of his concep-
tion: he exposes the assumption of alternative possibilities as illusory, and
thus exposes the assumption of a positive freedom as a self-delusion that we
suffer because we do not want to admit that, in truth, all our actions, including
mental actions, are determined. If only we understand that our actions are
subject to a necessary order, then we can overcome the illusory belief in a pos-
itive freedom. Then we can also understand that, because of our prior history,
we cannot help exhibiting a certain degree of activity, constructing a certain
amount of explanatory frameworks, and thus producing a certain amount of
active emotions.
This defense correctly points out that Spinoza pursues a therapeutic proj
ect not only with respect to individual emotions, but also in a comprehensive
sense: he offers a kind of intellectual treatment to cure all readers of the Ethics
of the false belief in alternative possibilities. When we have understood that
279
positive freedom is an illusion, then, in his view, we can turn our attention to
the only true freedom, which is the freedom to be active. The defense fails to
mention an important point, however: the gain in this special freedom alleg-
edly results always in positive emotions. They are all forms of desire and joy,
as Spinoza writes (3p59). But why should increased rational activity and the
consequent increased understanding of necessary causal connections always
produce a positive emotion? Could it not be that, on the basis of such an un-
derstanding, we also form a negative emotion, such as despair over the fact that
we have no choice between different possible actions? Spinoza would firmly dis-
pute this: “For insofar as we understand, we can want nothing except what is
necessary, nor absolutely be satisfied with anything except what is true” (4app,
G 276). The understanding of necessary causal connections, whatever fatal
consequences it may have, makes us content and happy in itself.
But why does mere knowledge make us happy? And why does this happi-
ness, according to Spinoza, outweigh all the negative emotions that we have as
a result of external influences? Once again, the answer lies in the representa-
tionalist explanatory frame. Because emotions, in mental respects, are nothing
but representations, and because a person produces positive emotions when he
forms representations that are as complete as possible—that is, when he forms
adequate ideas—knowledge cannot lead to anything but positive emotions.
For Spinoza, gaining knowledge always means having representations that
are as complete and thus as correct as possible. Even a person who correctly
represents something that has negative consequences for him must gain a posi-
tive emotion—for the sole reason that such a representation increases his power.
Consequently, the greatest joy is that of a person who discerns the whole nec-
essary causal history. Or, as Spinoza himself puts it, the greatest joy consists in
nothing other than the knowledge of God (5p27d).
This thesis does not express a mystical attitude, as one might at first sus-
pect, but a complete rationalistic one. Because for Spinoza God is nothing
other than the comprehensive substance or nature, the knowledge of God is
nothing other than the knowledge of nature with all its causal processes. This
knowledge alone, as the highest representational state, is in itself the highest joy.
But is that convincing? Only if we accept Spinoza’s thoroughly representation-
alist conception of the human mind. Only then is it plausible that a complete
representation of nature, including our own life histories, implies the greatest
joy—no matter how many disappointments and injuries those life histories
bring with them. If Spinoza’s whole explanatory strategy appears strange today,
it is not least because the equation of complete representation and greatest joy
seems doubtful. Doesn’t a positive emotion include something more than a
280
complete representation, such as the positive appraisal and purposeful assent

to that which is represented? And doesn’t such an assent presuppose a positive
freedom—namely the choice between different courses of one’s own life history,
a choice that also permits the avoidance of disappointments and injuries? Those
who would pose these questions cannot make do with correcting Spinoza’s
theory of the emotions at isolated points but must inevitably transform its
whole metaphysical frame.
281
Conclusion
T he thesis of Wittgenstein quoted at the outset of this

book—that the meaning of a statement such as “I am frightened” can be deter-
mined only in a concrete context—could hardly be illustrated more clearly than
in relation to selected theories of the emotions of the late 13th to 17th centuries.
The meaning of fear is clear only in the context of a theory of the mind that sets
the emotions in relation to perceptions, sensations, judgments, acts of volition,
and desires. A given theory of the mind is in turn understandable only within
a metaphysical frame in which the structure of mental phenomena and their
relation to physical phenomena are explained. Hence an analysis of emotions
cannot content itself with describing individual cases of fear, joy, anger, etc.
It must examine these cases as they are characterized in a theoretical context
and distinguished from other phenomena. That means, as we have seen in the
preceding five chapters, that it must concentrate on the hylomorphic, skeptical,
dualistic, or monistic explanatory frame. Not only are the effects and the con-
trollability of emotions explained and classified differently depending on the
frame, but also the emotions themselves (or, in more precise terminology, the
passiones or affectus).
This has at least two consequences in a methodological regard. First, it would
be inappropriate to start with a list of basic emotions and merely investigate
how they are explained by individual authors. As we have seen, there was no
consensus about the nature and number of the basic emotions. Thomas Aquinas
counted eleven, Descartes six, Spinoza only three, Duns Scotus and Ockham
did not name any specific number, and Montaigne considered it an error to
draw up any such list at all. Whether it is at all possible to define basic emotions
and, if so, which emotions should be included among them depends on the
given theoretical frame. As early as in the late 16th century, Suárez pointed out
that the number “accords with the method of a theory.”1 For that reason we must
look at the given theory and ask how certain metaphysical assumptions shape
the taxonomy of basic emotions. A philosopher who begins, as Spinoza does,
from the metaphysical thesis that all living beings—animals as well as human
beings—are characterized by an aspiration to maintain their own power will
define emotions with reference to that aspiration. Hence it is not surprising
that Spinoza defines as basic emotions, besides that striving itself, only joy (an
281
28
increase in power) and sadness (a decrease in power). But a philosopher who

considers the orientation toward a formal object as the crucial characteristic of
emotions, as Thomas Aquinas does, will postulate a much greater number of
basic emotions depending on what kind of formal object each one has—a good
or bad object, an object arduously or effortlessly aspired to, etc. And a philos-
opher like Montaigne who refuses, as a Pyrrhonian skeptic, to commit him-
self to any dogmatic opinion will merely give descriptions of various emotions
without assenting to any established opinion—not for lack of systematic order,
but for methodological reasons. Studies in the history of philosophy therefore
must not limit themselves to comparing how similar or different late medieval
and early modern authors stood from present-day lists of basic emotions. The
challenge and the particular interest of such investigations lies in the recon-
struction of the given theoretical frame that enables—or prohibits—one to des-
ignate basic emotions in the first place. When we realize how heavily this frame
depends on fundamental metaphysical and methodological assumptions and
how changeable those assumptions are, we also become aware of the contin-
gency of present-day explanatory frames.2
Second, a sharper eye for the given theoretical contexts makes it clear that
it would be erroneous to narrate a linear development, not to mention a tele-
ological history, of late medieval and early modern theories of the emotions.
This would be inappropriate, first, because these theories did not simply follow
one after another, but in some cases coexisted simultaneously. In the 17th cen-
tury, Aristotelian-scholastic theories competed with the Cartesian explana-
tory model, and Montaigne’s skeptical attitude toward theoretical explanations
was still widespread among moralists when the representationalist theories of
Descartes and Spinoza were well known. Moreover, it was the simultaneous pres-
ence of different theories that permitted philosophical debates and encouraged
the evaluation of the advantages and drawbacks of different explanatory models.
Another reason why it would be erroneous to refer to a linear development
leading from simple theories to ever more complex doctrines with greater ex-
planatory power is that 17th-century theories were not more comprehensive or
richer than those of the 13th or 14th century; they merely rested on different
theoretical assumptions and hence offered different explanations. The persua-
siveness of the respective explanations depends crucially on the persuasiveness
of the corresponding theoretical frame. An example may serve to illustrate this.
For Thomas Aquinas, love is a basic emotion. It is elicited by a good, immediately
present object actualizing the sensual–appetitive faculty, and it is characterized
by an attraction to that object.3 This very brief description contains at least three
substantial theoretical assumptions. First, Aquinas presupposes a psychology of
faculties (love arises only through the actualization of a certain faculty); second,
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Conclusion 283
he applies a metaphysical theory of things with specific properties (an object

actualizes the appetitive faculty only because it has a certain normative prop
erty); and third, he chooses a frame of cognitive theory (the state that arises
through the actualization of the appetitive faculty is directed at an object and
thus has a cognitive content). If we grant these assumptions, we can elegantly
explain what kind of state love is, how this state arises, what its effects are, and
how its cognitive content distinguishes it from other states. But of course the
whole explanation hinges on those assumptions. If we reject the psychology of
faculties, as the anti-Aristotelian authors of the early modern period did, then
the reference to the actualization of a faculty is invalid—not because it is insuf-
ficiently informative and cannot explain enough, but because its whole persua-
siveness dissolves the moment the theoretical frame is rejected.
For the sake of comparison, let us look at Spinoza’s explanation of love. For
him love is a joy and thus an increase in our own power coinciding with an idea
of the external cause of this increase.4 This definition too contains at least three
theoretical assumptions. First, Spinoza presupposes the thesis that a striving for
increase in one’s own power, and thus an internal drive, is the basis of every
emotion. Second, he applies the representationalist thesis that the mind is able
to form an idea. And third, he draws on a theory of causality when he says that
a person’s own power is increased by an external cause because every person,
and everything for that matter, is bound up in a causal chain. Spinoza too is
able to distinguish love from other emotions and to explain both its origins and
its particular effects. But the persuasiveness of his explanation depends on the
entire theoretical frame. His reference to an increase in power and to the idea
of an external cause makes sense only if we are willing to conceive persons as
dynamic entities who have a power of their own, and only if we also ascribe
to them representations. Spinoza’s explanation of love is not more complex or
richer than the one Aquinas proposes; rather, it fits a different theoretical frame
and therefore emphasizes different aspects. Only if we examine the respective
frame does it become apparent what the critical differences are.
This point is important to bear in mind to avoid the misunderstanding that a
later theory definitively supersedes an earlier one, or practically sweeps it aside
in a revolutionary act. The moment a certain theoretical frame becomes ap-
pealing again, the corresponding explanation of an emotion—such as love—
becomes philosophically interesting again. Thus it is not surprising that there
was a resurgence of the Aristotelian-scholastic approach in the 20th century
in the course of a partial rehabilitation of the psychology of faculties and the
theory of formal objects.5 But we must also consider the given theoretical frame
to avoid a premature criticism of the theories of past eras. For example, it has
been claimed that the cognitive value of emotions was overlooked until the 20th
284
century and that cognitivistic analysis is a necessary corrective to the formerly

customary reduction of emotions to simply experienced feelings.6 If we examine
some specific examples, such as Aquinas and Spinoza, we find anything but a
primitive theory of feelings. Both of these authors emphasized the cognitive
content of emotions, although they explained it differently in accordance with
their different theoretical frames: Aquinas by reference to formal objects and
the connection between apprehensive and appetitive states, Spinoza by refer-
ence to ideas as representations. In fact, these authors in particular repudiated a
theory of feelings concerned solely with a special experience or the presence of
phenomenal qualities. Aquinas considered it unreasonable to assume a special
feeling or experience in addition to the orientation toward a formal object and
the physical change. And Spinoza’s model characteristically explains feeling or
experience as a representation of one’s own physical state and thus as a cognitive
act.7 The critical question is not whether Aquinas and Spinoza considered the
cognitive dimension at all, but how they accounted for it in the light of certain
theoretical assumptions.
Although it would be mistaken to interpret this history simply as one of
surmounting old theories or of a succession of noncognitivist models, it is un-
deniable that the theoretical frame changed profoundly during the long period
from the 13th to the 17th centuries. Moreover, that frame itself increasingly
became the topic of philosophical discussion, as evidenced in Descartes and
Spinoza. They analyzed emotions in the context of theoretical philosophy—not
only practical philosophy—and insisted that metaphysical clarifications are nec-
essary to understand what emotions are.8 How did this increasingly theoretical
interest arise? And how did the metaphysical explanatory frame successively
change in the course of theoretical analysis? Or, to return to the question posed
in the introduction, how did the transformation of the metaphysical model
come about? We can identify at least four developments in that transformation.
A first influential development can be seen in the reinterpretation and sub-
sequent rejection of Aristotelian hylomorphism. For an Aristotelian such as
Aquinas, it was clear that every person has one substantial form. Because he
conceived that form as an activity principle, he postulated that only one prin-
ciple is responsible for engendering states of the soul—including emotions.
The reference to different faculties did not impede this unity thesis because
faculties are not independent entities, much less agents, but merely internal
mechanisms in which the form’s activity is manifested. Thus it was clear to
Aquinas that all emotions can be explained by reference to a form. Hence he
tried to show how this form is active when certain objects are present and stim-
ulate a certain mechanism (namely the sensual–appetitive faculty). This picture
underwent significant change as early as Ockham. Because Ockham assumed
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Conclusion 285
a plurality of forms, he no longer explained emotions by reference to a single

form. In his view, two forms and thus two distinct souls must be examined.
Each of these forms produces its own emotions, that is, the sensual and the vol-
itive emotions. In this connection it is remarkable not only that the unity of the
emotions breaks down—that is, the sensual emotions are completely different
in their genesis and structure from the volitive emotions. It is also striking that
the unity of the activity principle is dissolved too: there are now two principles
responsible for engendering emotions. The picture changes still more radically
with Descartes and Spinoza, both of whom reject the assumption of forms al-
together. This of course raises the question of what kind of an activity principle
there might be. What produces states such as fear or joy? Descartes answers this
question by distinguishing two areas: the physical component (i.e., the brain
states) is produced by material objects acting upon an organism; the mental
component (i.e., the perceptions) is produced by the mind itself as an imma-
terial substance. Hence it is no wonder that Descartes analyzes two separate
causal fields. Spinoza proceeds in a different way. He replaces the active form
with the comprehensive active substance and at the same time with the internal
power that enables every object to produce emotions itself. To analyze the gen-
esis of emotions, we must, according to Spinoza, first observe what causal order
the comprehensive substance has, and how objects in this order act upon a
person and produce emotions. At the same time, however, we must also ex-
amine how persons can produce emotions themselves by virtue of their internal
power. Regardless of the details of the respective explanations of the origins of
the emotions, the change in the explanatory frame is significant here. The mo-
ment the thesis that an individual form is responsible for producing emotions
has been abandoned, it is necessary to explain what forms or other principles
are responsible and what causal power they have. Hence it is not surprising that
theories of the emotions in the 17th century concentrated increasingly on the
analysis of a causal order. To put it succinctly: as forms, and with them formal
causes, became obsolete, the focus was increasingly placed on the analysis of
efficient causes.9
A second important change took place through the critique of the
Aristotelian theory of cognition. Numerous Aristotelians held that emotions
are directed at certain objects and have a cognitive content only because the
given objects have properties that can be assimilated. Thus a person who sees a
gray, dangerous wolf absorbs the wolf ’s color and, according to Aquinas, even
its hostility as a normative property.10 This absorption of properties produces
a cognition that in turn elicits an emotion such as fear. Early modern authors
rejected this explanation categorically, substituting a representation for the as-
similation: a person who sees a gray, dangerous wolf relates to it because he
286
forms an idea that represents it in a certain way. Because this idea represents
the wolf as something dangerous, the person becomes afraid. Descartes and
Spinoza went so far as to claim that the idea not only elicits the fear but is
a constitutive component of it: a person fears the wolf by representing it as
something dangerous. Of course, this explanation presupposed that emotions
are essentially defined as representations, and that a theory of the emotions
formed part of a comprehensive theory of representation. An analysis of
emotions was therefore always accompanied by a study of representations, for
example, by the study of the problem of why emotions are only “confused”
representations and what distinguishes them from “distinct” representations.
A classification of the emotions was likewise accompanied by a classification
of various kinds of objects of representation, as, for example, in the determina-
tion that love represents a different external cause than hate does. Here again,
the details are not as important as the change in the line of questioning and the
corresponding shift in the explanatory frame.11 The question of what properties
the objects have in themselves and what properties we must assimilate to have
certain emotions was supplanted by the question of how we must represent the
objects and what represented properties are relevant.
A third incisive change that can be observed is of a methodological na-
ture: that is, the tendency to naturalize the emotions and their bearers. Aquinas
himself insisted on a standpoint of natural philosophy: because emotions are
states of a natural organism (those of an animal as well as those of a human
being) that are brought about by the presence of certain objects, we must in-
vestigate exactly how they are brought about and what bodily movements they
motivate. Furthermore, Aquinas pointed out that emotions, like perceptions or
mental images, are in many cases simply triggered in us whether we like it or
not. However, Aquinas also stated that we human beings (quite unlike animals)
can moderate or purposely kindle the emotions that are aroused naturally be-
cause we, as rational beings, have intellectual and volitive abilities that we can
use as we want. Thus we are not only situated in nature, but also in a certain
way above it, or at least above material nature and its causal processes.12 Duns
Scotus and Ockham emphasized this situation still more distinctly by pointing
out that we are not only overcome by sensual emotions, but can also produce
volitive emotions ourselves, and with complete freedom. Our free will lifts us
up above the rest of nature.13 Montaigne leveled his criticism at precisely this
hierarchical conception. He stated succinctly, “We are neither above nor below
the rest: all that is under heaven, says the sage, incurs the same law and the same
fortune.”14 Montaigne considered it a mistake to distinguish between higher ra-
tional faculties and lower sensual faculties, thus dividing human beings from
animals. The use of the supposedly higher faculties is also subject to causal
287
Conclusion 287
influences, habit, and conditioning processes. Human beings are thoroughly

natural living things which are subject to certain laws in all their activities—
including thinking and willing. Hence it would be inappropriate to ascribe to
them special control mechanisms for sensual emotions or to ascribe to them
volitive emotions for that matter, which raise them above the natural world. If
we want to understand why people have certain emotions in certain situations,
we must observe how they have been shaped by natural influences, as well as
by upbringing and social practices, and we must note what use they make of
various equivalent abilities. Spinoza too refused to accord a privileged position
to human beings. We should not consider them as a “dominion within a do-
minion” and think that special rational abilities allow them to flout natural laws
that apply to the rest of nature.15 Human beings always act in nature and are al-
ways subject to natural laws. Of course, that means that the human emotions as
products of nature are to be regarded in the light of universal laws—even if we
believe we can defy the causal order. It goes without saying that this tendency
toward naturalization is expressed in different ways in Montaigne and Spinoza,
but it increasingly shaped the discussion of the emotions from the late 16th cen-
tury on. Both the origins of the emotions and our control over them were no
longer defined by reference to special rational faculties above or outside nature,
but by reference to causal processes in nature.
Finally, we may observe a fourth change that characterized the discussion of
the emotions beginning in the 16th century. Although Aristotelian-scholastic
authors presented different analyses and classifications of the emotions, all of
them agreed that a theory of the emotions must be developed as part of a psy-
chology of faculties. The critical question for them was not whether such a
theory is possible at all, but how it should be formulated. This changed with
the rediscovery of skeptical texts, especially those of the Pyrrhonian tradition.
Now the fundamental question arose as to whether a theoretical explanation
can be expected at all. This skeptical approach is seen particularly distinctly
in Montaigne, who in the Pyrrhonian way abstained from judgment about
the structure and classification of emotions, concentrating instead on de-
tailed case descriptions of individual emotions. Both the search for essential
properties and the definition of basic emotions were dogmatic enterprises to
be avoided. He was interested rather in how varied the emotions are (even if
they are grouped under a common label) and what ways of dealing with them
suggest themselves in specific situations. In this respect, Montaigne does not
simply present an alternative to the theories of an Aquinas, Duns Scotus, or
Ockham—he does not oppose them with any theory of his own. Rather, he
chooses a different approach to the problem of emotions, questioning the ex-
pectations of theoretical explanation. In developing later theories, Descartes
28
and Spinoza were responding not least to this methodological challenge. With
appeals to new metaphysical models, they tried to show that explanations can
indeed be expected and supplied.
Of course, the four changes mentioned here do not include all the elements
that contributed to a transformation of the metaphysical models. However, they
are central elements that were important not only in changing the explanation
of the nature and genesis of emotions; they also played a key role for the way in
which a possible transformation of the emotions was explained. The answer to
the question of whether and how emotions are controllable and perhaps even
surmountable changed substantially under the influence of an increasing cri-
tique of hylomorphism and of the Aristotelian cognitive model, and in parallel
with naturalization and a general skepticism toward theoretical explanations.
This is especially clear in a comparison of three authors: Aquinas, Montaigne,
and Spinoza.
For Aquinas, there could be no question that emotions can and indeed must
be controlled, even if they are often elicited by external objects. Because every
person has a unitary soul, and the intellect practically forms “the horizon and
the limit” of all the other faculties, it influences the emotions in the sensual–
appetitive faculty.16 As we have seen, it can do so not only after emotions have
been spontaneously elicited (for example, by producing judgments that effect a
changed mental image or a reappraisal of the impinging objects), but also be-
fore a natural influence has taken place. The intellect can activate the faculties
that are subordinate to it, and so produce mental images that inevitably elicit
emotions. To use Aquinas’ own example, by a decision of the will, we can make
ourselves vividly imagine licking flames, gnawing worms, and other torments
of Hell; this will kindle the fear of Hell in us.17 Of course, this does not mean
that the intellect can produce emotions directly. Because all emotions are sen-
sual states, the sensual–appetitive faculty must be involved. The intellect can
kindle emotions indirectly, however, by activating the sensual faculty that then
produces emotions. The important point is that a purposeful regulation of the
emotions is possible because the faculties of the soul, its internal mechanisms,
are coordinated with one another and hierarchically ordered. In more concrete
terms, that means we can kindle a fear of Hell in ourselves because the intellect
can activate the imagination, which in turn can activate the sensual–appetitive
faculty. And of course the intellect can also increase or moderate the fear by
connecting the mental images with judgments that make the torments of Hell
appear more or less painful.
The critical point is that such an explanation of the controllability of emotions
presupposes a certain hylomorphic theory of the soul, and a certain cognitive
theory as well. Only if we assume that there are coordinated faculties can we
289
Conclusion 289
argue that an activity of the intellectual faculty sets off a kind of chain reaction
in the other faculties. And only if we also suppose that every emotion has a
sensual–cognitive content can we argue further that a changed mental image
will result in a changed emotion, or even a new emotion. If we dispute these the-
oretical assumptions, the whole explanation collapses. Thus it is not surprising
that Descartes sharply rejected the idea of emotions in the sensual faculty being
controlled by an intellectual faculty—not because it was incoherent or did not
explain enough, but because, in his view, it was based on misleading metaphys-
ical assumptions. For him, faculties as manifestations of an active form were
entities void of explanatory significance.18 Hence he set himself the task, not
just of revising some details of the traditional explanation after Aquinas, but of
doing away with that explanation altogether.
Montaigne went a different way. He considered the idea of hierarchically
ordered faculties suspect, but not because he thought the Aristotelian psy-
chology of faculties had to be replaced by a new theory. Montaigne took a
skeptical attitude toward theories in general. This did not lead him to reject
Aquinas’ approach outright (even a negative dogmatic attitude is unacceptable
to a skeptic), but it did lead him to relativize it. The reference to a superior fac-
ulty that regulates the inferior faculties may offer a satisfactory explanation of
some cases, perhaps, but by no means all cases. Montaigne therefore examined
one new case after another, no matter how unusual and strange, showing that
the alleged regulation by a higher faculty fails utterly, or that there are other
regulating mechanisms that are at least as influential, such as processes of ha-
bituation or social conditioning. Furthermore, Montaigne pointed out that the
assumption of an internal “imaginary republic,” in which the faculties are or-
ganized as if on a ladder, is extremely doubtful.19 Instead of postulating such an
internal hierarchy, we would do better to consider external hierarchies, such as
social practices and norms that are imposed on individuals in certain contexts,
inducing them to produce certain emotions. Montaigne might have responded
to Aquinas’ example of the fear of Hell as follows: Because we happen to have
been brought up as Christians, we have assimilated a value system in which
Hell is considered something terrible to be avoided at all costs. Furthermore,
since childhood we have been confronted with many horrible representations
of Hell. Because of this upbringing, we are spontaneously afraid when we think
of Hell. People of other cultures may react completely differently when they
hear of the supposed torments of Hell—perhaps with equanimity, perhaps even
with amusement. In any case, we must look at the external circumstances that
have led us to have certain values and mental images that elicit a fear of Hell in
us. The possibility of controlling or surmounting this fear has at least as much
to do with changing these external circumstances as with internal regulation.
290
We should therefore examine concrete examples in which persons in different

circumstances have completely different reactions.20
What is remarkable about Montaigne’s approach is not only the strategy
of externalization by which he places less attention on internal psychic
mechanisms than on social ones. At least as noteworthy is his overall method,
which questions the Aristotelian-scholastic explanatory frame. As soon as we
allow any doubt about the thesis that emotions are always brought about by
internal faculties that are coordinated with one another, we are able to look at
other regulating mechanisms besides internal ones. And as soon as we allow any
doubt about the further proposition that the intellect as the supreme faculty al-
ways forms the “horizon” of the other faculties, then we are able to look at other
mechanisms besides rational ones. Sometimes our emotions change simply be-
cause we gradually accustom ourselves, in different surroundings, to different
notions and value judgments, and sometimes because we imitate the emotions
of other persons as if they were contagious.21 Of course, Montaigne did not deny
that there are also rational mechanisms. Because rational abilities form part of
our natural makeup just as other abilities do, we can make judgments about
certain situations and thereby change our emotions. But this is just one way in
which we can do so, and by no means the only one, to be applied for all cases
of change and moderation. In this way Montaigne relativized the unrestricted
power of rational judgments and acts of will without taking an antirationalistic
position.22
Spinoza’s explanatory strategy is yet another one. Like Montaigne, he
dispensed with the assumption of hierarchically ordered faculties and accord-
ingly distanced himself from Aquinas’ thesis that the intellect can indirectly
change emotions by acting upon the lower faculties. At the same time, how-
ever, he rejected Montaigne’s skeptical attitude and insisted that the fact of
changing emotions must be not just described case by case, but also theoreti-
cally explained. And such an explanation must not start from the premise that
the intellect or some other entity can somehow intervene in the causal order and
moderate or completely suppress naturally kindled emotions. The causal order
is not changeable. The intellect can at most try to understand that order better
and so produce its own emotions, which oppose the naturally aroused emotions
and exceed them, if possible, in intensity. Because a better understanding
consists, for Spinoza, in a more complete representing, this means that the in-
tellect can only try to produce emotions itself through adequate representations.
For the example cited by Aquinas, this means that a person who has frightening
mental images of Hell should not try to suppress these more or less spontane-
ously arising images, or to replace them with different ones; they are given and
unavoidable. A person can, however, make every effort to understand better
291
Conclusion 291
what the supposed torments of Hell consist in and whether it is appropriate to

assume there is a life after death. If he then understands that the assumption of
an individual life after death is highly implausible because life is always tied to a
functioning organism, he can then achieve a state of equanimity or perhaps joy.23
The better the understanding, the stronger this state and the more it attenuates
the fear. Thus we can free ourselves from “human bondage” by opposing the
passive emotions produced by external influences with active emotions that we
produce ourselves. Spinoza’s explanation went further than that of Aquinas in
assuming that the mind can produce emotions directly, and not just by acting
upon a sensual faculty.
Evidently, this explanation of the transformation also rests on substantial
assumptions. The hylomorphic or skeptical frame has now been replaced by a
representationalist one in which the sole focus is on how a person represents
a given situation: new representations produce new emotions. And a human
being can form new representations because he is a mode of the active sub-
stance and hence can be an active cause himself. It is easy to see that such an
explanatory strategy hinges on the representationalist frame, but it also depends
on the metaphysical thesis that, in addition to external causes that act upon a
person, there is also the person himself (or, more precisely, his power of forming
representations) as an internal cause.
These examples show that the changing answers to the question of how
emotions can be transformed, cannot be understood independently of a study
of the underlying metaphysical theories. Moreover, they also show that it would
hardly be appropriate to look for answers that set the emotions in opposition
to reason. It would be tempting to designate all theories of the emotions be-
fore Hume as genuinely rationalistic, characterizing them by the overarching
thesis that “passions are and ought only to be the slaves of reason”—that is, the
thesis that Hume countered with its inverse. But we must resist this tempta-
tion, because the rationalistic label would not do justice to the complexity of the
individual theories. The late medieval and early modern authors endeavored
not to set emotions in rigid opposition to reason, but to analyze how heavily
the emotions have always been influenced by, indeed steeped in, reason, and
how rational activities, conversely, are influenced by emotions. Is there a close
connection because rational and sensual faculties within the unitary soul are
always coordinated, as Aquinas assumed? Or is it because the rational faculty
produces emotions of its own, as Duns Scotus and Ockham argued? Or is it
because emotions always involve representations and thus rational activities,
as Descartes and Spinoza thought? Or should we take a skeptical attitude to-
ward any hierarchical ordering of rational and other faculties, as Montaigne
proposed? By focusing on these questions, the late medieval and early modern
29
authors clearly demonstrated that emotions are far more than a special problem
in philosophy. As soon as we ask about the nature and the controllability of
emotions, we must inevitably address the fundamental anthropological ques-
tion of how human beings are to be understood as simultaneously sensual and
rational beings.
293
Notes
Introduction
1. See, for example, the contributions by Lazarus and Lyons in Dalgleish and Power (1999)
and the survey in Deigh (2010).
2. An illustrative example is the anthology of Lane and Nadel (1999), containing 17 arti-
cles in which neuroscientists discuss different theories on the neuronal processes that
are responsible for the formation of the cognitive content, with reference to empirical
studies —but assume that the concept of cognition (or related concepts such as those of
information and representation) are known and accepted.
3. Oksenberg Rorty (1988, 104); Griffiths (1997, 14), takes a similar view.
4. Since Brentano, philosophers have pointed out again and again that intentionality is
the characteristic of the mind, not just of emotions. For a succinct discussion see Crane
(2007).
5. Indeed, according to the James–Lange theory, the physical state is the necessary cause of
an emotion: we are afraid because we tremble, not the other way around. For a concise
summary see Hartmann (2005, 38–44); for a defense and elaboration of this theory, see
Prinz (2006).
6. The notion of minimum and maximum minds naturally raises the question of whether
the mind must be understood as something that can occur in degrees. For a discussion,
see the Introduction in Perler and Wild (2005).
7. That is true not only of theories of the emotions, but for theories of the mind generally,
as Bennett and Hacker (2003, 68–107) illustrate with their critique of the “mereological
fallacy” in the empirical sciences (especially in the neurosciences). In their opinion, the
fallacy consists in the fact that states or properties that concern the whole organism are
erroneously ascribed to a part of it (such as the brain or a certain area of the brain).
8. For a concise survey of the largely empirically oriented debates, see Hartmann (2005)
and Sander and Scherer (2009). According to Rolls (2005, 11), only such discussions have
made it possible to formulate an exact definition of the emotions. From a philosophical
perspective, de Sousa (2010) insists that only a connection to empirical research prevents
a sterile conceptual analysis.
9. The beginning of this period is marked by Thomas Aquinas’ Summa theologiae (written
between 1268 and 1273); its end by Spinoza’s Ethics (written between 1661 and 1675,
published posthumously in 1677). Obviously only certain selected works that fall in this
period are considered. Nor do I want to convey the impression that this period is a firmly
293
294
294 Notes
delimited one. Rather, I will trace an arc across four centuries that are ordinarily assigned
to different epochs or periods (often labeled the “Middle Ages,” the “Renaissance,” and
the “early modern period”). In this way I hope not least to illustrate that the traditional
historiographical separation of different epochs is highly artificial.
10. Cf. Kenny (1963, 189); de Sousa (1987, 121–123); Goldie (2000, 21); Prinz (2004, 62–63).
11. See Damasio (2003).
12. See Deigh (1994, 825).
13. It has been criticized repeatedly on those grounds; thoroughly in Alanen (2003, 165–207).
14. Les passions de l’âme, Prefatory letters (AT XI, 326; C I, 327).
15. Garber (2005, 145).
16. In Montaigne’s Essays II: 11, 424 a and 432 a, for example, and in Descartes’ Les passions
de l’âme I.27 (AT XI, 349; C I, 338–339). Descartes uses the word predominantly in
designating a subgroup of the passions, however: namely, the émotions intellectuelles,
which are produced not by an external agency, but only by an activity of the soul;
ibid., II.147 (AT XI, 440–441; C I, 381). According to the Grimms’ dictionary, the word
“Emotion” in German is documented as early as 1603, but again only in a restricted usage,
namely in the sense of “arousal, strong affect, passion” (headword “Emotion,” vol. 7, 1253).
The Etymologisches Wörterbuch des Deutschen is similar, documenting “Emotion” around
1700 for “excitement, affect,” and into the 19th century for “popular movement, revolt”
(headword “Emotion,” vol. A–G, 354). The Oxford English Dictionary finds “emotion”
used in senses relating to physical movement as early as 1603, and in the sense of “feeling,
passion [ . . . ] excited mental state” from 1660 (vol. 5, 183).
17. As Dixon (2003, 22–25) explains, it was Thomas Brown in his Lectures on the Philosophy
of the Human Mind (1820) who first introduced the philosophical term to designate states
that are neither sensations nor intellectual states. The psychological term was established
primarily by William James’ influential essay “What Is an Emotion?” (published 1884).
18. For example, Zedler’s Grosses vollständiges Universallexicon (1732 ff.) lists “Gefühl” as a
German translation of “tactus” and refers only to the sense of touch (see the headword
“Fühlen, Gefühl,” 2225–2226). There is no entry for “Emotion.” Even today, “Gefühl,” like
the English “feeling,” is ambiguous and designates nonintentional physical feelings as well
as intentional emotions. A terminological distinction is therefore advisable, as Döring
(2009, 9 and 228) rightly argues.
19. Occasionally, the expressions “commotiones” and “animi pathemata” are also used, as, for
example, by Descartes in Principia philosophiae 1.48 (AT VIII-1, 23). On the lexical field,
see Rosenwein 2008.
20. See Ordinatio III.15 (Vat. IX, 485).
21. But there are also authors in the contemporary debate who place pain in the same cate-
gory as negative emotions. Gustafson (2005), for example, proposes a common categori-
zation because both of them are characterized by a motivational aspect: they prompt us
to avoid a harmful object.
22. Ethics 3app, 1, 44 and 45 (G 190 and 202).
23. See Sections 2.2 and 5.3.
24. According to Chalmers (1996, 4), an explanation of this experience, which is also found
in sensory impressions and perceptions, is the central problem of a mind–body theory. It
is therefore no surprise that a prolonged debate on “qualia” has developed; for a summary
see Pauen (2001, 175–216). In neuroscientific discussions too, this problem often holds
a central position. Thus Damasio (2003, 88) finds that an internal experience is not dif-
ferent from the neuron-based “mapping” of a physical state. Any adequate theory of the
emotions must explain how this “mapping” takes place.
295
Notes 295
25. It is significant that Nagel (1979, 165–180), who got the debate over the phenomenal ex-
perience rolling with his influential essay “What Is It Like to Be a Bat?,” assumed a mate-
rialist explanatory framework and pointed out that such an experience seems to have no
place in that framework. But in the medieval context, no author chose that framework,
and even in the 17th century it was an option for at most a very few authors (such as
Hobbes).
26. Essays II.31.
27. For that reason they are sometimes called “embodied appraisals,” as by Prinz (2004, 77–
78), for example.
28. Summa theologiae I–II 22.1.
29. See the letters to Princess Elisabeth of May 23 and June 28, 1643 (AT III, 665 and 690–695;
C III, 218 and 226–228).
30. See Quodlibeta II.17 (OTh IX, 186–188). King (2012) uses the succinct phrase “dispas-
sionate passions” to make it plain that there was a long tradition of thinkers, beginning
with Augustine if not before, who considered precisely these emotions, which distin-
guish us from animals, as genuinely human. This tradition was particularly influential
between the early 14th and the late 16th centuries. For a summary, see Knuuttila (2004,
265–286).
31. On the basis of De anima I, 2 (403a28–b3), they spoke of a “formal” and a “material”
aspect of anger, which they conceived of as a uniform state in the living body. For the
paradigm, see Thomas Aquinas, Sentencia libri de anima 1.2 (Leonina XLV/1, 11).
32. Summa theologiae I–II 22.2–3, and in reference to anger specifically, I–II 46.3.
33. See Les passions de l’âme I.25 (AT XI, 347–3 48; C I, 337–338) and the letters to Princess
Elisabeth of May 21 and June 28, 1643 (AT III, 665 and 691–692; C III, 218 and
226–227).
34. An explanation is necessary primarily when we speak—as is usual in many contemporary
debates—in terms of “modules” of the mind, ascribing emotions to a certain module. On
the modularity theses, see Faucher and Tappolet (2006).
35. Hence Brungs (2005, 209) makes the justified criticism that the now-common term
“mental states” is altogether inadequate in reference to Aquinas (and, we might add, in
reference to other Aristotelian authors too).
36. Thus Ockham, for example, Expositio in librum Praedicamentorum 14.9 (OPh II, 282).
37. Ethics 2, ax3.
38. Summa theologiae I 81.3, ad 2.
39. Les passions de l’âme III.212 (AT XI, 488; C I, 404).
40. In the Essays 1.2 and 1.34, for example.
41. In the preface, he explicitly ascribes to reason a “dominion over the emotions” and
emphasizes that we can free ourselves from “human bondage” only by exercising that
dominion. Ethics 5praef (G 277–278).
42. Hence in Summa theologiae (I–II 10.3, ad 2) he states that there are “two natures” in man
and that the sensual is far from being completely dominated by the rational.
43. Essays I.3.
44. Spinoza went so far as to state that they go on in us necessarily and that we cannot inter-
vene in the causal order. Some explanation is hence called for as to how this necessitari-
anism (unequivocally formulated in Ethics 1, p29) can be reconciled with the injunction
to regulate and alter the emotions.
45. On the establishment of this historiographical category, which in part predates Kuhn (as
in the influential works of Butterfield), see Cohen (1994); for a critical examination of this
category, see Osler (2000).
296
296 Notes
46. Thus Leijenhorst (2002) says that hybrid theories were created by a “mechanization of
Aristotelianism.” The Aristotelian tradition too developed further and demonstrated a
great vitality as late as the 17th century, as Mercer (1993) illustrates.
47. Shapin (1996, 1).
48. For example, Kenny (1992, 51).
49. Senault, De l’usage des passions, 52.
50. Summa, tertia pars ethicae, tract. 2, q. 2. Descartes praised this work as “the best book of
its kind” and even planned to publish an annotated edition; see his letter to Mersenne,
November 11, 1640 (AT III, 232–233). On the presence of scholastic-Aristotelian theories
in the 17th century, see Ariew 1999.
51. This is a consequence of the famous parallelism thesis: a material object is assigned to
every idea, and the order of the ideas is the same as the order of the objects. Ethics 2, p7.
52. See Ockham, Ordinatio I.1.2 (OTh I, 395–400); Quodlibeta II.17 (OTh IX, 186–188).
53. The same is true of other early modern authors, as James (2006) shows in a helpful
summary.
54. This approach is also found of course in the Hellenistic tradition and was particularly
fortified by the increasing reception of classical authors (primarily Cicero, Seneca, and
Plutarch). On its reception in the Middle Ages, see Ingham (2007); for the early modern
period, see Miller (2003). However, even in antiquity, there was not a uniform therapeutic
tradition. Sorabji (2000, 2) aptly refers to a “pluralism in therapy.” The rationalistic–
therapeutic approach was commensurately diverse among the late medieval and early
modern readers of Hellenistic texts.
55. Summa theologiae I 81.3, ad 2, and I–II 24.1.
56. Ordinatio III.15 (Vat. IX, 498–505).
57. Les passions de l’âme 1.50 (AT XI, 368; C I, 348).
58. Some overviews are already available, such as those by Knuuttila (2004), Schäfer and
Thurner (2009), and King (2010) for the Middle Ages; James (1997, 2006) for the early
modern period; Lagerlund and Yrjönsuuri (2002), Newmark (2008), and Landweer and
Renz (2008) for several epochs.
59. As Casagrande and Vecchio (2008, 112) rightly point out, in any analysis of medieval
(and, we may add, early modern) texts on emotions, two levels must be distinguished: a
theoretical level, on which the structure and genesis of emotions is analyzed in the con-
text of theories of the soul, and a pedagogical level, on which the appropriate practical
way of dealing with emotions is discussed. The latter level admittedly assumes the former,
as techniques for acquiring right emotions and avoiding wrong ones can be explained
only in the presence of a theory, whether explicit or implicit.
Chapter 1
1. Albertus Magnus, De bono, tract. III, q. 5, art. 1 (Opera omnia 28, 196); Thomas Aquinas,
Summa theologiae I–II 24.1, and on fear specifically I–II 41.1; Francisco Suárez, De
passionibus, disp. 1, sect. 1 (Opera 4, 456); Senault, De l’usage des passions, 52. This charac-
terization, proposed by John of Damascus and Avicenna, can already be found in authors
of the early 13th century. For a summary see Brungs (2002, 33–51) and Knuuttila (2004,
218–236).Aquinas’ Summa theologiae is cited as STh with reference to part, quaestio,
and article. Except where stated more precisely, references are to the “corpus articuli.”
Example: STh I–II 41.1 indicates pars prima secundae, quaestio 41, articulus 1, corpus).
Other abbreviations: Expositio libri Peryermeneias (ElP); Summa contra Gentiles (ScG);
297
Notes 297
Quaestio disputata De anima (QDA); Quaestio disputata De spiritualibus creaturis (QSC);

Quaestiones disputatae De veritate (QDV); Sentencia libri De anima (SDA). Where there
is a critical edition as part of the “editio Leonina,” it is indicated by “L”.
2. Frequent reference is therefore made in present-day debates to cognitive impenetrability
to reject excessively cognitivistic explanatory models. If emotions in certain situations
are quasi immune to beliefs, then they cannot be identical with or reduced to beliefs. Cf.
Goldie (2000, 74–78).
3. Les passions de l’âme II.68 (AT XI, 379; C I, 352). Malebranche uses still stronger language.
He asserts that words such as “quality” and “faculty” are empty expressions signifying
nothing. See De la recherche de la verité, Eclaircissement XII (OC III, 179). On early
modern criticism of theories of faculties, see the survey in Nadler 1998.
4. Although Descartes tends to conceive of the whole soul as a homunculus that is active
inside a person, observing the images in the brain, for example (see Keil 2003), he rejects
any subdivision of the soul into small agents. Because the soul is a “pure substance,” it
cannot have parts, unlike the body, and hence cannot have any partial agents; see the
Synopsis of the Med. (AT VII, 14; C II, 10).
5. Nouveaux essais sur l’entendement humain II.21, §6 (A VI.6, 174).
6. In the early Commentary on the Sentences (III Sent., dist. 15), Aquinas develops a theory of
the emotions using the example of love, and in STh I 81.1–3 he presents the basic structure
of this theory. A thorough treatise is also found in QDV, q. 26. In STh III 15 too, where
he discusses the suffering of Christ, Aquinas sketches his theory of the emotions (cf.
Gondreau 2002). Imbach and Atuchia (2006) offer a helpful collection of pertinent texts
on love, which is discussed in various works as a fundamental emotion.
7. On the overall organization of the STh and the systematic place of the discussion of the
emotions, see Speer (2005) (and in it, especially, Brungs 2005).
8. A number of authors, including Cajetan and Bartholomé de Medina, thoroughly
annotated Aquinas’s STh; see King (2002). On the persistence of scholastic philosophy,
especially Thomist scholasticism, in the 17th century, see Schobinger (1998, 367–375) and
Salatowsky (2006).
9. In his letter to Mersenne of December 25, 1639 (AT II, 630), Descartes mentions STh as
the only book besides the Bible that he took with him from France to the Netherlands.
It is true that other scholastic authors were also present, thanks to Jesuit mediation (see
Ariew 1999), but for the discussion of the emotions, Aquinas was no doubt the most im-
portant author. As James (1997, 64) demonstrates, not only Descartes and other critics,
but also defenders of the scholastic approach, usually took his theoretical framework
as their starting point. This is especially clear in Eustachius a Sancto Paulo’s Summa
philosophiae quadripartita, which is almost exclusively oriented after Aquinas in the trea-
tise on emotions (Tertia pars ethicae, tract. 2).
10. See Kenny (1963, 189); de Sousa (1987, 121–123); Goldie (2000, 21).
11. Aquinas therefore calls the soul corporis actus (STh 1.75.1; QDA, art. 10), making it clear
that only the soul makes the body into an actually existing thing. He also attributes a causal
role to it by asserting that only it is active as a form and able to constitute the body. On this
understanding of form as something dynamic and active, see Pasnau (2004, 43–44).
12. For a thorough treatment, see Pasnau (2002, 25–44) and Stump (2003, 191–216).
13. Of course, there are then distinctions to be made in turn within the set of all physical
states, between cognitive and nutritive states, for example. But as Pasnau (2007) rightly
points out, this is a “mind–soul problem,” not the modern “mind–body problem.”
14. For a concise account of this distancing, see Kenny (1993, 145–159).
298
298 Notes
15. Cf. QDA, art. 14; ScG 11.79, n. 1598; for a succinct analysis of these passages, see Pasnau
(2002, 45–72).
16. In STh I 60.1, Aquinas attributes love to the angels, but makes it clear that this is only an
“inclinatio naturalis secundum voluntatem,” containing no sensual aspiration. God too
has a volitive love, Aquinas specifies in STh I 20.1. For a thorough discussion of this purely
rational disposition, see Kretzmann (1995).
17. King (1998, 105) uses the term “pseudopassions”; Miner (2009, 35–38) is similar.
18. Of course Aquinas applies the term “person” to God when he declares the Trinity to be
the unity of three persons. He emphasizes, however, that God is not a person in the same
way as a human being (STh I 29.3). If God is designated as a person, it is only inasmuch
as he has a supremely rational nature, not a live body.
19. King (2008) aptly refers to the complex inner architecture as an “inner cathedral.”
Aquinas introduces it in STh I 77.2.
20. Albert, De homine (ed. Anzulewicz and Söder 2004, 78–122). For a summary of the de-
bate, see Dales (1995).
21. On this position and its most important advocates, see Zavalloni (1951, 213–241).
22. For an analysis, see Kretzmann (1999, 373–403) and Pasnau (2002, 105–120).
23. This thesis raises a number of subsequent problems, of course, especially in regard to the
transtemporal identity of a human being. An adult human being is thus not identical with
the embryo in its initial, purely vegetative state because it has a different substantial form.
On this and other metaphysical problems, see Amerini (2009, 105–127).
24. De anima II.3 (414b32–33).
25. Aquinas undertakes precisely this in STh I 77.3 when he limits the number of faculties and
insists that we can identify for each one a given type of object (e.g., the visible object, and
not this bright object or that dark object) and a type of relation.
26. For a concise presentation, see Beckermann (1999, 141–180).
27. One might object that this explanation still leaves the option of multiple possible
realizations in a certain kind of living being. Is it not possible that a certain visual state
can be realized just as well in this human body as in that one? Here too, Aquinas would
disagree. The presence of a certain state presupposes the actualization of a certain faculty
that is present in a certain body. But each person has only his individual body and hence
his individual state. That means, in concrete terms: my seeing a red apple can occur only
in my body. In Peter’s or Mary’s body, there is a different seeing, which may be very sim-
ilar to mine, but is still qualitatively different from it, because it arises through the actual-
ization of a different faculty in different organs (in sharper eyes, for example).
28. However, this does not mean that Aquinas is—to use the influential terminology of
Robert Brandom (2000, 2–3)—a radical differentialist and draws a sharp division be-
tween people and cats or other animals. Because humans and animals have sensual
faculties that are cognitive and appetitive faculties (and not bodily mechanisms, as later
in Descartes), they have an important characteristic in common. The crucial difference
here is only that people also have higher faculties that are active simultaneously with the
lower ones. Aquinas is therefore only a moderate differentialist: within the class of all
living beings that are capable of cognition and emotion, he differentiates between higher
and lower ones.
29. His reference to faculties is thus not completely equivalent to the modularity thesis
that is so actively discussed today. According to this thesis (put forward prominently
by Jerry Fodor), individual areas of the soul or the mind are isolated modules, and
emotions attributable to a certain module (cf. Faucher and Tappolet 2006). The concept
29
Notes 299
of a module is at most applicable in the sense of a gradually isolated module (on this
idea, see Prinz 2004, 232–236). In other words: although emotions can be assigned to a
certain area of the soul (and are thus “domain specific,” as today’s terminology has it),
this area stands in direct relation to other areas, so that emotions can be influenced to
a greater or lesser degree by states in other areas—primarily by judgments and acts of
volition.
30. Garber (1992, 94–116) succinctly explains that the new concept originated in a critique of
the traditional hylomorphic conception.
31. On this reductionist strategy, see Des Chene (2001, 71–102) and Hatfield (2007a).
32. Burnyeat (1995, 26) states provocatively that we must then get rid of the model
altogether: “Junk it.”
33. On occasion he also says that each faculty is “rooted” in the soul’s essence (radicatur in
essentia); QDA, art. 10.
34. Reportatio II, dist. 16, q.u., n. 17–19 (Opera Wadding 13, 43–44); also King (2008, 267–268).
35. As Des Chene (2000, 155–169) explains, this dispute was particularly vigorous among
authors of the late 16th century (Zabarella, Suárez, Toletus, Conimbricences et al.).
36. This is also apparent in the fact that Aquinas designates the faculties as propria of the soul
(STh I 77.1, ad 5; QSC, art. 11). These are properties that result directly from the essence
of a thing and that it always has, but that are not themselves part of its essence. Thus the
capacity for laughter is a proprium, because it results immediately from the essence of the
human being, but is not one of the essential properties. We could call this a relation of
supervenience, as Pasnau (2007, 18) has proposed: whenever certain essential properties
are present, a higher-order property supervenes.
37. The “bare” essence cannot be examined, as Aquinas states (STh I 87.1). Whenever we want
to study the soul, we only have access to actual states, which in turn are actualizations of
faculties. Hence we can grasp the essence only as it is manifested in concrete states.
38. It is significant that in STh I–II 22.1, where he opens the discussion of the passiones animae,
he does not give a definition in the strict sense, that is, does not formulate the necessary
and sufficient conditions. There he states cautiously that suffering [pati] is understood in
different senses and designates one of them as the pertinent one. Then, in the quaestiones
that follow, he goes on to specify it with regard to different kinds of passiones. In doing so,
Aquinas chooses a similar methodical procedure to Aristotle’s (see Krajczynski and Rapp
2009, 64–65). He first limits the understanding of passiones to a certain area, without
sharply delimiting that area, and then explains with examples of what exactly falls within
the area. Only at the end of the discussion, when all the examples have been analyzed and
set in relation to one another, does it become possible to draw boundaries.
39. This usage must be carefully distinguished from that usage in the philosophy of lan-
guage in which a passio animae means a conception in the mind of the speaker or listener
(conceptio intellectus; ElP I.2; L 1*/1, 11). The usage that is pertinent here is situated in a
context of natural philosophy.
40. By that he does not mean, of course, the simple movements of parts of the body, or loco-
motion, as some commentators think (such as D’Arcy 2006, xxvii–xxviii), but processes
of change [alterationes]. Although they occur in a part of the body, they do not neces-
sarily coincide with a local movement of those parts. On the Aristotelian background of
the technical term “motus,” see Miner (2009, 38–46).
41. In English, the expression “emotional state” has become idiomatic (see, for example, King
1998 and Eisen Murphy 1999). Brungs (2005, 209) has correctly noted, however, that this
can be misleading if we overlook the dynamic element.
30
300 Notes
42. Of course, dispositions too are actual in the sense that they actually exist. To use Aquinas’
Aristotelian terminology correctly, we must say: emotions are not first actualities, that
is, not merely existing dispositions, but second actualities, that is, states resulting from
dispositions. On the relationship between first and second actualities, see SDA II.1 (L
XLV/1, 71–72).
43. See Avramides (2001, 217–253).
44. Of course, that does not eliminate all skeptical problems. We may still ask: Can I be cer-
tain that the person is afraid when I see him stiffen? Perhaps he is only stiffening because
he is freezing. Or perhaps he is stiffening not in fear, but in despair. From Aquinas’ view-
point, there are possible answers to this question. First, an emotion is not manifested in a
single physical behavior, but in a bundle of behaviors. Only when we have identified the
whole bundle (for fear, for example, it would include blanching and trembling in addition
to stiffening) can we identify the emotion. In STh I–II 44.3, ad 3, Aquinas refers explicitly
to several physical processes. Second, it is of course always possible that we are mistaken.
Someone may show atypical fear behavior or may deceive us intentionally. But then we
must evaluate the overall situation—just as in the case of deceptive perceptions—and ob-
serve the behavior over a longer time. Third, to identify exactly what kind of an emotion
is present, the formal object is crucial, as is subsequently described. The physical behavior
shows with certainty only that an emotion is present, not which one.
45. On the background of this example, often cited in the reception of Avicenna, see Hasse
(2000) and Perler (2006a).
46. Prominent advocates are Gordon (1987), Solomon (1993), and Nussbaum (2001). For a
concise summary, see Hartmann (2005, 58–78).
47. This must be emphasized with respect to those interpreters (such as Uffenheimer-
Lippens 2003, 538) who suppose Aquinas to say that an emotion always results from
knowledge. Animals and babies, who have no beliefs and hence no knowledge, can still
have emotions.
48. The crucial point here is that the objects are good or bad for someone because of certain
essential properties; they do not receive this normative property through an evaluation
or a value judgment. Aquinas takes a realistic position in regard to normative properties
(QDV 21.1–2). On the apprehension of these properties, see Section 1.4.
49. As Konstan (2009) shows in detail, this characteristic is mentioned in many contempo-
rary treatises, although it is absent in classical (primarily in Aristotelian) texts. The latter
places the cause and the specific object of an emotion in the spotlight. Konstan (2009,
41) infers that we must not prematurely project present-day conceptions of emotions onto
classical antiquity, but must first reconstruct an “atlas of the mind” in which emotions
occupy a certain place. The same is true of medieval texts: we must not jump to the
conclusion that Aquinas and other medieval authors appeal to a particular phenomenal
characteristic to explain emotions.
50. Notably by Chalmers (1996). For a summary see Beckermann (1999, 374–420) and Pauen
(2001, 175–216).
51. For a thorough discussion, see Burnyeat (2001) and Perler (2002, 42–53).
52. Thus Aquinas explains, following De anima II.2 (425bl2–25), that one needs no special
inner sense and no higher-order act to perceive that one sees or hears something. By
undergoing a formal and a material change, one has the immediate perception of seeing
or hearing something (SDA II.26; L 45/1, 178–181). The case of emotions is analogous: by
undergoing the twofold change, one has the immediate perception (or the direct experi-
ence) of being joyful or angry.
301
Notes 301
53. On the origins of schemata that influenced later classifications in Cicero and Augustine,
see King (2010, 169–171). On the various systems of classification in antiquity, see
Krajczynski and Rapp (2009); for the Middle Ages, see Knuuttila (2004, 218–239) and
Miner (2009, 38–57).
54. A prominent example is Ekman, who identifies the basic emotions by the facial expres-
sion. See Ekman (1999, 2003).
55. Although Kenny (1963, 189) refers to Aquinas for this terminology, Aquinas only speaks
of an object apprehended in such and such a way, e.g. an “obiectum bonum simpliciter
acceptum” or an “obiectum secundum quod habet rationem ardui,” i.e. an object to the
extent that it has a certain aspect (STh I–II 23.1). In other contexts, however, Aquinas
does speak of an “obiectum formale” or a “formalis ratio obiecti,” as, for example, when he
identifies the object of faith and distinguishes between the formal object and the material
object (STh II–II 1.1 and 1.3).
56. This division did not originate with Aquinas. It goes back to Avicenna and is found in
various authors in the 13th century, including Jean de la Rochelle and Albertus Magnus.
See Knuuttila (2004, 218–239) and Schäfer and Thurner (2009, 135–138).
57. De passionibus, disp. 1, sectio 3, n. 2 (Opera IV, 458).
58. Explicitly in STh I–II 23.4, where he says that the “good causes an inclination and gives the
faculty a movement toward its attainment.”
59. In STh I–II 27.4 he even states that love is the basis of every emotion, including a negative
one. The bad that one abhors is only a lack of good. By rejection of the defective, one is
inclined toward the perfect, hence the good, and is thus in a state of love.
60. See Goldie (2000, 11–12 and 42–45).
61. Because Aquinas assumes that something bad is nothing else but an absence of good, the
aversion to the bad is always dependent on attraction to the good: we reject the bad by
fundamentally aspiring to the good and finding that it is defective or not present at all.
On this theory of privation, see Stump and Kretzmann (1991) and Miner (2009, 25–28).
62. As mentioned (cf. n. 54), Paul Ekman is a prominent exponent of this approach.
63. Of course, that does not mean he disregards the physical expression. The quaestiones on
each emotion are so structured that articles about the nature and the cause of each emo-
tion are always followed by articles about their effects—including the physical effects.
These, however, are the typical effects, not the sole or necessary effects. Furthermore,
Aquinas gives consideration to the typical linguistic expression manifested in particular
interjections for specific emotions; see Rosier-Catach (2008).
64. In the extreme case, this is true even of our own emotions. I cannot determine whether
I myself am sad or despairing simply by a particular feeling (as we have noted, according
to Aquinas there is no phenomenal quality that I could somehow apprehend), but only
by asking myself what kind of object I am relating to. If I dismount from my bicycle in
frustration I can ask myself: Am I now in despair because the cooling stream (as a good
object) appears unattainable? Or am I only sad and despondent because the blistering
heat (as a bad object) afflicts me?
65. See Prinz (2004, 16), quoting Lazarus.
66. See Brungs (2002, 164–174). Aquinas knew of this tradition primarily from John of
Damascus’ De fide orthodoxa, which has its origins in Early Christian anchorism.
67. For example, Lyons (1993, 35–36).
68. Floyd (1998, 160–161), says as much explicitly.
69. That does not mean, however, that the apprehensive and the appetitive states can be
arbitrarily separated from one another. In the ordinary case, every living being that
302
302 Notes
apprehends something as threatening also has the motivation to run away. The two states
are nonetheless distinct, as Aquinas stresses (STh I 81.1). The apprehensive state is aimed
at apprehending the threatening object as exactly as possible, or even assimilating it; the
appetitive state, by contrast, is aimed at orienting oneself toward the object as exactly as
possible. In modern terminology, we might say the two states have different “directions
of fit.” In the apprehensive state, the direction of fit is from the object to the living being
(the better the object is assimilated, the better the apprehension). In the appetitive state,
by contrast, the direction of fit is from the living being to the object (the better the living
being orients itself toward the threatening object, the better its aspiration).
70. Aquinas follows Aristotle here and calls these the sensibilia propria (such as color and
sound) and the sensibilia communia (such as shape and movement). See SDA 11.13, L
XLV/1, 118–120.
71. Aquinas draws here on Avicenna, who identified intentiones as properties of objects—not
of perceiving subjects with a certain intent. Cf. Hasse (2000, 127–153) and Perler (2006a).
72. See STh I 78.4 and the discussion in Miner (2009, 69–76).
73. Aquinas makes the comparison only in this respect, not with regard to a predication. In
STh I 78.4, he states that the particular reason “collates” the individual intentiones, just as
the general reason collates the general ones.
74. Aquinas uses the Aristotelian assimilation model of perception, according to which the
perceptible properties are sensual forms that can be communicated from the perceived
object to the perceptor by an actualization of the sensual faculties (STh I 78.3); cf. Perler
(2002, 42–60) and Pasnau (2002, 171–189).
75. One might object that a mere association of properties, in the sense of a successive se-
quence, is not sufficient to apprehend an object. Must the properties not be attributed
to a bearer? And does that not require a form of predication (“the bundle of properties
belongs to x”)? Aquinas does not discuss this problem explicitly. He could answer, how-
ever (similarly to Bermúdez 2003, 89–95, in the contemporary debate), that only the
following are necessary: (1) the properties must be apprehended as spatiotemporally
coexisting properties; (2) they must also be delimited from other properties by deter-
mining their similarities and differences. Only if these conditions are fulfilled is there a
unified bundle of properties and hence an object that is distinct from other objects.
76. These properties can be apprehended and associated with one another not only in an act
of perception, as the case of fear of the wolf suggests, but also in an act of imagination.
Aquinas therefore states that both a perception and a mental image can elicit an emotion.
This is important for emotions aimed at objects in the future. To be able to hope for some-
thing, it is not sufficient to combine currently perceived properties with one another. One
must also imagine how these properties will be present in future and what benefit or det-
riment they will have.
77. In STh I–II 10.3, Aquinas refers to mentally deranged and inebriated persons, in whom
rational control is disabled. An arachnophobe who cannot overcome her fear in spite
of cognitive therapy would then be, in a way, mentally deranged, because the relation
between her sensory and rational activities is fundamentally disturbed. Her rational
judgments have no influence at all on how she perceives spiders.
78. See Prinz (2004, 99–101), although he states that a recalibration always results in a second,
higher-order emotion. For Aquinas, a higher-order emotion can, but need not always,
arise. Thus the fear of spiders can be overlaid with admiration (if spiders are apprehended
as fascinating animals, for example), but it could also be simply diminished until an emo-
tionless attitude arises.
30
Notes 303
79. In the recent debate, this has led some theoreticians of the emotions (e.g. Griffiths 1997) to
assume a separate type of emotions in such a case, while disputing that all emotions can
be attributed to a homogeneous group of states.
80. Konstan (2006, 43) aptly points out that anger in the classical debates always contains “an
appraisal of social roles” and hence cannot be simply determined by perceptions.
81. Rhet. II, 2 (1378a31–33).
82. It is thus surprising that Aquinas mentions anger as one of the eleven basic emotions. He
admits in STh I–II 46.1, however, that anger can be conceived as an emotion sui generis
only in a limited sense—namely, if we consider that a special unity arises from the com-
bination of the two component emotions: sadness and hope are both present at the same
time and merge so that the components can no longer be separated.
83. A Treatise of Human Nature 2.3.3 (ed. Fate Norton and Norton, 266).
84. In STh I 81.3, Aquinas repeatedly uses the phrase natus est, “is apt/destined by nature.”
85. Cf. STh I–II 24.3, ad 1, in which Aquinas speaks of observing emotions antecedenter (as
they precede judgments and volitions) and consequenter (as they follow judgments and
volitions). For a discussion of this distinction, see Eisen Murphy (1999).
86. On this particular form of weak will, see Müller (2005, 24–26). Aquinas discusses it in
STh II–II 155.2–3.
87. Hence Aquinas states in STh I 82.4 that the intellect moves the will by modus finis. For a
discussion of this conception, which defines the will as a rational faculty dependent on
the intellect, see Gallagher (1991).
88. For a careful analysis, see Stump (2003, 339–360).
Chapter 2
1. De civitate Dei IX.4 (CCSL 47, 252–253) and the source in Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae
XIX.1 (ed. Marshall 1968, 560–561).
2. It is also emphasized by contemporary interpreters who refute the distorted image of
the Stoic philosopher as a person free of emotions. For a trenchant example, see Graver
(2007, 85–108).
3. De ira II.3.1–5. On Seneca’s distinction, see Sorabji (2000, 66–75); on Augustine’s recourse
to this distinction, see Brachtendorf (1997). Another important source for the Stoic dis-
tinction is Cicero (especially Book 4 of the Tusculanae Disputationes); see Graver (2002).
4. Hence they gave little attention from the late 13th century on to the question discussed
among Stoics of whether sensually elicited emotions are complete emotions or only “pre-
emotions” [propassiones]. Yet this question still played a central part in the monastic
debates of the 12th and early 13th centuries, as Knuuttila (2004, 178–195) and Boquet
(2008) demonstrate. It was discussed primarily in the analyses of temptation and sin,
because that was where the question was posed whether the spontaneous pleasure and
desire elicited by a sensually present object is in itself a passio for which a person is re-
sponsible, or merely a propassio, to which the person has not yet consented and for which
he consequently cannot be held responsible.
5. Sometimes they called them “passions according to the higher part” [passiones
secundum portionem superiorem], that is, the emotions in the rational part of the
soul, because the will, like the intellect, is a rational faculty. See Duns Scotus, Ord.
III.15, n. 26 (Vat. IX, 485), citing Augustine directly. Duns Scotus’ works are cited here
after the Editio Vaticana (“Vat.”), the Opera Philosophica (“OPh”), or, for texts not yet
published in these editions, after the old Wadding edition (“W”). For the Ordinatio
304
304 Notes
(“Ord.”) and the Lectura (“Lect.”), the references are by book, distinction, quaestio, and,
where necessary, the section number. Where only one quaestio is present, the specific
reference is omitted (example: III.15, n. 26 indicates liber III, distinctio 15, quaestio
unica, numerus 26).
6. For an overview, see Lagerlund and Yrjönsuuri (2002) and Knuuttila (2004, 256–286).
7. Before Duns Scotus, Henry of Ghent, Bonaventure, and Walter of Bruges had mentioned
passiones and even a habitus voluntatis. See Kent (1995, 199–245) and Schäfer and Thurner
(2009, 115–118).
8. For a perspective including the historic context, see Ingham and Dreyer (2004) (on Duns
Scotus); Courtenay (1987, 2008) (on Ockham).
9. As we will see in Chapter 4, Section 4.5, Descartes draws on the voluntaristic tradition in
his theory of générosité.
10. This is particularly evident in Duns Scotus, who in a treatise on moral virtues in Ord.
III.33 (Vat. X, 141ff.) raises the question of whether there are passiones voluntatis and how
virtues can arise from them. On this methodical procedure, see Kent (2003) and Boulnois
(2003).
11. The significance of this theological debate for theories of the emotions in the 14th century
is elucidated by McGrade (1981, 1987).
12. It goes without saying that Thomas Aquinas was familiar with the debates on the suf-
fering of Christ. But he did not try to define “higher” emotions in addition to the sensual
emotions. In his view, Christ as a human being simply had emotions that are bound to
the body and hence sensual. Christ is different from ordinary people only in that his
emotions are always related to the appropriate objects and always guided by reason (STh
III 15.4). We see here how diversely medieval authors responded to a theological problem.
Aquinas seized the opportunity to address the question of how sensual emotions are dealt
with, that is, whether they are always guided by reason or only sometimes. Duns Scotus
and other Franciscans, on the other hand, used this problem as a point of departure to
define another kind of emotions in addition to the sensual emotions.
13. For a survey of the various discussions of this case in point, see Gondreau (2002). For
individual case analyses on the 13th century, see Motta (2009).
14. As Auerbach (1941, trans. 2014) showed in his pioneering study these quaestiones—
especially those on the suffering of Christ—also contain important terminological shifts.
The expression “passio,” which had originally denoted a purely passive suffering, took on
a more and more active meaning. A person who, like Christ, has a passio, suffers actively
with him, and indeed aspires to this state. Consequently, the passio in the medieval liter-
ature was increasingly “celebrated and longed for” (Auerbach 1941, 88). In contemporary
research, Cohen (1995, 51) refers to this change and coins the term “philopassionism.”
Suffering was not rejected as something painful, but valued positively as a participation
in the suffering of Christ, and sometimes actively desired. On the terminological shift, see
also Cohen 2009.
15. Funkenstein (1986). We could also call these reflections thought experiments in which
extraordinary scenarios were used to sound the space of the thinkable. Once this space
was determined, that which was actually the case and subject to empirical study within
the space (such as a real person’s set of emotions) could be grasped more precisely. On the
function of thought experiments, see Perler (2008b).
16. Ord. III.15 (Vat. IX, 477 ff.) and Lect. III.15 (Vat. XX, 367). I will concentrate on the more
exhaustive version in the Ordinatio. On the Christological background, which will not be
analyzed here, see Cross (1999, 113–126).
305
Notes 305
17. Aquinas had mentioned a “spiritual change” and differentiated it from a natural change
(see Section 1.3). Albertus Magnus and other predecessors of Duns Scotus also made this
distinction; see Tellkamp (2009).
18. De an. II.12 (424al7–21).
19. For a summary, see Tweedale 1992; on the debates in the 13th century, see Perler (2002,
42–60). Among present-day interpreters of Aristotle too, the kind of change concerned
is subject to debate. Some, such as Lorenz (2007), also say there is a twofold change, and
thus agree with Duns Scotus, although without referring to him explicitly.
20. In Quaestiones super secundum et tertium De anima, q. 4 and q. 5 (OPh V, 30–31 and 41) he
discusses tactile perception at length and refers to an intentional change.
21. He writes provocatively that the only thing we can do with this conception today is to
“junk it” (Burnyeat 1995, 26).
22. Some contemporary philosophers (prominently Dretske and Tye) have even referred to a
representational structure; see the essays in Aydede (2005).
23. Griffiths (1997, 3) discusses cognitive processes in this broadest sense in the contempo-
rary debate on emotions. In a narrower sense (which Griffiths rejects), only propositional
attitudes are considered cognitive.
24. On the medieval concept of cognitio, see Pasnau (2003).
25. See Chalmers (1996, 4).
26. King (2007).
27. Thus Leibniz criticized the concepts of forms and faculties as void of explanatory power
in the Discours de métaphysique, §10 (Gerhardt IV, 434–435). Only if we designate a power
and explain how it can produce an actual state does it make sense, in his opinion, to speak
of a faculty. On this reductionist approach that was pursued by numerous philosophers in
the early modern period, see Nadler (1998).
28. Unlike Aquinas, Duns Scotus does not draw up a taxonomy of the different kinds.
However, he too mentions “concupiscent” and “irascible” sensual passions in Ord. III.34
(Vat. X, 193–201). For a presentation of the various kinds, see Perreiah (1998).
29. Aquinas refers to this special entity that is absorbed in addition to the perceptible forms
in STh I 78.4; cf. Section 1.4.
30. Duns Scotus, using the terminology of logic, calls this a necessitas consequentiae; see Ord.
III.15 (Vat. IX, 500) and Lect. III.15 (Vat. XX, 374).
31. See Quaest. in Met. IX.5 (OPh IV, 680–699). For concise summaries, see Cross (1999,
84–89) and Ingham and Dreyer (2004, 146–156).
32. For a survey, see Kent 1995 (199–245) and Knuuttila (2004, 265–286).
33. Rep. II.16, n. 17–19 (W XIII, 43–44); see also King (2008, 267–268).
34. For an analysis, see Wolter (1990, 27–41) and Cross (1999, 61–7 1).
35. At least, Ockham rejects the assumption of a formal distinction in the domain of the
natural substances. He accepts it, however, for the special case of the Holy Trinity; see
Adams (1987, 996–1003). All of Ockham’s works are cited with reference to the Opera
Philosophica (“OPh”) and the Opera Theologica (“OTh”). In addition, the respective work
is indicated in abbreviated form—Ordinatio (“Ord.”), Reportatio (“Rep.”), Summa Logicae
(“SL”), Quodlibeta (“Quodl.”), Quaestiones variae (“QV”)—with the numbers of the book,
distinctio, and quaestio (example: Ord. I.30.2 indicates liber I, distinctio 30, quaestio 2).
36. In earlier works, Ockham likewise mentions various components, but does not yet men-
tion the form of corporeality as a separate form: cf. Rep. III.1 (OTh VI, 22). He does not
distinguish between a vegetative and a sensual soul, as one might perhaps expect, be-
cause these are only different manifestations of one and the same soul that is present in
306
306 Notes
a structured body, and can even be situated in material organs, although it exercises dif-
ferent functions there (such as digestion in the stomach and seeing in the eyes). Ockham
states that one and the same materially implemented soul can be responsible for different
activities; see Quodl. II.11 (OTh IX, 164).
37. It is true that some authors, including Richard of Middleton, held such a position before
Ockham. As Zavalloni (1951) demonstrates, there was a controversy as early as the late
13th century between the “unitarists” (of whom Aquinas was a prominent example) and
the “pluralists.”
38. On this principle of homonymy, which Aquinas affirms following De anima II.1 (412bl0–
27), see Section 1.2.
39. Note that, although matter does not structure itself, it is nonetheless something actu-
ally existing: see Summula philosophiae naturalis I.10 (OPh VI, 181–186). In this point
too Ockham clearly diverges from Aristotle, who conceived matter as something purely
potential.
40. Naturally, one could object at this point that a dead body will not always remain a dis-
tinguishable body constituted in such and such a way, because it decays. How can we ex-
plain this change? Ockham does not explicitly discuss this objection, but he could reply
that a form is always a dynamic principle of identity, allowing a change in the accidental
properties. This change can go so far as to dissolve the piece of matter. This happens, of
course, only when the form of corporeality too, as a transient form, also dissolves.
41. Adams (1987, 669) points to the additional problem that the unity is then only a sec-
ondary entity. There must first be several forms in matter, and only from their coexistence
does a whole arise. A person is then no longer a fundamental entity, but something which
arises out of preexisting entities.
42. Hirvonen (2004, 46) remarks on this passage that it is unclear how this order comes
about. How are the forms connected “in due wise” [debito modo]? One answer, which
Ockham does not explicitly elaborate, could be this: Such a connection takes place when
the forms are so coordinated with one another that each form provides the basis for an-
other. Thus the form of a human body (and not an equine body, for example) must be
present for the sensual form to become active on the basis of it, producing human (and
not equine) perceptions. And a sensual–human form must be present for an intellectual
form to become active based on it. Even God could not arbitrarily combine the form of
a horse body with the sensual and the intellectual form of a human being. If he did, he
would at best create a loose bundle of forms, but not a unified living being, because he
would not be connecting the forms in due wise.
43. See also QV VI.8 (OTh VIII, 251–272); for a discussion, see Hirvonen (2004, 75–99) (on
the sensual emotions) and 107–140 (on the volitive emotions).
44. The principle of parsimony that is so often called “Ockham’s Razor” in the modern de-
bate, but that he himself never so labeled, is found in many passages as the slogan “No
plurality should be postulated without necessity” (as, for example, in Ord. I prol. 1; OTh I,
74; Ord. I.30.2; OTh IV, 322). For an analysis, see Boler (1985) and Spade (1999, 101–102).
45. This hypothesis is used here as elsewhere to distinguish what is possible in principle (al-
though it may in fact never be the case) from what is in principle impossible. Ockham is
not concerned with indicating the threat of a constantly intervening God, but only with
the methodical use of a hypothesis. It acts as an “analytical tool,” as Courtenay (1985,
243) aptly puts it.
46. See also Quodl. V.8–9 (OTh IX, 508–518), where Ockham goes so far as to distinguish
different kinds of mental terms and assign them to grammatical categories. Hence the
307
Notes 307
mental language has not only a semantic, but also a syntactic structure. On this central
thesis that pervades Ockham’s whole work on logic and the philosophy of language, see
Lenz (2003) and Perler (2004a).
47. For a discussion of the distinction between intuitive and abstractive cognition, see Karger
(1999) and Perler (2002, 342–360).
48. For a thorough analysis of the genesis and structure of mental sentences, see Panaccio
(2004); for a concise summary, see Panaccio (1999).
49. Duns Scotus was still oriented toward the model that explains terms with reference to
species intelligibiles, that is, mental entities that are abstracted from sensory impressions
and refer, as signs, to objects and their properties, but are not necessarily linguistic signs.
See Quaestiones in libros Perihermeneias Aristotelis I.2 (OPh II, 47–59), and discussion in
Perler (2003).
50. Dretske (1981, 135–153); for a full discussion of the application of Dretske’s distinction to
Ockham’s theory, see Perler (2008a).
51. He emphasizes, however, that this image is not something interposed, so to speak, be-
tween the cognizor and the external object (Ord. I.27.3; OTh IV, 241). If I have a sensual
cognition of the juicy apple, for example, I discern not an image of this apple, but the
apple itself. But the apple is present to me thanks to the image or in the image with nu-
merous properties that are not distinguished from one another.
52. Before the resurrection, only a limited cognition is possible through activating a habitus
acquired during life (Rep. IV. 14; OTh VII, 282). For our concrete example, that means
that as long as I have no body, I cannot have a sensual cognition of the apple’s glossy color
and round shape. But I am capable of intellectual cognition, and hence able to form the
mental terms “apple,” “glossy,” and “round,” and I can resort to the habitus to imagine a
glossy round apple whenever I use these terms. But without sensual impressions, this
cognition remains deficient.
53. Ockham explicitly ascribes to angels a mental language and communication in this lan-
guage (Quodl. I.6; OTh IX, 36–41); for a discussion, see Lenz (2008).
54. Adams (1999, 254–255).
55. A Treatise of Human Nature 2.3.1 (ed. Fate Norton and Norton 2000, 260).
56. On this distinction and its theological background, see McGrade (1981).
57. Scriptum super primum Sententiarum, dist. 1, sect. 7 (vol. 1, 394–395). Ockham quotes this
position in Ord. I.1.3 (OTh 1, 405–407).
58. The qualifier “ordinarily” must be added because Ockham points out again and again that
God can intervene and produce an act of cognition without the presence of a good or bad
object. QV VI.9 (OTh VIII, 251–252).
59. Thus Leibold (2009, 191) notes in his concluding remarks that we must “inevitably be
disappointed” when we compare Ockham’s remarks with those of Aquinas. They are
“sometimes very brief and fragmentary,” and they lack “a clear architectonics of the
affects.”
60. However, Ockham is similar to Aquinas in distinguishing between “concupiscent” and
“irascible” emotions, and at least some fundamental emotions can be distinguished
based on his examples. Hirvonen (2004, 167–168) refers to three positive and three neg-
ative concupiscible emotions. It must be emphasized, however, that Ockham himself
undertakes no such classification.
61. For a concise analysis, see Leibold (2009, 184–188).
62. Of course, the ultimate goal, beatitude, is the same for all people and cannot be aban-
doned in favor of another. But there are numerous ways that lead to this goal, and hence
308
308 Notes
numerous good objects that can be chosen—even freely chosen, as Aquinas emphasizes
(STh I 82.2). On Aquinas’s conception of the will, see Gallagher (1991).
63. Of course, saying reasons exist outside the will is a manner of speaking and not to be un-
derstood in the sense that there are two separate areas within the rational soul, one within
the will and one outside it. Ockham rejects a real distinction of intellect and will: see Rep.
II.20 (OTh V, 435–436). This manner of speaking is to be understood only with reference
to acts within the unitary rational soul. Volitive acts are distinct from intellectual acts by
which reasons are apprehended and are not definitively determined by them.
64. Normore (1998).
Chapter 3
1. The discussions (in Cajetan, Bartholomé de Medina, and Suárez, for example) were pri-
marily concentrated on the questions of what the object of the emotions consists in and
whether it makes sense to distinguish between “concupiscent” and “irascible” emotions,
as Aquinas had proposed. See King (2002).
2. The Essays are quoted in the translation of Donald M. Frame (1958). The letters added to
the page numbers refer to the three versions of the text: “a” stands for the 1580 edition
(Books I and II), “b” for the 1588 edition (Book III and revisions of Books I and II), “c”
for the author’s copy left at his death with addenda to the 1588 edition (known as the
“Bordeaux Copy”).
3. He notes that he only glosses, always interpreting other interpretations, not real things
(III.13, 818 b). Hence he takes great care in the selection and strategic compilation of
interpretations, as Tournon (1983) demonstrates in detail.
4. On Montaigne’s early reception, see Millet (1995).
5. In his De la sagesse, Charron therefore chose an ordered form of presentation and de-
voted a separate treatise to the emotions (I.19–34), beginning with a general definition
and then characterizing each individual emotion.
6. De la recherche de la vérité II, iii, 5 (Œuvres I, 364).
7. Malebranche devotes the whole fifth book of De la recherche de la vérité to such an anal-
ysis. Characteristically, the first chapter bears the title “On the nature and the origin of
the emotions in general” (Œuvres II, 126). Malebranche emphasizes that knowledge of
the emotions must be based on a general analysis of their structure and genesis, not on
individual cases. On this method, see Perler (2000).
8. As Levi (1964) showed in his pioneering work. For a concise presentation see also
Wild (2008). Parmentier (2000, 7–8) rightly notes in her survey that moralists are not
philosophers who moralize, hence raising normative demands; they are rather authors
who highlight individual cases, rejecting general normative claims in the light of cultural
diversity.
9. On the reception of Pyrrhonism, see Floridi (2002) and Popkin (2003, 16–17). On the im-
portance of skepticism in early modern debates, see Moreau 2001. According to Popkin,
the reception of Sextus led to a “crise pyrrhonienne.” This assessment, often repeated in
the literature, is misleading, however, because neither Montaigne nor any other 16th-cen-
tury author describes a psychological or intellectual crisis. Sextus’ texts were read along-
side other Hellenistic texts, and were commented on with approval or rejection, but they
were not understood as producing a crisis. For a critique of Popkins’s appraisal, see Perler
(2004d).
10. Sextus Empiricus, Outline of Scepticism (Pyrrhôneiôn Hypothyposeis), hereafter PH I.4, 8.
309
Notes 309
11. Descartes is therefore interested only in a “general overturning” of opinions, as he states

(Meditationes I; AT VII, 18), and in a new foundation of opinions, but not in the problem
of whether opinions are possible at all. On the goal of the “First Meditation,” see Perler
(2009).
12. Hence it pulls the rug out from under all epistemological theory, as Williams (1988)
shows. Not even a negative theory is then possible—one that holds no knowledge to be
certain—because even such a theory would be based on an opinion.
13. On this “phainetai rule,” see also Vogt (1998).
14. This is persuasively demonstrated by Frede (1987).
15. In PH I.7, 13, Sextus therefore makes it clear that the skeptic assents to the experiences
imposed by the imagination and thus has a certain kind of opinion.
16. Note that this does not imply that the skeptic holds an opinion (in an assertoric sense)
about peace of mind as the ultimate goal. He is merely, as Sextus explicitly notes, driven
by the “hope for peace of mind” (PH I.6, 12), not by any dogmatic determination. This
hope in turn is based on personal impressions and experiences, not on normative beliefs.
The skeptic has experienced in himself that peace of mind, occurring sometimes unex-
pectedly, is a positive state, and now hopes that others may have this experience too.
17. He reports on the steps of their method and the four ways of conducting one’s life (II.12,
374–375 c), praising them with the following words: “There is nothing in man’s invention
that has so much verisimilitude and usefulness” (375 a).
18. Montaigne’s Pyrrhonism has been challenged again and again, from the pioneering
work by Villey (1932), who thought it represented at most a transitional phase, to newer
works by Brahami (1997) and Larmore (2004), who saw Montaigne as a determined anti-
Pyrrhonian, to Sève (2007), who finds only a limited skepticism in Montaigne. For a
thorough presentation and critique of various interpretations, see Wild (2006, 48–66);
for a more concise treatment, see Wild (2009) and Hartle (2005).
19. Furthermore, he does not restrict this question to a certain field, such as that of theo-
retical opinions. Hence it would be inappropriate to see him only as an “urban skeptic,”
seeking contrary opinions only in regard to theoretical (and in particular academic)
opinions. He is in the same degree a “rustic skeptic,” applying the same strategy in regard
to everyday opinions, as Wild (2000) has demonstrated.
20. See Maclean (1996, 21–22). On Montaigne’s relation to various contemporary schools, see
Maclean (2005). Montaigne also distances himself from Neostoic philosophy (represented
notably by Lipsius in De Constantia), which is aimed at achieving a state of equanimity
that permits a moderation or conquest of the emotions. On the presence of Neostoicism,
see Long (2003).
21. At the same time, the sentence also contains a rejection of the authoritative character of
scholastic philosophy. In II.17, 480 a, Montaigne points out that there is “so much diver-
sity and uncertainty in the very school of wisdom” that we should not simply accept it.
Philosophy fulfills its purpose only “when she combats our presumption and vanity,” that
is, when she rejects the claim that everything could be explained by a certain doctrine,
such as the Aristotelian.
22. See also 422 a, where he writes that “our intellectual and sensory faculties are without
foundation and footing,” always wavering and teetering.
23. Brahami (1997, 67).
24. For this reason, Frede (1999) situates the Pyrrhonian skeptic within a Socratic tradi-
tion and highlights the method’s dialectical nature. This is significant in regard to Hartle
(2003, 16), who argues that Montaigne applies a dialectical method, not a skeptical one.
310
310 Notes
There is no contradiction here between two methods. Rather, the dialectical weighing
of opinions and contrary opinion leads to no definitive position, and the search always
continues.
25. Tournon (2000, 48), playing on words, calls this a transition from the French “suspens”
(for suspension of judgment) to the English “suspense” (referring to a temporary delay
or postponement of a judgment). Hartle (2003, 15– 16) also sees Montaigne’s con-
stant judgments as a clear distancing from skepticism; Brahami (2001, 58–59) takes a
similar view.
26. Furthermore, repeated perceptions and mental images lead to the formation of a certain
habit. As Baillon (1992) has shown, Montaigne refers again and again to habit, which
gives “form to our life, just as it pleases” (III.13, 827 b), and that we are powerless to op-
pose. Habitual opinions are in this case likewise imposed, not freely chosen opinions, and
have no assertoric character.
27. A temporary renunciation of judgment can be reached, however. In II.17, 496 a, Montaigne
writes, “The uncertainty of my judgment is so evenly balanced in most occurrences that
I would willingly submit to the decision of chance and of the dice.” Because his judgment
exists only for the moment, it has no importance and can be abandoned as soon as the
next judgment arises.
28. See Brahami (1997, 58–62) and Larmore (2004). According to Limbrick (1977), Montaigne
therefore tends toward Academic rather than Pyrrhonian skepticism.
29. Wild (2006, 55–56) demonstrates this persuasively.
30. This approach to the interpretation of Montaigne is found as early as Friedrich (1991, 104,
originally published in 1949), which refers to a “disempowerment of reason” by unjustifi-
able faith. In the recent literature, Brahami (1997, 2001) and Popkin (2003) have sustained
this objection.
31. For a detailed presentation, see Gontier (1998, 41–156) and Wild (2006, 105–124).
32. Of course, it could also be read as a motivation for applying the skeptical method. As
Popkin (2003, 55) rightly states, the different religious beliefs professed by the contending
parties in the wars of religion of the 16th century call the certainty of a uniform faith into
question: the religious belief of one denomination could always be opposed to the belief of
another denomination. Those who clung to one religious belief (as Montaigne did to the
Catholic faith) did so not because the best arguments supported it, but because they were
most familiar with it and it proved to be the most practical in their particular context.
33. This reference has a particular force in the light of the wars of religion (see Nakam 1993).
According to Montaigne, it is the discussion of the correct interpretation of the Bible and
the one true foundation of faith that leads to conflict and war. If we recognize that there
is no definitive true foundation, we can avoid the conflict. This leads Montaigne to—in
modern terms—a pragmatic conception of faith: not dogma, but traditionally established
religious practice is crucial.
34. In STh I–II, 22.3, ad 2, Aquinas also states that the strength of the emotion depends on
the degree of passivity: the more passive a person is, and hence the more receptive to a
change, the stronger the passio.
35. In contemporary debates too, it is only rarely mentioned. One of the analyses of it is that
of Jäger and Bartsch (2006), who show that a meta-emotion can be addressed either at
a first-level emotion of the same kind (e.g. fear of fear) or at an emotion of a different
kind (e.g. revulsion at one’s own joy). Montaigne only mentions the first type, but there is
nothing to indicate that he considers only this type to be possible.
31
Notes 311
36. He devotes a separate essay to it (I.21); for a discussion see McFarlane (1968) and
Westerwelle (2002, 409–443).
37. He also attaches great importance to the description of his physical state, describing in
detail his ailments and physical reactions (for a discussion, see Starobinski 1993, 266–
350). In this way he not only emphasizes the “animal nature of man” (Gontier 1998, 123),
but also the fact that he can only apprehend himself in his given physical state moment
by moment.
38. Aristotle names the first two characteristics in Rhet. II, 2 (1378a31–33); Plutarch highlights
the other two in De cohibenda ira (Moralia VI). On Aquinas, see Section 1.4.
39. Violence or cruelty not only against persons, but also against animals elicits anger, as
Montaigne writes (II.11, 316 a). And indeed these may be animals that have nothing to
do with one. In classical antiquity, by contrast, anger was always associated with the per-
ception of social hierarchies, and usually the hierarchy of free and slave (for a summary,
see Konstan 2006, 41–76). In Montaigne, there is no such connection to the master–slave
structure.
40. It may be, of course, that the parents erroneously believe that their child has wronged
them. In that case, they have a cognitive attitude. Montaigne would not deny that this is
possible. His point is only that there is no necessary connection between a cognitive atti-
tude and anger. Sometimes purely physiological processes (lack of sleep, indigestion, etc.)
can cause outbursts of anger.
41. His procedure is like the method used in contemporary debates against definitions of
terms. When someone attempts to define the term “knowledge” as “justified true belief,”
for example, another can invoke the Gettier cases, which fall within the definition and
yet do not seem to be cases of knowledge. In such debates, introducing individual cases
makes a methodological point: the pretension to define a term, that is, to formulate nec-
essary and sufficient conditions, is refuted. This casts doubt on the value of definitions in
general.
42. In this finding, Montaigne contradicts the opinion expressed in Rhet. II, 3 (1380a5–15)
that we overcome anger by a cognitive attitude, for example, when we find that we have
not been intentionally wronged. Wild (2008, 257) aptly refers to an autonomy of anger in
respect to judgments.
43. See Hallie (1977); Quint (2000) is similar.
44. II.1, 242 b; for a discussion, see Maclean (1996, 33–38).
45. See Friedrich (1993, 132)and Brahami (1997, 69).
46. On this dispute, see de Libera (1996). For an overview of the two camps at the close of the
Middle Ages, see Conti (2010) and Biard (2010).
47. Friedrich (1991, 157); in recent literature, see Parmentier (2000, 35) and Hartle (2003, 58).
Compagnon 1980 devotes a whole book to Montaigne’s alleged nominalism, tracing di-
rect relations to Ockham’s nominalism.
48. De Int. 1 (16a3–8). On the influence of this passage on 16th-century debates, see Demonet
1992, 87–94.
49. See Ockham, Summa logicae I.14–17 (OPh I, 47–62).
50. Ockham goes so far as to say that the concept is part of a natural mental language that is
common to all people. See Summa logicae I.1 and I.3 (OPh I, 7–9 and 11–15); for a discus-
sion, see Lenz (2003).
51. This problem is discussed in contemporary debates too when the modularity thesis,
which assumes faculties in the form of internal, well-defined modules, is countered
312
312 Notes
with the objection that such modules are only unexplained explainers. See Faucher and
Tappolet (2006) (and in it the critical contributions by de Sousa and Russell).
52. It is expressed especially clearly in the essay on cannibals (I.31); for a discussion, see Quint
(1998, 75–101).
53. Besides classical Stoic texts, these mainly include literary and historical sources by
Guicciardini, Bouchet, and the brothers du Bellay. See the editorial preface to I.2 in the
Villey–Saulnier edition, p. 11.
54. Philosophical Investigations, § 66.
56. Although in I.18, 52 a, he qualifies the statement, saying he is “not a good ‘naturalist,’ ” he
then shows through individual examples the natural processes through which fear arises.
In III.12, 809 c, he explicitly counts himself among the naturalists. For an analysis of this
self-description, see Hoffmann (2005).
57. Aristotle therefore follows a description of anger with an analysis of ways of assuaging
it, all of which have to do with a certain comprehension. Rhet. II.3 (1380 a–b); Thomas
Aquinas is similar in STh I–II 47.1–4.
58. Schaefer (1990, 32).
59. Gauna (2000, 9).
60. Because a skeptic does not make absolute value judgments, it would be more correct
to say that there seems to him to be no legitimation for cruelty. Because of his personal
experiences and his spontaneous reactions to cruel acts, he cannot do otherwise than to
reject them—of course, without claiming to have an objective justification for that re-
jection. Montaigne expresses this by introducing the quoted statement that everything
beyond plain death is pure cruelty with the prefix “As for me” (II.11, 314 a).
61. As Nakam (1993) explains, Montaigne was responding to the massacres during the
wars of religion of his time, such as the brutal murder of Protestants on the eve of St.
Bartholomew, even if he did not mention them explicitly.
62. Baraz (2003, 167–168 and 174).
63. This is apparent from the context in which he makes the famous statement “I am no
philosopher” (III.9, 725 c). He immediately adds that he is beset by all kinds of evils and
unable to resist them. Unlike a detached philosopher (paradigmatically, a wise Stoic), he
reacts emotionally to those evils and cannot overcome his natural disposition or bring
them under control by a special insight.
64. Montaigne also said of himself that he was an “unpremeditated and accidental philos-
opher” (11.12, 409 c); see the discussion in Hartle (2003, 33–38). In view of this state-
ment, the self-description “I am no philosopher” must be interpreted with caution.
Montaigne is no dogmatic philosopher, but he certainly is one who admits the opinions
and reflections that occur in him again and again because of his rational abilities—
as if accidentally, without his rigorously analyzing them or deducing them from first
principles.
65. This is shown in detail by Lewis Schaefer (1990, 227–262) and Quint (1998, 42–74).
66. This must be emphasized to refute the reproach that Montaigne contradicts himself. How
can he reject all assertions as a skeptic and at the same time assert that cruelty is bad? We
must bear in mind the status of this normative assertion. Montaigne does not claim it
absolutely; rather, he is presenting what seems proper to him. As with all assertions, the
restrictive “it seems to me” clause must be prefixed here too. Then Montaigne says only
that, “It seems to me, from my natural inclination and the observations I have made, that
cruelty is bad.”
31
Notes 313
67. In the essay “Of the Education of Children,” he therefore explicitly opposes the use of
violence: “Away with violence and compulsion! There is nothing to my mind which so
depraves and stupefies a wellborn nature.” (I.26, 122 a).
68. Sève 2007, 179–199, calls them suppletive rules [règles supplétives], which are followed
for lack of general fundamental rules (such as normative principles) and arise primarily
through social practices and habits.
69. Schneewind (2005, 223–225).
Chapter 4
1. The works of Descartes are quoted in English translation from The Philosophical Writings,
trans. John Cottingham et al., 3 vols. (1984–1991), except for some of the letters that are
not contained in that edition. References are also given to the edition by Ch. Adam and
P. Tannery. References to The Passions of the Soul (Les passions de l’âme, “PA”) include part
and article numbers. The abbreviation “AT” indicates Adam and Tannery, the editors of
the Latin and French texts; the abbreviation “C” indicates the English edition translated
by John Cottingham et al.
2. On this background, see Gaukroger (1995, 38–67) and Ariew (1999). As Ariew in par-
ticular shows, Duns Scotus was just as much present in Descartes’ training as Aquinas,
although Descartes does not explicitly discuss him.
3. On the mechanistic explanatory frame, see Kambouchner (1995, 129–205); Des Chene
(2001); Hatfield 2007.
4. He not only rejects the classical tripartite division into a vegetative, a sensual, and a ra-
tional soul, but also disputes the claim that a part of the soul contains distinct parts in
turn, such as a “concupiscible” and an “irascible” part (PA II.68; AT XI, 379; C I, 352). On
this criticism, see Wagner (1984).
5. Although Descartes occasionally mentions passions expressed by animals (AT IV, 575),
he explains that these are only physiological processes (PA I.50, AT XI, 369–370; C I, 348).
In his view, we tend to equate these processes with true emotions, but that is a mistake.
On the mechanistic explanation of animals’ states, see Wild (2006, 165–168) and Hatfield
(2008).
6. Dennett (1991, 106).
7. Furthermore, this magic wand also elicits a new perception, Descartes says. This seems to
add up to a problematical doxastic voluntarism (see Cottingham 2008, 213–230). We can
produce a new opinion, such as the opinion that the wolf is not dangerous, by a pure act
of volition. But how can this be possible if the sensory impressions are unchanged and the
wolf continues to be perceived as something big and growling?
8. For example, Kenny (1992, 51); Greenspan (1988); Solomon (2003, 42, 57).
9. Ethics, 5praef (G 278–280).
10. Particularly important is the correspondence with Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia (see
Shapiro 2007). In a series of letters, Elisabeth pointed out to Descartes the problem of the
emotions, to which he had given little attention in the Meditations and the Principles of
Philosophy.
11. Trialism is explicitly referred to by Cottingham (2008, 173–187) and Hoffman (2008, 391).
12. Cottingham (2008, 186), for example, makes the qualified statement that one must not
assume three distinct ontological categories, even though Descartes mentions three basic
notions.
13. Hoffman (1986, 1999, 2008).
314
314 Notes
14. As Des Chene (2000, 161–169) and Biard (2008) make plain, philosophers of Descartes’
time were acquainted with both the unitaristic position (through Suárez and the followers
of Aquinas) and the pluralistic position (through Ockhamists).
15. As Garber (1992, 94–116) shows, his whole criticism of the Aristotelian physics is built on
a rejection of hylomorphic assumptions.
16. For more and different arguments, see Chappell (1994), Rozemond (1998, 151–171), and
Rozemond (2003). In comparing the Cartesian position with the Aristotelian, we must
bear in mind that there was no uniform Aristotelianism in the late Middle Ages, especially
not in regard to the definition of form and matter. Because Descartes saw Eustachius a
Sancto Paulo’s Summa philosophiae quadripartita as an authority (AT III, 232–233), which
is in turn closely oriented after Aquinas’ Summa theologiae (at least in its remarks on the
emotions), Aquinas’ theory is used here for comparison.
17. Descartes also grants that the body remains the same body over time only because of its
connection with the mind (AT IV, 166). In doing so, however, he ascribes to the mind at
most one function that is traditionally attributed to the form, namely that of being the
principle of identity. But Descartes does not state that the mind is also the principle of
actuality.
18. STh I 76.8, following De anima II.1 (412b9–25). Of course, not all scholastic Aristotelians
agreed with this homonymy principle, as we saw in Section 2.4. Ockham explicitly
rejects it.
19. For the emergence of living bodies too, Descartes resorts to only mechanical processes,
not to a life principle. This view stimulated a lively discussion in the 17th century; see
Duchesneau (1998). It revolved around the question of how purely material corpuscles,
which have no causal power in themselves, can produce a movement (such as that of
blood or oxygen) and hence life.
20. Thus his thesis that the intellect and the will are the two faculties of the mind (AT VII, 53–
55; C II, 37–39) is not to be understood as meaning that he distinguishes two parts of the
mind, much less two forms. Rather, both of these are expressions of a faculty of thought.
By this distinction, he aims only to designate different functions that thinking involves.
21. Voss (1994). In a similar vein, see also Newmark (2008, 141): an “anthropological irrecon-
cilability with dualistic metaphysics.”
22. This is in rebuttal to Hoffman (1990, 313; 2008, 400), who mentions “straddling modes”
that are grounded in both substances. See also the critique in Brown (2006, 121–127).
23. Descartes opposes the assumption of real qualities that, in the conception of some late
scholastics (such as Suárez), are indeed autonomous entities. See Menn (1995).
24. In Perler (1996, 146–160), where I have discussed the nomological conception at length,
I did not address this problem. Shapiro (2003a, 2003b) has rightly pointed out, however,
that this problem must be taken into consideration.
25. As Garber (2001, 133–167) explains, there is therefore a clear distinction between in-
animate bodies and human bodies. General laws of nature can be formulated for the
movements of inanimate bodies, not for those of human bodies, which can be deter-
mined anew at every moment by the mind.
26. On this voluntaristic conception, which he develops in several letters (AT I, 145–146,
149–150, 152–153), see Osler (1994) and Milton (1998).
27. On the distinction of various kinds of necessity, see Perler (2001).
28. See Principles of Philosophy II.36–40 (AT VIII-1, 61–65; C I, 240–243).
29. Dretske (1988, 42–43).
315
Notes 315
31. For a detailed discussion, see Perler (1996, 78–121; 2004). This interpretation also has
the advantage that we do not need to impute to Descartes a fatal representationalism.
A person who has a representation does not apprehend some internal object that has at
most a causal relation to an external object, but the object itself, to the extent that it exists
in the mind. Thus the person has a direct access to the object. On this representation-
alism, which is not in contradiction to a direct realism, see also Brown (2007).
32. Wonder is an exception: it initially relates to an object independently of such an appraisal.
Descartes points out, however, that wonder is connected with either esteem or contempt
(PA II.54; AT XI, 373; C I, 350). Thus we apprehend an object as something new and im-
mediately appraise it as something good or bad; accordingly, we esteem or condemn it.
33. As Simmons (1999, 355) shows in detail, sensations are relevant in a biofunctional re-
spect. They call attention to the “ecologically salient properties” without precisely distin-
guishing between the descriptive and normative properties.
34. On this two-component theory, see Perler (2004b) and Carriero (2009, 240–264).
35. The “internal emotions” are an exception: those that are brought about by purely mental
activities and not connected with sensory impressions (PA II.147; AT XI, 441; C I, 381).
These are discussed in Section 4.5.
36. For this reason Hatfield (2007b, 425) refutes the thesis that emotions for Descartes always
represent objects.
37. For a detailed discussion, see Perler (1996, 269–284) and Patterson 2008.
38. Because they are not judgments themselves, they cannot be “formally false”: on this dis-
tinction, see Field (1993), Alanen (2003), 156–164, and Brown (2006, 104–109).
39. In his replies to the “Sixth Objections” (AT VII, 437–438; C II, 294–296), Descartes
explains this using the example of a stick. I apprehend a stick as something colored only
by seeing it as a blot of color with a certain size; the sensory property provides an access
to the concrete geometric properties. On this example, see Perler (2007, 36–37).
40. It is only for lack of this distinction that emotions are confused and obscure. They can be
clear, as Descartes explicitly states (AT VIII-1, 32; C I, 216), if we only heed what is imme-
diately present to us, without ascribing the represented properties to the external object.
41. De Sousa (1987, 194–197).
42. For this reason, not only the judgment interpretation discussed and discarded by Brown
(2006, 101–103) is inappropriate. Her own interpretation too, which postulates acts of
volition (“wantings or willings that things be a certain way”), is unconvincing because it
presumes that emotions always involve a propositional attitude. Furthermore, emotions
are not always acts of volition; rather, they are explicitly distinguished from such activities
as states that are externally caused (PA I.28; AT XI, 349; C I, 339); see also Alanen (2003,
182–183).
43. Williams (1978, 65).
44. Even if an unambiguous assignment of signs to emotions were possible, it would still be
impossible to determine exactly what the facial expression indicates in the long chain of
causation: a mental perception, or the brain state that causes it, or the object that causes
the brain state? See Shapiro (2003c, 49–50).
45. Descartes himself presents an amusing example. Some people abhor the smell of roses
and show physical signs of revulsion when confronted with roses. Why? Because as
infants they were subjected to an overpowering aroma of roses and got headaches
from it (PA II.136; AT XI, 429; C I, 376). The connection rose fragrance–abhorrence–
revulsion is due to an individual experience and cannot be explained with reference to a
universal law.
316
316 Notes
46. Paul Ekman, a renowned advocate of this approach, takes other factors into account as
well (including the duration of an emotion, its occurrence at a certain point in the on-
togeny, its presence in nonhuman primates), but he accords central importance to the
facial expression as a universal sign. See Ekman (1999); for a summary, see Hartmann
(2005, 133–139).
47. Of course, we could qualify that conclusion by noting that it is only a generic general-
ization. Just as the general statement “human beings have 36 teeth” doesn’t mean that
every single person has 36 teeth, the general statement “In human beings, the emotion
x is expressed by the facial expression y” doesn’t mean that this is true of every single
person. By settling for this weaker thesis, however, we would be admitting that there
are individual differences that need to be explained. Descartes’ explanation would be as
follows: it is the individual determinations of a correspondence between physical and
mental states that permit variance.
48. Although Descartes refers to the intellect and the will as faculties or abilities [facultates],
notably in the “Fourth Meditation” (AT VII, 56; C II, 39), he does not commit himself
to the assumption of two faculties that can be assigned to distinct areas of the soul. In
his explanation of the intellect and the will, he states that they are only “two modes of
thinking” (Principles I.32; AT VIII-1.17; C I, 204) and thus manifestations of a single fac-
ulty of thought.
49. On the close connection between miracle and admiratio, see Daston and Park (1998,
120–126).
50. Daston (2001); see also Schmitter (2002).
51. Hatfield (2007).
52. Descartes therefore refers to the states of a sense only “insofar as it depends on a bodily
organ” (AT V, 278; C III, 366). But in animals, these states do not elicit anything in a mind.
Kemmerling (1996, 175–176) has coined an apt metaphor for this situation: “Their door-
bell rings, so to speak, but there is no one at home.”
53. Hookway and Elgin have pointed this out in the recent debate; see the discussion in Brun
et al. (2009).
54. As Daston (2001, 95) demonstrates, the criticism of curiosity, found notably in Thomas
Aquinas (STh II–II.167.1–1), persisted into the early 18th century.
55. Desire is not assigned an opposite emotion because the movement of pursuing the future
good and avoiding the future bad is one and the same. Descartes illustrates this by the
following examples: a person who pursues health wants at the same time to avoid illness,
and one who pursues wealth wants at the same time to avoid poverty (PA II.87; AT XI,
393; C I, 359).
56. See the analysis in see Section 1.3.
57. As Brown (2006, 188–195) shows, this understanding builds in part on Augustine’s
theory of magnanimitas and in part on the concept of virtù as a form of self-
determination and self- control, which was widespread in the 16th century (in
Machiavelli, for example).
58. Cinna V.3 (trans. John Cairncross, Penguin, 1975); quoted in Shapiro (1999; there see
esp. 250–252).
59. Hence freedom has its roots in the will, not in the intellect: the more a person assents by
his own decision (and is not compelled to assent, for example), the freer he is; for a thor-
ough discussion see Alanen (2003, 220–233) and Carriero (2009, 249–264).
60. It is significant that Descartes notes in his definition that générosité consists not only in a
momentary use of the will, but also in a “firm and constant resolution” to make good use
317
Notes 317
of the will (PA III.153; AT XI, 446; C I, 384). But resolution, as a disposition, arises only
from repeatedly exercising the will.
Chapter 5
1. All references are to this work (in Edwin Curley’s translation) unless otherwise noted.
The first number indicates the part; the abbreviations used in the rest of the reference
are as follows: “app” (appendix), “ax” (axioma), “d” (demonstratio), “def ” (definitio), “p”
(propositio), “praef ” (praefatio), “s” (scholium). Example: 2p7s = Part II, propositio 7,
scholium. For the long prefaces (“praef ”) and appendices (“app”), the page number in the
Gebhardt edition (“G”) is also given.
2. Letter to More, April 15, 1649 (AT V, 347; C III, 375).
3. To avoid any misunderstanding, we should note at this point that Spinoza commits him-
self only to a methodological naturalism, aimed at offering the same kinds of explanations
for human beings as for other parts of nature. This does not commit him to a reductive
metaphysical naturalism, which would admit only one kind of entity—namely material
entities that are accessible to scientific investigations. On the different variants of natu-
ralism, see Keil and Schnädelbach (2000); for a concise view of Spinoza’s naturalism, see
Bennett (1984, 35–38) and Della Rocca (2008a, 5–8).
4. Some would even say it yields a false picture. Curley (1969, 18) criticized that to conceive
something to which modes (including emotions) are attributed as a mode itself is to apply
the “wrong logical type.” For a critical response to this accusation, see Melamed (2009).
5. See Bayle (1826, headword “Spinoza”).
6. Les passions de l’âme I.43 (AT XI, 361; C I, 344).
7. The following analyses are concentrated on the Ethics and refer only occasionally to the
earlier Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect and the letters. On the origins and inter-
relation of these works, see Nadler (1999).
8. Strawson (1959, 9).
9. Aristotle, Cat. 2 (1a20–1b9).
10. Principles of Philosophy 1.51 (AT VIII-1, 24; C I, 210).
11. Ibid.
12. In Principles of Philosophy 1.56 (AT VIII-1, 26; C I, 211) Descartes notes that he understands
by “mode” what is elsewhere called a “quality.” But he is not referring to the scholastic
concept of quality according to which a quality is an independent entity that is added to
a substance and can also be removed from it. Descartes rejects the assumption of such
“real qualities” (AT III, 648–649; C III, 216; see also Menn 1995 and Normore 2010). In
his view, qualities are nothing but modes, and thus nonremovable ways of being, of a
substance. This is the conception on which Spinoza builds in his persistent references
to modes.
13. How these three definitions relate to one another is a subject of debate in the literature.
Carriero (1995) argues that the definitions appealing to causation and inherence can be
understood as completely separate: a mode is caused by a substance and is additionally in
it. Della Rocca (2008a, 67–68) objects, with good reason, that it would be inappropriate
to separate the two definitions from one another: a mode is caused by a substance by
arising and being in it. In a similar vein, see also Nadler (2008a).
14. Although he does not explicitly mention modes of modes, but “affections” of individual
things (2p13d, 2p22d, 2p38d, 3p52s), affections are nothing other than modes (1def5),
and individual things are likewise nothing other than modes or bundles of modes that
318
318 Notes
together produce a certain effect (2def7). Thus Spinoza’s own explanations show that he
assumes modes of modes.
15. See Bayle (1826, headword “Spinoza”).
16. Bennett (1984, 29). This position, occasionally also called the “principle of sufficient
reason” after Leibniz, determines Spinoza’s whole metaphysics, as Della Rocca (2003,
2008a) shows.
17. Furthermore, attributes can hardly be understood as elements that together make up a
complex whole, as Curley (1988, 29–30) proposes. For Spinoza explicitly states that each
attribute “expresses infinite essence” (1p11) and is thus not limited to certain region of a
complex whole.
18. Sometimes Spinoza even says that an attribute is the same as the substance (1p4d), be-
cause it is what constitutes its essence. It is important to note that it is not only ascribed to
the substance. Although in the definition quoted Spinoza writes that an attribute is that
which the intellect discerns in a substance as constituting its essence, his intention is not
to set down a subjectivistic definition, as some earlier interpreters have supposed (for a
concise critical discussion, see Nadler 2006, 56–58). An attribute does in fact constitute
the essence of a substance, and for that reason is discernible to the intellect. If there were
no real foundation, there would be no discernibility.
19. This question is especially acute because Spinoza does not assume any special attribute
for mathematical objects (they are contents of ideas, and thus come under the attribute of
thought), and leaves the meaning of the other attributes completely open. On this ques-
tion, see Nadler (2006, 141–142).
20. For a thorough presentation and evaluation of both positions, see Della Rocca (1996a,
118–140).
21. For this reason, Della Rocca (1996a, 141–156) refers to the “opacity” of all statements
about individual objects and their states. We must always specify the aspect under which
we are describing and analyzing them.
22. For example, Churchland (2007), who argues for a radical eliminativism and holds that
philosophy of the mind will develop into a neurophilosophy.
23. Because they are irreducible, we could say that Spinoza produces a dualism of properties
that by no means contradicts his monism of substance: within the one substance, all
modes have two kinds of properties.
24. On Spinoza’s reasons in favor of necessitarianism, see Perler (2011); see also the concise
presentation in Nadler (2006, 104–108) and Jarrett 2009.
25. On this argument for contingence, see Adams (1987, 1151–1207).
26. Principia philosophiae III.56 (AT VIII-1,108; C I, 259–260).
27. Cf. Curley (1988,107–108) and Della Rocca (1996b, 196) (nuanced, however, in Della
Rocca 2008a, 145–153). For a survey of the physical background, see Cook (2006).
28. Although Spinoza in 3p6 uses the same wording (quantum in se est) as Descartes in
speaking of this “own power,” as it is called in Curley’s rather free translation, there is
nonetheless a significant difference between the two authors. For Descartes—as Garber
(2001, 189–202) has shown—no material object can be dynamic in itself or through it-
self. The dynamics must always come from God, who keeps every object in existence and
allows them to move in accordance with universal laws. And, for Descartes, God is not
an immanent cause, but always an external one.
29. In less casual terms, we could see this as an emanation model: the energy that every ob-
ject has emanates from God, the first and permanently active cause. Because every object,
319
Notes 319
as a mode of the substance, is always in God, this energy is never diminished. Spinoza
explicitly identifies God’s essence with his power (1p34) and states that it is the cause of
all things.
30. In the succinct phrase of Garrett (2002, 150).
31. There are also increasingly complex forms of consciousness: from the simple sensual con-
sciousness of an animal to the propositional and even reflexive consciousness of a human
being. The degree of complexity depends on the complexity of the given body. It is a
general principle for Spinoza that mental and physical complexities coincide with one
another (2p13s; 5p39s). On this point, see Nadler (2008b).
32. Garrett (2008, 18–19).
33. Descartes does ascribe emotions to animals in some of his letters, as when he notes that
dogs, horses, and monkeys show signs of fear, joy, and hope (AT IV, 574; C III, 303).
This statement has prompted some commentators (notably Cottingham 2008) to assume
he refers to sensual emotions that animals have in spite of their lack of a mind. In the
explanations of these alleged emotions, however, it is clear that Descartes understood
them as nothing but brain states having no representational or phenomenal content. He
specifies that the fear or joy in an animal does not imply “any real feeling or emotion in
them” as there is in us (AT II, 41; C III, 100). The expression “emotion” is thus to be under-
stood in different ways when applied to animals and people. For a thorough discussion,
see Wild (2006, 165–176).
34. Notably by Damasio (2003).
35. For example, by Segal (2000).
36. As late as the 17th century, Eustachius a Sancto Paulo formulated this position in his
Summa philosophiae quadripartita, ethica pars 3, tract. 2, q. 2, 70.
37. Strictly speaking, this definition refers only to the emotions produced by external
influences and is hence not a comprehensive definition. The most general definition is
that previously quoted (3def3) in which the emotions are defined as “affections of the
body” and at the same time as “the ideas of these affections.” On the relationship between
the two definitions, see Jaquet (2004, 72–82).
38. For a detailed discussion, see Perler (2008c).
39. By Bennett (1984, 292) for example.
40. As we saw in the discussion of Thomas Aquinas (see Section 1.4), the scholastic Aristotelians
too held that things are always good or bad for something or someone. The wolf is bad
for the sheep, for example, but good for a wolf cub. However, the Aristotelians claimed
that being good is a transcendental feature (that is, one that transcends categories) that
adds something to being. Aquinas thus wrote that being good adds to being the feature of
participating in something else (De veritate 21.1). It is this assumption of a transcendental
feature that Spinoza rejects in saying that being good and being bad are nothing other
than relational properties.
41. They are listed at the end of Part 3 (G 190–203). For a table, see Lebuffe (2009, 204–205).
42. Renz (2008, 321).
43. In 3app, G 200–204, Spinoza lists a number of emotions (longing, rivalry, gratitude, etc.)
that contain desire as the basic emotion. Some interpreters (such as Lebuffe 2009, 206–
208) have therefore reported a distinct class of emotions that contain not joy or sadness,
but mere desire. But this view neglects the fact that desire is rather a requirement for joy
and sadness, even in the complex emotions. This is apparent in Spinoza’s explanation of
longing. He characterizes it first as a desire to possess something lost, but then specifies
320
320 Notes
that “Longing, therefore, is really a sadness which is opposed to that joy which arises from
the absence of a thing we hate . . . ” (G 200). A person who feels longing does not merely
desire, but is sad about no longer possessing a good object, and at the same time wishes
to possess it again. Thus the desire in this case is accompanied by sadness.
44. Strictly speaking, Spinoza does not refer to active emotions, but to affects “that are related
to us insofar as we act” (3p58). That does not mean, however, that they too are merely
passively related to us. In contrast to Duns Scotus (see Section 2.2), Spinoza does not
claim that we perform rational activities and that higher-order emotions then ensue that
we merely suffer. According to Spinoza, we directly produce emotions, because we also
directly form representations. This may seem strange. Can we produce joy as if on com-
mand simply by forming certain representations? Yes and no. On the one hand, we can
in fact produce joy by our own efforts, because forming representations is a mental act
that we ourselves perform, as we do other acts. On the other hand, for this act we require
other existing mental images, memories, ideas, etc., that we cannot create as if at the push
of a button.
45. Letter 60.
46. Because we can specify more or fewer causes, there are different degrees of inadequacy.
Only in God (and for Spinoza, that means: in the entire network of all ideas) are all causes
present in all their relations. Hence it is only in God that there are only adequate ideas.
On the graduations of adequacy, see Della Rocca (1996a, 46–64).
47. For example, Schrijvers (1999, 63).
48. Such as Segal (2000), who sees Spinoza’s theory of the emotions as an excessive form of
cognitivism.
49. Della Rocca (2008a, 160).
50. For this reason, Nadler (2006, 208) writes trenchantly that, for Spinoza, people are “thor-
oughly egoistic agents.” Bennett (1984, 293–295) makes a similar observation.
51. Nicomachean Ethics VIII.4 (1156b7–10).
52. Spinoza agrees in this regard with contemporary representationalists (for a concise
presentation, see Tye 2008) who claim that the phenomenal content of an emotion is
determined by its representational content: emotions feel the same if they represent a
physical state in the same way. If we understand Della Rocca’s statement (see note 49 of
this chapter) as meaning there is no feeling of love over and above the representation of
an object, then he too does not dispute that there is a phenomenal dimension; he only
locates it in the representational dimension.
53. McGinn (1991, 88), for example, proposes a “transcendental naturalism.” He claims that
phenomenal experience is a natural fact, but an explanation of this fact exceeds our cog-
nitive abilities.
54. As Della Rocca (2008a, 1–12) persuasively shows, this explanatory framework permeates
all of Spinoza’s works. On its application to the problem of the emotions, see Della Rocca
(2008b).
55. Dennett (1984, 12).
56. It is significant that Spinoza (in 3p16, for example) writes that we must imagine other
people as similar to us to be infected with their emotions. As Della Rocca (2004, 136–
137) rightly notes, mere similarity is not sufficient; imagined similarity is always neces-
sary. The imitation effect thus fits in a representationalist explanatory frame: imitation
is not a bare fact, but one that is based on a certain kind of imagination, and thus on
representation.
321
Notes 321
57. Nadler (2006, 242).

58. Of course, one might object that it can also have negative consequences in some cases.
Suppose the barking dog is in fact an unpredictable, highly dangerous guard dog. Do
I not increase the child’s fear if I tell him that? Maybe so, but Spinoza would immediately
add that a positive emotion also arises through the understanding of the dog’s dangerous
character: that is, the joy or satisfaction of discerning the nature of the dog. Of course
there is no guarantee that this positive emotion is stronger than the negative one, but at
least the child can now set a positive emotion in opposition to the negative one.
59. Bayle (1826, headword “Spinoza”).
60. Thus Renz (2009, 59–62) calls this frame a mere “metatheoretical requirement” that says
nothing about how individual events are caused in detail.
61. For a concise discussion, see Pauen (2004).
62. Bennett (1984, 329–345) examines them all individually, but concludes that all five are
mistaken. Lin (2009, 282) likewise finds that all five ways are doomed to failure.
63. Lin (2009, 272).
64. The Stoic influence is elucidated by Long (2003) and, with reference to the basic ration-
alistic assumption that mere understanding changes one’s attitude toward an emotion, by
Pereboom (2001). Spinoza of course distances himself from the Stoics by disputing that
we can completely master the emotions (5praef, G 278). Even an understanding of the
genesis of the emotions has at most the consequence that we are to a certain extent no
longer at their mercy.
65. Bennett (1984, 337).
66. Spinoza explains this using the example of perception (2p29s). If, when an idea occurs in
us on the basis of a sensory impression, we do not connect it completely with other ideas,
then we falsely ascribe everything that is present in that moment (for example, a certain
color or temperature) to the perceived object. Only if we connect the idea with other
ideas—for example, with the idea of the specific surroundings and the idea of our own
body—can we overcome the confusion and hence the inadequacy of the idea.
67. This objection is formulated by Lin (2009, 276).
68. Bittner (1994, 969).
69. Berlin (1999, 189).
Conclusion
1. De passionibus, disp. 1, sect. 12, n. 5 (Opera omnia 4, 475).

2. Of course, a consensus on whether there are basic emotions and what they consist of
is no less elusive in today’s debates on psychology and cognitive theory. Whereas some
authors (notably Ekman 1999) try to identify a number of basic emotions with reference
to culturally invariant facial expressions, others insist that the classification of emotions is
always an expression of a culturally informed interpretive system. A change in this system
changes the list of the basic emotions. Averill (1994, 14) pointedly writes, “Basic emotions
have no more place in psychology than basic animals in zoology or basic diseases in
medicine.”
3. STh I–II 26.1–3; cf. Section 1.3.
4. Ethics 5app (G 192); cf. Section 5.3.
5. Notably by Kenny (1963), who rehabilitated Aquinas’ theory of formal objects. In the
contemporary discussion, Miner draws on Aquinas to avoid a “scientistic reductionism”
32
322 Notes
(Miner 2009, 5) and to gain a better focus on the cognitive content of emotions. Gorevan
(2000) sees the contemporary importance of Aquinas’ theory in the fact that hylomor-
phism enables it to explain how different characteristics of emotions (such as intention-
ality and physical change) form a unity.
6. Thus Solomon (1993, 9–12), who sees the “myth of the passions”—a myth he would van-
quish by a cognitivistic analysis—in the opposition of emotionality and rationality. Deigh
(2010, 17) sees such analysis as arising only in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and
therefore refers to “revolutionary changes” that allegedly first took place in theoretical
investigations of the emotions at that late date.
7. On Aquinas, see the discussion in Section 1.3; on Spinoza, see Section 5.4.
8. Moreau (2003, 2) refers aptly to increasing attention to a “topography of the soul.” The
objective was to identify the exact locus of the emotions in the soul and its relation to
other loci (those of perceptions, judgments, etc.). Moreau sees this theoretical interest in
contrast to the practical interest of classical authors, who were primarily concerned with
explaining how to deal with individual emotions.
9. Theories of the emotions are hence one expression of a sweeping change in causal
explanations: reference to the form as a principle of activity and identity increasingly gave
way to an appeal to efficient causes and nomological models. On this transformation, see
Nadler (1998) or the more comprehensive discussion in Nadler (1993).
10. STh I 78.3–4; cf. Section 1.3.
11. On the reasons for the rise of the representationalist paradigm and for its various
formulations, see Perler and Haag (2010).
12. Hence Aquinas assumed a hierarchical relation between the rational and the sensual
faculties and claimed that “general reason commands the sensual appetitive faculty” (STh
I 81.3), but he also took into account the fact that sensual states can elicit rational ones.
On the possibilities of mutual influence, see Section 1.5.
13. Duns Scotus and Ockham set the will as a free faculty in opposition to the natural
faculties, going so far as to claim that the will can never be determined: cf. Sections 2.3
and 2.5.
14. Essays, II.12, 336 a.
15. Ethics, 3praef (G 137).
16. ScG II.68, n. 1453; cf. Section 1.2.
17. QDV 26.3, ad 13; cf. Section 1.5.
18. In Les passions de l’âme II.68 (AT XI, 379; C I, 352), he discards the assumption of distinct
faculties, and in Le Monde (AT XI, 26; C I, 89), he rejects the assumption of substantial
forms generally.
19. Essays, II.12, 401 a; cf. Section 3.4.
20. In the very first essay, Montaigne writes that it is “hard to found any constant and uniform
judgment” on man because he behaves very differently in different situations (Essays I.1, 5
a). We must always consider the given circumstances. It is significant that this program-
matic essay is immediately followed by others (I.2–4) that deal explicitly with emotions.
21. Montaigne refers to the phenomenon of contagion in the Essays, I.18, 53 b.
22. This is in disagreement with Brahami (1997, 76) (and Brahami 2001, 9–14), who sees
Montaigne’s skepticism as a complete overthrow of reason and an “instinctivist” agenda.
Montaigne does not simply reduce rational judgments to instincts. He grants that there
are such judgments, but points out that they are at most one of several factors (and not
always the decisive one) in the regulation of emotions.
32
Notes 323
23. Because, for Spinoza, physical and mental states are identical (see Section 5.2), there can
be no mental life independently of the body after death. Although Spinoza prominently
mentions an eternal mind (Ethics 5p39), he cannot mean by it a mind that survives the
individual body, but at most (a) the set of all ideas that eternally corresponds to a body,
or (b) the structure of a body that can eternally be expressed. For a full discussion, see
Nadler (2001, 94–131).
324
325
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39
Name Index
Before 1900 Descartes, R. viii, xiii, 7, 8, 12–15, 17, 18, 20,

25, 26, 34, 35, 126, 128, 175–223, 225, 227,
Albertus Magnus 23, 30, 296n1, 298n20, 228, 230, 234, 235, 239–241, 243, 271,
301n56, 305n17 281, 282, 284, 285–287, 289, 291, 294n16,
Aquinas, Thomas xii, xiii, 7, 8, 12–15, 18–20, 294n19, 296n50, 297n4, 297n9, 298n28,
23–7 1, 74, 76, 84–86, 90, 97, 111, 112, 115, 304n9, 309n11, 313n1–316n60, 317n12,
119–121, 123, 136–140, 142, 146, 147, 149, 318n28, 319n33
151, 157, 158, 164, 175, 182–184, 205–207, Duns Scotus, John 8–12, 20, 36, 73–95,
212, 245, 247, 281–291, 293n9, 295n31, 96, 99–101, 104, 107, 108, 123, 151, 158,
295n35, 296n1–303n88, 304n12, 305n17, 175, 176, 219, 281, 286, 287, 291, 303n5,
305n28, 305n29, 306n37, 306n38, 304n7, 304n8, 304n10, 304n12, 305n17,
307n59, 307n60, 308n62, 308n1, 305n19, 305n28, 305n30, 307n49, 313n2,
310n34, 311n38, 312n57, 313n2, 314n14, 320n44, 322n12
314n16, 316n54, 319n40, 321n5, 322n5,
322n7, 322n7 Elisabeth of Bohemia 191, 199, 295n29,
Aristotle 13, 16, 30, 31, 33, 43, 58, 81, 82, 97, 295n33, 313n10
126, 142, 143, 145, 146, 150, 157, 181, Epictetus 73
230, 255, 261, 299n38, 302n70, 305n19, Eustachius a Sancto Paulo 17, 297n9,
306n39, 311n38, 312n57, 317n9 314n16, 319n36
Augustine, Aurelius 61, 73, 74, 92, 111,
210, 295n30, 301n53, 303n3, Grimm, J. & W. 294n16
303n6, 316n57
Aulus Gellius 73, 268, 303n1 Henry of Ghent 79, 80, 81, 83, 304n7
Aureol, Peter 113, 114 Hume, D. 62, 110, 291
Avicenna 41, 86, 141, 195, 296n1, 300n45,
301n56, 302n71 Leibniz, G. W. 25, 34, 35, 305n27, 318n16
Lombard, Peter 78, 111
Bacon, F. 208
Bayle, P. 227, 231, 263, 317n5, 318n15, 321n59 Malebranche, N. 125, 297n3, 308n7
Montaigne, M. de viii, 11, 15, 19, 123–173,
Charron, P. 124, 125, 308n5 175, 223, 225, 281, 282, 286–291,
Cicero, M. T. 296n54, 301n53, 303n3 294n16, 308n2–313n69, 322n20,
Corneille, P. 215 322n21
339
340
340 Name Index
Ockham, William of xiii–xv, 8, 12, 17, 18, 74, Brahami, F. 131, 309n18, 309n23, 310n25,
76, 95–121, 123, 151, 158, 175, 176, 219, 310n28, 310n30, 311n45, 322n22
239, 240, 281, 284, 286, 287, 291, 295n36, Brandom, R. 298
296n52, 304n8, 305n35–308n63, 311n47, Brown, D. J. 314n22, 315n31, 315n38,
311n49, 311n50, 314n18, 322n13 315n42, 316n57
Brown, Th. 294n17
Plutarch 142–146, 157, 296n54, 311n38 Brun, G. 316n53
Brungs, A. 53, 295n35, 296n1, 297n7,
Senault, J.-F. 17, 23, 296n49 299n41, 301n66
Seneca, L. A. 74, 145, 296n54, 303n3 Burnyeat, M. F. 82, 299n32, 300n51, 305n21
Sextus Empiricus 126, 128–130, 132, 133, 154,
308n9, 308n10, 309n15, 309n16 Cairncross, J. 316n58
Spinoza, B. de viii, xii, xiv, 7, 10, 14, 15, 17–19, Carriero, J. 315n34, 316n59, 317n13
25, 179, 191, 223, 225–280, 281–288, Casagrande, C. 296n59
290, 291, 293n9, 295n44, 317n1–321n69, Chalmers, D. 84, 294n24, 300n50, 305n25
322n7, 323n23 Chappell, V. 314n16
Suárez, F. 23, 26, 46, 281, 296n1, 299n35, Churchland, P. 318n22
308n1, 314n14 Cohen, E. 304n14
Cohen, F. H. 295n45
Zedler, J. H. 294n18 Compagnon, A. 311n47
Conti, A. 311n46
After 1900 Cook, Th. 318n27
Cottingham, J. 313n1, 313n7, 313n11,
Adams, M. McCord 109, 305n35, 306n41, 313n12, 314n33
307n54, 318n25 Courtenay, W. J. 304n8, 306n45
Alanen, L. 294n13, 315n38, 315n42, 316n59 Crane, T. 293n4
Amerini, F. 298n23 Cross, R. 304n9, 304n16, 305n31, 305n34
Ariew, R. 296n50, 297n9, 313n2 Curley, E. 317n1, 317n4, 318n17,
Auerbach, E. 304n14 318n27, 318n28
Averill, J. R. 321n2
Avramides, A. 40, 300n43 D’Arcy, E. 299n40
Aydede, M. 305n22 Dales, R. 298n20
Dalgleish, T. 293n1
Baillon, E. 310n26 Damasio, A. 7, 294n11, 294n24, 319n34
Baraz, D. 164, 312n62 Daston, L. 208, 316n49, 316n50, 316n54
Bartsch, A. 310n35 Deigh, J. 7, 293n1, 294n12, 322n6
Beckermann, A. 298n26, 300n50 De Libera, A. 311n46
Bennett, J. 232, 270, 271, 317n3, 318n16, Della Rocca, M. 255, 317n3, 317n13, 318n16,
319n39, 320n50, 321n62, 321n65 318n20, 318n21, 318n27, 320n46, 320n49,
Bennett, M. R. 293n7 320n52, 320n54, 320n56
Berlin, I. 278, 321n69 Demonet, M.-L. 311n48
Bermúdez, J. L. 302n75 Dennett, D. 178, 257, 313n6, 320n55
Biard, J. 311n46, 314n14 Des Chene, D. 299n31, 299n35, 313n3,
Bittner, R. 277, 321n68 314n14
Boler, J. 306n44 De Sousa, R. 200, 293n8, 294n10, 297n10,
Boquet, D. 303n4 312n51, 315n41
Boulnois, O. 304n10 Dixon, Th. 294n17
Brachtendorf. J. 303n3 Döring, S. 294n18
341
Name Index 341
Dretske, F. 105, 106, 191, 305n22, Jäger, Ch. 310n35

307n50, 314n29 James, S. 296n53, 296n58, 297n9
Dreyer, M. 304n8, 305n31 James, W. 294n17
Duchesneau, F. 314n19 Jaquet, Ch. 319n37
Eisen Murphy, C. 299n41, 303n85 Kambouchner, D. 313n3

Ekman, P. 301n54, 301n62, 316n46, 321n2 Karger, E. 307n47
Keil, G. 297n4, 317n3
Faucher, L. 295n34, 298n29, 312n51 Kemmerling, A. 316n52
Field, R. 315n38 Kenny, A. 7, 27, 45, 294n10, 296n48, 297n10,
Floridi, L. 308n9 297n14, 301n55, 313n8, 321n5
Floyd, S. D. 301n68 Kent, B. 304n7
Frede, M. 309n14 King, P. 84, 295n30, 296n50, 297n8, 298n17,
Friedrich, H. 150, 310n30, 311n45 298n19, 299n34, 299n41, 301n53,
Funkenstein, A. 78, 304n15 301n64, 305n26, 305n33, 308n1
Knuuttila, S. 295n30, 296n58, 296n1, 301n53,
Gallagher, D. 303n87, 308n62 301n56, 303n4, 303n6, 305n32
Garber, D. xiii, 9, 294n15, 299n30, 314n15, Konstan, D. 300n49, 303n80, 311n39
314n25, 318n28 Krajczynski, J. 299n38, 301n53
Garrett, D. 243, 319n30 Kretzmann, N. 298n16, 298n22, 301n61
Gaukroger, S. 313n2
Gauna, M. 161, 168, 312n59 Lagerlund, H. 296n58, 304n6
Goldie, P. 50, 294n10, 297n2, 297n10, 301n60 Landweer, H. 296n58
Gondreau, P. 297n6, 304n13 Lane, R. D. 293n2
Gontier, Th. 310n31, 311n37 Larmore, Ch. 309n18, 310n28
Gordon, R. 300n46 Lebuffe, M. 319n41
Gorevan, P. 322n5 Leibold, G. 307n61
Graver, M. R. 303n2 Leijenhorst, C. 296n46
Greenspan, P. 313n8 Lenz, M. 307n46, 307n53, 311n50
Griffiths, P. E. 293n3, 303n79, 305n23 Levi, A. 308n8
Gustafson, D. 294n21 Limbrick, E. 310n28
Lin, M. 268, 321n62
Haag, J. 322n11 Long, A. A. 309n20, 321n64
Hacker, P. M. S 293n7 Lorenz, H. 305n19
Hallie, P. 145, 311n43 Lyons, W. 293n1, 301n67
Hartle, A., 309n18, 309n24, 310n25,
311n47, 312n64 Maclean, I. 309n20, 311n44
Hartmann, M. 293n5, 293n8, McFarlane, I. D. 311n36
300n46, 316n46 McGinn, C. 320n53
Hasse, D. 300n45, 302n71 McGrade, A. S. 304n11, 307n56
Hatfield, G. 209, 299n31, 313n3, 313n5, Menn, S. 314n23, 317n12
315n36, 316n51 Mercer, C. 296n46
Hirvonen, V. 306n42, 306n43, 307n60 Miller, J. 296n54
Hoffman, P. 181, 313n11, 314n22 Millet, O. 308n4
Hoffmann, G. 312n56 Milton, J. R. 314n26
Miner, R. 298n17, 299n40, 301n53, 301n61,
Imbach, R. 297n6 302n72, 321n5, 322n5
Ingham, M. B. 296n54, 304n8, 305n31 Moreau, J.-F. 308n9, 322n8
342
342 Name Index
Motta, Ch. 304n13 Schäfer, Ch. 296, 301n56, 304n7

Müller, J. 303n86 Scherer, K. 293n8
Schmitter, A. M. 316n50
Nadel, L. 293n2 Schnädelbach, H. 317n3
Nadler, S. 261, 297n3, 305n27, 317n7, 317n13, Schneewind, J. 173, 313n69
318n18, 318n19, 318n24, 319n31, 320n50, Schobinger, J.-P. 297n8
321n57, 322n9, 323n23 Schrijvers, M. 320n47
Nagel, Th. 295n25 Segal, G. 319n35, 320n48
Nakam, G. 310n33, 312n61 Sève, B. 170, 309n18, 313n68
Newmark, C. 296n58, 314n21 Shapin, S. 16, 296n47
Normore, C. 121, 308n64, 317n12 Shapiro, L. 313n10, 314n24, 315n44, 316n58
Nussbaum, M. C. 300n46 Simmons, A. 315n33
Solomon, R. 300n46, 313n8, 322n6
Oksenberg Rorty, A. 2, 10, 293n3 Sorabji, R. 296n54, 303n3
Osler, M. J. 295n45, 314n26 Spade, P. V. 306n44
Speer, A. 297n7
Panaccio, C. 307n48 Starobinski, J. 311n37
Park, K. 316n49 Strawson, P. F. 229, 317n8
Parmentier, B. 308n8, 311n47 Stump, E. 297n12, 301n61, 303n88
Pasnau, R. 297n11, 297n12, 297n13, 298n15,
298n22, 299n36, 302n74, 305n24 Tappolet, C. 295n34, 298n29, 312n51
Patterson, S. 315n37 Tellkamp, J. A. 305n17
Pauen, M. 294n24, 300n50, 321n61 Thurner, M. 296n58, 301n56, 304n7
Pereboom, D. 321n64 Tournon, A. 132, 308n3, 310n25
Perler, D. 293n6, 300n45, 300n51, 302n71, Tweedale, M. 305n19
302n74, 304n15, 305n19, 307n46, Tye, M. 305n22, 320n52
307n47, 307n49, 307n50, 308n7, 308n9,
309n11, 314n24, 314n27, 315n31, 315n34, Uffenheimer-Lippens, E. 300n47
315n37, 315n39, 318n24, 319n38, 322n11
Perreiah, A. R. 305n28 Vecchio, S. 296n59
Popkin, R. 308n9, 310n30, 310n32 Villey, P. 155, 309n18, 312n53
Prinz, J. J. 52, 293n5, 294n10, 295n27, 299n29, Vogt, K. 309n13
301n65, 302n78 Voss, S. 185, 314n21
Quint, D. 311n43, 312n52 Wagner, S. J. 313n4

Westerwelle, K. 311n36
Rapp, Ch. 299n38, 301n53 Wild, M. 293n6, 308n8, 309n18, 309n19,
Renz, U. 249, 296n58, 319n42, 321n60 310n29, 310n31, 311n42, 313n5, 319n33
Rolls, E. T. 293n8 Williams, B. 204, 315n43
Rosenwein, B. 294n19 Williams, M. 309n12
Rosier-Catach, I. 301n63 Wittgenstein, L. 156, 157, 191, 281
Rozemond, M. 314n16 Wolter, A. B. 305n34
Salatowsky, S. 297n8 Yrjönsuuri, M. 296n58, 304n6

Sander, D. 293n8
Schaefer, D. Lewis 161, 312n58 Zavalloni, R. 298n21, 306n37
34
Subject Index
abhorrence 44, 46–8, 63, 164–6, 170–1, 176, 303n80, 303n82, 311–12n39, 311n40,
221, 301n59, 315n45 311n42, 312n57
acedia 53 animals 2, 4–5, 19, 24, 38, 40–2, 45, 48, 54–8,
action, principles of 168 61–2, 67–70, 73, 76, 82–3, 85–8, 92–3,
action theory viii, 6, 18–19, 21, 25, 39, 210 97, 102, 105, 107–8, 134, 143, 160–2,
activity viii, xi–xii, xiv, 6, 9, 19, 27, 29, 31–7, 164, 167–9, 172, 176, 189, 196, 200,
41–2, 46–9, 53–62, 65–71, 74–5, 77, 208–9, 216, 220, 223, 225, 227–8,
80, 83, 87–9, 91–2, 96–7, 100, 104, 231, 240, 242–3, 255, 258, 260, 274,
106–7, 109, 111–12, 114–18, 120, 126, 281, 286, 295n30, 298n28, 300n47,
131, 141, 143, 145, 152, 163, 165, 167–8, 302n78, 311n37, 311n39, 313n5,
170–2, 176–8, 187, 196–7, 206–7, 213– 316n52, 319n31, 319n33, 321n2.
14, 216–17, 219, 221–2, 227–8, 231–2, See also sheep; wolf
236, 241–2, 252–4, 256, 262–3, 266–8, anthropology 25, 71, 76, 161, 185, 187,
270–2, 274, 276–9, 284–5, 287–9, 291, 292, 314n21
294n16, 297n4, 297n11, 298n28–9, anti-Aristotelian xii, 8, 14, 17, 25–6, 245,
302n77, 304n14, 306n36, 306n42, 248, 283
307n52, 315n35, 315n42, 318n29, anti-essentialism 157
320n44. See also emotion: active Aristotelian
rational 34, 57–62, 66–8, 74, 77, 145, 263, metaphysics 182
279, 291, 302n77, 320n44 physics 183, 314n15
sensory/sensual 41, 61 Aristotelianism, mechanization
affect/affection/affectus 9–10, 14–15, 19, of 296n46
192, 226, 230–1, 234, 237, 243, 244–7, ascription, problem of 4, 12–13
258, 267–8, 270–2, 275, 281, 294n16, aspiration 10, 30, 42, 46, 48, 50, 58–9, 67,
307n59, 317n14, 319n37, 320n44 78, 85, 90–2, 100, 101, 111, 112–13,
affection of the body 234, 237, 319n37 115, 120, 124, 131, 133, 143, 146, 207,
alternative 264–5 212–13, 240, 242–3, 245, 248, 250,
analysis, conceptual vii, 6, 293n8 261–2, 276, 281–2, 298n16, 301n61,
angel 30, 61, 107, 186, 192, 201, 302n69, 304n14. See also conatus;
298n15, 307n53 faculty: appetitive
anger xi–xii, 1, 1–3, 11, 13, 44, 50–1, 53, 58–62, association 56–7, 63, 75, 102, 138, 151, 207,
64–6, 69, 109, 116, 125–6, 136, 142–6, 209, 250, 258–9, 262, 267–8, 302n75
149–55, 158–60, 167, 170, 179, 187, 225, mechanism of 267–8, 275
269–70, 276, 281, 295n31–2, 300n52, principle of 250, 258–9, 275
343
34
344 Subject Index
attitude See also causality theory

cognitive 63, 65, 68, 305n23, change
311n40, 311n42 formal 44, 82, 300n52
volitive 67–8, 88 immaterial 82
attribute 134, 177, 181, 184, 188, 228–9, 233–6, intentional 81–7, 90, 305n20
318n17–19 physical 12, 30, 38, 40, 43–4, 74, 76, 78–9,
audacity 44, 50, 219 81–7, 111–12, 144, 185–6, 203, 228, 249,
autonomous/autonomy xiii, 36, 90, 96, 255–6, 258, 266–7, 284, 300n52, 322n5
121, 161, 187, 223, 226–7, 229, 265, real 81–4, 86–7, 90
311n42, 314n23 Christ 78–9, 87–8, 90–1, 94, 297n6,
aversion 47–8, 50, 115, 136, 250 304n12, 304n14
suffering of 79, 87–88, 90–1, 94, 297n6,
beatitude 307n62 304n12, 304n14
behaviorism 2, 42, 56 Christology 77–8, 304n16
belief vii, 2, 3, 27–8, 37–8, 41–3, 46, 53–4, classification of the emotions vii, 1, 3, 7, 9–11,
62, 63, 66, 112, 132–5, 143, 145, 148, 19, 23, 26, 37, 44–52, 56, 88, 114, 123,
153, 158–9, 165, 236–8, 264, 272, 278, 138, 146, 148–50, 153–8, 186–7, 194,
287, 297n2, 300n47, 309n16, 310n32, 205–6, 211, 213–14, 228, 242, 247, 281,
311n40, 311n41 286–7, 301n53, 307n60, 321n2. See
evaluative 41, 46, 54 also taxonomy
blessed 106, 111–12, 117, 119, 164. See also criterion for vii, 9–10, 44–8, 52, 123, 146,
beatitude 161, 205–6, 211–12, 249
bodily feeling 9, 15, 53–4, 74, 79–85, 91, 108– cognition
9, 185–9, 202, 294. See also sensation abstractive 101–4, 307n47
body–mind unity. See mind–body unity conceptual 59, 88, 97, 102–4, 107
brain state 176–9, 181, 187–91, 197, 203, 206, intellectual xiv, 29, 101, 103–9, 111–13,
208, 214, 220–1, 237–8, 240, 243–4, 115–21, 307n52
285, 315n44, 319n33 intuitive 101–4, 307n47
sensual 57, 64, 76, 79, 101–8, 112, 116, 119,
Cartesian xii, 7–8, 17, 128–9, 230, 243, 133, 141, 289, 298n28, 307n51–2
282, 314n16 cognitive
legacy 7 activity 41, 57, 80, 83, 101–4, 110, 141, 179,
categories 219, 267, 271–2, 284
doctrine of 14 control xi–xii, 180
problem of 5, 13–14 passions 208
causal history 126, 227, 238–40, 252, 264, penetrability 24, 57, 297n2
266–70, 277–80 sciences 7–8
causality structure 4
nomological conception of 188–9, theory xi–xii, 222, 283, 288, 321n2
314n24, 322n9 turn xiv, 2
theory 230–3, 283 See also cognition; faculty: cognitive
See also causal history; cause cognitivism xiv, 7, 41–2, 46, 54, 56, 112,
cause 179, 244, 256, 284, 297n2,
external 197, 203, 270–2, 283, 286 320n48, 322n6
formal 245, 285 compassion 30, 61, 161, 165–6, 168, 171–3
immanent/internal 203, 264, 291, 318n28 compatibilism 266
structuring 191 conatus 240–2, 254, 276
triggering 191 conditioning 154–5, 221, 287, 289
345
Subject Index 345
conflict between emotions 47, 92–6, 100, dualism 18–19, 28–9, 175–6, 180, 185, 187, 281,
231–2, 270, 273–4, 310n33 314n21, 318n23
consciousness 17, 84, 242–3, 319n31
content of emotions economy, principle of 102, 306n44
cognitive xiv, 2, 42, 53–7, 64, 112, 283–5, egoism 254–5, 258, 261–2, 276, 320n50
289, 293n2, 322n5 enlightened 261–2, 276
representational 187, 192, 194–7, 202–3, emotions
222, 225, 234, 244, 319n33, 320n52 active 92, 114–15, 242, 253–4, 256, 263, 278,
(see also idea) 291, 320n44
sensual 57, 60–1, 66, 77, 196 basic 1–2, 10, 44, 51–2, 58, 115, 148, 194,
(see also faculty: sensual) 204–7, 213, 215, 216, 242–5, 249–50,
contextualization of emotions 147 253, 260, 270, 281–2, 287, 301n54,
contingence xv, 4, 13, 24, 31, 42, 90–1, 112, 303n82, 319n43, 321n2
120–1, 124, 138, 190, 238–9, 264, core relational theme of 52 (see also
282, 318n25 emotions: object of)
control/controllability viii, xi–xii, 5–6, 14–15, evaluative aspect of 3, 7, 43, 53
19–20, 24, 32, 37–8, 57, 61–7 1, 73–6, irascible 328 (see also faculty: irascible)
85, 87, 91, 93, 103, 110, 116–18, 126, linguistic structure of 104–7
134, 143, 145–6, 158–63, 167–8, 170, mental component of 12, 18, 176–81, 192,
180, 190, 214–17, 219, 222–3, 225, 228, 207, 285
254, 281, 287–9, 292, 302n77, 312n63 passive 92, 114–15, 227, 252–4, 262–3, 270,
convention 3, 133, 150–1, 153, 157, 161, 206, 276–7, 291
223, 259 phenomenal component of 3, 10–11, 43,
corpuscles 176, 178, 182–3, 217, 237, 314n19 192–3, 210, 250, 254–7, 284, 300n49,
correlation of physical and mental states 301n64, 319n33, 320n52
188–92, 214–15, 220–3 physical component of 3–4, 7, 12–13,
cruelty 163–72, 311n39, 312n60, 312n66. 17–18, 39–40, 51, 112, 138, 176–7,
See also sadism 180–1, 257, 285
rational 20, 73–4
despair 44, 47–8, 50, 52, 250–1, 279, rationality of 20, 254
300n44, 301n64 recalibrating 57, 302n78
determinism 226, 238 responsibility for 5–6, 14–15, 68–70,
devil 79, 114 91–2, 103, 109–10, 218–19, 227,
disposition 5, 39, 49–50, 69, 77, 79, 114–15, 303n4
138, 146, 165–6, 216, 218, 298n16, sensual 12, 26, 73–8, 87, 90–4, 96, 101–4,
300n42, 312n63, 317n60 106–8, 110, 116, 177, 219, 285–7,
habitual 39, 69 304n12, 306n43, 319n33
natural 39, 165–6, 312n63 transformation of viii, xiv, 20, 62–4, 66,
rational 298n16 71, 160, 171, 228, 251, 272–3, 276,
distinction 288, 291
formal 95, 305n35 volitive xiv, 77–8, 94–6, 100–1, 103–4,
real 7, 12, 17–18, 31–2, 36, 77, 95, 97–101, 106–11, 113, 115–17, 120–1, 219, 285–7,
104, 110, 114, 177, 185, 187, 243, 298n16, 306n43
308n63 emotivism 160, 165
dogmatism 111, 125–6, 128–32, 134, 136, empirical/empiricism 1, 67, 175, 293n8.
140, 146–7, 150, 161–3, 282, 287, 289, See also research: empirical
309n16, 312n64 enjoyment 48–50, 91, 109–16, 137, 162
dominion within a dominion 225, 287 envy 275
346
346 Subject Index
epistemic sensual-apprehensive 53, 152

function of emotions 201–2, 204 theory of 25–6, 37, 48, 53, 85, 152,
goal 211 175, 297n3
value of emotions 197, 199–202, 247, 249 vegetative 33–4, 36, 184
error 28, 45, 124, 184, 254–5, 258, 272, volitive 96, 123, 151, 175 (see also will)
278, 281–2, 293n7, 311n40. family resemblances 156–7
See also mistake feelings, theory of 178–9, 284
eschatology 77–8 fideism 130, 134
essence 36–7, 193, 197, 199, 232–3, 299n33, form
299n36–7, 318n17–18, 319n29 of corporeality 97–100, 305n36, 306n40
ethics xi, 161, 168. See also morality intellectual/rational 31, 99–100, 306n42
of compassion 161, 168 perceptible 81–3, 305n29
of inward government 145 sensual 31, 99, 302n74, 306n43
evaluation 3, 7, 41, 43, 46, 53–4, 57, 65, 68–9, substantial 12, 27, 32, 37, 182,
74, 77, 80, 87, 110, 117, 119–21, 124, 298n23, 322n18
131–2, 153–4, 158–9, 165, 194, 207, plurality of forms 31, 97–9, 182, 285
209, 212, 216, 246, 262, 282, 300n44, frame problem 200
300n48, 318n20 freedom 20, 75, 87–92, 94–5, 107–10, 112–13,
pattern of representation and 213–14 116–18, 120–1, 189, 216, 240, 263,
experience, phenomenal 7, 43–4, 246, 256–7, 265–6, 268, 276, 278, 286, 291,
295n25, 320n53 311n39, 322n13
externalism/externalization, strategy of positive 278–80
171, 290 fruitio 77–8, 110–15, 118–19, 121
functional unity 180–92, 202
facial expressions xiii, 4, 12, 51–2, 205–6, functionalism 33
301n54, 315n44, 316n46–7, 321n2
faculty/faculties générosité 215–18, 304n9, 316n60
actualization of 8, 13–14, 32, 38–9, 46, gestures xiii, 4, 12, 205
49–50, 61, 80–1, 85, 175, 213, 245, God
282–3, 298n27, 299n37 love of 12, 113, 118
affective xi omnipotence of 99, 103, 162, 190, 239
appetitive 46, 66–7, 112, 283, 298n28 good xiii–xiv, 3, 7, 9, 13, 14, 19, 20, 23, 25, 30,
cognitive 83, 131, 133, 225, 298n28 40–3, 45–6, 48–53, 58, 63, 68, 77,
concupiscent 46–8, 50, 151 92, 108, 111–12, 115, 119–20, 133, 137,
irascible 46–8, 50, 151 160–1, 164, 166, 179, 193–6, 201,
perceptive 37, 171, 184 205–7, 211–13, 217–19, 223, 248–51,
psychology of xi–xii, 213, 282–3, 287, 289 255, 258–9, 261, 269, 274, 282,
rational 15, 24, 33–4, 36, 42, 62, 64, 70, 76, 300n48, 301n58–9, 301n61, 301n64,
87, 89, 93, 96, 131–2, 158, 162, 225–6, 301n58, 308n62, 315n32, 316n55,
286–7, 291, 303n87, 303n5, 322n12 316n60, 319n40, 320n43
rational-apprehensive 152 inclination to 49–50, 301n58–9
sensual 15, 24, 33–4, 36, 42, 49, 63–4, privation of 137, 301n59, 301n61
76, 85, 91, 96, 123, 133, 151, 158,
162, 184, 286, 288–9, 291, 298n28, habit/habituation 26, 39, 69–70, 119, 121,
302n74, 322n12 153–7, 167–9, 189–90, 206, 220–3, 287,
sensual-appetitive 23–6, 35–5, 38, 53, 61–2, 289, 310n26, 313n68
66–7, 74–5, 90, 109, 116, 151–2, 175, habitus 69, 77, 304n7, 307n52
282, 284, 288, 322n12 happiness 3, 19, 90–1, 111–12, 279, 110–14, 155,
actualization of 38, 282 210, 231, 234, 237–40, 251, 253–7, 262,
movement of 23–6, 35–6, 74 264, 279. See also blessed
347
Subject Index 347
Hell 288–91 intentio 55, 86. See also property: normative

Hellenism 126, 296n54, 308n9 intentionality of emotions 3, 23, 40, 43, 45,
Heraclitan 148 53–4, 112, 178, 196–7, 237, 293n4,
homonymy 28, 97, 183, 306n38, 314n18 294n18, 322n5
homunculus 28–9, 31, 35, 152, 297n4 interaction 25, 76, 152, 166, 169, 170, 172, 177,
honor 58 184, 188
hope 3, 41, 44, 46, 50–1, 58–9, 82, 115, 141, problem of 177, 188
178, 236–7, 250–3, 302n76, 303n82, social 169, 223
309n16, 319n33 introspection 141, 170
hylomorphistic metaphysics 37, 51, 83–5, 97, intuition 80, 101, 231, 257
181–5, 281 isostheneia 127, 131
idea James–Lange theory 293n5

adequate/inadequate 246, 252–3, 256, jealousy 51
266–7, 269–74, 279, 290, 320n46 joy, intellectual 222
distinct/clear 198–9, 202–4, 210, 217–18, judgment
226–7, 271–5, 286 faculty of xi, 77, 83, 171, 209
materially false 199–200 suspension of 127–8, 132–3, 310n25
mutilated 246, 272–3 of value 3–4, 43, 75, 88, 92, 173, 196, 212,
obscure/confused 198–9, 204, 217–18, 290, 300n48, 312n60
245–6, 251–2, 256, 270–5, 277, justice 1, 3, 30, 109, 144–5, 172
286, 315n40
identity 98, 235–6, 243–4, 298n23, 306n40, knowledge, defect of 239, 264
314n17, 322n9
thesis of 235–6, 243–4, 298n23 language
principle of 306n40, 314n17, 322n9 game 133
qualitative 98 mental 103, 306–7n46, 307n53, 311n50
imagination 83, 209, 225. law of nature 15, 188–91, 223, 226, 239,
See also mental image 287, 314n25. See also causality:
imitation effect 258–9, 320n56 nomological conception
immortality of the soul xiv, 13, 29, 77, 106, living body 27–30, 35–8, 40, 44, 98, 164,
291, 323n23 183–4, 295n31, 314n19
imputation, problem of 5, 14–15
inclination 48–50, 107–10, 117–18, 121, 145, 159, materialism 11, 28, 85, 182
162, 165, 298n16, 301n58–9, 312n66 matter
inclusion relation 31, 33–4, 42 chunks of 27–8, 35–7
inertia 124, 241 potentiality of 27–8, 35–6, 82, 183
information 83, 105–6, 266, 293n2 mechanism
analog 105–6 of control xi, 15, 20, 61, 68–7 1, 158, 161,
digital 105–6 170, 287
inherence theory 229–31, 317n13 regulating 62, 163, 166, 170, 289–90
injustice 1, 3, 109, 144–5 mechanistic
instinct 3, 160, 165, 322n22 principle 176
intellect theory of feelings 175–80
general 55, 62 (see also reason: general) memory 83, 101–2, 104–5, 134, 137, 196–7,
particular 55–6, 62, 282 201, 213, 259, 267, 270, 320n44
(see also reason: particular) mental image 56, 58, 60–1, 66–7, 73–6, 86–7,
intellectual state 100, 294n17 90, 92, 99, 102, 133, 166, 196, 226, 251,
intellectualism 88, 90, 94, 112, 158, 254–5 265, 269, 271, 286, 288–90, 302n76,
intension/intensional 45, 96, 236 310n26. See also imagination
348
348 Subject Index
mercy 77, 164, 172, 215. See also pity; Neostoicism 309n20
compassion neurobiology 7, 244
mereological 4, 13, 31, 202, 207 neurophilosophy 318n22
fallacy 293n7 neurophysiology 82
problem 4, 13 neuroscience vii, 1, 236, 293n2, 293n7, 294n24
meta-emotion 117, 141, 143, 146, 310n35 nominalism 149–51, 154, 311n47
meta-fear 140–1 norm/normative 110, 133, 145–6, 154, 158,
metaphysical frame 13–14, 18, 25, 70–1, 180, 167–8, 179, 196, 206, 211–12, 214,
213, 215, 227–8, 263, 280–1, 284 259–61, 289, 308n8, 309n16, 312n66,
mind–body unity 4, 6, 12–13, 17–18, 29–30, 313n68. See also property: normative
148, 177, 180–8, 195, 201–4, 223
mistake 54, 163, 179, 182, 192, 203–4, 217, object
226, 239, 251, 266, 284, 286, 300n44, absent 48, 50, 52, 102, 141, 212
313n5, 321n62. See also error arduous 46, 48, 50, 207, 282
mode 9, 14, 187, 193, 227, 229–32, 234–5, 241, bad 7, 23, 40, 42–3, 45–8, 50–3, 56,
265, 291, 314n21, 316n48, 317–19n4, 115, 136–8, 140, 193–6, 205, 207,
317n12–14, 318n2, 319n29 211–13, 247–9, 274, 282, 300n48,
modularity thesis 295n34, 298–9n29, 311–12n51 301n64, 307n58
monism 18–19, 229, 232–3, 281, 318n23 effortless 46–8, 51, 207, 282
mood 3–4, 9, 40, 47, 165, 197 formal 7, 27, 45, 51–3, 56, 58–9, 136,
moral 138–40, 142, 149, 205–6, 247, 282–4,
philosophy 8, 17–18, 39, 77, 126, 173, 175–6, 300n44, 301n55, 321n5
179, 210, 282, 308n8 good 7, 23, 40, 42–3, 45–6, 48–51, 53,
psychology viii, xi, 6, 21, 77, 179 56, 108, 111–15, 119–20, 137, 193–6,
sensitivity 173 205, 207, 211–13, 247–9, 255, 274,
theology xiii 282, 300n48, 301n64, 307n58,
morals/morality xiii, 3, 19, 25, 58, 68, 77, 308n62, 320n43
129, 154, 161, 164–6, 169–70, 172–3, material 45, 67, 82, 182, 193, 195, 199, 217,
260, 304n10 258, 260, 285, 296, 301n55, 318n28
motivation 3, 19–20, 23, 25, 42–3, 54, 60, 77, outlet 142, 144, 146, 149, 159
85–8, 93, 110–12, 117, 129, 137, 153, present 43, 48, 50, 52–3, 86, 101, 104, 140,
155–6, 167–8, 186, 189, 201, 208–10, 207, 209, 212, 284, 303n4
248, 250, 254, 286, 294n21, 302n69, opinion, nonassertoric 128, 133, 310n26
310n32 opinions, equivalence (isostheneia) of 127,
129, 131–2, 146
narrative structure of emotions 50 optimism, rationalistic 71
natural philosophy/natural philosopher xiii, organism/organic 4–5, 32, 81–2, 87, 98, 177,
8, 18, 28, 81, 176, 205, 286, 299n39 243–4, 285–6, 291, 293n7
naturalism 168, 172, 225–7, 242–3, 276, other minds 39–40
317n3, 320n53
transcendental 320n53 pain, cause of 80, 84
naturalist 159, 312n56 parallelism thesis 235–6, 296n51
naturalistic explanatory strategy 227 particularism 147
necessitarianism 238, 240–1, 252, 263, 268, passio animae 18, 38, 40, 299n38–n9
277–8, 295n44, 318n24 passio voluntatis 74–5, 304n10. See also affect
necessity 13, 17, 40–2, 51, 88, 90–1, 103, peace of mind 127, 129, 133–4, 136, 171–2, 309n16
109, 112, 190, 205–6, 222–3, 237–41, perception vii, xi–xii, 3, 5, 9, 13, 15, 18,
263–9, 278–9, 295n44, 305n30, 23–4, 27–32, 35, 37–8, 40, 42–4, 53–8,
306n44, 314n27 60–5, 67–8, 73–83, 85, 93, 97, 99,
hypothetical 190, 206, 215 105, 107, 111, 133–4, 141, 152, 162, 165,
349
Subject Index 349
170–1, 176–9, 184–5, 187–9, 192, 195, general 302n73, 322n12 (see also intellect:
198–204, 207, 209, 217, 220, 226–7, general)
244, 247, 249, 264–5, 269, 271, 281, guidance of 263, 266, 276–7, 304n12
285–6, 294n24, 300n44, 300n52, particular 302n73 (see also intellect:
302n74, 302n76, 303n80, 305n20, particular)
305n29, 306n42, 310n26, 311n39, power of 15, 66, 226–8
313n7, 315n44, 321n66, 322n8 reductionism 85, 183, 237, 256, 299n31,
phenomenal 3, 11, 43–4, 83–4, 192–3, 210, 305n27, 321n5
255, 284, 300n49, 301n64, 319n33, regulation 15, 24–5, 62, 109, 118, 135, 162–3,
320n52. See also qualia 166, 170, 188, 223, 226, 228, 288–90,
physical expression 1, 52, 138, 152, 301n63 295n44, 322n22. See also control/
pineal gland 178, 188–9 controllability
pity 258–9, 270 religion 135–6, 161, 163, 165, 310n32–3, 312n61
power, increase/decrease in 240, 241–2, representationalism 250–7, 272, 279, 282–3,
244–53, 255, 258–62, 264, 270, 272, 291, 315n31, 320n52, 320n56, 322n11
276–7, 279, 282–3, 285, 319n29 republic, imaginary 152–3, 158, 170, 289
predication theory 229–34 research, empirical vii, 1–2, 4, 6–7, 152–3,
propassio 74, 303n4 293n2, 293n7–8, 304n15
property 11, 24, 35, 45, 55, 57, 63–4, 86–7, revisionary metaphysics 229, 231
92, 96–9, 101–6, 183, 195, 198–200, revolution, scientific 16–18
203–5, 211, 217, 229–31, 236, 241, 243, rule 158, 170, 173, 212, 226, 309n13, 313n68
246–9, 251–2, 273–5, 283, 285–6, of behavior 173
293n7, 299n36, 300n48, 302n71, suppletive 313n68
302n74–6, 306n40, 307n49, 307n51,
315n33, 315n39–40, 318n23, 319n40 sadism 165–6, 169–7 1, 173. See also cruelty
essential 198–9, 202, 287, 299n36, sanction 154–5, 157, 260–1, 276
300n48 scholastic philosophy 131, 165, 207,
normative 54–6, 86, 195, 199–200, 203–5, 297n8, 309n21
248–9, 251, 283, 285, 300n48, 315n33 scholasticism 16, 18, 46, 123, 125, 131, 136,
perceptible 53–6, 58, 86–7, 101–6, 147–8, 158, 165, 168, 175–6, 179, 183–4,
203, 302n74 191, 195, 207, 248, 282–3, 287, 290,
proposition/propositional 54, 57–8, 60, 112, 296n50, 297n8–n9, 309n21, 314n18,
115, 191, 194, 305n23, 315n42, 319n31 314n23, 317n12, 319n40
Purgatory 66–7, 141 science/scientist/scientific vii, xiii, 1–2, 4,
Pyrrhonism/Pyrrhonian 126–36, 140, 146, 7–8, 16, 78, 176, 178–80, 209–11, 214,
149–50, 153–4, 158, 161, 167, 282, 287, 222, 236, 246, 293n2, 293n7, 294n24,
308n9, 309n18, 309n24, 310n28. 317n3, 321n5
See also skepticism scientism 246, 321n5
self-control 64, 214–17, 316n57.
quale/qualia 11, 43, 84, 294n21 See also control/controllability
quality 14, 44, 83–4, 96, 163, 182, 231, 255, self-delusion 132, 278
274, 284, 297n3, 301n64, 317n12 self-esteem 215–16, 219, 223
real 314n23, 317n12 self-preservation 75, 92, 211–12, 242,
261–2
rationalism, explanatory 232–3, 257 sensation vii, 2–5, 9, 40, 43, 60, 65, 74, 81,
reality 95–7 83–5, 87, 162, 185–90, 192, 195, 201,
absolute conception of 204 203, 281, 294n17, 315n33
objective 193–4, 197, 199, 208–9 sense, perceptive 43–4. See also
reason faculty: perceptive
dictates of 276–7 sensitivity, raising 167, 169, 173
350
350 Subject Index
sensory impression 3, 34, 64, 66–7, 93, 104, taxonomy of emotions 115, 175, 204, 281,
116, 119, 128, 134, 189, 196, 198–200, 305n28. See also classification
214, 217, 221, 244, 294n24, 307n49, theology xii–xiii, 12, 19, 30, 61, 77–9,
313n7, 315n35, 321n66 110–11, 113, 134–5, 141, 165, 229,
sensory organ 81–7, 98–9, 184, 188, 298n27, 304n11–12, 307n56
305–6n36, 316n52 therapy 19, 125, 129, 134, 223, 226–7,
shame 249, 260–1 263, 266–7, 270–1, 275–6, 278,
sheep 41–2, 46, 54–5, 64, 76, 86–7, 93, 102, 296n54, 302n77
176, 248–9, 319n40 cognitive 266–7, 270–1, 275, 278, 302n77
sin 61, 66–7, 91, 94, 303n4 rationalistic 19, 226–7, 263, 296n54
skeptic, rustic/urban 309n19. See also torture 163, 165
Pyrrhonism/Pyrrhonian training 39, 69, 216, 220
skepticism xii, 11, 19, 40, 52, 123, 125–33, transformation viii, 8, 17–18, 20, 62–4,
135–6, 139–40, 142, 146–51, 153, 66, 71, 86, 139, 148, 160–1, 171, 225,
157–62, 165–7, 171–3, 175, 225, 228, 251, 272–3, 276, 280, 284, 288,
281–2, 287–91, 300n44, 308n9, 291, 322n9
309n15–16, 309n18, 309n19, 309n24, trialism 180–1, 185, 313n11
310n25, 310n28, 310n32, 312n60,
312n66, 322n22 unity of form and matter, 30, 44, 84, 306n41
academic 130, 310n28 unity, problem of 2, 9, 150, 177, 188, 306n41
soul universal realists 149–51, 154
as a life principle 27–30, 35–7, 183–4,
207, 314n19 victim 61, 143, 163–70, 173
as an activity principle 35, 104, 207, 284–5 victim’s point of view 164, 167, 169
as an actuality principle 35, 182–3, 314n17 virtue/virtues xii–xiii, 19, 26, 69–7 1, 77, 93,
faculties of xi–xii, 8, 13, 25–37, 46–8, 53–4, 119, 136, 160–1, 166, 168, 215, 218, 226,
62, 64, 70–1, 75–6, 85, 95–6, 123, 261, 304n10, 316n57
151–2, 158, 162–3, 166, 183–4, 191, theory of 69–70
207, 213, 282–4, 287–8, 299n36–7 volition, act of vii, 18, 20, 24, 34, 37–8, 40,
parts of 12–13, 17–18, 20, 25, 30–5, 95–7, 53, 65, 68–7 1, 76, 83, 88–92, 94, 99,
100, 151–2, 170, 175–6, 184, 207, 109, 111, 113, 115, 119, 121, 143, 145, 158,
297n4, 303n5, 313n4 178, 189–91, 196, 203, 217–18, 222–3,
theory of xi, 26, 29, 37, 53, 62, 70, 123, 151, 281, 299n29, 313n7, 315n42. See also
158, 288, 296n59 faculty: volitive; will
unity of xi–xii, 18, 25, 34–5, 70, 100, 284,
288, 291, 306n37, 308n63, 314n14 will
state (political unit) 129. See also republic; act of 93–4, 109–10, 114, 117–19, 191, 196,
dominion 226, 236, 240, 290
stimulus, sensory/sensual 56, 77, 85, 91, 100, as an unmoved mover 121
196, 202, 207, 209, 268 free 75, 87, 89, 108, 110, 116, 121, 216, 286
stoicism 16, 44, 73–4, 92, 116–17, 159, 214, habit/habitus of 119, 304n7
266, 268–9, 303n2–4, 312n53, inclination of 107–10
321n64 object of 120–1
structure, problem of 3, 10 strength of 65 (see also will: inclination of)
substance 8, 12, 14, 28, 35, 81, 100, 125, weakness of 65, 67, 71, 120, 303n86
148, 150, 175–8, 180–1, 183–8, 201–2, wish 3–5, 10, 28, 38, 43, 163, 237–8, 242, 244,
223, 227, 229–36, 239, 241, 265, 279, 251–3, 265, 270
285, 291, 297n4, 305n35, 314n22, wonder 165, 194, 201, 204, 207–12, 214–16,
317n12–13, 318n18, 318n23, 319n29 219, 238, 315n32
conception of 229–30
system of knowledge 129, 204, 218 zombies 257–8

Feelings Transformed Philosophical Theories of The Emotions, 1270-1670 (Dominik Perler Tony Crawford)

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i

This series investigates the history of the emotions in pre-​modern societies,

The Elegiac Passion

Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens

Hope, Joy, and Affection in the Classical World

The Ancient Emotion of Disgust

The Emotions in Early Chinese Philosophy

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© Oxford University Press 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress

Originally published as: Transformationen der Gefühle. Philosophische Emotionstheorien 1270–​1670

The translation of this work was funded hy Geisteswissenschaften International – Translation

1. Thomas Aquinas: Emotions as Sensual Movements 23

2. John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham: Emotions in the Will 73

3. Michel de Montaigne: A Skeptical View of Emotions 123

4. René Descartes: A Dualist View of Emotions 175

5. Baruch de Spinoza: Emotions as Psychophysical Units 225

We ask “What does ‘I am frightened’ really mean, what am I referring to when

In view of the multitude of theoretical maps, the intention of the present

Preface to the English Edition

xii Preface to the English Edition

Preface to the English Edition xiii

xiv Preface to the English Edition

and Spinoza all agreed, as do many present-​day philosophers, that emotions

Preface to the English Edition xv

2018, 140–​154.) The characterization of emotions as physically grounded states,

I.1 A Philosophical Approach

in empirical studies, are unclear or imprecise. Only when we have examined

Or perhaps our term is based on a historically developed convention that

should we be looking for a different kind of characteristic, a very particular one?

In addition, there is a fourth problem that is often obscured by talking about

I.2 Why Historical Analysis?

philosophical discussions in interdisciplinary contexts (such as the interdisci-

present,” as Daniel Garber has pointedly observed.15 Present-​day descriptions

attention is given to the phenomenal characteristic. That is, it appears to be self-​

we hope to accomplish by determining their characteristics. And his insistence

do everything we can to bring them under control.39 Montaigne gave practical

I.3 A Twofold Transformation

theologiae that is preceded by an equally large section on human action and

their metaphysical and epistemological dimensions and on their dimensions

1.1 A Simple Explanation?

mercy of a movement of the sensual–​appetitive faculty but can control it by

A theory that assumes an interaction between states in different faculties

If we want to understand what is so problematic, from the perspective of

1.2 The Soul and Its Faculties

purposes of nutrition and reproduction or more demanding states including

of the sensual–appetitive faculty” only as long as we are willing to grant the

Aquinas held this view. For he would then be propounding an incoherent

1.3 The Characterization and Classification

my sensual faculty—​it immediately triggers in me the need to drink. Expressing

1.4 The Cognitive Content of Emotions: Fear

property. He only maintains that it is apprehended by a particular agency,

arthropods as a mere collection of individual perceptible properties: we per-

1.5 How Can Emotions Be Rationally Controlled?

Up to now we have considered examples of the first of the two cases of

In addition, there is another dimension of responsibility. Suppose one of

appropriateness of his emotions and activating rational mechanisms as appro-

John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham

2.1 Two Kinds of Emotions

John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham 75

as he developed—​although he was not the first to do so, but was a particularly

This series investigates the history of the emotions in pre-modern societies,

Originally published as: Transformationen der Gefühle. Philosophische Emotionstheorien 1270–1670

and Spinoza all agreed, as do many present-day philosophers, that emotions

2018, 140–154.) The characterization of emotions as physically grounded states,

I.1 A Philosophical Approach

I.2 Why Historical Analysis?

present,” as Daniel Garber has pointedly observed.15 Present-day descriptions

attention is given to the phenomenal characteristic. That is, it appears to be self-

I.3 A Twofold Transformation

1.1 A Simple Explanation?

mercy of a movement of the sensual–appetitive faculty but can control it by

1.2 The Soul and Its Faculties

1.3 The Characterization and Classification

my sensual faculty—it immediately triggers in me the need to drink. Expressing

1.4 The Cognitive Content of Emotions: Fear

1.5 How Can Emotions Be Rationally Controlled?

2.1 Two Kinds of Emotions

as he developed—although he was not the first to do so, but was a particularly

2.2 Pain as a Sensual Suffering

2.3 Sadness and Free Will

2.4 The Separation of the Parts of the Soul

2.5 Love, Enjoyment, and Voluntary Control

3.1 A Theoretical Approach?

previously mentioned—a person can hold an opinion in an assertoric or in a

3.3 Applying the Skeptical Method: Sadness, Fear,