The Reality of The Social World: Jenny Pelletier Christian Rode Editors

Historical-Analytical Studies on Nature, Mind and Action 12
Jenny Pelletier
Christian Rode Editors
The Reality
of the Social
World
Medieval, Early Modern, and
Contemporary Perspectives on Social
Ontology
Historical-Analytical Studies on Nature, Mind
and Action
Volume 12
Editor-in-Chief
Gyula Klima, Fordham University, New York, USA
Series Editors
Russell Wilcox, University of Navarra, Pamplona, Spain
Hendrik Lagerlund, Stockholm University, Stockholm, Sweden
Jonathan Jacobs, CUNY, John Jay College of Criminal Justice, New York, USA
Advisory Editors
Dan Bonevac, University of Texas, Austin, USA
Sarah Borden, Wheaton College, Wheaton, USA
Edward Feser, Pasadena College, Pasadena, USA
Jorge Garcia, University of Buffalo, New York, USA
WIlliam Jaworski, Fordham University, New York, USA
Joseph E. Davis, University of Virginia, Charlottesville, USA
Stephan Meier-Oeser, Academy of Sciences of Göttingen, Göttingen, Germany
Jose Ignacio Murillo, University of Navarra, Pamplona, Spain
Calvin Normore, UCLA, Los Angeles, USA
Penelope Rush, University of Tasmania, Hobart, Australia
Jack Zupko, University of Alberta, Edmonton, Canada
Historical-Analytical Studies on Nature, Mind and Action provides a forum for
integrative, multidisciplinary, analytic studies in the areas of philosophy of nature,
philosophical anthropology, and the philosophy of mind and action in their social
setting. Tackling these subject areas from both a historical and contemporary
systematic perspective, this approach allows for various “paradigm-straddlers” to
come together under a common umbrella. Digging down to the conceptual-historical
roots of contemporary problems, one will inevitably find common strands which
have since branched out into isolated disciplines. This series seeks to fill the void for
studies that reach beyond their own strictly defined boundaries not only
synchronically (reaching out to contemporary disciplines), but also diachronically,
by investigating the unquestioned contemporary presumptions of their own
discipline by taking a look at the historical development of those presumptions and
the key concepts they involve. This series, providing a common forum for this sort
of research in a wide range of disciplines, is designed to work against the well-
known phenomenon of disciplinary isolation by seeking answers to our fundamental
questions of the human condition: What is there? – What can we know about it? –
What should we do about it? – indicated by the three key-words in the series title:
Nature, Mind and Action. This series will publish monographs, edited volumes, and
commented translations.
Jenny Pelletier • Christian Rode
Editors
The Reality of the Social

World
Medieval, Early Modern, and Contemporary
Perspectives on Social Ontology
Editors
Jenny Pelletier Christian Rode
University of Gothenburg Institute of Philosophy
Gothenburg, Sweden University of Bonn
Bonn, Germany
ISSN 2509-4793 ISSN 2509-4807 (electronic)

Historical-Analytical Studies on Nature, Mind and Action
ISBN 978-3-031-23983-0 ISBN 978-3-031-23984-7 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7
This work was supported by Fritz Thyssen Foundation, Riksbankens Jublieum Fonds, the Swedish
Research Council, Research Foundation - Flanders, and the German Research Foundation
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature
Switzerland AG 2023
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Acknowledgements
The idea for this volume began in response to a very successful conference that we
organized at Bonn University, Contemporary and Medieval Social Ontologies
(14–16 March 2019). The conference was generously funded by the Fritz Thyssen
Stiftung and welcomed participants from Europe and North America. Many of the
papers that were given at that conference were reworked and included in this vol-
ume. Both editors would like to thank Maria Bohlen for her work on finalizing the
manuscript for publication.
Jenny Pelletier would like to acknowledge Research Foundation – Flanders
(Belgium), the Swedish Research Council, and Riksbankens Jubileumsfond
(Sweden), whose financial support made the preparation of this volume possible, as
well as the institutional support of the University of Leuven and the University of
Gothenburg. She would like to thank Russell L. Friedman, Ana-Maria Mora
Márquez, and Charlotte Witt for their encouragement and enthusiasm about the idea
of reading medieval philosophy with an eye to developments in contemporary social
ontology, and also Anna-Sofia Maurin for being a contemporary metaphysician
with a genuine interest in the contribution of the history of philosophy. She is grate-
ful to the flexibility of the Springer team in dealing with the inevitable delays exac-
erbated by the global COVID-19 crisis. She would like to thank Vincent, Sevren,
and Clea for their constant patience, and finally, Roy, for his exemplary philosophi-
cal mind and his graphic design skills.
Christian Rode would like to acknowledge the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft
(DFG, German Research Foundation), whose financial support in form of a
Heisenberg Position made the completion of this volume possible, and the institu-
tional support of the University of Bonn, particularly the department of philosophy
and the chair for medieval philosophy Wouter Goris as well as the local student
assistants who helped with the preparation of the conference. He would also like to
express his gratitude to the Springer team for being so patient and helpful. Finally,
he would like to thank his wife, Hellen, and his daughters, Greta and Marlene, for
giving him the extra time that he needed for the organization of the conference and
the completion of this volume, especially during these difficult times of Corona-
inflicted home office work.
v
Contents
1 Introduction to the Reality of the Social World:

Medieval, Early Modern, and Contemporary
Perspectives on Social Ontology �� 1
Jenny Pelletier and Christian Rode
Part I Medieval and Early Modern Perspectives on Issues

in Social Ontology
2
Thomas Aquinas on the Ontology of the Political Community �� 15
Fabrizio Amerini
3
Ontology of Power Relations in Peter Olivi�� 41
Juhana Toivanen
4 Transgressing the Pact of Meanings:
Ontology and Its Social Implications in Peter John Olivi’s
Theory of the Signification of Words�� 59
Claudia Appolloni
5 Enrico del Carretto: Why a Religious Order Is Not
a Mere Collection of Individuals�� 79
Roberto Lambertini
6 The Emergence of Social Life and the Ontology
of Consociatio in the Political Theory of Johannes Althusius�� 93
Jukka Ruokanen
7 Spinoza on the Ontology of Justice:
The Role of ‘Beings of Reason’ (Entia Rationis) �� 117
Michael A. Rosenthal
vii
viii Contents
Part II Contemporary Issues

8
Social Entities with and without Explicit Establishment �� 139
Ludger Jansen
9 From Legal Fiction to Collective Agency:
Contemporary Arguments for Collective Personhood �� 159
Onni Hirvonen
Part III Historical and Contemporary Perspectives in Dialogue

10
Cooperation, Community, and Institution�� 181
Falk Hamann
11 ‘I Obey the Rule Blindly’. Wittgenstein’s Contribution
to the Ontological Conceptualization of the Social �� 197
Stephan Zimmermann
Index�� 219
Chapter 1
Introduction to the Reality of the Social
World: Medieval, Early Modern,
and Contemporary Perspectives on Social
Ontology
Jenny Pelletier and Christian Rode
1.1 Social Ontology and the History of Philosophy
This volume, The Reality of the Social World: Medieval, Early Modern and
Contemporary Perspectives on Social Ontology, brings together new contributions
by established and younger scholars on the metaphysics of the social world in medi-
eval and early modern philosophy and contemporary analytic philosophy. Its chap-
ters cover a variety of philosophical issues that fall under what is now known as
social ontology, which might appear to be a resolutely contemporary analytic philo-
sophical sub-field. It is our contention, and one of the primary motivations for the
present volume, that this is not the case. Philosophers throughout the history of the
Western philosophical tradition have addressed a number of the same or similar
questions that are being asked today. Even if they were operating within different
philosophical and intellectual contexts, and even if they had not coined the term
‘social ontology’, this does not mean that they did not pose and seek to answer ques-
tions about the nature and origin of the entities that constitute the social world.
However, because social ontology is a relatively new sub-field in contemporary
analytic philosophy, and analytic metaphysics in particular, very little attention has
been paid so far to the historical contribution. Consequently, this volume is one of,
if not the very first, to include current research into the ontology of the social world
from both historical—especially the medieval—and contemporary perspectives.
J. Pelletier (*)
University of Gothenburg, Gothenburg, Sweden
e-mail: jenny.pelletier@gu.se
C. Rode
University of Bonn, Bonn, Germany
e-mail: christian.rode@uni-bonn.de
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2023
J. Pelletier, C. Rode (eds.), The Reality of the Social World,
Historical-Analytical Studies on Nature, Mind and Action 12,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_1
2 J. Pelletier and C. Rode
At the crossroads of metaphysics, social philosophy, political philosophy, and

sociology, social ontology has emerged as a major area of study in contemporary
analytic philosophy. Social ontology enquires into ‘the nature and properties of the
social world,’ specifically ‘the various entities in the world that arise from social
interaction’ (Epstein 2018). Entities of this sort include social groups like nation-
states, communities, corporations, clubs, institutions, and political parties, but also
money, property, law, artworks, and even language itself. Alternatively, one might
speak of social facts, for instance that Angela Merkel was the chancellor of Germany
or that Martha Nussbaum is a professor at the University of Chicago. For the sake
of brevity and simplicity, and also because it seems to be the least philosophically
controversial, we will refer to social entities. This should not be taken to indicate
any particular view on what sort of object is—or ought to be—the primary subject-
matter of social ontology.1
It is an interesting fact about social entities that we take them for granted in our
everyday lives most of the time. We assume that banks, universities, and money are
‘out there,’ somehow existing independently from us, and we talk about them as if
they exist as such. We do not question that certain blue-colored pieces of paper are
twenty-euro bills and that NATO is a military alliance based in Brussels. Our belief
in the reality of these social entities is comparable to our belief that Mount Everest
is 8848 meters high in the sense that by and large we talk as if both military alliances
and mountains are entities that exist outside of the sphere of the will of individual
persons. However, social entities, their existence, properties, powers, and functions
depend in some way on human interaction, i.e. on social interaction, that is mark-
edly different from the physical phenomena of the natural world. That Angela
Merkel was the chancellor of Germany is not the same as that Mount Everest is
8848 meters high. In moments of political, social, and economic crisis, we begin to
question the reality of social entities and we wonder what precisely social entities
are and how they come about. These questions are particularly pressing today, as
societies are increasingly critical if not skeptical of the status and value of social and
political institutions.
Many contemporary philosophers today would agree that the universe is exclu-
sively populated by material entities like trees, rocks, computers, and living organ-
isms, which are ultimately all made up of particles of matter. This is to say that the
most fundamental and basic entities are material ‘all the way down.’ But does an
exhaustive inventory of the universe amount to nothing more than individual mate-
rial entities, macro and micro, and their properties, whether they are produced by
human interaction or not? Although many contemporary philosophers might not
1
There is some discussion about what is the most appropriate object of study in social ontology,
with contemporary philosophers focusing on different items (entities, facts, events, kinds, etc.).
For further discussion see Epstein (2016), who prefers to discuss social facts although he too refers
to social entities in Epstein (2018). John Searle argues that ‘the fundamental unit of analysis in
social ontology is not social objects but Social Facts, specifically Institutional Facts’ (2014, 17).
For a discussion of institutional facts, which are a sub-class of social facts and Searle’s particular
notion, see Searle (2010, especially c. 5).
1 Introduction to the Reality of the Social World: Medieval, Early Modern… 3
want to argue that the social constitutes a wholly distinct metaphysical dimension or
kind of being beyond the natural and material, they nevertheless hold that the social
world and its constituent entities are real and, therefore, metaphysically salient.
One challenge is to give an account of social entities that is consistent with the
current scientific—that is materialist (or naturalist or physicalist)—paradigm.2 This
leads to further questions. How are social entities related to the material entities that
are describable by natural science, to atoms, electrons, quarks, and the like? Are
they reducible to these basic material entities? If so, can they be eliminated entirely?
This would seem to conflict with our philosophical and everyday intuitions about
the reality of social entities in the lived human world and the power that they are
able to exercise in our lives together. Some contemporary philosophers hold that
social facts depend on ‘basic facts’—that is scientific facts about material entities
(e.g., Searle 2010, 4, who eschews talk of reductionism, supervenience, etc. in favor
of a vaguer dependency relation).
Another challenge is to give an account of social entities that is consistent with a
philosopher’s more general metaphysical commitments, whether these are explic-
itly articulated or not. This too leads to further questions. One question that has
dominated the contemporary debate is whether social groups—one kind of social
entity—exhaustively depend ontologically on the individuals that are their members
(ontological individualism) or rather, whether social groups are something over and
above the individuals that are their members (ontological holism). Depending on
whether a philosopher believes that only individuals exist is a commitment that will
affect whether he or she advocates ontological individualism or holism and then to
what degree (see the helpful introductions on this and related questions in Schmitt
2003; Zahle and Collin 2014).
Another question that has been posed more recently is: given that we accept
social entities in the ontology, and assuming that they are complex entities made up
of more basic entities, whatever these may be and regardless of whether they are
material or non-social entities themselves, what are the precise relations that obtain
between social entities and those more basic entities? In effect, this question seeks
to emphasize the metaphysical aspect of the debate and leans on tools from contem-
porary analytic metaphysics to explain how social entities are built (e.g.
Epstein 2016).3
2
For instance, see Searle (2010, 4–5) who is concerned to give an account of the social world that
does not multiply worlds and must cohere with the ‘basic facts of the structure of the universe […]
given by physics and chemistry, by evolutionary biology and the other natural sciences.’
3
Epstein writes that social ontology is an ‘account of how the social world is built. What are its
building blocks and how do they come together to build it [...] it is the study of ontological building
relations between different kinds of entities’ (2016, 149). He notes that philosophers have sug-
gested composition, supervenience, constitution, etc. as the sorts of relations that hold between the
building blocks of a social entity upon which the social entity depends in some way. He goes on to
argue for both grounding and anchoring conditions for social facts.
1.1.1 The Historical Contribution
In light of the foregoing considerations, one might be justified in thinking that social
ontology was invented by analytic philosophers in the early 1990s. It has certainly
developed into a substantial and fertile sub-discipline of metaphysics since then.
Yet, even a cursory glance at ancient, medieval, and early modern sources reveals a
pressing interest in discussing the ontology of the social in one way or another. This
volume presents a clear case for delving into how the social world and social entities
have been conceived in earlier periods of the history of philosophy with a particular
emphasis on the contribution of medieval philosophy (the chapters in this volume
that deal with medieval philosophy focus on philosophers from the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries of the Latin Western tradition).
It has long been a truism that many modern Western political, social, and eco-
nomic institutions find their origin in late medieval Europe, which witnessed an
increasing complexification and sophistication of the social world well before
global conquest in the early modern period. During this time, we see the rise of
corporations like universities and guilds, increasing conflicts between secular and
papal powers (anachronistically dubbed ‘church and state’), the beginning of natu-
ral rights discourse, and so on and so forth. It stands to reason that medieval philoso-
phers reflected on the social world and its constituent social entities even if they did
not use these terms.4 There is no dearth of considered reflection on the nature and
origin of social groups (political or civil communities, religious orders, the papacy,
the family, corporations and professional associations), money, property, law, arti-
facts, and language.
Like their contemporary counterparts, medieval philosophers recognized a social
realm that is distinct from but somehow linked to the natural world described in
Aristotle’s natural philosophy and metaphysics. And most medieval philosophers
who wrote about social entities would have agreed that social entities are ultimately
reducible to—and certainly explicable by reference to—Aristotle’s ten categories
(substances and then nine categories of accidents), which were thought to exhaus-
tively carve extramental, non-divine reality. However, a few authors, such as Peter
of John Olivi assigned a kind of extra-categorial relational being to social entities.
Moreover, a large number of medieval philosophers from the thirteenth century
onwards such as Alexander of Hales, Bonaventure, Richard of Mediavilla, Godfrey
of Fontaines, Henry of Ghent, Meister Eckhart, Peter Auriol, Durand of St. Pourçain,
and many thinkers of Second or Spanish Scholasticism, such as Suárez, did posit an
ens morale or moral being. Moral being was thought to differ from real being and
4
The reader should be aware that most of the philosophers studied today in the history of medieval
philosophy were in fact professionally-trained theologians teaching in the theology faculties of
European universities or at various religious houses. It is perhaps more accurate to refer to them as
‘philosopher-theologians’ and these include figures like Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, and
William Ockham. There were also philosophers who taught in arts faculties, like John Buridan.
Moreover, figures in the legal tradition, both canon and civil law, contributed to medieval political
thought.
beings of reason (‘entia rationis’), which roughly put is any being that depends for
its existence on mental activity. A moral being, by contrast, is a being that depends
for its existence on being recognized as such by human persons (Kobusch 1996,
1997). Unlike contemporary philosophers, however, medieval philosophers and
some of their early modern successors were not materialists; they had no difficulty
in assuming abstract or immaterial entities, and of course God too enters into the
social realm in one way or another. Despite these important differences, we can
nevertheless detect a comparable drive to provide an account of social entities that
is consistent with the existing theoretical—scientific, philosophical, and theologi-
cal—framework(s) within which they worked.
1.2 Objectives and Description of the Volume
Evidently, one of the main objectives of the volume is precisely to show that not
only were pre-modern philosophers concerned with many of the same if not similar
questions that motivate the contemporary debate, but also that the medieval contri-
bution to the historical foundations of that contemporary debate is especially sig-
nificant in its own right. Indeed, a common tendency in the current literature, if it is
at all concerned in the historical development of the ontology of the social world, is
to skip from Aristotle to Hobbes (see Epstein 2018, which is an exemplary and
comprehensive overview of contemporary social ontology; it includes a historical
supplement as well). The first part of this volume, ‘Medieval and Early Modern
Perspectives,’ therefore, addresses a serious historical lacuna. The second part of the
volume, ‘Contemporary Issues,’ presents two contributions that are not historical
but engage in the contemporary debate.
Another main objective of the volume is to highlight the philosophical potential
of crossing the historical and contemporary divide. Consequently, the third part of
the volume, ‘Historical and Contemporary Perspectives in Dialogue,’ contains con-
tributions that explicitly place historical and contemporary philosophers in dia-
logue, revealing that historical sources can provide new insights that are relevant to
various aspects in the contemporary debate. Read together, the chapters of the entire
volume allow readers to see that an implicit continuity emerges in the themes
broached from the medieval, early modern, and contemporary perspectives but
without overstating their similarities and obscuring their differences. Naturally, the
chapters contained in this volume are selective. It is not our intention to claim that
the authors and topics it broaches are exhaustive, even in the first part of the volume
that is primarily historical. Rather, those chapters are representative of new research
on just some of the relevant debates in the tradition, many others of which have not
been included. We discuss some possible future lines of research at the end of this
introduction.
1.2.1 Contents
The contents of this volume are organized thematically into the three parts noted
above and the chapters within the first part are ordered chronologically by philoso-
pher. From a systematic point of view, all but one of the chapters in this volume can
be said to presuppose an opposition between what, following one of the contributors,5
we will call ‘intentionalist’ vs. ‘non-intentionalist’ theories of social ontology, and
specifically regarding the production of social entities. Only one chapter broaches a
rather different but no less important issue, which is the nature of personhood and
the question of whether a group can qualify as a person on a particular view of what
personhood consists of.
Intentionalist theories have dominated current theories of social ontology. At the
risk of oversimplification, we can say that intentionalist theories suppose that a
common feature that social entities share is that they are the product of our joint or
collective, and thus social, thoughts and decisions, i.e. ‘intentions’ or mental states
that are directed toward something. Contemporary philosophers such as Margaret
Gilbert (2014), who coined the term ‘joint commitment’ to explain membership to
social groups, and John Searle, who is associated with the term ‘collective accep-
tance,’ essentially offer intentionalist theories of social ontology. (Gilbert and Searle
are only two of many contemporary philosophers who offer a range of intentionalist
theories of social ontology.) It is this focus on joint or collective mental states that
has likewise spawned an enormous related sub-field on collective intentionality and
social cognition in contemporary analytic philosophy (see Schweikard and
Schmid 2013).
By contrast, there is an increasing interest in developing theories of social ontol-
ogy that are non-intentionalist, that is to say theories that are either not intentionalist
at all or not exclusively intentionalist. Brian Epstein, for instance, has written about
social facts without intentions (2014) and argues for a theory of social ontology that
is less ‘anthropocentric’ than the current intentionalist theories on offer (2015, 6–9).
Katherine Ritchie has also recently proposed a distinction between two kinds of
social groups. The first are ‘organized’ and include ‘teams, committees, and courts
[that] require some sort of shared or collective intentionality’ (2015, 313). The sec-
ond do not have this requirement, and her examples include race and gender (2015,
313). These theories reveal a shift away from joint or collective mental states, sug-
gesting that they are not necessarily the only means by which social entities are
produced or on which they depend, however this is to be understood. While the vast
majority of the contributions in this volume would fall into the intentionalist group,
a notable but present minority explicitly or implicitly argue for broadening our per-
spective beyond the predominant interest in collective intentionality or joint com-
mitment. The chapters in Part I ‘Medieval and Early Modern Perspectives’ in this
volume place special importance on the role of human reason, will, and language in
5
In his contribution, Stephan Zimmermann makes this helpful distinction to get a handle on differ-
ent kinds of theories of social ontology.
the production of social entities. They argue, in broad strokes, that social entities
arise due to conscious decisions made by persons or groups of persons, and in this
sense they deal with theories that are intentionalist. It is tempting, therefore, to gen-
eralize that medieval and early modern theories are typically intentionalist, but fur-
ther research is necessary to establish this claim more definitively.
In his opening chapter, Fabrizio Amerini treats Thomas Aquinas’s conception of
the political community, which is deeply indebted to Aristotle. For Aquinas, indi-
viduals only become important if they become instances of specific wholes.
Consequently, individual persons become metaphysically meaningful if they are
subsumed under the descriptions of human being and citizen. Aquinas’s account of
social ontology is at once holistic and hylomorphist, organistic, functionalistic and
finalistic, as Amerini argues. For example, a part of the political community cannot
exist by itself when separated from the political community in the same way that a
bodily organ, such as a hand, cannot exist as a hand if it is severed from the body.
Moreover, the human tendency to form societies and political communities depends
on human rationality and the use of language. The difference between a person’s
being a human and being a citizen lies in the process of legislation, as Amerini
points out, and the mention of law shows that for Aquinas the political community
is more than the sum of its parts, although materially speaking it is not distinct from
its members.
Juhana Toivanen focuses on the late thirteenth-century thinker Peter of John
Olivi (ca. 1248–1298), particularly on the ontological status of rationes reales, real
relations in which social entities like lordship, money, or ownership consist. For
Olivi, liberum arbitrium (freedom of choice) is the hallmark of human personhood.
The ontological status of the relational reasons (rationes respectivae) that form
social entities through human will is at stake in Olivi’s Quid ponat ius vel domi-
nium, and he steers midway between a nominalist and a realist account of social
relations: his theory is not nominalist insofar as social entities make a real difference
in the human world, nor are they subject to the decisions or tastes of individual
human beings; however, his theory is not realist since he argues that nothing in real-
ity changes when, for example, a piece of land is sold to another person.
Olivi’s account of social ontology is also taken up by Claudia Appolloni who
sheds light on the mutual dependence of the signification of words and the constitu-
tion of a community. Olivi uses the notion of intention far more voluntaristically
than many other medieval philosophers and logicians: for him an intention is the
will to utter a word with a particular signification. Appolloni shows that for Olivi, a
common signification, also called habitual signification, in human language derives
from an original collective intention of a language community, and this establishes
a kind of contract or ‘pact of meaning’ that bestows language with normativity. The
individual signification of individual language users must comply with these lan-
guage norms except in special cases where it may deviate from the habitual signifi-
cation if and only if the speaker discloses her intention to the audience.
Roberto Lambertini’s chapter deals with the social ontology of communities and
especially religious orders in the works of the Franciscan Enrico del Carretto at the
beginning of the fourteenth century. Enrico’s conception of social entities is
interwoven in the poverty controversy between Pope John XXII and the Franciscans.
John argued that a religious order is not a real but only a ‘represented or imaginary’
person. Enrico believes that the power relations that form political communities are
established through human volitions. However, unlike John and indeed Olivi, Enrico
thinks that such communities are real beings and not beings of reason, and so he is
a realist with regard to social entities. Moreover, Enrico differentiates between a
community as a society of individuals who participate in a common good and a
community as a collegium or civitas in which a head is elected and the power rela-
tions of such a community are established through the wills of the involved persons.
Moving chronologically forward into the early modern period, Jukka Ruokanen
draws attention to Johannes Althusius’s (1563–1638) conception of consociatio as
the basic unit of social life. Ruokanen argues that social life emerges due to three
main factors: human will, nature, and God, such that all three can be said to underly
the entire complex structure of society, which is made up of various hierarchically
arranged consociationes. While Althusius’s emphasis on the role of the human will
in the building of this edifice puts him in the intentionalist group, nature and God (as
well as natural and divine law) are no less important. In the final section of his chap-
ter, and taking inspiration from the contemporary French philosopher Emmanuel
Renault, Ruokanen analyzes Althusius’s ontology of consociatio from the perspec-
tive of substantial, relational, and processual ontology.
Concluding Part I, Michael Rosenthal explains that there is an apparent tension
in Spinoza’s conception of justice insofar as Spinoza describes justice as both con-
ventional and natural. Rosenthal argues that using Spinoza’s appropriation of the
early modern scholastic notion of beings of reason this tension can be resolved.
Relying on Suárez’s discussion of beings of reason, which originates in late medi-
eval philosophy, Rosenthal shows that for Spinoza justice is in fact an ‘imaginative
being of reason’ that is at once conventional because it is produced by the workings
of the imagination but natural because it is produced in response to specific situa-
tions and scientific findings. Again, we see an emphasis on the role of the human
intellect and, in this case, the imagination in an account of the production of a social
entity like justice that aligns Spinoza with the intentionalist group.
In Part II ‘Contemporary Issues,’ we find our first contribution that explicitly
takes up the distinction between intentionalist and non-intentionalist theories.
Without using this terminology, Ludger Jansen urges for identifying and analyzing
the differences between, on the one hand social entities that are explicitly estab-
lished (his example is marriage) and on the other hand social entities that are not
explicitly established (his example is friendship). While he calls the former ‘formal’
institutions, the latter are ‘informal’ institutions and are typically explained by the
acquisition of dispositions rather than by the utterance of explicit speech acts at a
particular time and place. They do not have many of the features that explicitly
established social entities have, e.g. being datable, being countable, etc. Jansen’s
aim is not to dismiss intentionalist theories as such but rather, as he puts it, ‘to over-
come the narrow focus on collective intentionality.’
Shifting away from social entities like the political community or various social
and political institutions, Onni Hirvonen turns to the question of group personhood.
What is it that makes a person and can a group of persons be a person too? (This
question, incidentally, finds its origin in the late medieval legal and political tradi-
tion, a point that he acknowledges.) Noting that everyday language and the legal
tradition ascribe intentions (beliefs, desires, thoughts), rights, and responsibilities to
groups, Hirvonen takes up three contemporary theories that argue for ‘robust’ group
personhood developed by Peter French, Carol Rovane, and Christian List and Philip
Pettit. After critically assessing their theories, he offers a Hegelian-inspired theory
of personhood that is ‘multi-dimensional,’ whereby being a person involves being
recognized by three kinds of recognition—love, respect, and esteem.
Rounding off the volume, in the first chapter of Part III, ‘Historical and
Contemporary Perspectives in Dialogue,’ Falk Hamann, like Jansen, finds friend-
ship to be highly relevant, and focuses on the role of friendship in an analysis of the
community as a particular kind of social entity. Although Hamann does not criticize
intentionalist theories per se, he argues that neither Gilbert nor Searle can ade-
quately account for the community as anything other than cooperation or joint
action in Gilbert’s case and an institution in Searle’s case. Finding both accounts
wanting for different reasons, Hamann proposes to return to Aquinas’s conception
of friendship as a kind of love of other (not to be understood sentimentally) as offer-
ing a better way of understanding what grounds a community. He argues that friend-
ship avoids the pitfalls that cooperation and institution meet in attempting to account
for community.
Finally, Stephan Zimmermann identifies the ‘paradigmatic approach’ in theories
of social ontology as intentionalist (using this very term), and explains that on this
approach human consciousness is what provides the ‘mark of the social,’ i.e. that
feature that makes some phenomenon social as opposed to non-social. Unsatisfied
with the paradigmatic approach, Zimmermann turns to Wittgenstein’s notion of
rule-following in language, which he thinks is a more fruitful point of departure for
understanding what it means to be social. We can follow the rules of language with-
out being aware of what these rules are, and so language is a kind of implicit knowl-
edge that is pre-conscious; in fact, it underlies consciousness, according to
Zimmermann. As such, Zimmermann makes the case for turning to implicit knowl-
edge as what bears the mark of the social, which is prior to consciousness and hence
any form of collective intentionality.
We hope that this volume will satisfy both historians of philosophy and contem-
porary philosophers. The chapters that focus on the historical contribution have not
sacrificed historical sensitivity in favor of systematic convergence. Those chapters
that dialogue between the historical and contemporary contribution—as vastly dif-
ferent in time and theoretical frameworks as some of these might be—are thought-
provoking. And finally, those chapters that engage in the contemporary debate
provide a valuable addition to on-going discussions. We trust that the various philo-
sophical continuities and discontinuities that this volume obliquely reveals will be
apparent and stimulating to any curious and open-minded reader.
1.3 Possible Further Research
The study of the historical contribution in the Western philosophical tradition on the
nature of the social world and its entities, especially the pre-modern era between
Aristotle and Hobbes, is nascent. This is the case for a systematic and metaphysical
approach that would seek to explain various sorts of social entities alongside the
uncontroversial entities of pre-modern metaphysics and natural philosophy. While
there are specialized studies devoted to particular philosophers in the tradition (e.g.
Aquinas, Suárez, etc.) or to particular entities that we would qualify as social (espe-
cially language, law, money, and some social groups, e.g. the state, the city, and the
corporation), these are not primarily considered from a metaphysical or ontological
perspective. Rather, they are quite understandably studied from political, economic,
social, or linguistic historical-theoretical perspectives. By contrast, other sorts of
entities, like artifacts, have not yet been the focus of much sustained study at all.
Consequently, numerous avenues of further research are wide open and what we
have included here is highly selective. As noted above, there is a question as to
whether we can make the general claim that pre-modern theories of social entities
are largely or perhaps exclusively intentionalist. Are they? Did pre-modern philoso-
phers also take into consideration the sort of informal, unorganized, and unintended
social entities (and here specifically groups) that are now part of the discussion?
What about the family or nations or perhaps even races? And, even if they do gener-
ally fall under intentionalist theories, do they privilege certain mechanisms by
which social entities are produced as opposed to others? For instance, the late
Middle Ages is witness to a pronounced interest in philosophical psychology and
especially the human faculty of willing, not only in the realm of moral philosophy
but also in human action and intentional human production. Can we detect patterns
between particular views on the will and especially on the freedom of the will (or
choice) and views on the nature and origin of social entities? The notion of consent,
so important in early modern political theory (and surely a progenitor to Searle’s
collective acceptance and Gilbert’s joint commitment, indeed to any modern notion
of agreement or pact), finds its proper beginnings in medieval thought.
One line of possible research might be the connection between medieval philo-
sophical anthropology and social ontology: to what extent does the conception of a
human being have an impact on the features of the social world? Although the
Aristotelian notion of the zôion politicon is widespread among medieval authors,
there are small, but important deviations from the rule. Particularly, the influence of
Avicenna’s De anima V,1 (1968, 69–81) ought to be mentioned here. Unlike
Aristotle, for whom there is a natural urge towards a polis that is included in human
nature (with moral overtones), for Avicenna, humans form a society because they
are biologically defective beings who alone lack the necessary food, clothing, weap-
ons against enemies, and so on. Medieval social ontologies explain what society
must look like in order to accommodate the different biological needs of human
beings. Hence, further exploration of the peculiar naturalness of human society and
the relation between the individual members and the whole of the society, a social
mereology, would be fruitful (Rode 2022).6
The mention of Avicenna should remind us that with some notable exceptions
relatively few pre-modern authors are in fact the subject of much focus in the litera-
ture that does exist. At the moment, a few studies have appeared on Olivi (Rode
2014, 2021), Ockham’s conception of ownership and lordship (Pelletier 2020,
2021b, which places particular emphasis on the will in the establishment of lord-
ship), Ockham’s mereological understanding of social groups (Pelletier 2021a), and
Aquinas’s ‘action-theoretic’ account of the political community (Spindler 2019).
There are numerous other pre-modern thinkers from various philosophical and
intellectual traditions—legal, theological, and philosophical—whose views on the
nature and origin of social reality and social entities have yet to be explored from a
metaphysical perspective.
In short, this volume ought to be seen as providing a first glance at how rich this
historical contribution is and how fruitful the discussion between historians and
contemporary philosophers could be once more of that historical contribution has
been explored.
References
Avicenna. 1968. Liber de anima seu sextus de naturalibus IV–V, ed. S. van Riet. Louvain/
Leiden: Brill.
Epstein, Brian. 2014. Social Objects Without Intentions. In Institutions, Emotions, and Group
Agents. Contributions to Social Ontology, eds. A. Konzelmann Ziv and H. B. Schmid, 53–68.
Studies in the Philosophy of Sociality 2. Dordrecht: Springer.
———. 2015. The Ant Trap. Rebuilding the Foundations of the Social Sciences. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
———. 2016. A Framework for Social Ontology. Philosophy of the Social Sciences 46 (2):
147–167.
———. 2018. Social Ontology. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta.
https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2018/entries/social-ontology/. Accessed 13 Mar 2019.
Gilbert, Margaret. 2014. Joint Commitment: How We Make the Social World. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Kobusch, Theo. 1996. Sein, Moralisches. In Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, ed. J. Ritter
and K. Gründer, vol. 9, 237–247. Basel: Schwabe.
———. 1997. Die Entdeckung der Person. Metaphysik der Freiheit und modernes Menschenbild.
2nd edn (1st edn 1993). Freiburg i.Br./Basel/Wien: Herder.
Pelletier, Jenny. 2021a. Kingdoms and Crowds: Ockham on the Ontology of Social Groups. British
Journal of the History of Philosophy 29 (1): 24–44.
———. 2021b. Ockham on Human Freedom and the Nature and Origin of Lordship. In State
and Nature: Essays in Ancient Political Philosophy, ed. Peter Adamson and Christof Rapp,
393–413. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter.
6
The question about the naturalness of human society in general is one that has been broached in
medieval scholarship. See, in particular, Toste (2014) and Toivanen (2021) for important contribu-
tions to this history.
———. 2020. Social Powers and Mental Relations. William Ockham on the Semantics and
Ontology of Lordship and Ownership. Oxford Studies in Medieval Philosophy 8: 248–276.
Rode, Christian. 2014. Olivis Ontologie des Rechts und des Sozialen. In Das Gesetz – The Law –
La Loi, ed. Andreas Speer and Guy Guldentops, 371–382. Miscellanea Mediaevalia 37. Berlin/
New York: Walter de Gruyter.
———. 2021. Peter of John Olivi on Social Ontology. In Peter of John Olivi: Construction of
the Human Person. Anthropology, Ethics, and Society. Acts of the Colloquium of Rome (4–6
October 2018), ed. Stève Bobillier and Ryan Thornton, 235–257. Rome: Editiones Collegii
S. Bonaventurae ad Claras Aquas.
———. 2022. Soziale Ontologien des Mittelalters. Der Status der politischen Gemeinschaft und
das Mängelwesen Mensch. Münster i.W.: Aschendorff.
Ritchie, Katherine. 2015. The Metaphysics of Social Groups. Philosophical Compass 10 (5):
310–321.
Searle, John R. 2010. Making the Social World. The Structure of Human Civilization. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
———. 2014. Are There Social Objects. In Perspectives on Social Ontology and Social Cognition,
ed. M. Gallotti and J. Michael, 17–26. Studies in the Philosophy of Sociality 4. Dordrecht:
Springer.
Schmitt, Frederick F., ed. 2003. Socializing Metaphysics. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield.
Spindler, Anselm. 2019. Politics and Collective Action in Thomas Aquinas’s On Kingship. Journal
of the History of Philosophy 57 (3): 419–442.
Toivanen, J. 2021. The Political Animal in Medieval Philosophy. Leiden: Brill.
Toste, M. 2014. The Naturalness of Human Association in Medieval Political Thought Revisited.
In La nature comme source de la morale, ed. M. van der Lugt, 121–156. Florence: SISMEL—
Edizioni del Galluzzo.
Schweikard, David P. and Hans Bernhard Schmid. 2013. Collective Intentionality. Stanford
Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2013/
entries/collective-intentionality/. Accessed 8 Sep 2020.
Zahle, Julie, and Finn Collin, eds. 2014. Rethinking the Individualism/Holism Debate: Essays in
the Philosophy of Social Science. Cham: Springer.
Part I
Medieval and Early Modern Perspectives
on Issues in Social Ontology
Chapter 2
Thomas Aquinas on the Ontology
of the Political Community
Fabrizio Amerini
2.1 Introduction: Aquinas and Social Ontology
Aquinas never discusses the ontology of those entities that we today consider sig-
nificant for social ontology. On some occasions, however, he addresses the mereo-
logical question of the relation between social aggregates and the individuals that
compose them, and these places are significant for bringing to light what Aquinas
had to say, if anything, about social ontology. We shall see that Aquinas’s analysis
of social aggregates is essentially metaphysical and that, in the end, it leads him to
assign a place to such aggregates within Aristotelian ontology. I shall try to justify
this claim in what follows. Someone might think that Aquinas’s reflection on social
aggregates is of limited interest to contemporary theorists of social ontology pre-
cisely because of the metaphysical character of his analysis. Nevertheless, as we
shall see, cognitive and linguistic considerations, which concern what we can call
F. Amerini (*)
University of Parma, Parma, Italy
e-mail: fabrizio.amerini@unipr.it

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_2
16 F. Amerini
collective intentionality and the constitutive role of some speech acts, play some
role in his explanation of the nature and origin of social aggregates.1
In what follows, my attention will be limited to one kind of social aggregate,
namely the political community.2 There is a reason for this. Following in the foot-
steps of Aristotle, Aquinas understands the political community as the goal of any
other social aggregate, i.e. the family and the village. Other significant social enti-
ties such as contracts, money, and laws are considered objects and instruments that
acquire significance for the purpose of politics. With respect to the ontology of the
political community, as we shall see, Aquinas assumes that the political community
can be called real in the sense that it does not completely reduce to the sum of many
individuals, since it also expresses a certain order and arrangement of them. It is not
real, however, if we mean that it is a thing beyond the individuals that compose it.
Aquinas makes four basic claims regarding the ontology of the political com-
munity. We shall discuss them in Sect. 2.2. These convictions allow us to say that
Aquinas’s view of social ontology (if any) lies between reductionism and realism
with respect to the question of the nature of social aggregates, and between natural-
ism and constructionism with respect to the question of their origin. We shall dis-
cuss Aquinas’s position on the nature and origin of the political community in Sect.
2.3. Finally, we shall illustrate its consequences for social ontology in Sect. 2.4.
2.2 Aquinas’s View of Social Aggregates: Four Basic Claims
It is a fact that for Aristotle and so too for Aquinas individuals are metaphysically
and epistemically insignificant. They do not have an essence on their own; nor can
they have a proper and distinct definition. Individuals become significant only when
they are taken as instances or parts of specific wholes. For the present topic, two
wholes are important: the natural whole (totum naturale) and the political whole
(totum civile). An individual like Socrates acquires metaphysical and epistemic
meaning when he is considered as a human being and as a citizen, that is, as part of
a natural whole and a political whole respectively.
1
I wish to express here my sincere gratitude to Jenny Pelletier and Christian Rode for their valuable
comments and suggestions, and to Jenny Pelletier in particular for revising the English of this
study. I also thank the anonymous reviewers for their important comments and suggestions. The
responsibility of any mistakes or misinterpretations remains entirely mine.
For an introduction to Aquinas’s view of social aggregates, see Eschmann (1946), Scully
(1981), Dyson (2002), Dyson (2003), 187–225, and Finnis (2018), to which I refer for further lit-
erature. In what follows, by ‘aggregate’ I broadly mean any form of association, regardless of its
structured or unstructured nature. We shall see that Aquinas traditionally distinguishes between
wholes (i.e. unified and ordered aggregates) and heaps (i.e. unstructured and unordered aggre-
gates). He further divides wholes into accidental and essential (i.e. extrinsically vs. intrinsically
unified wholes).
2
Also see the contribution by Falk Hamann in this volume for a defense of the contemporary rel-
evance of Aquinas’s account of friendship in connection to community.
2 Thomas Aquinas on the Ontology of the Political Community 17
This assumption has a consequence. Since Aquinas holds that we express a

thing’s being through the definition of that thing, it follows that we may distinguish
the individual human being as member of the natural whole from the same indi-
vidual as member of the political whole according to the different definitions we can
give of that individual. Defining X qua X is different from defining X qua Y, where
‘being Y’ in this case says ‘being a member of a certain political whole P’.3 To be
precise, only the former is, for Aquinas, the definition of X, for it expresses the
absolute being of X; the latter is rather a description of X, for it expresses but a
qualified being of X, i.e. the being of X in the context P. We shall return to the sig-
nificance of this distinction at the end of this study.
Let us begin with an abstract presentation of Aquinas’s idea that individuals
become significant only when they are taken as instances or parts of specific wholes.
We can crystallize Aquinas’s ontology of social aggregates in four claims. The first
and most fundamental is the following:
(C1) Aquinas’s view of social ontology is holistic and hylomorphist.
We shall clarify the meaning of ‘holism’ in Aquinas a bit later. Suffice it to say
for now that by ‘holism’ we mean to refer to Aquinas’s conviction that individuals
acquire their complete significance only when they are considered as parts of a
whole. Holism is strictly related to hylomorphism. Aquinas regularly describes the
political community as a whole and it, in turn, as a hylomorphic compound. A
whole includes a collection of parts and individual human beings are the material
parts of the community.4 As to the form of the political community, we shall see that
there are texts where Aquinas says that the form of this kind of whole coincides with
the whole itself, understood as a certain arrangement of its parts. What is a typical
political entity for Aquinas, e.g. the city, is not only the result of the collection of
many individual human beings who decide to live in the same town, but also of a
certain arrangement of those individuals in the town which makes them its citizens
and one single people. At times, Aquinas also compares the political community to
a living organism. The political community exists as if it were one single body, as if
men become one single man by participating in the whole:
3
On the logic of the reduplicative operators here involved, see Bäck (1996). According to the
medieval terminology, in the phase ‘X qua X’, the operator is taken properly; in ‘X qua Y’, it is
taken specificatively.
4
In order for a whole to be perfect, Aquinas requires that it have three properties: first, being com-
posed of parts; second, having all the parts it needs in due order; third, being greater than its parts.
See e.g. Aquinas, Exp. Met., V, lec. 21 (1964, n. 1098). See also what he says in Sent., III, d. 6, q.
2, a. 3, ad 8 (1929–1947, III, 243).
18 F. Amerini
even as in civil matters all who are members of one community are reputed as one body, and
the whole community as one man. Indeed Porphyry says (Praedic., De Specie) that “by
sharing the same species, many men are one man.”5
The parallel between the political community and the living organism leads to a
second claim:
(C2) Aquinas’s view of social ontology is organicistic.
An individual living organism has many material parts and just one form, i.e. the
human soul.6 Being part of a living organism, for a part, amounts to fulfilling a cer-
tain function relative to the whole that is assigned to the part by the form of the
living organism. A foot, for example, is what it is insofar as it permits a man walk.
This is its proper function within the whole-human being and this function is
assigned to the foot by the human soul: only an ensouled foot can fulfil the function
of permitting a man walk. Something similar holds in the case of the political com-
munity: each member of the political community is what it is insofar as it fulfills the
function that is assigned to it by the form of the whole, i.e. by the arrangement that
members have within the whole-political community. As Aquinas says, individual
men are to the political community as the parts of man are to the whole organism:
Then he shows from the foregoing that the political community is by nature prior to the
household or an individual human being. […] The whole is necessarily prior to the parts,
namely, in the rank of nature and perfection. But we should understand this regarding the
matter, not the form, as the Metaphysics shows. […] When a whole human being has been
destroyed, its feet and hands remain only in an equivocal sense. […] And that the part is
destroyed when the whole has been destroyed, he shows by the fact that every part is defined
by its activity and the power by which it acts. […] Therefore, the whole is clearly by nature
prior to its material parts, although the parts are prior in the order of coming to be. But
individual human beings are related to the whole political community like the parts of a
human being to the human being. For, as hands and feet cannot exist apart from a human
being, so neither is a human being self-sufficient for living apart from a political community.7
5
Aquinas, The Summa Theologica (1912–1936); Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 81, a. 1: ‘secundum
quod in civilibus omnes qui sunt unius communitatis, reputantur quasi unum corpus, et tota com-
munitas quasi unus homo. Porphyrius etiam dicit quod participatione speciei plures homines sunt
unus homo.’ (1888–1906, VII, 88). For the claim that ‘people’ (populus) expresses the core mean-
ing of ‘city’, see below, note 53. For an introduction to Aquinas’s account of whole and part, see
Svoboda (2012); on Aristotle’s mereological views as applied to politics, see Quinn (1986) and
Mayhew (1997). On the relation between Aquinas and Aristotle on this matter, see Galluzzo
(2015). For a general introduction to medieval mereology, see Henry (1991), and Arlig (2015).
6
See e.g. Aquinas, Qu. an., q. 10 (1996b, 90–92).
7
Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Politics (2007, 17–18); Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/b: ‘osten-
dit ex premissis quod ciuitas sit prior secundum naturam quam domus uel quam unus homo singu-
laris. […] Necesse est totum esse prius parte, ordine scilicet nature et perfectionis; set hoc
intelligedum est de parte materie […] quia destructo toto homine, non remanet pes neque manus
nisi equiuoce. […] Et quod pars corrurnpatur corrupto toto, ostendit per hoc quod omnis pars dif-
finitur per suam operationem et per uirtutem qua operatur. […] Sic igitur patet quod totum est prius
naturaliter quam partes materie, quamuis partes sint priores ordine generationis. Set singuli homi-
nes comparantur ad totam ciuitatem sicut partes hominis ad hominem, quia sint manus aut pes non
potest esse sine homine, ita nec unus homo est per se sufficiens ad viuendum separatus a ciuitate.’
(1971, A79,156–90).
As we shall see in more detail later, there are however some differences between an
individual living organism and the political community. One is that the form of the
living organism is something beyond its material parts, while the form of the politi-
cal community simply coincides with the arrangement of the parts within the whole.
Moreover, the form of the living organism confers an essential kind of unity on the
organism, while the arrangement of the members within the political community
only confers an accidental unity on the whole. This parallel, anyway, allows us a
third claim:
(C3) Aquinas’s view of social ontology is functionalistic.
Functionalism precisely reveals what it means to be a part within a whole that is
like a living organism.8 Aquinas never extends this functionalist model for a living
organism to the political community; nonetheless, just like in the case of a living
organism, the functions that individual human beings fulfill in the political com-
munity are seen as establishing their political status and identity within a whole,
which arranges the parts and organizes the functions in an eminently hierar-
chical way:
one hierarchy is one principality—that is, one multitude ordered in one way under the rule
of a prince. Now such a multitude would not be ordered, but confused, if there were not in
it different orders. So the nature of a hierarchy requires diversity of orders. This diversity
of order arises from the diversity of offices and actions, as appears in one city where there
are different orders according to the different actions; for there is one order of those who
judge, and another of those who fight, and another of those who labor in the fields, and
so forth.9
Finally, each function assigned to a part within the whole political community is a
kind of operation that serves a purpose, and this purpose is the common good and
preservation of the political community as a whole:
And it is clear that something as proper virtue and something as common virtue belong to
each of these. […] So also, although different citizens have different duties and positions in
the political community, the common work of all is the safety of the community, and the
community consists of the good order of its regime. And so it is clear that we consider the
8
On the parts’ being in function of the whole, see Aquinas, Qu. an., q. 10, ad 1 (1996b, 92,267–85).
9
Aquinas, The Summa Theologica (1912–1936); Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 108, a. 2: ‘una hierar-
chia est unus principatus, idest una multitudo ordinata uno modo sub principis gubernatione. Non
autem esset multitudo ordinata, sed confusa, si in multitudine diversi ordines non essent. Ipsa ergo
ratio hierarchiae requirit ordinum diversitatem. Quae quidem diversitas ordinum secundum diversa
officia et actus consideratur. Sicut patet quod in una civitate sunt diversi ordines secundum diver-
sos actus.’ (1888–1906, V, 496).
20 F. Amerini
virtue of a citizen as such in relation to the regime, namely, that a good citizen is one who
works for the preservation of the regime.10
This leads to the final claim:

(C4) Aquinas’s view of social ontology is finalistic.
The whole expresses the perfection and purpose of each part. To be precise, each
part of the whole is in potency first with respect to the exercise of its own operation
within the whole and then, by exercising its own operation, is in potency with
respect to the perfection of the whole itself. Aquinas explicitly says that this holds
in the case of living organisms.11 However, there are texts that suggest the applica-
tion of this idea to the political community as well. For example, Aquinas at times
notes that a citizen such as a judge is first in potency with respect to the exercise of
justice (which expresses the judge’s own operation within the political community
that is the city) and that, through exercising justice, a judge is oriented to the per-
fection of the whole-city to which he belongs.12 On some occasions, Aquinas
describes the perfection of the whole as the common good of its members. For
human beings, the political community expresses their highest good because the
political community is established with a view to some good, and the most superior
community embraces the highest good. Since the political community is the goal
of any other form of social aggregate, it follows that it is the highest good of
human beings:
Every association is established for the sake of some good. But every political community
is an association, as we clearly see. Therefore, every political community is established for
the sake of some good. […] If every association is directed to a good, the supreme associa-
tion necessarily most seeks the supreme human good. For the relative importance of means
necessarily depends on the relative importance of ends. And what he adds, that the political
community includes all the other associations, makes clear which association is supreme.
For an association is a whole, and wholes are ordered so that one that includes another is
superior. For example, the wall of a house is a whole, but the house is a superior whole,
since the wall is included in the house. And the association that includes other associations
is likewise superior. But the political community clearly includes all other associations,
10
Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Politics (2007, 193); Aquinas, Sent. Pol., III, ch. 3: ‘ad
propriam enim uirtutern uniuscuiusque pertinet quod habeat diligentern rationem et curam de pro-
prio officio. (…). Ita etiam cum sint diuersi ciues habentes dissimilia officia et status dissimiles in
ciuitate, opus commune omnium est salus communitatis; que quidem cammunitas consistit in
ordine politie; unde patet quod uirtus ciuis in quantum est ciuis consideretur in ordine ad politiam,
ut scilicet ille sit bonus ciuis qui bene operatur ad conseruationem politie.’ (1971, A193,37–54).
On the primacy of the good of the whole over the good of the parts, see what Aquinas says in
Quod., I, q. 4, a. 3 (1996c, 188–189).
11
See e.g. Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 65, a. 2 (1888–1906, V, 150).
12
See e.g. Aquinas, Sent., III, d. 33, q. 3, a. 1, q.la 4 (1929–1947, III, 1078).
since households and villages are included in the political community, and so the political
association is the supreme association.13
These four claims are intertwined. They lead to two apparently divergent conclu-
sions regarding the ontology of the political community.
(Concl. 1) The first is a reductionist conclusion. Assessing the community from
the point of view of matter, the political community is not a thing beyond the sum
of its parts, but is merely the collection of many individual human beings. As
Aquinas writes, ‘The political community is a whole constituted of citizens as its
parts, since the political community is nothing but a multitude of citizens.’14
(Concl. 2) By contrast, the second is a non-reductionist conclusion. Assessing
the community from the point of view of form, not every collection of human beings
gives rise to a political community. Only that collection which expresses a certain
unity, determined by a certain arrangement of the parts, can be considered as a
genuine political community. In this case, the whole is something more than the
sum of its parts, it includes a relational feature that is beyond each of its parts: an
unarranged collection of things is something different from the same collection as
arranged according to a certain order. As Aquinas writes, ‘A whole signifies a col-
lection of parts into some one thing; and therefore in those cases in which the term
whole is properly used, one complete thing is made from all the parts taken together,
and the perfection of the whole belongs to none of the parts.’15
Taking the four claims and the two conclusions above, a political community
must respect certain conditions for existing and enduring in existence. In his works,
Aquinas seems to consider at least four conditions.
13
Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Politics (2007, 7–8); Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/a: ‘Omnis
communitas est instituta gratia alicuius boni; set omnis ciuitas est communitas quedam, ut mani-
feste uidemus: ergo omnis ciuitas est instituta gratia alicuius boni. (…) Si omnis communitas
ordinatur ad bonum, necesse est quod illa communitas que est maxime principalis maxime sit
coniectatrix boni quod est inter omnia humana bona principalissimum; oportet enim quod propor-
tio eorum quae sunt ad finem sit secundum proportionem finium. […] Est enim communitas quod-
dam totum. In omnibus autem totis talis ordo invenitur quod illud totum quod in se includit aliud
totum principalius est; sicut paries est quoddam totum, et quia includitur in hoc toto quod est
domus, manifestum est quod domus est principalius totum: et similiter communitas que includit
alias communitates est principalior.’ (1971, A72,10–45).
14
Cf. Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Politics (2007, 182); Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/b and
III, ch. 1: ‘Ciuitas autem est quoddam totum constitutum ex ciuibus sicut ex partibus, cum ciuitas
nichil aliud sit quam quedam ciuium multitudo.’ (1971, A186,47–50).
15
See Aquinas, Commentary on the Metaphysics (1961b, 355); Aquinas, Exp. Met., V, lec. 21:
‘Totum vero significat collectionem partium in aliquo uno: et ideo in illis proprie dicitur totum in
quibus, ex omnibus partibus acceptis simul, fit unum perfectum, cuius perfectio nulli partium com-
petit, sicut domus et animal.’ (1964, n. 1108). On the difference betwen a whole and a ununified
and unstructured heap, see Aquinas, Exp. Met., VIII, lec. 5: ‘omnia, quae habent plures partes, et
totum in eis non est solum coacervatio partium, sed aliquid ex partibus constitutum, quod est
praeter ipsas partes, habent aliquid, quod facit in eis unitatem.’ (1964, n. 1755). See also Aquinas,
Sent., III, d. 2, q. 1, a. 3, q.la 3, ad 3, and d. 33, q. 3, a. 1, q.la 4 (1929–1947, III, 79 and 1076–1078);
and Aquinas, Exp. Met., VII, lec. 9 (1964, nn. 1471–81).
22 F. Amerini
(i) First condition: as in the case of an individual living organism, the form of a
political community, i.e. the arrangement of its members within the whole,
cannot change over time. If a political community changes or loses its form, it
loses its numerical unity and identity. It is indeed a principle of Aquinas’s
metaphysics that a thing’s numerical unity and identity ultimately depends on
its form.16 Form does this job precisely by redefining the material parts in the
whole by assigning new functions to them. The parallel with the individual
living organism should not be taken literally, however. In the political com-
munity, there is no principle of life, a form that is beyond the parts it organizes,
as is the soul in the case of human beings. In the case of political organisms,
Aquinas makes it clear that the form is not something beyond the whole, but is
the whole itself, as stated, and the whole arranges the parts according to a prin-
ciple of order. This ordered arrangement is what makes a collection of parts
one single whole. A political community arises every time human beings
decide to associate according to a certain order. As Aquinas says in his com-
mentary on Aristotle’s Politics, the order that citizens bear to each other
expresses the essence of the political being, and when this order changes, the
numerical identity of the city too changes.17
Aquinas expressly identifies the form of the political community and the politi-
cal community itself as a whole in his commentary on the Metaphysics, book
V, when he illustrates the different kinds of whole according to Aristotle. Let
us quote the text:
And of those things of which something is composed, some are like a subject,
for example, parts and the other things mentioned above, whereas some are
like the essence, for example, the whole, the composition and the species,
which have the character of a form whereby a thing’s essence is made com-
plete. For it must be borne in mind that (1) sometimes one thing is the matter
of something else in an unqualified sense (for example, silver of a goblet), and
then the form corresponding to such a matter can be called the species. (2) But
sometimes many things taken together constitute the matter of a thing; and this
may occur in three ways. (a) For sometimes things are united merely by their
arrangement, as the men in an army or the houses in a city; and then the whole
has the role of a form which is designated by the term army or city. (b) And
sometimes things are united not just by arrangement alone but by contact and
16
For a discussion of this principle and references to Aquinas’s texts, see Hughes (1997), Brown
(2005), Amerini (2016), and Fitzpatrick (2017), to which I refer for further literature.
17
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., IIII, ch. 1: ‘tota intentio eorum qui tractant de politiis et legislatione,
negotiatur circa ciuitatem, quia politia nichil aliud est quam ordo inhabitantium civitatem.’ (1971,
A186,39–42), and Aquinas, Sent. Pol., IIII, ch. 2: ‘Deinde cum dicit Aut homines quidem etc., solu-
ens hanc dubitationem ostendit ueram rationem unitatis ciuitatis. Et dicit quod propter predictam
successionem hominum unius generis potest aliqualiter dici eadem multitudo hominum, non
tamen potest dici eadem ciuitas si mutetur ordo politie. Cum enim communicatio ciuium, que
politia dicitur, sit de ratione ciuitatis, manifestum est quod mutata politia non remanet eadem ciui-
tas.’ (1971, A190,103–112).
a bond, as is evident in the parts of a house; and then their composition has the
role of a form. (c) And sometimes the alteration of the component parts is
added to the above, as occurs in the case of a compound; and then the com-
pound state itself is the form, and this is still a kind of composition.18
There is a precise logical entailment of concepts in Aquinas’s argument in the
text quoted above about the aggregates of the kind (2a): the form-whole entails
order and order entails unity and identity. Ordered parts give rise to one single
whole, which is supposed to remain one and the same over time as long as the
form, i.e. the order of parts, remains one and the same.19 The text above gives
us a first indication as to how to understand the order or arrangement of the
constituent parts of a whole although it does not say anything explicit about the
case of the arrangement of human beings within the political community.
Certainly, this arrangement should not be understood to be the same as that
which holds between the houses within a town. This latter is an arrangement of
the spatial kind while in the case of the arrangement of citizens within a politi-
cal community like a city we may suppose that their position in the arrange-
ment would be specified in terms of the functions they fulfill within the city.
With respect to this further specification, the text above tells us an important
thing: Thomas says that the whole expresses the ‘what it was to be’ (quod quid
erat esse) for each of the parts so that in the case of aggregates of the kind (2a)
the whole precisely coincides with the arrangement of the parts. It is presum-
ably the formal role played by this arrangement that allows for the assignment
of new functions to the citizens within a city. These functions depend on and at
18
Aquinas, Commentary on the Metaphysics (1961b, 265–6); Aquinas, Exp. Met., V, lec. 3: ‘Inter
ea autem ex quibus res integratur, aliquid se habet per modum subiecti, sicut partes et alia quae
praedicta sunt; alia vero se habent ut quod quid erat esse, scilicet totum, et compositio, et species,
quae pertinent ad rationem formae, secundum quam quidditas rei completur. Sciendum est enim,
quod quandoque una res simpliciter est alicuius materia, sicut argentum phialae; et tunc forma
correspondens tali materiae potest dici species. Quandoque autem plures adinvicem adunatae sunt
materia alicuius rei. Quod quidem contingit tripliciter. Quandoque enim adunantur secundum
ordinem tantum, sicut homines in exercitu, vel domus in civitate; et sic pro forma respondet totum,
quod designatur nomine exercitus vel civitatis. Quandoque autem non solum adunantur ordine, sed
contactu et colligatione, sicut apparet in partibus domus; et tunc respondet pro forma compositio.
Quandoque autem super hoc additur alteratio componentium, quod contingit in mixtione; et tunc
forma est ipsa mixtio, quae tamen est quaedam compositionis species.’ (1964, n. 779). My italics.
19
As Aquinas notes elsewhere the political community may also be said to be one because it is
governed by one person rather than because it is the result of the ordered union of many individu-
als. The former, being per se one, confers a more stringent and formal unity on the political com-
munity than the latter, which only confers an accidental and material unity. On this, see e.g.
Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 103, a. 3 (1888–1906, V, 455–456).
24 F. Amerini
the same time establish the position that each citizen occupies in the arrange-
ment of the parts within the whole-city.20
In the political whole, parts may fulfill functions even in separation from the
whole, but some are assigned to them only insofar as they are ordered to the
whole. These functions are such that the parts cannot cease to fulfil them with-
out ceasing to be parts of the whole. On the other hand, there are also cases in
which, even if functions are fulfilled by the parts, they should be attributed to
the whole as such.21 Aquinas is not as explicit as one would expect him to be
about the relation between the functions of the parts and those of the whole.
Nevertheless, some evidence in his writings allow us to single out two kinds of
functions: those fulfilled by a part in function of the whole, which could
include, for example, a citizen’s payment of taxes, and those fulfilled by the
whole as such, for example a city fighting a battle. Only the latter can be called,
properly speaking, collective functions, for they alone require the cooperation
of all the parts (or of the majority of them) and their effect cannot be attributed
to any of its parts but only to the whole. On occasion, Aquinas calls these latter
‘common actions’ (actiones communes), actions of the whole as such.22
Aquinas is, however, clear about their ontological status: they can be said to be
one action not in the sense that one collective and abstract agent performs them
but in the sense that the cooperation of many numerically different and singu-
lar agents produces one effect.23
(ii) Second condition: just as in the case of the parts of an individual living organ-
ism, the parts of a political community cannot exist separately from the whole.
An individual human being is a citizen only when s/he is part of a city.
Nonetheless, Aquinas notes that a human being becomes a citizen not when s/
he materially takes part in a city, but when s/he can perform acts for the sake
of the whole, which are first and foremost acts concerning law and justice
20
On the formal role played by the order or the arrangement of parts in the aggregates of the kind
(2a), see e.g. Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 105, a. 6: ‘Respondeo dicendum quod a qualibet causa
derivatur aliquis ordo in suos effectus: cum quaelibet causa habeat rationem principii. Et ideo
secundum multiplicationem causarum, multiplicantur et ordines: quorum unus continetur sub
altero, sicut et causa continetur sub causa. Unde causa superior non continetur sub ordine causae
inferioris, sed e converso. Cuius exemplum apparet in rebus humanis, nam ex patrefamilias depen-
det ordo domus, qui continetur sub ordine civitatis, qui procedit a civitatis rectore, cum et hic
contineatur sub ordine regis, a quo totum regnum ordinatur.’ (1888–1906, V, 477); also Aquinas,
Exp. Met., V, lec. 5: ‘In quibusdam enim ipse ordo habetur pro forma, sicut in exercitu et civitate.’
(1964, n. 817).
21
See e.g. Aquinas, Sent., IV, d. 44, q. 1, a. 1, q.la 3, ad 3 (1858, 1073–1074). See also Aquinas,
Sent. Pol., I, Prol. (1971, A69–70); Aquinas, Sent. Eth., I, ch. 1 (1969, 3–6); Aquinas, Sum. theol.,
I, q. 75, a. 2, ad 2 (1888–1906, V, 197); Aquinas, Sum. theol., II–II, q. 26, a. 3 (1888–1906, VIII,
211); Aquinas, Sent. De an., I, ch. 14 (1996a, 64–66).
22
See Aquinas, Exp. Met., V, lec. 3 (1964, n. 779); also Aquinas, Sent. Eth., I, ch. 1 (1969, 3–6);
Aquinas, Sent., III, d. 2, q. 2, a. 1, q.la 3, ad 5 (1929–1947, III, 77). On common actions in Aquinas,
see Spindler (2018).
23
See Aquinas, Sum. c. Gent., II, ch. 57 (1961a, 182, n. 1331).
(what Aquinas calls opera civium).24 If a citizen ceased to perform those acts,
s/he would continue to exist as a human being but no longer as a citizen, even
though s/he would remain within the city. Performing acts of a certain kind
establishes what we could call the ‘status’ (ordo) of a citizen, which identifies
her or his position in the general arrangement of the parts within the
whole-city.25
(iii) Third condition: the parts of a political community can be substituted, but only
according to a certain order, as happens in an individual living organism: suc-
cessively, one after another, and not simultaneously, all at once. Otherwise, the
existential story of the political community would be interrupted, and its
numerical identity and continuity would be compromised.26
(iv) Fourth condition: the parts that substitute must fulfill the same functions (offi-
cia) as the parts that have been substituted and have the same status, i.e. occupy
the same position, in the original arrangement (ordo).27 The political commu-
nity requires that individuals have specifically different statuses that are
expressed by the specifically different functions they fulfill. If a judge is passed
over, for example, he must be replaced with another judge. We shall consider
later the reality of these statuses and the role played by language as to their
construction. Here we may limit ourselves to noting that, as Aquinas observes
in his commentary on Aristotle’s Politics, a perfect whole requires parts that
are different in species, namely heterogeneous parts, which are able to fulfill
functions different in species.28 However, Aquinas never specifies how many
statuses a community requires, although on some occasions he attempts to
prove that the kinds of positions that citizens can occupy in the original
arrangement, which gives rise to a political community, can be reduced to
24
For the different meanings of ‘being a citizen’ and for a definition of ‘citizen’, see Aquinas, Sent.
Pol., III, ch. 1 (1971, A188, 201 ff.).
25
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/b (see above, note n. 7); also III, ch. 1.
26
See Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 119, a. 1, ad 5 (1888–1906, V, 573).
27
See Aquinas, Sent., IV, d. 44, q. 1, a. 2, q.la 4: ‘Ut ita etiam intelligamus contingere in partibus
hominis unius sicut contingit in tota multitudine civitatis, quia singuli subtrahuntur a multitudine
per mortem, aliis in locum eorum succedentibus; unde partes multitudinis fluunt et refluunt mate-
rialiter, sed formaliter manent, quia ad eadem officia et ordines substituuntur alii, a quibus priores
subtrahebantur; unde respublica una numero manere dicitur.’ (1858, 1079). Also see Aquinas, Sum.
theol., I, q. 108, a. 2 (1888–1906, V, 496).
28
For the primacy of heterogeneous wholes over homogeneous wholes, see Aquinas, Sent. Pol., II,
ch. 1; III, ch. 3 (1971, A194,91–95). On the necessity of the community being formed by many
persons fulfilling different functions, see also Aquinas, Sent. Pol., II, ch. 5 (1971, A135–138);
Aquinas, De substantiis separatis, ch. 12 (1968a, D62–64). Aquinas argues that there is no settled
and necessary number of citizens and statuses for a political community: see Aquinas, Sent. Eth.,
IX, ch. 12 (1969, 542–543).
26 F. Amerini
three, namely those of judges (iudicantes), fighters (pugnantes), and workers

(laborantes).29
These conditions concerning the parts of a whole—namely, (i) ordering, (ii) non–
separability, (iii) substitution, and (iv) preservation of functions and statuses—natu-
rally apply to individual living organisms, but Aquinas seems to think that they can
apply to the case of the political community as well. Someone could, however,
object to the analogy of the political community to the individual living organism.
As Aquinas himself recognizes, the parts of an individual living organism exist in
the organism only in potency, while the members of a political community exist in
act in the community.30 This entails that, metaphysically, the perfection exerted by
the soul on the body is not comparable with that exerted by the form of the com-
munity on its members.31 Someone could, therefore, conclude that the political
community in Aquinas would be better described as a mere collection of human
beings rather than as a genuine whole. Given this crucial difference between a living
organism and the political community, the four claims above (C1–C4) cannot be
literally applied to the case of the political community.
I do not think that this objection undermines the crux of Aquinas’s proposal. It is
true that, unlike an individual living organism, a political community cannot be said
to be alive strictly speaking. Moreover, unlike an individual living organism, the
political community is a whole only accidentally. The form coincides with the
whole itself and this is simply an ordered arrangement of the parts, but this arrange-
ment does not make the whole one essentially unified thing. On the other hand,
however, Aquinas seems to endow the form of the political community with the very
same metaphysically explanatory role that the soul has in this individual living
organism. A political community as a whole has a form that is actually different
from any of the forms of its individual components, but at the same time that form
redefines the individuals of the political community by making them members of
the community, just as the human soul redefines a certain bit of matter as the foot of
a body. What is important to note here is that such a redefinition occurs through the
assignment of new functions to the parts (individuals) of the whole.
Let us call this process of redefinition of parts as effectuated by the form of the
whole: the Re-Identification-of-Parts Process. As Aquinas seems to suggest, it is
29
See e.g. Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 108, a. 2: ‘Non autem esset multitudo ordinata, sed confusa,
si in multitudine diversi ordines non essent. Ipsa ergo ratio hierarchiae requirit ordinum diversita-
tem. Quae quidem diversitas ordinum secundum diversa officia et actus consideratur. Sicut patet
quod in una civitate sunt diversi ordines secundum diversos actus, nam alius est ordo iudicantium,
alius pugnantium, alius laborantium in agris, et sic de aliis. Sed quamvis multi sint unius civitatis
ordines, omnes tamen ad tres possunt reduci, secundum quod quaelibet multitudo perfecta habet
principium, medium et finem.’ (1888–1906, V, 496).
30
For the belief that the parts of a genuine whole exist in the whole only in potency, see Aquinas,
Exp. Met., VII, lec. 16 (1964, nn. 1631–1633).
31
Such an objection may be based on what Aquinas for example says in Aquinas, Exp. Met., V, lec.
21 (1964, nn. 1102–1103), where he distinguishes two ways in which parts can exist in a whole.
On the different form of perfection of wholes, see also Aquinas, Qu. de an., q. 10 (1996b, 90–92).
precisely this process that differentiates a mere collection of human beings from
a political community properly so-called, what makes a heap of things a genuine
whole. On my interpretation, Aquinas’s position may therefore be summarized as
follows: the political community is not a whole as the individual living organism
is; it is not a whole per se, but per accidens. Nonetheless, it is a whole (actually
different from a mere composition of parts or from a mixture of elements) and for
this reason, the constituent parts undergo a redefinition that consists in the assign-
ment of new functions to them, which is what makes them parts of the whole.
Their ordered arrangement within the whole is what makes their re-identification
possible.
The reconstruction of Aquinas’s view of social aggregates that I have proposed
in this section has been quite abstract. There are however two reasons for this
abstractness. The first is that Aquinas’s explicit observations on the ontology of the
political community are comparatively few, which is why the bulk of the texts that
I have referred to belong to different works and different periods of Aquinas’s teach-
ing where he addresses the ontology of the political community. Although the tex-
tual basis is narrow, there is, however, sufficient evidence to read between the lines
of Aquinas’s texts, and hence to extrapolate the four characteristics (C1–C4) and the
four conditions (i–iv) explored above. Although the scarcity of Aquinas’s explicit
statements may cast doubt on his relevance for contemporary discussions in social
ontology, it is nevertheless interesting to know that Aquinas touched upon a number
of points that should be of interest to philosophers today.
We come thus to the second reason for our abstract presentation. The purpose
of this section has not been a reconstruction of Aquinas’s position as such. I have
only presented some aspects of his account that may facilitate dialogue between
Aquinas and contemporary philosophers. I have especially emphasized two fea-
tures of Aquinas’s metaphysical explanation of the political community: its holis-
tic and hylomorphic character. Although a political community is not, for Aquinas,
a per se whole in the way that a living organism is, nonetheless in a political com-
munity one can find two features: (1) a certain arrangement of its members that
serves the function as the form of the community, and (2) a certain collection of
individuals that serves the function as the material constituents of the community.
This insight led us to stress the role played by the form of the political community
in re-identifying its individual members as parts of the whole-community. This
process of re-identification takes place by means of the assignment of new func-
tions to those individuals. I shall say something more about this assignment in
Sect. 2.3, although it is clear that a full definition of those functions would require
a closer inspection of Aquinas’s political doctrines, which is beyond the scope of
the present study.
28 F. Amerini
2.3 Political Community and Naturalism
Within Aquinas’s more general political theory, the four claims above (C1–C4) lead
Aquinas to suggest that the kingdom is the most perfect form of political communi-
ty.32 However, Aquinas is not dogmatic on this point. Other forms of political aggre-
gation are possible in principle, although Aquinas gives reasons for thinking that the
kingdom is in fact the most effective.33 We may however bypass here the strictly
political implications of Aquinas’s account of political community. It is not impor-
tant for our present purposes to dwell on the reasons for Aquinas’s conviction that
the kingdom expresses the most eminent form of political aggregation, nor to decide
whether this is a close interpretation of Aristotle’s political thought. What is of
interest for us here are the two Aristotelian beliefs that can lead to such a conviction.
As Aquinas emphasizes in the prologue to the commentary on Aristotle’s Politics,
every political community rests on a principle of order. As we have already noted, it
is the order of parts within the whole that distinguishes a mere heap of things from
a genuine whole, and what makes the whole one and the same in number over time.
This order gives the form of the whole and expresses the essence of the political
community, as Aquinas recognizes in his commentary on the Politics. Aquinas spec-
ifies this idea by two principles that explain respectively the origin and the actual
organization of a political community.
The first principle is nothing other than an application of the Aristotelian belief
that ‘art imitates the nature’ and ‘nature does nothing in vain.’ Nature,
in its activity goes from simple things to composite things, so that what is most composite
in the things produced by natural activity is complete and whole and the end of other things,
as is evident in every whole in relation to its parts. And so also the practical reason of human
beings goes from simple things to composite things, from incomplete things to complete
things, as it were.34
Here Aquinas shares Aristotle’s idea that an aggregation of human beings is a con-
sequence of the teleology governing human actions. Not every social aggregation is
a political community; there are aggregates that arise before the city and the king-
dom, as for example the family and the village, and even other kind of aggregations
(such as friendship) are possible.35 But the political community expresses the most
perfect form of human aggregation, and since every human aggregation is the
32
For arguments, see e.g. Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/a–b (1971, A71–80), and Aquinas, De regno,
I, ch. 1 (1979, 449–451).
33
See Aquinas, De regno, I, chs. 2–3 (1979, 451–453); also Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 100, a. 2
(1888–1906, VII, 207).
34
Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Politics (2007, 1); Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, Prol.: ‘Sicut
Philosophus docet in II Phisicorum, ars imitatur naturam. […] Procedit autem natura in sua opera-
tione ex simplicibus ad composita, ita quod in eis que per operationem nature fiunt, quod est
maxime compositum est perfectum et totum et finis aliorum, sicut apparet in omnibus totis respectu
suarum partium; unde et ratio hominis operatiua ex simplicibus ad composita procedit, tanquam ex
imperfectis ad perfecta.’ (1971, A69,1–44).
35
On this, see Molnar (1997).
o utcome of a natural process, then the political community is the natural goal of any
preceding and imperfect form of aggregation.
The second principle is the application of a different Aristotelian belief,
namely that
when several things are ordained to one thing, one of them must rule or govern and the rest
be ruled or governed, as the Philosopher teaches in the Politics. This is evident in the union
of soul and body, for the soul naturally commands and the body obeys.36
This form of rulership implies hierarchy. Each member of a political community is

placed in a hierarchical structure that culminates with one single ruler at the top.
Aquinas seems to suggest that we are not wrong when we describe the members’
position in the hierarchy in terms of the functions the members fulfill within it.37
If we assess Aquinas’s account of the political community from this eminently
Aristotelian viewpoint, we can see that both aggregation and hierarchical rulership
are, for Aquinas, natural. As Aquinas reconstructs Aristotle’s argument at the begin-
ning of the Politics, (1) the political community is natural, but (2) the political com-
munity is nothing other than an aggregation of human beings, therefore (3) human
beings are naturally political animals.38 The conclusion of the argument (3) is a
presupposition of premise (1), while premise (2) gives an empirically justified
description of what is a political community. But premises (1) and (2) permit us to
infer conclusion (3). Despite this argument, we should avoid counting Aquinas
among the supporters of mere naturalism. If a theory of social ontology is present in
Aquinas, it could be called a mixed theory. Naturalism is combined with construc-
tionism. Let us clarify this point.
When Aristotle says that ‘human beings are naturally political animals’, we can
understand him in two ways: either he means that being a political animal is part of
the essence of a human being or that being a political animal is something necessar-
ily implied from the essence of human being. Aquinas seems to understand
Aristotle’s claim in the second way. Human aggregation into political communities
like cities and kingdoms does not express the accomplishment of the essence of
human beings. A human being is a human being and would be even if s/he lived
36
See Aquinas, Commentary on the Metaphysics (1961b, 2); Aquinas, Exp. Met., Prol.: ‘Sicut
docet Philosophus in Politicis suis, quando aliqua plura ordinantur ad unum, oportet unum eorum
esse regulans, sive regens, et alia regulata, sive recta. Quod quidem patet in unione animae et cor-
poris; nam anima naturaliter imperat, et corpus obedit.’ (1964, 1) See also Aquinas, Sent. Pol.,
Prol., I, ch. 1a (1971, A71–76). In the case of the political community, the ruling principle is the
king. On this, see e.g. Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 105, a. 6 (1888–1906, V, 477–478). For the belief
that the political community is the result of a process of association and function differentiation,
see also Aquinas, Liber contra impugnantes, II, ch. 2.
37
See, for example, what Aquinas says in Sum. theol. I, q. 105, a. 6, and q. 108, a. 2 (1888–1906,
V, 477–478 and 496). See above notes 20 and 29.
38
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, Prol. and I, ch. 1/b: ‘Concludit ergo primo ex praemissis quod ciuitas
est eorum que sunt secundum naturam; et cum ciuitas non sit nisi congregatio hominum, sequitur
quod homo sit animal naturaliter ciuile’(1971, A78,76–79); also Aquinas, Sent. Eth., VIII, ch. 12
(1969, 485–488); Aquinas, De regno, I, ch. 1 (1979, 449); Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 72, a. 4
(1888–1906, VII, 16).
30 F. Amerini
alone. But Aquinas’s idea is that humans are not naturally solitary animals but
community-oriented, and they associate with beings they have a natural kinship
with. This clarifies the borders of aggregation, for humans only associate with
humans, but does not explain yet the reason for aggregation, namely why humans
associate. Aquinas’s answer to this further question is that political aggregation is
produced because of practical necessity. Regardless of whether this motivation is
Aristotle’s or not,39 this explanation of the origin of the political community was
quite common in the age of Aquinas. Many medieval interpreters of Aristotle’s
Politics, in the wake of Avicenna, believed that human beings first need to cooperate
and associate in order to survive (vivere) and then, second, to live a good life (bene
vivere). Political aggregation thus expresses the accomplishment of the practical
being of human beings, and not of their essential being.40 A sign of this is that
human association requires communication and this, in turn, presupposes language.
Aquinas seems to think that language could not have been invented indepen-
dently of social aggregation. Language is indeed the primary tool humans have with
which to express their thought and to communicate interpersonally, and so to orga-
nize their cooperation to survive and to live a good life. If human beings could sur-
vive alone, language would likely be unnecessary. But since human beings need to
cooperate to survive, then language is necessary. If human language does not reduce
to a language used exclusively for the purposes of politics, it is however true that,
with respect to politics, language somehow plays a constitutive role. It permits (a)
the concrete construction of a political community and (b) even its appropriate con-
ceptual representation. Here our interpretation becomes even more extrapolative
than it has been so far, because Aquinas is altogether silent on the relationship
between language and political community. We can concede one thing, I think,
which is that for Aquinas as well as for Aristotle language arises precisely when
human aggregation arises. The fact that human beings speak a language when they
live together and that language is a natural tool for human beings’ communication
allows us to infer that the human beings’ aggregation too is natural. Language and
political aggregation strictly overlap.41
If we return now to the four claims above (C1–C4), we are in a better position to
make them more definite. Our initial purpose was to clarify in which sense individu-
als acquire significance when they become members of a whole. The four condi-
tions (C1–C4) above led us to conclude that the whole has a primacy over the
39
On Aristotle’s account of social aggregation, see Leontsini (2013) and Trott (2014). See also the
contributions in Deslauriers–Destrée (2013).
40
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, Prol. and I, ch. 1/b (1971, A69–70 and 77–80); also Aquinas, Sent.
Pol., III, ch. 5 (1971, A201–202); Aquinas, Sent. Eth., V, ch. 11 (1969, 300–302). See also Aquinas,
Sum. theol., I–II, q. 21, a. 4, ad 3 (1888–1906, VI, 167); Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 90, a. 2
(1888–1906, VII, 150); Aquinas, Sum. theol., II–II, q. 48, a. un. (1888–1906, VIII, 365–366);
Aquinas, Sum. theol., q. 188, a. 8, ad 5 (1888–1906, X, 535); Aquinas, De regno, I, ch. 1 (1979,
449–451).
41
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/b (1971, A78–9,112–54). On the link between language and
political aggregation, see also Aquinas, Exp. Per., I, ch. 2 (1989, 9–13).
individuals that compose it and that, through the re-identification of individuals by

the assignment of new functions within the political community, it perfects their
being. Now we may say that the four conditions make sense if they are taken to refer
to the practical dimension of human beings, namely to the human tendency to live
together and to use a language. A human being qua human being is not what it is
because it is part of a political community, although being predisposed to be part of
a political community is something that can be necessarily implied from the human
beings’ essence. A human being qua citizen, instead, is entirely what it is insofar as
it is part of the political community. One could accordingly say that participating in
the political community expresses the perfection of the practical dimension of
human beings rather than the perfection of their essence.
It is according to the practical significance Aquinas attaches to Aristotle’s argu-
ments for the naturalism of human aggregation that we should therefore assess
Aquinas’s defense of the holistic character of the political community in his com-
mentary on Politics I, 2, 1053a18–32. There, Aristotle states the primacy according
to nature and perfection of the community over that of its members, and at the same
time the priority of singular human beings over the community according to an
order of generation, Aquinas explains. The criterion for defining the natural primacy
of the community is given by the property of ‘being per se sufficient to human life’,
which is a practical condition. Human beings need to live together to survive,
Aquinas explains, and language makes it possible for them to aggregate. Speaking
a language and living together, thus, perfect human beings in the sense that they
permit human beings to survive and to live a good life. This provides the correct
perspective from which to understand Aristotle’s claim that the political community
has a primacy over its members.42
If language contributes to the genesis of human aggregation (a), in what sense
may language help to represent the political community conceptually, which is the
second purpose we mentioned above (b)? This question is crucial in contemporary
philosophy, but unfortunately Aquinas never addresses it; nonetheless, some evi-
dence in his writings permits us to think that for Aquinas language helps to repre-
sent the political community conceptually in two ways.
First, language is the only way in which political rules and processes, which are
shared by all the persons who have decided to live together in the same community,
can be externalized and formulated, and thus accepted or rejected. As we shall say
better below, laws and contracts require at least three different kinds of acts: acts of
formulation (utterance and/or writing), of consent, of learning and education. These
42
Cf. Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/b: ‘Si autem contingat quod aliquis non possit communicare
societate ciuitatis propter suam prauitatem, est peior quam homo et quasi bestia; si uero nullo
indigeat et <sit> quasi habens per se sufficientiam, et propter hoc non sit pars ciuitatis, est melior
quam homo: est enim quasi quidam deus. Relinquitur ergo ex premissis quod ciuitas est prius
secundum naturam quam unus homo.’ (1971, A79–80, esp. A79,191–99). For the priority of nature
of the whole over its parts, see also Aquinas, Sent., III, d. 2, q. 2, a. 1, q.la 3 (1929–1947, III,
76–77); Aquinas, Sent. Eth., VIII, ch. 12 (1969, 485–488). For a discussion of the priority argu-
ment in Aristotle, see Chen (2016).
32 F. Amerini
are acts that are performed by different moral agents but which all require the medi-
ation of a language. The idea here is that there are some performative speech acts
that make the constitution of specific social and/or political entities and their correct
understanding possible. So, with respect to such entities, those speech acts must be
included in their definition.
Second, as we have already seen, Aquinas maintains a distinction between the
definition of X qua X from the description of X qua Y. Language is what allows for
this distinction. The concept of citizen is not natural, but it is constructed through
the mediation of language. A proof of this is that such a description does not really
modify the thing described.43 A human being continues to be a human being regard-
less of whether it is described as a citizen or not. Nonetheless, being a citizen indi-
cates a mode of being that, in some way, differs from that of being a human being:
qua citizen, a human being fulfills functions that s/he does not when considered
simply as a human being.44 Interpreting Aristotle, Aquinas makes it clear that a
proper description of citizen must include two conditions. First, it has to mention
the fact that a human being lives in a city. But since this is not a sufficient condition,
because not all the inhabitants of a city are citizens,45 we need a second condition.
Our description also has to mention the fact that a citizen is a person who partici-
pates in the life of the city by fulfilling some specific function within it (such as
administering justice, working for the defense of the city, governing the city, con-
tributing to the wealth of the city, and so on). For Aquinas, this second condition
helps us reach the correct description of a citizen and also the correct understanding
43
The mediation of our mind and language is more evident in other cases. For example, Aquinas
points out that the act of moneymaking is an invention of human beings. Humans need an instru-
ment to facilitate the exchange of primary goods (like food), so they decide to use things and met-
als not according to their natural goal but by conventionally assigning a certain value to them (see
e.g. Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 7 [1971, A101–103]). Likewise, the act of assigning a price to a thing
is a matter of stipulation. Such acts do not modify the thing in any way. The value of a coin, or price
for a matter, are asymmetrical relations. Through such acts of stipulation, we become really related
to the thing but the thing is not really related to us: metals do not change their nature in conse-
quence of their being considered as coins; nor is their nature changed in consequence of having a
price. On this kind of relation, see Aquinas, Qu. de pot., q. 7, a. 10 (1965a, 64); Aquinas, Exp. Met.,
V, lec. 17 (1964, nn. 1026–1029). Aquinas describes human invention, in the case of actions, as a
human capacity of deliberating, inquiring, and conjecturing about things that normally happen.
Invention belongs to the practical knowledge of human beings. See e.g. Aquinas, Sent., III, d. 33,
q. 3, a. 1. q.la 3, and III, d. 34, q. 1, a. 2 (1929–1947, III, 1075–1076 and 1117); Aquinas, Sum.
theol., II–II, q. 47, a. 8 and II–II, q. 51, a. 2, ad 2 (1888–1906, VIII, 356 and 379–380). For more
on Aquinas’s position on money and value, see Courtenay (1972).
44
The source of this belief is Aristotle Pol., III, 4, 1276b36ff. Aquinas condenses it by the dictum
‘non est eadem virtus hominis in quantum est bonus et hominis in quantum est bonus civis’. See
e.g. Aquinas, Qu. de virt., q. 1, a. 9 and a. 10 (1965b, 731 and 735). For applications of this belief,
see also Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 90, a. 3, ad 3 (1888–1906, VII, 151); and Aquinas, Sent. Pol.,
III, ch. 3 and ch. 6 (1971, A193–196, and A203–205).
45
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., III, ch. 1 (1971, A187,75–128).
of what a city is.46 The idea here is that some linguistic procedures permit the con-
struction and the description of some properties of the political kind such as ‘being
a citizen’.
2.4 The Ontology of Political Entities
What consequences does all of this have for the ontology of the political commu-
nity? The impression is that Aquinas inclines toward a mitigated form of realism
about political entities. A political community is a real whole that is really different
from any of its parts. But this claim needs to be qualified. Materially speaking,
Aquinas states that a whole is not a thing beyond the sum of its parts, so the political
community is not a thing beyond the sum of many citizens.47 Formally speaking,
however, ‘political community’ means something more than the sum of many citi-
zens, for it expresses an arrangement of the parts that confers new properties on
them, that is to say having a certain status inside the political community and fulfill-
ing a certain function, or even the most fundamental property of being a citizen. If
language helps us to spell out these properties, this does not mean that Aquinas
holds that these properties are language-dependent or that some mention or refer-
ence to language must be included into the description of all such properties. The
properties that make a human being a citizen may be considered language-
independent to a certain degree, because when human beings are considered with
respect to such properties, they are actually provided with a new causal power, so
to speak. So, it is one thing to consider a human being as such and another thing to
consider the same human being as a citizen. This claim might be puzzling at first,
but only if the distinction between ‘being a human being’ and ‘being a citizen’ were
taken in a strongly real sense. Aquinas, however, never says that the property of
‘being a citizen’ designates a property that is really distinct from that designated by
the property of ‘being a human being’. In the external world, there is nothing that
exists that is a citizen without being a human being at the same time. But the claim
is not puzzling if it is understood to mean that one single thing can be the subject of
different properties and capable of performing different actions when considered
46
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., III, ch. 2 (1971, A190,56–70). For an extensive discussion of this point,
see also Aquinas, Qu. virt., q. 1, a. 9 and a. 10 (1965b, 729–733 and 733–738). See also Aquinas,
Sent. Pol., III, ch. 3: ‘Ita etiam cum sit diuersi ciues habentes dissimilia officia et status dissimiles
in ciuitate, opus commune omnium est salus communitatis; que quidem communitas consistit in
ordine politie; unde patet quod uirtus ciuis in quantum est ciuis consideretur in ordine ad politiam,
ut scilicet ille sit bonus ciuis qui bene operatur ad conseruationem politie.’ (1971, A193,46–54).
According to Aquinas, this ‘functionalist’ description of being a citizen excludes from the category
of citizens many kinds of persons: young persons (pueri), old men (senes), strangers (extranei),
slaves (servi), the poor and humbles (viles). See also Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 105, a. 3, ad 2
(1888–1906, VII, 270), for the distinction between two meanings of citizen (simpliciter and secun-
dum quid).
47
See above, note n. 14.
34 F. Amerini
according to different descriptions. A human being qua human being is expected to

perform acts of rationality, while a human being qua citizen is expected to perform
also other kinds of acts.
Aquinas seems to believe that what permits differentiating ‘being a human being’
from ‘being a citizen’ is the process of legislation. Laws concern human beings
when they are interrelated in a political community. According to the etymology
borrowed from Isidorus of Seville’s Etymologiae, Aquinas holds that the code of
written laws gives ‘the constitution of a people’; and a people is precisely a multi-
tude of persons who share the common will to associate and to agree on the code of
laws. There is no room here to discuss Aquinas’s account of law. The one important
thing to note for the purposes of this contribution is that laws can be only instituted
by a multitude of persons in a city or by a king, and laws need explicit codification
through acts of formulation and acceptance, which require a language.48 Aquinas
takes laws to rule every political entity, institution, or process: from money to the
city, from religious associations and economic corporations to individual contracts
and relationships (such as that between slave and master, or between man and
woman in marriage). If the tendency to associate is natural and teleologically ori-
ented toward the city and the kingdom for the purpose of survival and living a good
life, the contents of human associations are largely conventional, depending on the
will of the multitude of individuals (or the king) who instituted the code of laws.49
Aquinas explicitly recognizes that laws concerning justice derive from a sort of
social pact (ex communi placito, ex publico condicto), expressed by a public person
as the king or by the majority of the members of the community.50
It is not certain that we may attribute contemporary theories of collective inten-
tionality to Aquinas. But if we are willing to find similarities, we might consider the
social pact, which he does mention, as what is closest to today’s notion of collective
intentionality, although we would do better to speak of public intentionality as
opposed to private intentionality, which is more congenial to Aquinas’s vocabulary.
Aquinas occasionally mentions these two forms of intentionality—public and pri-
vate—, and by the first, he means the will of a public person, such as the ruler or the
majority of people of the city, to govern the relationships that the citizens bear to
one another and to the ruler. The two forms of intentionality seem to find a juridical
codification in public laws and private contracts, respectively. The reference to laws
and contracts reveals that the political community Aquinas has in mind certainly is
something more complex than the simple sum of many persons. It involves spoken
48
See Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 97, a. 3, ad 3 (1888–1906, VII, 191); Aquinas, Sum. theol., II–
II, q. 57, a. 1, ad 2 (1888–1906, IX, 4). A standard definition of people can be found in Isidorus of
Seville’s Etymologiae II, X, 1; IX, IV, 5–6. Aquinas also refers to Augustine’s De civitate Dei for
a second definition of ‘people’, which comes from Cicero’s De re publica. See e.g. Aquinas, Sum.
theol., I–II, q. 105, a. 2 (1888–1906, VII, 265). There is not space here to consider the role played
by Cicero in Aquinas’s political thought. For some illuminating comments on the Ciceronian tradi-
tion for the medieval political theories, see Nederman (1987) and Nederman (1988).
49
See Aquinas, Sent. Pol., I, ch. 1/b (1971, A79–80,200–35).
50
See Aquinas, Sum. theol., II–II, q. 57, a. 2 (1888–1906, IX, 5).
or written laws that rule—by permitting or by prohibiting—interpersonal relations

and are thereby conducive to certain public behaviors. One should concede that for
Aquinas laws are provided with deontic power, since Aquinas acknowledges that
they commit us to public obligations, and assign responsibilities, rights, and duties.51
Laws can do this because political actions are of the sort that humans can exert
control over them.52 The deontic power of laws is effective and irreducible to private
or individual power. According to this public power, fixed by the code of laws,
Aquinas seems to consider the king or the multiplicity of the members of a political
community as equivalent to a public person (persona publica).53
It remains the case that the degree of his ontological commitment to the political
community is minimal. For example, when Aquinas analyzes the semantics of col-
lective nouns (like ‘people’), he makes it clear that such nouns signify a collection
of individuals by co-signifying a certain order. Nothing more. Although an order
refers to a relational aspect that may be accounted for as really different from the
individuals that give rise to the collective thing (and, as we have seen, this is the
reason why a people can be understood as something really diverse from a mere
sum of many persons), collective names do not signify one abstract real entity (viz.,
something of the substantial kind) that is over and beyond individual things.54 In the
case of the political community, the material components are the citizens. Now, for
Aquinas, the property of ‘being a citizen’ is, metaphysically, a non-primitive prop-
erty, for it can be explained in terms of a substance with a certain quality (i.e. that of
having the capacity of exerting an active potency), which fulfills specific actions and
allows for specific relations. Laws themselves are individual prescriptions that
influence individual citizens’ behaviors. Aquinas’s explanation of political and
moral acts is quite complicated, but what is certain is that he holds that laws have an
51
On this, see especially Aquinas, Sent. Eth., X, ch. 15 (1969, 602–603); but also Aquinas, Sent.,
III, d. 36, q. un., a. 6 (1929–1947, III, 1227–1228); Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 104, a. 3, ad 2
(1888–1906, VII, 260). For a clear definition of ‘law’, see Aquinas, Sum. theol., I–II, q. 90, a. 1,
and q. 96, a. 5 (1888–1906, VII, 149 and 184). In Aquinas’s political doctrine, this coercive power
is assigned to the laws by the king, who is excepted from this power (see I–II, q. 96, a. 5, ad 3). On
Aquinas’s position on law, see McInerny (1992), Sigmund (1993), Finnis (1995), Lisska (1998),
Rhonheimer (2000). See also Aquinas (2009).
52
See Aquinas, Qu. de virt., q. 1, a. 4 (1965b, 717–718).
53
On the distinction between private and public person, one may see what Aquinas says in his
Quodlibet X, q. 6., a. 1 (1996c, 141–142). In Aquinas, a public person is an individual (such as the
priest, the judge or the king) or a group of persons (such as the Church), that is provided with a
public power (potestas publica) and, in virtue of this, with a coercive force that a private person
cannot have. See also Aquinas, Sum. theol., II–II, q. 66, a. 8; q. 67, a. 2; and q. 67, a. 4 (1888–1906,
IX, 93–94; 98; and 102). This feature in part relates to a person’s (or group of persons) being a
legislator, who establishes the body of laws of the political community.
54
See Aquinas, Sum. theol., I, q. 31, a. 1, ad 2: ‘Ad secundum dicendum quod nomen collectivum
duo importat, scilicet pluralitatem suppositorum, et unitatem quandam, scilicet ordinis alicuius,
populus enim est multitudo hominum sub aliquo ordine comprehensorum.’ (1888–1906, IV, 343).
For the claim that collective entities have the minimal degree of unity, see also Aquinas, Sent., I, d.
24, q. 2, a. 2, ad 3 (1929–1947, I, 591). A collective unity, in fact, is not a true and simple unity. On
this, see Aquinas, Super Decretales, 2 (1968b, E41).
36 F. Amerini
instrumental significance. They are the codification of specific moral norms for a
multitude of persons. What this entails ontologically is that political institutions and
processes can be explained in terms of the interaction of a limited group of
Aristotelian categories (Substance, Quality, Action, and Relation) which all concern
individuals. We said that a relational aspect, i.e. order, is what essentially character-
izes the political community and makes it different from a mere sum of individuals.
So, in one respect, it expresses something really diverse from the things that are
ordered or related. But on the other hand, as every relation, metaphysical order also
reduces to the individual substances that are related in a certain way. For Aquinas,
no relation can exist separately from the things that are related. And since every
relation needs a thing in which to inhere, and since all things are individual, so rela-
tions too are all individual.55 Language plays a role in establishing what features of
those categories are relevant for the political purpose. It is a fact that political prop-
erties, including the most fundamental one, i.e. ‘being a citizen’, are the result of the
various ways in which we can describe human beings and their interaction. My
conclusion is that Aquinas may be ready to accept the idea that language plays a role
in singling out and defining the most relevant political notions, and that speech acts
are constitutive of some entities of social ontology, for example contracts and laws.
Although Aquinas is, as we have said, quite silent on the constitutive role of lan-
guage, he expresses himself as believing that language, in its descriptive as well as,
in some cases, performative sense, is essential for giving rise to and conceptually
representing the political community and its features.
2.5 Conclusion
In this study, I have tried to argue that if one wishes to find some analysis of the
ontology of political community in Aquinas’s works, one should characterize that
ontology as holistic and hylomorphist (C1), organicistic (C2), functionalistic (C3),
and finalistic (C4). Aquinas compares a political community to a living organism, a
whole that he describes in hylomorphic terms. The form of the whole, which coin-
cides with the whole itself, i.e. with a definite arrangement of its parts, determines
the assignment of new functions to its parts. We called the metaphysical and cogni-
tive process by which Aquinas discriminates a mere collection of humans from a
genuine political community the Re-Identification-of-Parts Process. Both ontologi-
cally and epistemically, this process could be connected, with due differences, to the
three primitives that, according to John Searle, govern political construction, namely
collective intentionality, assignment of function, and constitutive rules and proce-
dures.56 Of course, further investigation, which we cannot develop here, would be
55
For more on Aquinas’s account of relations, Krempel remains fundamental (1952). For a recent
reconsideration, see Svoboda (2016). For a general introduction to medieval theories of relations,
see Henninger (1989).
56
See Searle (1995) and Searle (2006).
required for justifying this connection. Such an investigation might also not prove
very profitable. Differences between contemporary and medieval treatments are
many and Aquinas’s analysis of the ontology of the political community is not sys-
tematic. Nonetheless, I think we may state that the properties the whole-political
community confers on its parts may reveal at least some of the characteristics that
John Searle suggests attributing to social entities: political properties are functional
(in that they are defined with respect to the political community as a whole and to
its goal), relational (in that they are defined with respect to other human beings
within the political community), and deontic according to the code of laws the com-
munity has decided to give to itself and to their coercive power. All of this led us to
the conclusion that for Aquinas the political community is, formally speaking,
something really different from each of its members and from their mere sum. But,
materially speaking, it is not a real thing alongside the members that compose it.
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Chapter 3
Ontology of Power Relations in Peter Olivi
Juhana Toivanen
3.1 Introduction
Social ontology may not have existed as a specialized subject of philosophical

inquiry in the Middle Ages, but medieval authors nevertheless developed interesting
views concerning the ontological foundations of social reality. One such view is
Peter Olivi’s (ca. 1248–98) theory of the ontology of political power, property, and
other social institutions.1 Olivi is known as one of the most original philosophers of
the late thirteenth century. He was familiar with Aristotle’s philosophy but used it in
a critical and creative way to develop new ideas (see esp. Burr 1971; Piron 2006). A
good example of his approach is his social ontology, which builds on general
Aristotelian foundations but deviates from it in many ways and ends up looking
curiously un–Aristotelian.
The present chapter aims to give a detailed interpretation of this theory. After
briefly presenting Olivi’s view of political power as a relation between a ruler and
his subjects, which he presents in his famous question Quid ponat ius (Sect. 3.2),
the chapter focuses more generally on his theory of relations. Drawing on previous
works by Alain Boureau, Sylvain Piron, Christian Rode, Robert Pasnau and others,
I explore the ontology of relations and endeavor to shed new light on this
notoriously difficult aspect of Olivi’s philosophy (Sect. 3.3). A special focus is
1
The terms ‘social institutions’ and ‘institutional facts’ that I use in this chapter are not present in
Olivi’s works as such, and they should be understood in a broad sense without presupposing any
strong ontological theory behind them. As is well–known, the latter term is popularized by
Searle (1995).
J. Toivanen (*)
Department of Social Sciences and Philosophy, University of Jyväskylä, Jyväskylä, Finland
e-mail: juhana.toivanen@jyu.fi

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_3
42 J. Toivanen
placed on the notion of rationes reales, which Olivi uses to make room between a
realist and nominalist ontology. Among other things, it allows him to argue that
power relations are real (i.e. they are not mind-dependent) although they are not
based on any real properties in the relata.2
After analyzing political power and other institutional facts in light of Olivi’s
conception of ontology of relations, the final section of the chapter argues that
human beings have an ability to change their social reality by creating new rela-
tions. This ability is grounded on the freedom of the will, which is the fundamental
basis of Olivi’s anthropology. I also suggest that despite this rather modern element,
Olivi’s social ontology remains firmly within a medieval framework because it
grounds the normative aspect of social institutions in the will of God.
3.2 Political Power as a Relation: How to Read Quid

ponat ius?
Quid ponat ius (hereafter QPI) is a relatively short text in which Olivi sets himself
the task of explaining the foundation of what might be called social institutions:
political power, property, language, and the sacraments.3 He conceptualizes these as
relations, habitudines seu relationes (Olivi, QPI (2016, par. 9 and passim)).4
Political power is a relation between a ruler (or rulers5) and subjects, ownership is a
relation between an owner and the thing owned, and so forth. However, medieval
conceptions of relations differ significantly from contemporary views, and Olivi’s
theory is particularly complex even within the medieval context. It is therefore far
from obvious what he actually means when he claims that social institutions are
relations, and we need to delve into the details of his view before reaching any con-
clusions. However, before getting to them, let us briefly focus on the argumentative
strategy of QPI, which provides us with the basic ingredients and shows us what we
need to look for in his other texts.
In QPI, Olivi addresses the following question: do relational terms such as ‘right’
(ius), ‘authority’ (auctoritas), ‘power’ (potestas), ‘obligation’ (obligatio), and
‘property right’ (proprietas) have a real ontological foundation in the persons or
things to which they are attributed? These terms are relational because they are
2
Also see Claudia Appolloni’s contribution in this volume for further analysis of Olivi’s theory of
signification and its connection to the normative use of language within a given linguistic
community.
3
For an overview, see esp. Piron (2016) and Doyle (1987). Christian Rode (2014) provides an
excellent analysis of social ontology in QPI, and Rosier-Catach (2004, 160–66) discusses Olivi’s
conception of relations in the context of this treatise.
4
Ebbesen (2016, 209–15) has shown that medieval authors sometimes use habitudo, as distinct
from relatio, to avoid ontological commitments. Olivi seems to use these terms as synonyms.
5
Olivi does not develop a political theory in the context of QPI, so he does not commit himself to
any particular type of constitution.
3 Ontology of Power Relations in Peter Olivi 43
considered to belong to one person but, at the same time, they refer to something
that is external to that person. For instance, one does not have authority and power
in an absolute sense. Power and authority are held in relation to other people.
Likewise, property right is a relation that the owner has towards the thing owned,
and the obligation to obey a leader indicates that there is a relation between the
leader and his subjects. Olivi’s main question concerns the ontological status of
these relations.
Olivi tackles this question through a critical engagement with two opposing posi-
tions, which creates a paradoxical setting. The first position holds that there must be
something real in the ruler and the subjects because otherwise their relation would
not be real. And this relation has to be real:
because a relation that posits nothing in the related things is only a relation according to
what is said (relatio secundum dici), and the same goes for the extremes in which it poses
nothing. Relations of this kind are only actual in the one who thinks about them, and only
insofar as they are being thought of or talked about. But it is clear that the power of a king,
or any real jurisdiction, or obligation, or subordination of some people are really actual even
when none of us thinks or talks about them. Therefore, this [relation] posits something real,
something other than what we think and say.6
Thus, according to the first position, political power and other similar relations exist
independently of us and they are real even when no-one thinks about them.
The second position draws from the idea that social institutions cannot be based
on any real ontological additions in the end-terms of the relations that constitute
them. In an illustrative argument, Olivi proposes that:
Peter’s field, which he has acquired by the right of purchase, has only a relation of posses-
sion in respect to Peter, and when the field is transferred from Peter to Paul by selling or
donating it, what else does it lose except the relation of possession or property to Peter? It
seems therefore that relations of this kind have no real foundation in the things in which
they are said to be.7
The general twist of the arguments in favor of the second position is that certain
relational properties—such as political power (dominium)—are radically different
from natural properties and powers. In the latter case, fire, for instance, can be
related to a pot of water as what causes it to be hot. This causal relation can be
explained by appealing to the absolute (that is to say, non-relative) natural property
6
Olivi, QPI: ‘[…] quia relatio que nichil ponit in aliquo extremorum est solum relatio secundum
dici, et idem est respectu extremi in quo nichil ponit; huiusmodi autem relationes nullo modo sunt
actu nisi solum in cogitante et quamdiu cogitantur vel dicuntur; constat autem quod potestas regia
aut quecumque vera iurisdictio vel obligatio sive servitus aliquorum est vere actu, quamvis hoc non
cogitetur vel dicatur a nobis; ergo ipsa extra nostrum cogitatum et dictum ponit aliquid reale’
(2016, par. 7), the translations of QPI are mine, although I have consulted John P. Doyle’s unpub-
lished draft from 1987.
7
Olivi, QPI: ‘Ager enim Petri, quod adquisivit ei ius emptionis, habet solum relationem possesio-
nis respectu Petri, et quando per venditionem vel dationem transfertur a Petro in Paulum, quid
aliud perdit nisi solam relationem possessionis vel proprietatis ad Petrum? Videtur igitur quod
huiusmodi relationes nullum reale fundamentum habeant in hiis quorum esse dicuntur’ (2016,
par. 21).
44 J. Toivanen
of heat that is transferred from the fire to the water. The causal relation comes to be
when the fire causes a real change in the water. By contrast, in the case of ownership
and political rule no such absolute property can be found in the related things, Olivi
argues. When the ownership of the field is transferred to Paul, neither he nor the
field undergoes any ontological alteration.
Olivi’s aim is to find a middle ground between these two positions. He wants to
uphold the idea that relations of this kind are real in the sense that they do not
depend on our thinking of them, but he refuses to base their independence on any
ontological change in the end–terms of the relation. He begins his answer as follows:
The foregoing relations (habitudines) do posit something real, but they do not add any dis-
tinct essence that would really inform the subjects to whom they are said to belong and in
which they are said to be.8
In a nutshell, Olivi accepts the following claims:

1. When someone receives political power, he receives a new relation to the people
who become his subjects.
2. Likewise, the subjects receive a new relation to the ruler.
3. No ontological change takes place in the ruler or in his subjects. (= the second
initial position).
4. And yet, their relation to each other is not mind-dependent; the ruler has power
even when no-one is thinking that he does (= the first initial position).
It is not difficult to see how the items (3) and (4) create the paradoxical setting men-
tioned above: when someone receives political power, nothing changes—but still
something changes. To understand how this is supposed to work, we need to take a
closer look at Olivi’s theory of relations.
3.3 Olivi on Relations
Olivi’s theory of relations must be understood against thirteenth-century discus-

sions on Aristotle’s category of relation. As Mark Henninger (1989) has shown, the
level of detail to which medieval authors went to solve various philosophical prob-
lems concerning relations is impressive to say the least. However, there is no need
to go into most of these details here; a general outline suffices to clarify Olivi’s
position.
The paradigmatic explanation of relations was received from Aristotle’s
Categories. In sharp contrast to our contemporary view, Aristotle and his late
8
Olivi, QPI: ‘[…] predicte habitudines vere ponunt aliquid reale, non tamen addunt aliquam
diversam essentiam realiter informantem illa subiecta quorum et in quibus esse dicuntur’ (2016,
par. 30). Alain Boureau (1999, 51) has pointed out that Olivi uses the same idea (transferring own-
ership to others does not entail any ontological change) when he discusses Christ as the redeemer
of the humankind in Summa III; see Olivi, Summa III, q. 2 (1981, 111).
medieval followers did not understand relation as a single polyadic property. There
is nothing ‘in between’ two things that relates these things to each other.9 Rather,
when two things are related to each other, there are two relational properties, one in
each of the relata. Supposing that Socrates and Simmias are related to each other
with respect to their height—say, Socrates is shorter than Simmias—the relational
property ‘shorter than’ inheres in Socrates, or belongs to him, and it is directed
towards Simmias. And vice versa, the relation ‘taller than’ is a property of Simmias,
which relates him to Socrates. Relations have this double nature of being in a sub-
stance or absolute accident, and of being towards something else (Henninger 1989,
3–6 and passim; see also Brower 2018).
While this approach was generally accepted, the ontological status of these rela-
tional properties was a matter of controversy. Most medieval authors agreed that
relations exist independently of the mind (with the exception of the so-called ‘rela-
tions of reason’), but the exact nature of relational properties was understood in
various ways due to differences in the general ontologies that medieval authors
defended. At one extreme was John Duns Scotus (1265/66–1308), who argued that
relation is a real ontological addition—a sui generis accident as it were—which
inheres in absolute accidents, such as quantity and quality. In this case, Socrates’
height is an absolute property (quantity) that functions as a foundation for a distinct
property, the relation that relates him to Simmias. Likewise, Simmias’ quantity is a
foundation for a relational property ‘being longer than Socrates’ (Henninger 1989,
68–97; Pini 2005, 63–110; Brower 2018).
Scotus’ extreme realism with respect to relations was not the mainstream posi-
tion. Most thirteenth century authors argued that there is no need for a distinct rela-
tional property because the absolute properties (real accidents) of substances
themselves can be relational. According to this view, it is just Socrates’ height that
relates him to Simmias. There were several different ways to understand the ontol-
ogy of this relational aspect of absolute accidents within this traditional view—for
instance, Thomas Aquinas seems to have considered relation as identical with the
absolute property under certain conditions, whereas Henry of Ghent argues that it is
the mode of being of the absolute property (Henninger 1989, 13–58)—but these are
precisely the details we can happily set aside in this connection.
Two important ideas need to be mentioned, however. The first of them is that
relations always come in pairs: if X is related to Y by a relational property that
belongs to X, then Y is related to X by another relational property that belongs to
Y. These relational properties, and thus relations, are not always of the same type,
however, and this brings us to the second point. Namely, medieval authors com-
monly made a distinction between ‘real relations’ and ‘relations of reason’. The
former are based on real and mind–independent absolute properties of things, while
the latter are completely dependent on our thinking of them (Brower 2018, section
5.1; Boureau 1999, 42; Henninger 1989, 4–8).
9
Peter Auriol and Nicholas of Paris may be considered as exceptions to this general tendency: see
Henninger (1989, 150–73); Hansen (2012, 139–154).
46 J. Toivanen
An illustrative example is my thinking of Socrates. When I entertain a thought

about him, my mind is (according to medieval authors) qualified by an accidental
form that relates my mind to the object of my thought, Socrates. The thought is in
me but it is directed towards Socrates (or about him). This means that when I go
from not-thinking-about-Socrates to thinking-about-Socrates, there is a real onto-
logical change in me. However, there is no such change in Socrates, because being–
thought–of is not a real property of anything. So even if Socrates existed now, he
would not undergo any change when I start to think about him. Yet, being-thought-
of is a relational property of Socrates; it just is not a real property that is grounded
on something absolute in him. In medieval jargon, Socrates’ relation to my thought
of him is a relation of reason: its existence depends on my act of thinking of him,
which has a counterpart in Socrates (although it is not really ‘in’ him, as it is more
like an ‘as if’ counterpart of the real accident in me) (Brower 2018, section 5.1).
Thus, there are two different kinds of relation at play in this case: my relation to
Socrates is real because it is based on my act of thinking, while Socrates’ relation to
me—which is grounded on his being-thought-of-by-me—is a relation of reason.
This is the theoretical background against which Olivi’s discussion of social
institutions must be understood. To begin with, he rejects the idea that Aristotelian
categories refer to ontologically distinct kinds of things in the world. With the
exception of substances and qualities, categories are not things, essences, or neces-
sarily even modes of being: ‘[…] the diversity of modes of predication does not
necessarily entail a diversity of modes of being, because the mode of predication
follows the mode of understanding rather than the mode of being […].’10 Substances
and qualities exist in reality, but the remaining categories—including relations—are
just different ways of conceptualizing things that really exist (Pini 2008, 160–62;
2005, 74–77; Pasnau 2011, 235–38).11 The main thrust of Olivi’s argumentation is
that we cannot infer an ontological plurality from the plurality of our ways of con-
ceptualizing really existing things.
In line with this general rejection of the real extramental existence of categories,
Olivi defends the reductionist position that relations are not sui generis properties (à
la Scotus). He squarely rejects the idea that relations could be understood as real
accidents, and he argues repeatedly that a relation adds nothing on top of the sub-
stance or the absolute accident that functions as the foundation of the relation: ‘[…]
10
Olivi, Summa II, q. 28: ‘[…] diversitas modorum praedicandi non necessario infert diversitatem
modorum essendi, quoniam modus praedicandi potius sequitur modum intelligendi quam modum
essendi […]’ (1922, 485–86; see also Olivi, Summa II, q. 7 (1922, 141–42); Olivi, Summa II, q. 54
(1924, 261)).
11
On categories: see esp. Olivi, Summa II, q. 28 (1922, 482–98; q. 14, 264; q. 16, 333–34; Olivi,
Quodl. (2002b, 174 ad1). Note, however, that according to Pasnau (2011, 247–49), Olivi’s ontol-
ogy contains modes in addition to substances and qualities, and he argues that at least some catego-
ries should be understood as modes.
relation adds nothing to the things on which it is directly founded.’12 Socrates’ being
shorter than Simmias is not a sui generis relational property but just Socrates’ height
understood in relation to Simmias’ height—or, to be more precise, Socrates himself
understood in relation to Simmias, when they are considered from the point of view
of their quantities (Olivi does not consider quantity as an absolute property13).
Crucially, this relational aspect of Socrates does not have any distinct ontological
status. As Olivi argues in Summa II, q. 54, the category of relation is just a way of
thinking about qualities and substances, which are ontologically primary in the
sense that they have real existence outside the mind (1924, 263). Given this rather
parsimonious ontology, it is understandable that Olivi accepts the point (3) pre-
sented in the previous section according to which social institutions cannot be based
on any absolute properties in their relata. The only possible candidate for such a
property is a quality because no other ontological building block exists, and Olivi
does not accept that a ruler and subject have distinct qualities that give them their
positions. The only remaining possibility is that these relations are based on sub-
stances themselves, and this is what Olivi seems to think, as we shall see below.
This is still an approximation of Olivi’s complex view and qualifications will
follow shortly. Let us first add a further complication by considering relational
changes. Suppose that Simmias shrinks and becomes shorter than Socrates. In this
case there is no real change in Socrates. Nevertheless, due to the real change in
Simmias, the relative predicate ‘shorter than Simmias’ is no longer true of Socrates,
and a new relational predicate ‘longer than Simmias’ is true. In this case, Socrates
undergoes a peculiar kind of change, which in contemporary literature is referred to
as ‘a mere Cambridge change.’ Discussions concerning this kind of change go back
at least to the ancient Stoics (Henninger 1989, 8–9), but I adopt here the contempo-
rary terminology for the sake of convenience. Thus, in this situation Socrates under-
goes a Cambridge change while Simmias undergoes a real change. The relation
between them remains real, however, since it is grounded on absolute properties of
Socrates and Simmias.
12
Olivi, Summa II, q. 28: ‘Praeterea, secundum istos relatio nihil addit ad ea super quae immediate
fundatur’ (1922, 488). See also Olivi, Summa II, q. 9: ‘[…] non poterat esse sola relatio, quoniam
illa non advenit nec recedit nisi per adventum et recessum alicuius absoluti in quo fundatur […]’
(1922, 182); and Olivi, Summa II q. 28, and q. 54 (respectively, 1922, 494–95, and 1924, 260–61),
where Olivi argues that several impossible consequences would follow if relations were absolute
properties (a relation would have a relation to its foundation etc. ad infinitum; God could destroy a
relation without changing anything in the relata). These were typical arguments against a realist
interpretation of relations (Henninger 1989, 9–10). Relations can be grounded both on the sub-
stance and on its accidents: Olivi, Summa II q. 54: ‘[…] potest dici quod quaedam sunt relationes
accidentales substantiis seu rebus substantialibus, quaedam vero substantiales, ut illas dicamus
relationes accidentales substantiis quae non fundatur immediate super aliquod substantiale, sed
super aliquod accidens, illas vero substantiales quae immediate fundantur super aliquod substan-
tiale’ (1924, 260).
13
Pini (2005, 75); Pasnau (2011, 280–86); Olivi, Summa II, q. 28 (1922, 487); Olivi, Summa II, q.
58 (1926, 440).
48 J. Toivanen
Olivi’s discussion of social institutions seems to appeal to a special case of

Cambridge change. We can see this if we leave the heights of Socrates and Simmias
aside and focus on institutional facts: suppose that Socrates becomes a philosopher
king who rules Simmias and others. As already mentioned, Olivi is adamant that no
ontological change takes place either in Socrates or in his subjects—this is Olivi’s
claim (3). Being a ruler/subject is not an absolute quality but something quite differ-
ent, and therefore one who becomes a ruler undergoes a special case of Cambridge
change in which neither him nor his subjects change in an absolute sense. The new
relation emerges although neither of the relata undergoes a real change. Both ‘has
power over Simmias’ and ‘is subject to Socrates’ result from mere Cambridge
changes.
Or so it seems. Namely, Olivi is equally adamant that the relation between ruler
and subjects is based on something real (claim (4)). It is here that we come to the
qualifications I promised above. Olivi argues that this relation between the ruler and
the subjects is a real one. However, because it is not grounded on any real change or
property in the relata, we may justifiably ask what he means by ‘real.’ His main idea
is to distinguish real relations from relations that are completely mind-dependent.
As we saw above, medieval authors discussed also non-paradigmatic cases, such as
thinking or perceiving an object. When I start to think of Socrates, or see him sud-
denly, there is a real qualitative change in me in the form of an occurrent cognitive
act of thinking or seeing, which is related to Socrates. But there is no change in
Socrates. Being-thought-of or being-seen are not real properties but they are mind-
dependent counterparts to my cognitive act that is relational. Relations always come
in pairs, but in non-paradigmatic cases one of the two counterparts is not real.
Instead, the relation of Socrates to my cognitive act is a relation of reason—or, to
use Olivi’s preferred expression, a relatio secundum dici: a verbal relation that does
not entail anything in the ontology (Henninger 1989, 7–8; Olivi, Summa II, q. 14
(1922, 260–61); q. 5 (1922, 120)).14
Crucial to Olivi’s theory of institutional facts is that they are not relationes
secundum dici. They are not completely mind-dependent and they do not cease to
exist when no-one is thinking of them. They are not constituted by the activity of the
mind; instead, they are based on how things really are. In other words, Olivi is not a
fully-fledged nominalist with respect to these social relations. Unlike being-thought-
of and the like, social relations are ontologically committing (Pasnau 2011, 235–38;
see Olivi, Summa II, q. 7 (1922, 134–35)). They are ontologically committing to
what Olivi calls ‘rationes reales.’ As Olivi puts it:
14
Olivi does not explicitly say that relatio secundum dici is identical with relation of reason.
However, to the best of my knowledge he does not use the latter concept, and his characterizations
of relatio secundum dici use the same examples that were typically used to explain relations of
reason; e.g. Olivi, Summa II, q. 14: ‘[…] etiam secundum Aristotelem scibile seu scitum non dicit
relationem ad scientiam, etiam in quantum scibile, nisi secundum dici; id autem quod est scibile,
secundum id quod est, nullo modo. Et eodem modo est de diligibili seu dilecto. Ratio igitur intel-
ligibilis seu scibilis et ratio ipsius appetibilis seu diligibilis, in quantum talia, dicunt relationes
secundum dici solum’ (1922, 260, punctuation slightly modified; see also footnote 17 below).
it does not seem that a relation adds anything real to that on which it is immediately founded,
but only means another ratio realis of the same thing, which is real to the extent that such a
ratio of the relation really is in the thing, and not solely in the intellect. But it is not really
another in the sense of being another “thing” or essence; it is only another ratio that is
included in the thing without any difference [between the ratio and the thing].15
The next obvious question is: what are rationes reales? Here’s what Olivi writes:
I said “rationes reales” because also some [other] rationes are attributed to things, and they
do not name anything real or anything that is in the thing itself (a parte rei) but only in the
intellect, or according to the intellect.16
Rationes reales are here contrasted with rationes secundum dici. The crucial differ-
ence between these two types of rationes is that the former are conceptualizations
that are somehow based on the nature of things themselves, while the latter are
conceptualizations that are completely mind-dependent and thus more or less arbi-
trary modes of understanding or describing things. Olivi writes:
[…] they said that there seems to be several rationes reales, not only in God, but also in
created things. They call these rationes reales in distinction to rationes which consist only
of modes of being understood—such are the ratio of universality, which the intellect attri-
butes to things that are considered without their individuality, and relations secundum dici
which do not posit anything [real] in either of the extremes or at least in one of them—just
like “to be praised or loved” taken in passive sense posit nothing in the thing praised or
loved. Therefore, in distinction to these, they call rationes reales those, the truth of which
lies entirely in the thing, so that they are not attributed to things on the basis of various
modes of understanding but rather on the basis of the real nature and truth itself.17
Rationes reales are true but partial descriptions of a thing, which stem from the
nature of the thing itself and at least in some cases belong to the full definition of
15
Olivi, Summa II, q. 54: ‘[…] non videtur quod relatio aliquid reale addat ad illud super quod
immediate fundatur, sed solum dicit eiusdem alteram rationem realem, realem vero pro tanto, quia
vere est in re talis ratio relationis et non solum in intellectu, non tamen alteram realiter, hoc est,
quod sit altera res vel essentia, sed solum altera ratio in re per omnimodam indifferentiam compre-
hensa’ (1924, 260; trans. Pasnau 2011, 236, modified).
16
Olivi, Summa II, q. 54: ‘Dixi autem rationum realium, quia quaedam rationes sunt rebus attribu-
tae quae nihil dicunt reale seu a parte rei, sed solum a parte intellectus seu secundum intellectum’
(1924, 247). For discussion, see Bettoni (1959, 236–43); Piron (1999, chapter 2); Piron (2016,
par. 7–9).
17
Olivi, Summa II, q. 7: ‘[…] qui dicebant quod non solum in Deo, sed etiam in rebus creatis viden-
tur esse plures rationes reales absque omni differentia. Vocant autem rationem realem ad differen-
tiam rationum quae in solis modis intelligendi consistunt, sicut est ratio universalitatis quam
intellectus attribuit naturis rerum absque earum individuatione apprehensis et sicut sunt relationes
secundum dici quae in neutro extremorum aut saltem in altero eorum nihil ponunt, ut laudari et
amari passive accepta nihil ponunt in ipso laudato et amato. Ad differentiam igitur istarum vocant
rationes reales illas quarum veritas plenarie est in re, ita quod ex modo intelligendi vario non
attribuuntur rebus, sed potius ex ipsa natura et veritate reali […]’ (1922, 134–35).
50 J. Toivanen
that thing (Olivi, Summa II, q. 7 (1922, 144)18). However, they are ontologically
deflationary because they do not reflect any real distinction or items in the thing to
which they belong.19 Probably the most illustrative example that Olivi gives of this
peculiar kind of theoretical postulate comes from the domain of theology: the dis-
tinction between God’s will and intellect. God is absolutely simple, and his essence
does not include any real ontological divisions, but we can nevertheless truthfully
think about his will apart from his intellect, and consider them as two powers and
partial descriptions of God:
when I say that these rationes [of God’s will and intellect] are not the same, I do not mean
that they are not absolutely the same thing and wholly the same in reality. I mean that none
of these rationes as such signifies the divine essence in the totality of its perfection or in its
whole signification. Each of them signifies the same whole, but none of them signifies it
18
Olivi, Summa II, q. 7: ‘Ad quintum dicunt quod si definitio sumatur secundum modum logicum
qui sequitur modum nostri intellectus potius quam modum ipsius rei, tunc minor est falsa, quia sic,
sicut possumus rem diversimode intelligere, sic et diversimode definire. Si tamen daretur una ratio
includens in se totam plenitudinem essentiae et omnes modos intelligibilitatis eius, talis ratio non
posset plurificari; nihilominus tamen haberet intra se plures rationes partiales, quia continet in se
omnes rationes rei; de sola autem tali potest verificari quod unius rei non est nisi unica definitio,
quamvis tali definitioni non conveniret omnino ars definitionum quae datur ab Aristotele, VI
Topicorum [6.1, 139a24ff]’ (1922, 144; see also p. 143–44). Olivi, Summa II, q. 54: ‘[…] definitio
non sit aliud quam ratio rei […]’ (1924, 262).
19
It should be noted that the precise ontological status of rationes reales is unclear. Giorgio Pini
seems to read Olivi as a reductionist: ‘[…] a ratio is an aspect of an extramental thing that does not
exist as an independent item before our mind abstracts it from other aspects within the same thing’
(Pini 2005, 75). Sylvain Piron defends a similar (but not necessarily the same) interpretation: ‘Leur
pluralité n’implique pourtant aucune diversité d’essence, mais uniquement une aptitude ou des
dispositions [habitudines] à être intelligées selon différentes considerations’ (Piron 2016, par. 7;
see Olivi, Summa II, q. 13 (1922, 251)). In contrast, Robert Pasnau suggests that they should be
understood of as modes of being of the things to which they belong, i.e. ‘entities that fall in between
mere structures and full-blown res’ (Pasnau 2011, 237; see also ibid., 247–49), but he acknowl-
edges that it is unclear whether relations are modes or not (ibid., 248n4). One way to capture what
Olivi has in mind is to say that they are real ontological additions to Socrates and his subjects but
not ontological additions that can be found in Aristotelian metaphysics (I thank Christian Rode for
this suggestion). Understood in this way, Olivi’s remarks to the effect that they do not add any
essence or thing should not be taken in the sense that they do not add anything at all. Yet, Olivi’s
strong emphasis in QPI that nothing really changes in Socrates and his subjects can be taken to
entail that the change is not ontological, not even in any non–Aristotelian sense. One possibility is
that Olivi did not fully develop the ontology of rationes reales. He needed them for certain pur-
poses and by positing them he distanced himself from the Aristotelian framework without going
through the pains of developing a detailed account of their ontological status.
totally. When I say that one ratio is not another and that they are not identical but diverse, I
refer to this defect of the totality or the lack of the signification of the whole.20
The conceptual distinction between God’s will and intellect is of course mind-
dependent in the sense that it is a way of thinking of God from a certain (theoretical)
perspective, which does not grasp God’s essence completely. But it is not mind-
dependent in the radical sense that it would be constituted by the mind in the way
rationes secundum dici are.
It is notable that the difference between the two kinds of rationes is not a matter
of their truth value. Rationes secundum dici may also be true descriptions. When I
think of Socrates, it is true to say that ‘Socrates is related to my thought as its
object,’ but this does not entail anything in Socrates’ ontology and, more crucially,
does not emerge from his nature—unlike the ratio realis ‘being a human,’ which is
a part of Socrates’ definition and stems from his nature, even though Socrates’
humanity is not ontologically separate from him.21 It is precisely for this reason that
rationes reales are partial definitions of a thing: they define the whole thing cor-
rectly but not completely:
When two rationes are included in one simple essence, this essence can be understood
according to one of these rationes without understanding it according to the other; although
the essence is not understood according to its whole intelligibility, unless it is understood
according to all the rationes that it has.22
In sum, rationes reales are ‘modes of partial intelligibility’ (Piron 1999, chapter 2;
id. 2016, par. 8; Olivi, Summa II, q. 13 (1922, 251)) or ‘real accounts’ (Pini 2008,
160–61). They are real because they are based on how things really are, but at the
same time they are conceptual in the sense that they do not reflect any real ontologi-
cal divisions in the things themselves—at least not any Aristotelian divisions (see
footnote 19 above). Socrates’ quantity really is just Socrates, but it can be abstracted
and considered separately from him as a whole, and thus it is a ratio realis. In con-
trast, his being thought of by me is not a real aspect of him—there is nothing in
Socrates that makes him apt to be considered as an object of my thought—and thus
his being thought of by me is just a ratio secundum dici.
20
Olivi, Summa I, q. 6: ‘Quando enim dicimus quod rationes in quantum tales non sunt eedem
rationes, non intendimus simpliciter significare per hoc quin sint simpliciter eadem res et quin sint
realiter omnino idem, sed intendimus significare per hoc quod nulla earum in quantum talis dicit
divinam essentiam secundum totalitatem sue perfectionis seu secundum totam suam significatam.
Unde omnes dicunt idem totum sed nulla earum dicit idem totaliter. Defectum ergo totalitatis seu
totalis significationis qui per alias rationes suppletur intendimus significare per hoc quod dicimus
quod una ratio est non est alia et quod non sunt eedem sed diverse. Sensus enim est: una non est
alia, idest una non dicit illud totalitatis quod alia dicit’ (2020, 6.2, par. 130). See also Olivi, Summa
II, q. 7; q. 13 (1922, 143; 248–49); Olivi (2016, par. 7).
21
Olivi, Summa II, q. 5 (1922, 120).
22
Olivi, Summa I q. 2: ‘Quando enim in una simplici essentia duae rationes comprehenduntur, illa
essentia potest intelligi secundum unam illarum rationum, non intelligendo eam secundum alteram,
quamvis secundum totam intelligibilitatem suam non intelligatur, nisi intelligatur secundum
omnes rationes suas quas habet’ (1926, 497–98 (= ed. Jansen, q. 1)). See also Rode (2014, 379–80).
52 J. Toivanen
Rationes reales may seem an odd theoretical postulate but they serve several
important philosophical and theological functions. In particular, they allow Olivi to
go quite far towards radical nominalism, but without going all the way. He aims to
preserve the realist intuition that often our concepts are based on how things really
are. Rationes reales allow him to remain somewhere in between the extreme views
(Boureau 1999, 45). Thus, he uses the concept of rationes reales to carve out a
nuanced threefold scheme. Two distinctions are at play in this scheme: on the one
hand, Olivi distinguishes ontologically real things (substance and quality) from
conceptual distinctions that the human mind uses to make sense of these things
(rationes); on the other hand, he makes a distinction between two kinds of rationes,
real and verbal. Rationes reales fall into the peculiar slot ‘conceptual but real,’ in
contrast to verbal rationes such as Socrates’ being-thought-of-by-me, which is con-
ceptual but not real in the sense that it would somehow stem from the nature of
Socrates.23 When relations are viewed from the perspective of these distinctions, the
result is that verbal relations are based on verbal rationes, while real relations can
be considered to exist between substances/qualities or between rationes reales. The
following table clarifies the picture:
Ratio
secundum
Substance/quality Ratio realis dici
Ontological Real things or essences An aspect of a real thing, an Not real
status (res, essentia) aptitude to be understood from a
certain perspective
Serves as the Real relation Real relation Verbal
basis for … relation
Institutional facts belong to the middle column: they are real relations that are not
grounded on any real (or at least on any Aristotelian) ontological addition in the
23
Olivi explains that there are three kinds of ‘addition’: (1) addition that requires a real ontological
difference between the things that are added to each other; (2) addition that requires a difference
between rationes reales; (3) addition that is based only on how we think about things: secundum
intellectum nostrum. He writes in Summa II, q. 12: ‘[…] distinctionem differentiae et additionis
<1> realium essentiarum aut <2> rationum realium aut <3> rationum in solo intellectu existentium
[…]. Dixerunt enim quod quaedam est additio secundum rem implicans realem differentiam inter
id quod additur et id cui additur, ita quod realiter habent diversas essentias […]. Alia est additio
rationis realis ad rationem realem nullam implicans realem differentiam seu aliquam diversitatem
essentiarum; unde nec proprie nec simpliciter dicitur additio, sed solum secundum quid. […] in
eadem essentia per omnimodam indifferentiam istae rationes comprehenduntur, et hoc realiter et
non solum secundum modum intelligendi nostrum. […] de aliquo obiecto aliquando scito, ali-
quando ignorato aut contrarie opinato; et idem de aliquando dilecto et laudato, aliquando odio
habito et vituperato; non enim ponunt aliquam diversitatem rationum in ipsis obiectis nisi secun-
dum modum intelligendi tantum’ (1922, 226–27; emphasis mine).
relata.24 When Socrates becomes a philosopher-king, he acquires a new ratio realis,

and the same goes for all his subjects. Rationes such as ‘has power over Y’ and ‘is
obliged to obey X’ are truthful ways of thinking about X and Y but they are not
something really distinct from X and Y as individual substances. Yet, they are not
completely mind-dependent either, because they are true even when no-one thinks
about them. They are relational properties that function as the foundation for real
relations, such as the pair ‘power to command/obligation to obey’ that connects rul-
ers and subjects to each other by a real relation. The precise ontological status of
these rationes may be uncertain, but it is clear they are a theoretical tool that
Aristotelian metaphysics and logic do not recognize. There is no place for them in
the Aristotelian framework, and that is precisely why it is so difficult for us to under-
stand them; after all, our metaphysics is still heavily indebted to Aristotle, even
when it rejects his views.
The upshot of Olivi’s theory is that it allows him to hold institutional facts as real
relations without committing to strong ontological claims about the end-terms of
the relation. The theoretical tool of rationes reales makes the theory flexible in the
sense that it gives human beings the ability to alter social reality simply by their
words and deeds, without compromising the realist intuition that institutional facts
are real. To see how this works, it will be useful to consider in more detail the
change that takes place when Socrates is crowned: it is now clear that the change is
not an ontological addition of a new ‘thing’ or ‘essence’ to him; rather, it is a norma-
tive change, and his relation to his subjects (and vice versa) is a normative fact. This
brings us to the third and final part of this chapter.
3.4 Human Will, Normative Facts, and God
The theory of political power as a certain kind of relation is strongly connected to

Olivi’s conception of the freedom of the will.25 The key concept that connects these
two domains is dominion (dominium). Both political power and property rights are
forms of dominion that X has over Y. The very foundation of this dominion is in the
human will, which is a psychological power that allows human beings to make free
decisions. According to Olivi, the will has dominion over itself because it is free—
in fact, the freedom of the will is based on its power to cause its own acts (Yrjönsuuri
2002, 99–128). The will also has dominion over the body, and a sign of this is that
many parts of the body can be moved at will. Furthermore, the power of the will can
be extended beyond the boundaries of the body (with certain qualifications). If Peter
owns a field, he has a similar dominion over it as he has over his body: he can do
24
Olivi explicitly refers to QPI in Summa, when he explains rationes reales: Olivi, Summa II q. 7:
‘Et consimiliter habet locum in tota materia iuris, an scilicet iurisdictio regalis vel sacerdotalis vel
iurisdictio cuiuscunque dominii vel proprietatis addat aliquid ad personas in quibus est huiusmodi
iurisdictio vel ad res super quas habetur’ (1922, 136).
25
This topic has been discussed in more detail in Toivanen (2016, 26–44).
54 J. Toivanen
whatever he wants with it (Olivi, Summa II, q. 57 (1924, 321–22); Piron 1996). The
dominion over the field is of course less comprehensive than the dominion that the
will has over itself and the movements of the body because one cannot directly
change a piece of land simply by willing. The relation to the field is normative rather
than causal. Likewise, political power is an extended dominion over other people
and their actions (Grossi 1972, 310–13; Olivi, QPI (2016, par. 28 and 34)).
The connection between political power and Olivi’s voluntarist conception of the
will surfaces in QPI when he specifies what the foundation of political power is:
Therefore, since this kind of power does not add anything intrinsic to the person of the king,
it can relate to the whole person of the king in such a way that it will not determinately
relate to any of his powers, unless it perhaps relates to the free will (liberum arbitrium) and
the powers that are bound to it, insofar as they are such.26
This is first and foremost an ontological claim. Olivi hesitates whether the relation
of the ruler to his subjects is grounded on (or is a ratio realis of) the whole substance
or on the power of the will. However, the latter position is consonant with the idea
that political power is a form of dominion, and it also reflects Olivi’s view (in
Summa II, q. 54) that human personhood lies primarily in the freedom of the will
(1924, 249–50; Piron 2007). At any rate, political power is exercised by using one’s
will. Thus, when Socrates becomes a philosopher-king, his natural dominion over
himself is extended to the people who are placed under his power. Socrates now has
a new relation to his subjects, and this relation is real because it is based on a ratio
realis. This is how humans create and change their social reality: by bringing about
new rationes reales that ground institutional facts such as ‘Socrates has political
power over the citizens of Athens.’
This ability to bring about new rationes reales answers the problem outlined
above—that neither Socrates nor his subjects undergo any real ontological change
when Socrates is made king, and that the situation is such that it involves nothing
but Cambridge changes. The new relation between Socrates and his subjects is not
a real addition, an absolute quality, but it is real in the sense that it is grounded on
how things really are: it is based on new rationes reales that Socrates and his sub-
jects acquire. As Christian Rode (2014, 377–78) has shown, Olivi sees this as a
matter of human will. Olivi mentions in passing that choosing the ruler may happen
through an election (Olivi, QPI (2016, par. 34)), but instead of defending any pre-
cise procedure by which power is invested, his main intention is to argue that it must
involve acts of the will—not only acts of those who choose but also the will of the
person who receives power (here Socrates) is necessary for the relation to emerge.
To use the other example, when Peter sells his field to Paul, the relation of owner-
ship changes from Peter to Paul, and this happens because both Peter and Paul will
that it changes. When humans perform free acts of willing, new relations emerge:
26
Olivi, QPI: ‘Quia igitur huiusmodi potestas nichil intrinsecus realiter addit ad personam regis,
idcirco potest sic respicere totam eius personam quod non respiciet determinate aliquam eius par-
tem, nisi forte liberum arbitrium et potentias ei subnexas in quantum tales […]’ (2016, par. 53).
Again, it must be known that although the acts of a rational creature come and go, neverthe-
less it is possible to acquire a certain relational ratio through them, namely the ratio of a
new relation (habitudo) and a new order, without anything added besides the act. The rea-
son for this is that [the rational creature] himself—as well as all other rational minds—can
then truthfully understand that this act has been done, or that this creature has had it. By
consequence, he can and must be taken as the agent or subject of that past act, and the agent
of such an act must be considered to be such-and-such, because he acquires—through that
act and without anything else added to him—a new relation to that act and to everything
else through that intermediate act. For that reason, a rational creature can acquire a relation
(habitudo) of merit, demerit, justice, or obligation—not only with God but also in relation
to all rational creatures; just as all rational minds should consider one who has sinned under
a different ratio than one who has never sinned, and consider differently someone who has
made some vow and one who has vowed nothing.27
Although having the ability to bring about new rationes reales may sound some-
what strange, there is nothing spooky about it. As Olivi puts it: ‘to make relations is
nothing else than to make those things on which they are grounded.’28 When a fence
is painted white, it acquires a new relation of similarity to all white things. Likewise,
when X causes an effect Y, it receives a new ratio, ‘being a cause of Y,’ which is a
true, relational, and mind-independent description of X—but it does not exist before
X causes Y (Olivi, Summa II, q. 57 (1924, 346–47)). This does not necessarily
require a real ontological change: ‘we see that sometimes a relation begins to be in
a subject without any change in the subject […].’29
The crucial difference between investing political power and the mundane case
of painting a fence is that the rationes that ground political power, property rights
and so forth, are not natural facts. But they are facts. In contemporary language they
could be called institutional facts, but in the context of Olivi, it is better to call them
normative facts. Socrates’ political power and Peter’s ownership of the field are
normative questions:
Royal power (or any other similar power) is called a power not because it influences and
produces actions in a passive recipient (patiens) as active powers do. Rather, it is called a
power because a command that is given by a king has—from the order of both the divine
27
Olivi, QPI: ‘Rursus, sciendum quod licet actus creature rationalis transeant, nichilominus per
illos potest acquirere quamdam rationem respectivam, nove scilicet habitudinis et novi ordinis,
nullo alio addito preter actum: cuius ratio est, quia tam a se quam ab omni alia mente rationali
potest ex tunc vere intelligi talem actum fecisse vel in se habuisse, ac per consequens potest et
debet haberi pro auctore vel subiecto actus preteriti, et pro tali et pro quali debet haberi actor talis
actus, quia sibi per talem actum nullo alio sibi addito acquirit novum respectum ad ipsum actum et
ad reliqua per intermedium actum. Idcirco, nullo alio sibi addito, per solos actus pretereuntes
potest creatura rationalis acquirere habitudines meriti et demeriti et iuris vel debiti, non solum
apud Deum, sed etiam respectu omnis creature rationalis; iuxta quod omnis mens rationalis sub
alia ratione debet accipere eum qui peccavit pro quanto peccavit quam eum qui nunquam peccavit,
et aliter eum qui aliquid vovit quam eum qui nichil vovit’ (2016, par. 45).
28
Olivi, Summa II q. 7: ‘[…] facere enim relationes non est aliud quam facere illa in quibus fun-
dantur […]’ (1922, 138).
29
Olivi, Summa II q. 28: ‘[…] videmus quod aliquando incipit esse relatio in aliquo subiecto abs-
que aliqua mutatione subiecti […]’ (1922, 493; see also Olivi, QPI (2016, par. 46–47)).
56 J. Toivanen
and human will, as well as justice—such a force that the people of his kingdom are held
to obey.30
Having political power means having the normative right to be obeyed. In a way,
human beings are capable of creating norms, as they can establish normative facts
such as ‘Paul now has right over this field’ and ‘We are obliged to obey Socrates.’
To be sure, humans are not able to alter objective normative reality, understood in
terms of the natural law, or change the moral value of different deeds; but they are
able to transfer rights and duties within the objective moral framework. And as
already mentioned, this happens by willing and speaking:
Moreover, this happens only by internal wills and external voices—external not insofar as
they are naturally efficacious and powerful, but only insofar as they are voluntary signs of
an internal will.31
From this perspective the ability to create new relations and rationes reales is under-
standable. We make changes that do not entail anything in the ontology but which
nevertheless are not mere Cambridge changes. They belong to a completely differ-
ent dimension of human reality, namely the normative one. It is rather easy to make
changes in normative reality, for instance, by obligating oneself through a vow or by
agreeing to obey the newly appointed king (Toivanen 2016, 40–44; Olivi, QPI, q. 14
(2016, 127)). We create obligations, commitments, and so forth, that differ from
rationes secundum dici because once they have been brought about by past deci-
sions, acts of will, and words, they remain in existence and bind us independently of
anyone thinking about them.
Olivi’s position appears astonishingly modern in many respects. If it feels too
modern, a final and important qualification will probably fix that feeling: human
willing works in the way it does only because ultimately the normative framework
is based on God’s will and natural law (Rode 2014, 376–81; 2016, 117–19). The
normativity of obligations, commands, promises, and so forth stems from objective
normative reality, which is not a human creation—it must have an objective founda-
tion that does not depend on humans. As Olivi writes, we are obliged to obey God
due to the very fact that we are created by him, and all our other obligations follow
from this objective normative foundation (Olivi, QPI (2016, par. 30)). This is why
he repeatedly writes about justness/right and the normative foundation of social
30
Olivi, QPI: ‘[…] potestas regis vel quecumque alia consimilis vocatur potestas, non quia ad
modum potentiarum activarum ex se influat et imprimat actiones in aliquo patienti, sed potius quia
ex ordine divine et humane voluntatis et iustitie, preceptum datum a rege habet talem vim quod
homines sui regni tenentur obedire’ (2016, par. 53).
31
Olivi, QPI: ‘Preterea, istud fit per solas causas voluntates interiores et voces exteriores, exteri-
ores non quidem in quantum sunt naturaliter efficaces et fortes, sed solum in quantum sunt volun-
taria signa voluntatis interne; sed per non hoc non videntur posse effici tot potestates et habitudines
quot innumeris hominibus dantur et acquiruntur per sola verba et per solos consensus verbis
expressos’ (2016, par. 10; Rode 2014, 376–78).
institutions:32 we can alter normative reality by creating obligations, transferring

rights, and so forth, but these obligations and rights receive their binding force ulti-
mately from our relation to God.
This belief in the objective nature of morality is of course something that all
thirteenth-century authors shared, and it is one of the most fundamental differences
between Olivi’s theory and contemporary social ontology. Olivi did not exploit col-
lective intentionality in his explanation of normativity for the simple reason that it
had not yet properly entered the philosophical vocabulary. Although something akin
to it explains the generation of social facts—for instance when we take an oath or
mutually agree to transfer the right to a certain piece of land—, they are not real and
normatively binding because we believe they are such. Rather, they are real and
normatively binding because they are embedded in an objective moral framework
that ultimately does not depend on us. Olivi’s explanation for the normative dimen-
sion of our social reality may not be satisfactory from a contemporary secular per-
spective, but in his medieval context it was a natural way to go. More importantly, it
is a coherent and philosophically detailed explanation, which accentuates that the
normativity of social facts requires some foundation to be intelligible.33
References
Bettoni, Efrem. 1959. Le dottrine filosofiche de Pier di Giovanni Olivi, Pubblicazioni dell’università
cattolica del S. Cuore, Nuova serie 73. Milano: Societa editrice ‘Vita e pensiero’.
Boureau, Alain. 1999. Le concept de relation chez Pierre de Jean Olivi. In Pierre de Jean Olivi
(1248–1298): Pensée scolastique, dissidence spirituelle et société, Études de philosophie
médiévale 79, ed. Alain Boureau and Sylvain Piron, 41–55. Paris: Vrin.
Brower, Jeffrey. 2018. Medieval Theories of Relations. In The Stanford Encyclopedia of
Philosophy, ed. Edward Nouri Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2018/entries/
relations-medieval/. Accessed 21 Sept 2020.
Burr, David. 1971. Petrus Ioannes Olivi and the Philosophers. Franciscan Studies 31: 41–71.
Doyle, John Patrick. 1987. Peter John Olivi on Right, Dominion, and Voluntary Signs. In Semiotics
1986, ed. John Deely and Jonathan Evans, 419–429. New York, Plenum Press.
Ebbesen, Sten. 2016. Habitudines locales. In Formal Approaches and Natural Language in
Medieval Logic: Proceedings of the XIXth European Symposium of Medieval Logic and
Semantics, Geneva, 12–16 June 2012, Textes et Études du Moyen Âge 82, ed. Laurent Cesalli,
Frédéric Goubier, and Alain de Libera, 198–215. Barcelona/Rome: FIDEM.
Grossi, Paolo. 1972. Usus facti. La nozione di proprietà nella inaugurazione dell'età nuova.
Quaderni forentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 1: 287–355.
32
QPI, passim. See, e.g. QPI: ‘[…] an ius regie potestatis et auctoritatis super suum regnum et
super suos subditos vel ius proprietatis super domo propria […]’ (Olivi 2016, par. 1; emphasis
mine). See also Olivi 2002a, 127.
33
I would like to thank the participants of the conference Contemporary and Medieval Social
Ontologies for their suggestions and discussions. This research has been funded by the Academy
of Finland.
58 J. Toivanen
Hansen, Heine. 2012. Strange Finds, or Nicholas of Paris on Relations. In Logic and Language in
the Middle Ages: A Volume in Honour of Sten Ebbesen, ed. Jakob Fink, Heine Hansen, and Ana
María Mora-Márquez, 139–154. Leiden: Brill.
Henninger, Mark. 1989. Relations. Medieval Theories 1250–1325. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Olivi, Peter of John. 1922/1924/1926. Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum. [Summa II].
3 vols. Bibliotheca Franciscana Scholastica Medii Aevi 4–6, ed. Bernhard Jansen. Florence:
Collegium S. Bonaventurae.
———. 1981. Quaestiones de incarnatione et redemptione, Quaestiones de virtutibus [Summa
III]. Bibliotheca Franciscana Scholastica Medii Aevi 24, ed. Aquilinus Emmen and Ernest
Stadter. Grottaferrata: Collegium S. Bonaventurae.
———. 2002a. Quaestiones de Romano Pontifice, ed. Marco Bartoli. Grottaferrata: Collegium
S. Bonaventurae.
———. 2002b. Quodlibeta quinque [Quodl.], Collectio Oliviana 7, ed. Stephanus Defraia.
Grottaferrata: Collegium S. Bonaventurae.
———. 2016. Quid ponat ius vel dominium [QPI], ed. Ferdinand Delorme and Sylvain Piron.
Oliviana 5. http://journals.openedition.org/oliviana/882. Accessed 21 Sept 2020.
———. 2020. Quaestio de ideis [Summa I q. 6 bis], ed. Sylvain Piron. Oliviana 6. https://journals.
openedition.org/oliviana/1023. Accessed 21 Sept 2020.
Pasnau, Robert. 2011. Metaphysical Themes 1274–1671. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Pini, Giorgio. 2005. Scotus’s Realist Conception of the Categories: His Legacy to Late Medieval
Debates. Vivarium 43: 63–110.
———. 2008. Reading Aristotle’s Categories as an Introduction to Logic. Later Medieval
Discussions About Its Place in the Aristotelian Corpus. In Medieval Commentaries on
Aristotle’s Categories, Brill’s Companions to the Christian Tradition 10, ed. Lloyd Alfred
Newton, 145–181. Leiden/Boston: Brill.
Piron, Sylvain. 1996. Vœu et contrat chez Pierre de Jean Olivi. Les Cahiers du Centre de Recherches
Historiques 16. http://ccrh.revues.org/2645. Accessed 21 Sept 2020.
———. 1999. Parcours d’un intellectuel franciscain. D’une théologie vers une pensée sociale:
l’oeuvre de Pierre de Jean Olivi (ca. 1248–1298) et son traité De contractibus. An Unpublished
PhD Dissertation. Paris: École des hautes Études en Sciences Sociales.
———. 2006. Olivi et les averroïstes. Freiburger Zeitschrift für Philosophie und Theologie 53
(1): 251–309.
———. 2007. L’expérience subjective chez Pierre de Jean Olivi. In Généalogies du sujet: De saint
Anselme à Malebranche, ed. Olivier Boulnois, 43–54. Paris: Vrin.
———. 2016. La question ‘Quid ponat ius?’ Oliviana 5. http://journals.openedition.org/olivi-
ana/840. Accessed 21 Sept 2020.
Rode, Christian. 2014. Olivis Ontologie des Rechts und des Sozialen. In Das Gesetz—The Law—
La Loi, Miscellanea Mediaevalia 37, ed. Andreas Speer and Guy Guldentops, 371–382. Berlin/
New York: De Gruyter.
———. 2016. Die Geburt des Kapitalismus aus dem Geist der franziskanischen Armutsbewegung:
Der Kapitalbegriff bei Petrus Johannis Olivi. In Geistige und körperliche Arbeit im Mittelalter,
ed. Günther Mensching, 107–122. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann.
Rosier-Catach, Irène. 2004. La Parole efficace: Signe, rituel, sacré. Paris: Éditions du Seuil.
Searle, John Rogers. 1995. The Construction of Social Reality. New York: The Free Press.
Toivanen, Juhana. 2016. Peter Olivi on Political Power, Will, and Human Agency. Vivarium
54: 22–45.
Yrjönsuuri, Mikko. 2002. Free will and Self-Control in Peter Olivi. In Emotions and Choice from
Boethius to Descartes, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 1, ed. Henrik Lagerlund
and Mikko Yrjönsuuri, 99–128. Dordrecht: Kluwer.
Chapter 4
Transgressing the Pact of Meanings:
Ontology and Its Social Implications
in Peter John Olivi’s Theory
of the Signification of Words
Claudia Appolloni
4.1 Introduction
How would it be possible to communicate—and ultimately maintain a society—if

everyone could change the meanings of their words and, more broadly of their
signs, at any moment? What is a society without communication, and especially
without a policy of open and honest communication? In thirteenth-century culture,
signs played a central role not only in the field of logic or grammar but also in theol-
ogy, where theological issues often intersected with political ones. The political
issues dealt with, for example, the conservation of the Church and the preservation
of Christian society’s unity. Signs were among the institutions that played a key role
in this. This was true in the case of the sacraments, which are efficacious signs that
have the power to sanctify and give grace. According to William of Auvergne, for
instance, the sacraments are the condition for building a religious community since
they are the signs that are the sensible medium by which people can recognize each
other as its members (William of Auvergne 1674, c. 2, 409b and 412b; Marmo
2010, 12–13; Rosier-Catach 2004, 54–55). Augustine, the main source of this idea
This article is a revised English synthesis of two Italian articles published as Appolloni (2019,
2020). First of all, I would like to thank the volume editors, Springer, Academic Press Fribourg and
SISMEL for giving me the opportunity to review this material and present it to an English-speaking
audience. I would also like to thank the volume editors, peer reviewers, and all the participants of
the conference held in 2019 for insightful advice. Finally, special thanks to Laurent Cesalli and
Luisa Valente, who commented on an earlier version of this article and enabled its improvement;
all responsibility for the content is mine.
C. Appolloni (*)
Fondazione San Carlo di Modena, Modena, MO, Italy
Université de Genève, Geneva, Switzerland

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_4
60 C. Appolloni
(Augustine, Contra Faustum Manicheum, c. 11 (1891, 510, 1–7)), also thinks that
other signs can play a fundamental role in the consolidation of a community. He
argues that this is the case for both idols and superstitious practices, which are signs
instituted by a pact of meanings (pactum significationum) between humans and
demons. Sharing them contributes to solidifying a pernicious association (pestifera
societas) (Augustine, De doctrina christiana, II, c. 23.36 (1994, 119, 4); Markus
1995, 99). Or vice versa, as he claims in De civitate Dei, after the fall of the tower
of Babel, the existence of different languages hampers communication and natural
sociability among humans ‘so that a man would more readily hold intercourse with
his dog than with a foreigner’ (Augustine, De civitate Dei, XIX, c. 7 (1955,
671, 5–14)).
Similar concerns animate the semiotic and semantic account of Olivi (ca.
1248–1298), a thirteenth-century theologian. The importance of communication
within a community and the social implications in his theory of the signification of
words mark the originality of his thought and distinguishes it from other similar
accounts of signification such as the one we find in Roger Bacon’s work.1 The two
Franciscan theologians share an approach to language that scholars have defined as
‘pragmatic’ because they focus on the intentions of users, both speakers and listen-
ers (Cesalli and Majolino 2014; Marmo 2010; Mora-Márquez 2011; Rosier-Catach
1994). However, unlike Bacon, Olivi underlines the normative role of common
intentions of a language’s institutors by distinguishing between an individual signi-
fication and a habitual signification, which I take to be collective. The dialectic
between the two significations defines the sign as social object. This chapter shows
this peculiarity in Olivi’s theory of the signification of words, and its social and
ontological implications in the realm of the social world. In order to do this, first
(Sect. 4.2), I will identify the main source of Olivi’s theory of twofold signification
in Anselm; then (Sect. 4.3), I will analyse the ontology of voluntary signs as rela-
tional objects in Quid ponat ius vel dominium.2 Finally (Sect. 4.4), I will focus on
Olivi’s theory of lying and deception, which illuminates the social role of the habit-
ual signification of words and the necessity of such a social function.
4.2 The Twofold Signification According to Olivi
In recent sketches of thirteenth-century accounts of the signification of words,3

scholars have found at least two different approaches: a ‘poietic’ approach and a
‘pragmatic’ one (Cesalli and Majolino 2014). According to the poietic approach, the
1
For Roger Bacon’s account of signification, see the French translation with commentary, recently
published: I. Rosier-Catach, L. Cesalli, F. Goubier and A. de Libera (2022).
2
Also see Juhana Toivanen’s contribution in this volume for an analysis of Olivi and this text in
particular. His chapter discusses some of the same issues, notably Olivi’s account of relations in
connection with the ontology of social and political power.
3
For more on this topic, see Mora-Márquez (2015).
4 Transgressing the Pact of Meanings: Ontology and Its Social Implications in Peter… 61
meaning of words is considered to be the result of a first act of imposition,4 after

which words have the intrinsic property of ‘meaning something.’ Conversely,
according to the pragmatic or praxis-oriented approach, meaning is an act per-
formed by the speakers—i.e. language users—who intentionally aim to signify
something. As Cesalli and Majolino show, on the one hand the model is the produc-
tion of an artifact; on the other hand, it is the use of an instrument (2014).
When we think about the pragmatic approach, De signis by Roger Bacon imme-
diately comes to mind. In his treaty on semiotics and semantics, Bacon advocates a
theory of the re-imposition of words according to which a person could impose the
signification of words by giving them a new meaning every day, if they should want
to. Many scholars have found hints of Bacon’s influence from De signis in Olivi’s
logical questions.5 Indeed, both Franciscans support a pragmatic view of significa-
tion. According to them, signification is an act of bestowing or conferring meaning
that involves speakers qua users of language (Cesalli and Majolino 2014; Mora-
Márquez 2011; Rosier-Catach 1994, 2004, 160–172). The meanings of words
depend on their use by the actors of communication, for signification is an act
performed by the speakers and it originates in their intentions to signify. As opposed
to a formal approach, viz. the poietic approach, in Olivi’s account the intentions of
the users (intentiones hominum) are crucial for determining meaning, and significa-
tion is an act of giving a meaning that concerns speakers more than words. For
Bacon too, signification involves human will and what we want to say. The signifi-
cation of words, says Bacon in De signis, sec. IV.2, § 143 (1978, 128), involves our
pleasure (beneplacitum), so it is not necessary but free. Indeed, it depends on rea-
son’s deliberation and the will’s choice (deliberatio rationis and electio voluntatis)
(Bacon, De signis, sec. I, § 7 (1978, 83)). Put otherwise, signification has to do with
freedom. However, Bacon exaggerates the semantic freedom of the speakers as
compared to the formal aspects of language to such an extent that every speaker and
listener can voluntarily, and at their pleasure (ad placitum),6 change the meanings
of words. According to Bacon, as speakers we engage in a continuous and tacit
renewal of such meanings that are resemantizations (impositiones) of the name by
the will: ‘all day long we create and renew the meanings of words without the
vocally expressed form of imposing.’7 This process, whose theorization scholars
call the ‘theory of the re-imposition of signs,’ (Cesalli and Rosier-Catach 2018)
characterizes language in its ordinary and daily practice and reveals its intrinsic
dynamism. Thus, signification implies the speaker’s freedom but since such a
4
By ‘imposition,’ medieval scholars mean the act of giving names to things and that is the basis on
which conventional languages were instituted.
5
See Demange and Kedar (2020), Cesalli and Rosier-Catach (2018), Rosier-Catach (2004); for a
more detailed analysis of this influence and for a bibliography about this point see Appolloni (2020).
6
For the translation ad placitum as ‘at pleasure,’ see Ashworth (2013, 259).
7
Roger Bacon, De signis, sec. IV.3, § 155 (1978, 130)). Translation with modification from
Maloney (2013, 107). All translations, unless otherwise stated, are my own.
62 C. Appolloni
freedom is absolute in theory, it can hamper the process of communication and can
have solipsistic implications.8
Even if it is possible to find hints of Bacon’s influence on Olivi’s account, Olivi
shows significant originality in his Quaestiones logicales by distinguishing two
kinds of signification:
One must say that the signification of a name is taken in two ways: first, as habitual (habitu-
aliter); second, in act (in actu) or exercise, as it occurs when [the name] is actually (actuali-
ter) uttered with an intention to mean or when it is written in a certain narrative. [The name]
has the first mode by the imposition, the second by being applied to the things to which [the
name] is now [applied] and had already been imposed.9
In this text, Olivi opposes two kinds of signification. On the one hand, he identifies
signification as habitual or dispositional, which results from the imposition of words
or, in other terms, from the institution of the sign. On the other hand, he identifies
signification as actual, and refers to an individual act of mental representation in
which the speaker acts by applying, or rather by actually using, the words. The dis-
tinction depends, he says, on the actual intellection of the user (ab actuali intellectu
applicantis). Hence, the actual meaning (significatio actualis) is the act of bestow-
ing meaning, and it implies that there are different intentions at stake: the same
name belongs to a multiplicity of speakers and thus, Olivi says, it is somehow mul-
tiplied for every user (Olivi, Quaestiones logicales, q. 7 (1986, 353)). In order to
describe this distinction, Costantino Marmo has referred to Ferdinand de Saussure.
Marmo writes, ‘the habitual signification is a social and superindividual type (like
the langue of Saussure), the actual one is an individual type (like the parole), since
it occurs between concrete individuals’ (Marmo 2010, 192).
Olivi’s theorization of the twofold signification of names, which differentiates
between a linguistic code originating in imposition (habitual signification) and the
actual and individual use (actual signification) of names, seems to me to stem—I
will argue—from Anselm’s theory of double rectitudo and its interpreters, espe-
cially Bonaventure more so than from Bacon, and especially in connection to a
theory of lying. In fact, in the logical context of the Quaestiones logicales where he
deals with equivocal names, Olivi evokes the rectitudo of the sign and the question
of lying. According to Olivi, an equivocal name can signify different things because
of different impositions (significatio habitualis). However, each speaker chooses
and actually applies just one meaning according to his own intention by uttering a
8
In the second part of his De signis, Bacon shows how the process of the renewing meaning(s) is
usually based on analogical and inferential processes; these allow listeners to understand new
meanings (Roger Bacon, De signis, sec. III.3, § 82 (1978, 109; see, more broadly, sections III–
IV)). However, semantic freedom is theoretically absolute and nothing prevents people from
changing the meanings of words however they want. For a recent discussion on the limits of the
new impositions, see Goubier (2021). For Bacon’s theory, see I. Rosier-Catach et al. (2022,
372–390).
9
Olivi, Quaestiones logicales, q. 7: ‘Dicendum quod significatio nominis dupliciter accipitur:
primo scilicet quasi habitualiter; secundo in actu aut exercitio, sicut fit cum intentione significandi
actualiter profertur aut cum in certa narratione est scriptum. Primum modum habet ex impositione;
secundum vero ex applicatione ad quae iam est et erat impositum’ (1986, 353, translation in Mora-
Márquez 2011. Slightly modified).
name. The hearer, on the other hand, helped by the context (si vis narrationis sive
orationis solum illud exigit), can correctly (recte) understand just one meaning,
namely the one the speaker has chosen (Olivi, Quaestiones logicales, q. 7 (1986,
353)).10 However, even if a certain word correctly signifies a certain thing by the
force of its common acceptation (ex vi communis acceptionis), it can happen that a
speaker uses that word with a deceptive intention (doloso corde) to mean something
else.11 In this case, communication is prevented because the speaker is lying, i.e.
actually using the sign in a different way from the common acceptation of its impo-
sition (significatio habitualis).
As I have already noted, Olivi seems to be more inspired by Anselm’s De veritate
and by the theory of double rectitudo of signs that Anselm develops there, as well as
by subsequent interpretations of that theory, than by Bacon’s pragmatic theory of
signification. In chapter 2 of the dialogue De veritate, Anselm claims that there is a
twofold truth or correctness (rectitudo) for a statement (enunciatio) or, more gener-
ally, for all signs.12 The first kind of truth concerns the meaning that a statement
acquires (quod accepit significare). In this sense, a statement is meaningful, and
such a truth—Anselm claims—is invariable (immutabilis) and natural (naturaliter).13
10
Olivi, Quaestiones logicales, q. 7: ‘Ad primum igitur primae partis dicendum quod quilibet audi-
torum propria applicatione sive intentione applicat illud ad illud significatum quod tunc per ipsum
concepit. Et ideo in diversis diversimode illud applicantibus et concipientibus est ipsum nomen
quodammodo multiplicatum. Prout tarnen est solius proferente vel scribentis, non habet proprie
nisi unum significatum, et si vis narrationis sive orationis solum illud exigit, numquam potest in
audientibus recte ad aliud applicari.’ (1986, 353).
11
Olivi, Quaestiones logicales, q. 7: ‘Ad tertium dicendum quod licet proferens possit intendere
quod auditores accipiant illud sub alia et alia significatione, non potest tarnen intendere quod ipse
active per ipsum significet diversa. Fieri tarnen potest quod ex ordine et proprietate narrationis
unum ex vi communis acceptionis significet recte et ipse proferens aliud doloso corde significare
intendat.’ (1986, 353).
12
Anselm extends this twofold truth’s range of application to other signs as well; he claims that the
same notion of truth we find in a spoken statement (propositio vocis) should be found ‘in all signs
fashioned to signify that something is or is not, such as script and sign language.’ (Translation by
MacInerny (1998, 155)). Even if Anselm focuses on statements, other medieval interpreters use
this account to investigate other signs such as names. See Anselm, De veritate, c. 2 (1946, 180).
For an illuminating analysis of Anselm’s entire passage, see Rosier-Catach (2004, 79–85). In the
following lines, I will follow some of her main insights.
13
One might notice that this first sense of statement’s truth might not be fully clear to us: how can
a statement always (semper) have this truth and thus not be false? Anselm himself recognizes that
this kind of truth is not exactly the most common, but he claims that in general a statement is true
if it realizes its purpose, i.e. ‘to signify that what is, is.’ Hence, he admits that a statement has the
first kind of truth if it does what it ought to, i.e. to signify the meaning that it has acquired. In this
case, truth can be interpreted as the accomplishment of the statement’s nature: just as it is the
nature of fire to heat, so the nature of statements is to exhibit truth (facit veritatem). For this reason,
correctness or rectitudo is ‘a fundamentally teleological notion’ (Visser and Williams 2004, 206).
See Anselm, De veritate, c. 5:‘Cum ergo constet actionis veritatem aliam esse naturalem, aliam
non naturalem: sub naturali ponenda est illa veritas orationis, quam supra vidimus ab illa non posse
separari. Sicut enim ignis cum calefacit veritatem facit, quia ab eo accepit a quo habet esse: ita et
haec oratio, scilicet “dies est”, veritatem facit, cum significat diem esse, sive dies sit sive non sit;
quoniam hoc naturaliter accepit facere’ (1946, 183).
64 C. Appolloni
However, the truth of a statement cannot be reduced to this notion. Indeed, most of
us understand a statement’s truth in a second sense: the second kind of truth con-
cerns the speaker’s use of the statement to signify ‘that what is, is,’ and implies a
correspondence between the act of signification and reality, what we might call, in
this case, a state of affairs.14 Unlike the first kind of truth, this second kind of truth
is accidental and depends on use (accidentaliter et secundum usum). According to
Anselm’s example, for the statement ‘it is day,’ the first truth is the fact that such a
statement means that it is day, whether it is day or not15; the second truth concerns
our use of the statement to signify that it is day, if it is in fact day. When the state-
ment affirms the double truth—he says—it does what it ought to twice (facit quod
debet). However, if the statement affirms ‘that what is, is,’ it accomplishes what it
was supposed to (ad quod significandum facta est), i.e. to signify that what is, is.16
In the latter case the statement fulfils its purpose properly.
Indeed, the second kind of truth implies that the speakers are committed to using
statements in a correct way, i.e. in order to describe a state of affairs. In this case, the
term ‘rectitudo’ not only has a teleological implication but also a normative dimen-
sion, demanding moral rectitude on the part of speakers. Anselm says that a state-
ment has the first kind of truth even if one utters a falsehood verbatim, that is even
if one ‘lies’ (cum mentitur), and so the question of lying becomes relevant in con-
nection with the second kind of truth (Anselm, De veritate, c. 2 (1946, 180)).
Anselm’s text led some medieval interpreters to link Anselm’s account of truth to
the question of lying and a speaker’s morality. Some interpreters shift the focus
from the verificational perspective, i.e. the correspondence between the act of signi-
fication and reality (res significata), to an ‘intentional’ perspective, i.e. the corre-
spondence between the intention of the speakers and signs (Rosier-Catach 2004,
302–305). Indeed, lying is, according to Augustine, a ‘false signification with the
intention of deceiving’ (Augustine, Contra Mendacium, c. 12, § 26 (1890, 507))17
and, therefore, has to do with signification on the one hand, and with intention on
the other. By locating lying on the intentional and voluntary level, according to
Augustine, lying does not concern truth as correspondence between language and
reality, but rather as sincerity, namely the agreement between what one thinks and
what one says, between one’s intentions and one’s words.18 Because of such a dis-
tinction, medieval thinkers could distinguish a liar from one who makes a mistake
14
Anselm, De veritate, c. 2: ‘Nam cum dico: dies est, ad significandum esse quod est, recte utor
huius orationis significatione, quia ad hoc facta est; et ideo tunc recte dicitur significare. Cum vero
eadem oratione significo esse quod non est, non ea recte utor, quia non ad hoc facta est; et idcirco
non recta tunc eius significatio dicitur’ (1946, 179).
15
See footnote 14.
16
Anselm, De veritate, c. 2: ‘Vera quidem non solet dici cum significat esse quod non est; veritatem
tamen et rectitudinem habet, quia facit quod debet. Sed cum significat esse quod est, dupliciter
facit quod debet; quoniam significat et quod accepit significare, et ad quod facta est’ (1946, 179).
17
‘Mendacium est quippe falsa significatio cum voluntate fallendi.’ See Bettetini (2001) and
Casagrande and Vecchio (1987).
18
With regard to the theory of lying, Rosier-Catach speaks of rethinking the theory of truth from
‘logical truth’ as adequatio res et intellectus according to which an utterance is said to be true, to
and utters a falsehood unintentionally. Indeed, the former has the intention of
deceiving the hearer, while the latter does not. In order to analyze lying, Alexander
of Hales starts from Anselm’s passage on the twofold theory of truth and distin-
guishes the falsitas dicti, the falsity of what is said, from the falsitas dicentis, the
falsity of the speaker. The first concerns the sign, the second the speakers’ inten-
tions.19 In discussing Anselm’s double veritas or rectitudo of signs, Bonaventure
says that the first kind of truth depends on institution (ab institutione) and the sec-
ond kind of truth on use (ab usu).20 A sign is true by virtue of institution when it is
imposed to mean a certain thing; and this truth is immutable. The other truth depends
on its use: the sign is true when it actually means what it was instituted for, and this
truth is not immutable. Hence, this distinction could well be Olivi’s source.
4.3 The Ontology of Signs and Significations in Quid ponat

ius vel dominium
Through the distinction between significatio habitualis and significatio actualis, in

other words between imposition and actual use, Olivi opens a space of linguistic
freedom in which speakers can employ a sign correctly or deceptively. However, the
stability of signification, in which this freedom can be exercised, lies in the onto-
logical nature of voluntary signs.21 Olivi raises this ontological question in Quid
ponat ius vel dominium [1280 (Piron 2020)], perhaps the most debated quaestio of
Olivi’s corpus among scholars. Indeed, in Quid ponat ius, Olivi wonders what a
right or lordship posits or, as Piron explains, what kind of reality a right or power
builds (Piron 2016). In a nutshell, Olivi asks, what is the nature of an institution? In
doing so, Olivi addresses the issue of the ontology of social objects like laws, rights,
powers, vows, sacraments and, more generally, voluntary signs. This is why the
quaestio has been analyzed from so many different perspectives: political,
ontological, and linguistic especially insofar as it concerns the performativity of the
sacraments and their sanctifying power.22 Olivi placed his quaestio at the beginning
‘moral truth’ on the basis of which a speaker is said to be sincere (verax). On this shift from a cor-
respondence theory of truth to a theory of sincerity, see Rosier-Catach (2004, 302–305).
19
Alexander of Hales, Summa theologica (1948, 573). For medieval theories on lying, see Rosier-
Catach (1995, 2004) and Marmo (2015).
20
Bonaventure, Commentarii in quatuor Libros Sententiarum Petri Lombardi, IV, d. 1, pars 1, q. 2:
‘Dicendum quod signum duplicem habet veritatem, ut dicit Anselmus: unam ab istitutione, aliam
ab usu. Ab istitutione, quia imposita est ad hoc significandum; et haec veritas non potest permutari.
Alia veritas est secundum usum, scilicet quando significat illud ad quod est istituta per usum, et
hanc veritatem amittit’ (1889, 15).
21
In medieval semiotics, voluntary or ad placitum signs (like words) signify because of the institu-
tion by will, hence ‘voluntary.’ By contrast, natural signs do not need to be imposed by will in
order to signify. See Rosier-Catach (2004, 61).
22
As regards to politics, see Boureau (1995) and Toivanen (2016); as regards to ontology see Piron
(2016), Rode (2014, 2021); for the linguistical aspects in the sacramental framework of Olivi’s
66 C. Appolloni
of his Summa on book IV of Sentences, which is usually where medieval theolo-

gians discuss the sacraments as sanctifying signs. After having wondered whether a
power, or an authority or even a right—for example, property right—adds some-
thing in reality such as a substantial or an accidental form to the person who acquires
it, Olivi raises the same question about voluntary signs (ad placitum):
I do not think it is useless to deal with these questions at least partially, especially because
this type of difficulty concerns all voluntary signs and sacramentals. It is usually asked
whether the proper meanings, given solely by the will of human beings to names and to
vocal expressions, add some essence to the vocal sounds themselves or to the wills or the
intentions of those instituting or uttering such vocal sounds in order to signify a cer-
tain thing.23
Olivi rejects the idea that something like an essence or a form is added to a vocal
sound when it acquires a meaning. The target of Olivi’s criticism is a conception
quite common in thirteenth-century thought and shared mostly by speculative gram-
marians or Modistae.24 Basing their theory on Aristotelian hylomorphyism, some
speculative grammarians consider the meanings of words to be substantial forms
added to a vocal sound, i.e. the material substrate, by the first act of imposition. On
such a conception, the first impositor is often a metaphysician who can impose
meanings to words in accordance with his knowledge and in the most rational and
permanent way. These imposed meanings are not changeable at one’s pleasure or
according to will. Scholars call this form/matter-based account of signification ‘poi-
etic,’ since words are forged as tools by the original institutor (Cesalli and
Majolino 2014).
As Rosier-Catach has shown, these questions concern the debate on the sacra-
ments’ sanctifying power since they deal with the causality exercised by signs.
Indeed, as in Olivi’s case, theologians discuss the semantic power of words in this
framework. For instance, Richard Fishacre wonders about the baptismal water’s
power; he claims that a thing becomes a sign when an institutor establishes a rela-
tion between a thing and a meaning by his own will. For Fishacre, then, it is not a
form but rather a relation that is added to the thing in order to signify (and in the
case of water, to sanctify).25 In general, proponents of an ‘instrumental causality’
theory, like Thomas Aquinas, think that the sacrament has the power of sanctifying
because of a vis or form inside its matter that impresses its power on a receiver.
quaestio see Rosier-Catach (2004). For linguistical aspects as such see also Cesalli and Majolino
(2014), Marmo (2010, 188–192), Mora-Márquez (2011), Rode (2018).
23
Olivi, QPI: ‘Idcirco, non inutile fore existimo saltem aliquid vel modicum de questiuncula illa
tractare, et precipue quia ad omnia signa voluntaria et sacramentalia pertinet huiusmodi difficultas.
Solet enim consimiliter queri an proprie significationes nominibus vel orationibus vocalibus a sola
voluntate hominum date addant aliquam essentiam ipsis vocibus aut voluntatibus vel intentionibus
instituentium vel proferentium voces illas ad hec vel illa significanda’ ((2016, 1, trans. J. P. Doyle
1986, slightly modified).
24
On speculative grammar, see Ebbesen (2018), Kelly (2002), Marmo (1994), Pinborg (1972), and
Rosier-Catach (1983).
25
See Richard Fishacre quoted in Rosier-Catach (2004, 534–535).
Conversely, the supporters of a ‘pact causality’ theory believe that the will of the
institutor—God, in such a case—establishes a relation of signification (or sanctifi-
cation): God’s will is the cause of the grace, which he gives when he intervenes
during the administration of the sacrament without necessitating any form or active
power in the sign (Rosier-Catach 2004, 135–145). Olivi is familiar with this debate
and with analogous discussions in semantics: if a word had semantic power—an
intrinsic force called vis significativa—it would operate like any other natural agent
(Olivi, QPI (2016, 52)) such as a ray of light from the sun (Olivi, QPI (2016, 13)).
And then, the word would imprint its form on the hearers and operate its semantic
power by itself (ex se), that is, almost autonomously26 and without any intervention
by the speaker’s intentions. Olivi presents this position although he does not share it:
We see that, since the sound or vocal expression is commonly arranged in order to mean a
certain thing, it impresses the meaning of that same thing and not another on the hearer. […]
Thus, it seems that there is a significant force (vis significativa) in such vocal sounds, which
would not be there if these words were not commonly instituted to mean such things by
people and doctors, and then spoken aloud or written.27
On this view, pragmatic elements are strongly limited and, more specifically, the
force within the sign compels speakers to understand as well as to signify in a cer-
tain manner. Conversely, Olivi describes the mode of action of power in a manner
that can guarantee the freedom of the will and the freedom of people subjected to
such a power. He thinks that:
It is clear how powers of this sort can be [exercised] endlessly over countless subjects [...]
and that they can be [exercised] over the free will of many and innumerable people, without
any difficulty, because this does not occur in the mode of active powers that would impose
a constraint or a necessity or a motive pressure and an impulse on their free choice, but only
a mandatory prescription (preceptio obligatoria).28
Thus, the semantic power of words, as well as the power of any other social institu-
tion, does not imply a coercive force that compels the speaker to respect it but rather
a normative value, a rule that leaves speakers free to understand as well as to signify
differently. However, in order to have such a power of obligation, signs and social
institutions more generally must be something real, so that people can recognize
them as rules and, therefore, respect or, even, transgress them.
For these reasons, Olivi describes the ontology of social objects as a certain kind
of relation. Such a relation is something between a real relation (relatio realis) that
26
For a discussion, see Cesalli (2014) and Marmo (2014).
27
Olivi, QPI: ‘Quia videmus quod eo ipso quod vox vel vocalis oratio est communiter ordinata ad
aliquid significandum, ita quod illius rei significationem et non aliam imprimit audienti […]. Ergo
videtur quod aliqua vis significativa sit in huiusmodi vocibus, quod non esset nisi ab hominibus et
a doctoribus esset ad hoc communiter institute et tandem prolate vel scripte.’ (2016, 8).
28
Olivi, QPI: ‘Patet quomodo […] possunt huiusmodi potestates in infinitos et in infinita quantum
est ex sua ratione et quomodo possunt super liberum arbitrium plurium et innumerabilium absque
aliquo inconvenienti, quia non est hoc per viam potentie active inferentis coactionem vel necessi-
tatem aut motivam impressionem et impulsionem libero arbitrio illorum, sed solam obligatoriam
preceptionem’ (2016, 57), italics are mine.
68 C. Appolloni
adds a form to its fundamentum and a relation of reason (ratio rationis) that does not
really add anything to the thing. According to medieval thinkers, a real relation has
some real extra–mental foundation in the subject of the relation (Henninger 1989,
17). For example, in his commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, Thomas Aquinas
states that the relation of heating between a fire and a heated thing is grounded on
the power of heating inhering in the fire, i.e. on a real accident of the subject
(Aquinas, Sententia libri Metaphysicae, V, lect. 17, n. 27–29 (1977, 269)).
Conversely, a relation of reason is caused by the intellect, which attributes a prop-
erty to a thing without anything in the thing making the relation necessary: the intel-
lect is free to consider two things as related or not.29 Hence, a relation of reason
exists only in thought without realizing anything in external reality (Olivi, QPI
(2016, 53); Olivi, Sent. II, q. 7 (1922, vol. 1, 134)).
Olivi cannot agree with either. He finds an intermediate solution by arguing for
an intermediate object between a real relation and a relation of reason.30 He cau-
tiously claims that the aforementioned relations (habitudines) posit some reality
(vere ponunt aliquid reale), even if—he strongly points out—they do not add some
distinct essence that really informs the subjects of which and in which they are said
to be (Olivi, QPI (2016, 30)). Olivi’s caution is probably due to the difficulty and, at
the same time, the necessity of proposing a positive answer. Indeed, a social object
must be somehow real, first of all in light of axiological and cosmological argu-
ments: the nobility of powers and the universal validity of obligation (ius debiti)
towards God requires realism. But in addition to these arguments, Olivi adds a
moral argument: there is no theft without property rights; that is, there is no trans-
gression without law (Olivi, QPI (2016, 4 and 34)). In other words, there is no sin
or morality generally in the absence of normative value, and this latter must be
something real in order to exercise its power of obligation. In his dialectical use
(Rode 2014, 376) of the quaestio’s arguments, Olivi agrees with these three argu-
ments arguing for the realism of the social objects under discussion (Olivi, QPI
(2016, 39)).
However, Olivi claims that a power or a right are nothing but relations (habitudo
or ratio respectiva) to God’s will.31 The actual will of the institutor posits a rela-
tional reason (ratio respectiva) between a thing (or a person) and the volitional
object. This is the case of political power: if God wills that a certain person becomes
king, this person acquires the relational object of kingship and the power of com-
mand that comes with it. Indeed, because of the cosmological, ontological, and
moral dependence of rational creatures on God, God’s will must be regarded as an
29
On theories of relation in medieval thought see Brower (2018), Girard (2015), Henninger (1989),
Marmo (1992).
30
Olivi, Sent., II, q. 7: ‘Unde et videntur tenere locum medium inter rationes quae solum sunt in
intellectu et inter rationes reales quae dicunt aliquid posivitum reale.’ (1922, vol. 1, 136–137). On
this point see Bettoni (1959), Piron (2016), Rode (2014). For Olivi’s ontology of relation, see
Juhana Toivanen’s chapter in this volume.
31
Olivi, QPI: ‘[...] potestas regia ponit realiter assistentiam et auctoritatem divini velle, ac per
consequens et novam rationem obiectivam in regem respectu divini velle.’ (2016, 48).
inviolable law and so too the powers that he wills us to exercise (Olivi, QPI (2016,
30)). If one wonders whether these powers are something real, Olivi says that noth-
ing is more real than the actual object of God’s will. If one wonders what such a
power is, Olivi claims that it is nothing but two things connected to each other, that
is, the divine willing and the actual object of divine willing (or volitum) whose
entity is to be willed by God (Olivi, QPI (2016, 32)). In other words, kingship is
nothing but a relation; however, because it is grounded on God’s actual will, it com-
pels people to obey it. The role of God’s will is decisive in constructing the ontology
of social powers and rights (Rode, 2014, 381; 2018, 81; 2021, 241–242; Toivanen
2016). It is also crucial in the case of sacramental signs: their institution by the will
of God and the convergence between God’s intention and the priest’s intention form
a sort of divine reality (Olivi, QPI (2016, 37)). Although the human will often acts
insofar as it agrees or obeys, ultimately Olivi seems to want to originate human
social and political institutions in the will and power of God (Rode 2014, 381;
Toivanen 2016, 29; Olivi, QPI (2016, 53)). Is God’s will the necessary basis
for grounding the reality of all human institutions? On closer inspection, significa-
tion and voluntary signs are realities that are not grounded on God’s will, at least not
principally. The arguments of the quaestio—Olivi claims—prove that what rights or
powers posit is principally the power of divine willing, while what the relation of
signification in the active sense (ratio significationis active) posits lies ‘in the inten-
tions of intellectual persons’ (Olivi, QPI (2016, 39)). The institution of language is
a human (or at most angelic32) matter.
In order to explain the ontology of voluntary signs, Olivi writes (in a very diffi-
cult paragraph):
It remains to consider, in the case of voluntary signs, what is posited by their signification
taken in the active sense. And certainly, the more subtly and perspicuously you will con-
sider this [signification], the more you will find out that the signification itself does not add
anything to the real essence of the thing that is taken as a sign, [i.e. nothing] but the mental
intention of those who institute it and understand [the sign], and [the intention] of the one
who actually takes that thing in order to signify, and [the intention] of the one who hears it
or takes it as possessing such a signification or [as being] such a sign. However, in those
things which are produced by the command of such an intention, like a vocal sound or a
movement of the head, the signification itself, beyond the intention of the one who signifies
and beyond the essence of the thing called a sign, adds a relation [habitudo] of a com-
manded effect and imperiously produced by the intention of the one who is signifying.33
32
See Olivi, Qu. de loc. ang. (2003).
33
Olivi, QPI: ‘Restat igitur videre de signis voluntariis, quid scilicet ponit ipsorum significatio
active sumpta. Et certe quanto subtilius et perspicacius illam attenderis, invenies quod supra realem
essentiam rei que pro signo assumitur, nichil addit ipsa significatio nisi solum mentalem intentio-
nem instituentium et acceptantium, et ipsius qui actu illam rem assumit ad significandum, et eius
qui eam audit vel accipit sub ratione talis significationis seu talis signi. In hiis tamen que ab impe-
rio talis intentionis producuntur in esse, sicut est vox vel nutus, ipsa significatio, ultra intentionem
significantis et ultra essentiam rei que dicitur signum, addit habitudinem effectus imperativi et
imperative producti ab intentione significantis’ (2016, 36, trans. L. Cesalli and Majolino 2014,
190, slightly modified).
70 C. Appolloni
Signification taken in the active sense, that is if one actually uses a given sign in a
particular linguistic context, involves the addition of three intentions to the vocal
sound: the intention(s) of the institutors of that language, the speaker’s intention,
and the intention of the hearer (Rosier-Catach 2004, 163; Cesalli and Majolino
2014, 42). Although the text is rather cryptic, we can infer that—according to
Olivi—the intention of the speaker has a semantic power over the hearer, though the
actual signification does not add a form to the vocal matter. How is this possible? If
someone could impose her own intention of signifying at her own pleasure, then
everyone could change the meanings of words without impeding communication.
But in such a situation it would be very challenging for the hearer to understand
what a speaker says.
Alternatively, there is another way to read the same passage. When Olivi talks
about the production of such an intention, he could be refering to the imposition and
to what is produced by the act of the first impositors. Indeed, Olivi says, from the
point of view of producing such an intention, signification itself adds a relation
(habitudo) between a sign and its effect. This effect, which is the dispositional
meaning, can be actualized and (re)produced at the command of the speaker when
they speak in accordance with it. Indeed, signifying according to the significate that
has already been instituted by imposition is the definition of actual signification
according to Quaestiones logicales. In this case, we can see the normative conse-
quences of the act of imposition, which adds a relation between sign and significate
to the vocal sound—established as the effect of an act of imposition by a collective
intention—, and according to which the sign acquires its efficacious ability to sig-
nify what it signifies, since each mind recognizes it as a relational object.34 In other
words: the essence of the sign is nothing other than a relation as the production
of—as we shall see further on—a collective intention of people, plus the actual
intentions of users to use the signs according to such a dispositional meaning. This
implies a command for each single mind to use the sign intentionally in accordance
with the original and shared meaning (habitualis significatio), unless one wants to
change the meaning. In this case, a new institution is allowed only under certain
conditions (among them, the authority to do it).35 What are these entities produced
by the intentions? As I have briefly sketched and as Christian Rode has already
amply demonstrated, they are probably nothing more than relations.36
34
In dealing with the causality and the relation between an act and its effect, Olivi says: Olivi, QPI:
‘Si autem dicas quod saltem actu vel effectu transeunte debet transire respectu causalitatis eius,
dicendum quod pro tanto transit pro quanto ex tunc non potest referri ad illum effectum ut ad pre-
sentem, pro tanto autem manet pro quanto semper refertur ad illum ut ad suum effectum preteri-
tum. Secundo fit ex eo quod ab omni mente potest ex tunc vere accipi et considerari sub illo
respectu quod antea non poterat, et pro tanto respectu omnis mentis acquirit novum respectum seu
novam rationem obiecti respectivi.’ (2016, 47).
35
See footnote 44.
36
For an in–depth analysis of the ontology of such realities I refer to Rode (2014, 2018, 2021).
The institution evoked in this text plays a crucial role in the way communication
works. Signification in the active sense is not enough for explaining everyday lan-
guage; Olivi needs to introduce a normative side to the sign in order to safeguard
communication:
Concerning duplicity in perjury, it must be said that since a certain vocal sound is com-
monly arranged to mean a certain thing by the common intention or pleasure of people, one
cannot use it according to one’s own authority to signify something else without the trickery
of deception, unless he clearly expresses his intention to the hearer. Hence, the ratio of a
certain signification of those vocal sounds is taken not only from the actual intention of the
speakers but also from the common and habitual intention of people speaking that lan-
guage. For this reason, it is correct to say that just as the actual signification of a word lies
in the actual intention of the speaker and in the actual apprehension of the hearer, so its
habitual signification (habitualis significatio) really lies in the common and habitual inten-
tion of people.37
In order to avoid the deceptive use of language such as perjury, which is lying aggra-
vated by invoking God as witness, Olivi adds a relation between the collective inten-
tion of people (intentio communis hominum) who speak a language and use a set of
signs. If one wants to use a sign with a different meaning, they can do so but if and
only if the new meaning is clear to the hearer. Unlike Bacon’s De signis, for Olivi
one should not tacitly change a sign’s meaning without clearly expressing one’s
intention of doing so to the hearer. Otherwise, if a speaker intentionally uses a vocal
sound in a different way from its habitual meaning without giving the hearer the
tools to understand this, then they commit perjury or lie. Hence, the accord between
these two sides of signification, the active and the habitual side (the usual and the
dispositional), is the condition for the non-deceptive use of language. It is the latter
side of signification, the habitual side, that has a normative value. Although some-
what speculative, it is tempting to think that for Olivi habitual signification is not the
collection or the sum of the speaker’s and the hearer’s actual intentions (this is
rather the actual meaning of a word, i.e. the meaning of a word ‘multiplied’ for
every actual user) but it is something different from them. Indeed, as I will discuss
below, it seems that the habitual signification of a linguistic sign really (realiter) lies
as a relational object in the collective will and common intention of people.
37
Olivi, QPI: ‘Ad illud autem de duplicitate pro periurio, dicendum quod, ex quo hec vel illa vox
est communiter et a communi intentione seu beneplacito hominum ordinata ad tale quid significan-
dum, non potest quis propria auctoritate ea uti ad aliam significationem absque simulationis dolo,
nisi suam intentionem clare exprimat auditori. Unde ratio determinate significationis ipsarum
vocum non solum sumitur ab actuali intentione loquentis, set etiam a communi et a habituali inten-
tione hominum illius lingue. Unde bene dicitur quod, sicut actualis significatio vocis est in actuali
intentione loquentis et in actuali apprehensione audientis, sic eius habitualis significatio est realiter
in communi et habituali intentione hominum.’ (2016, 51). See Mora-Márquez’s translation (Mora-
Márquez 2011, 154).
72 C. Appolloni
4.4 The Common Right of Language
In the reflection on lying in his exegesis of the Gospel of Matthew 5:37, Olivi
describes how the habitual signification of words derives from an intentio commu-
nis. This reveals the social implications of his ontology of voluntary signs.
As we saw above, according to Olivi when one consciously uses a sign in a way
that diverges from the common intention of its habitual signification (here he talks
about a communis intentio verborum), without making one’s intentions clear to the
hearer, one commits an act of lying that is a ‘sin of language’ (Casagrande and
Vecchio 1987). Consistent with a tendency that we find in the thirteenth century,
Olivi thinks that lying is a sin not only towards God (lying as a vertical sin) but also
towards other speakers (lying as a horizontal sin) (Casagrande 2020; Rosier-Catach
2004, 295–319), because to lie means to act against the hearer’s natural desire of
understanding (appetitus naturalis audientis; see Olivi, In Mt, (2015, 107)). When
Olivi explains why lying is always a sin he writes:
Second, [scil. lying is a sin] with respect to the verbal sign and its correct use. The straight-
ness of the sign qua sign and its correct use is to mean what is true. Therefore, those who
consciously use it to mean a falsehood deviate it from its rectitude. The obliquity in moral
issues is the same thing as perversion. We see, in fact, that voluntary signification is a moral
act and this insofar as it receives all its being from the will and the intention of the one who
signifies it.38 (My italics)
The common and habitual signification of a linguistic sign is normative, and the act
of voluntary signification becomes, according to Olivi, a moral act: once again, we
can find the influence of Anselm in this account of the double rectitudo of a sign. In
contrast to Bacon, everyday language does not work if one tacitly changes meanings
and signs are newly imposed by individual impositions. If a change in signification
is not explained to the hearer, it is an abuse of the speaker’s freedom; it is an act of
lying and hence a sin. Olivi states this even more clearly here:
Third, [scil. lying is a sin] with respect to the relation of the will with its signifying act or
forming the sign according to the definition of the sign. We see, in fact, that every defection,
insofar as it arises out of a cause, is more in the cause from which arises it than in its effect,
but the falsehood of signification in itself originates in the liar; indeed, it hardly posits
something real in the merely voluntary sign but only in the one who means it. Therefore,
there is mendacity or something more serious than that in the liar himself. Thus, the liar is
formally a liar because of the lie.39 (My italics)
38
Olivi, In Mt: ‘Secundo ex respectu signi verbalis ad suum rectum usum. Rectitudo enim signi in
quantum signum et eius rectus usus est significare verum. Ergo qui eo utitur ad significandum
falsum scienter ipsum a sua rectitudine obliquat; obliquitas autem in moralibus est idem quod
perversitas. Constat autem quod voluntaria significatio actus est moralis, et hoc in tantum, quod
totum suum esse accipit a voluntate et intentione significantis.’ (2015, 108).
39
Olivi, In Mt: ‘Tertio ex respectu voluntatis ad actum significandi seu formandi signum sub rati-
one signi. Constat enim quod omnis defectus per se manans a causa potius est in causa a qua manat
quam in suo effectu, set falsitas significationis per se manat a mentiente; immo vix ponit aliquid
reale in signo mere voluntario, sed solum in significante. Ergo aut ipsa mendositas significationis
est in ipso mentiente, aut alia maior illa. Ergo mentiens est formaliter mendosus a causa mendacii.’
(2015, 108).
Defection from common signification does not produce a new sign; it does not posit
a new ratio signi, namely a new relation of signification, but alters the speaker alone
who becomes a liar by virtue of this act of defection.40 Hence, by means of drawing
a distinction between an act of bestowing meaning (actualis) and collective—or
common—signification (habitualis), Olivi opens a space for lying, which is also the
space of semantic freedom by which significatio can be defined as a moral act.
Indeed, one can choose to use the meaning of a given sign by respecting its common
use or changing it in such a way that is unclear for the hearers and, consequently,
become a liar. Thanks to the common and habitual signification that guarantees the
normativity of a sign’s meaning, one has the possibility of transgressing a sign’s
meaning: the twofold account of signification grounds lying as defection from com-
monly shared meanings.41
Olivi does not limit himself to considering the intentional defection from a habit-
ual meaning as an act of lying; he also shows the social concerns that motivate his
discussion. According to Olivi, a deviant signification is not only a sin against God
and a given listener but also against the entire community of people, since such a
community is based on mutual communication. Indeed, signs as the medium
between people are the sine qua non condition for communicating the contents of
everyone’s interiority to each other. For this reason, ‘the corruption of signification
is the corruption of all human communication.’ The consequences are destructive
for the whole community: no one believes one another, there is no society, no friend-
ship, no hope, no pacts, and no stability between human beings.42
After having affirmed this, Olivi now tells us why lying is dangerous, and in
doing so he provides us with some interesting features of the nature of signs and of
common signification:
Sixth, [scil. lying is a sin] with respect to the common pact or the common institution of
signs. In fact, breaking the common right or the common pact is illicit, at least for the one
who is subject to that pact and that community. Then, the greater the stability and rooted-
ness of the pact, and the greater its necessity and usefulness, the worse it is to break it. But
40
The speaker’s actual intention is not a sufficient condition for changing the meanings of words;
in order to establish a new relation between a phonic material and a meaning (a new ratio signi), it
is necessary (among other conditions) to have the authority to do so. Indeed, the reality of the signs
is grounded on the habitualis significatio too (i.e. to the effect/production of a collective institution).
41
It is important to clarify, however, that according to Olivi changing a sign’s meaning is not
always an act of lying. It is possible to change a sign’s meaning legitimately only under certain
conditions, which are: to have a reason or the need for doing so and to be recognized as an author-
ity who can change a sign’s meaning. See, Olivi, In Mt (2015, 111).
42
Olivi, In Mt: ‘Quinto ex respectu ad totam communionem et communitatem hominum. Constat
enim quod fere tota communicatio hominum ad invicem instrumentaliter consistit in actu signifi-
cationis. Nullus enim potest alteri comunicare aliquid cordis sui nisi per aliquod signum interme-
dium in quibus vox continet principatum. Ergo corruptio significationis est corruptio totius
communicationis humane. Unde etiam videmus quod ex hoc sequitur quod nullus credit alteri sine
aliqua mutua credulitate: nulla est societas, nullaque amicicia, nulla spes, nullum pactum, nulla
firmitas inter homines. Ergo mendacium inter homines est summi mali radix. Et quis dubitat quod
radix est omnis illegalitatis et fraudis? Tolle mendacium et nulla est fraus in terra, nullaque astucia,
sed pura simplicitas.’ (2015, 109).
74 C. Appolloni
the pact of signs, the means by which we speak, is [a pact] of this kind, since the right of
languages and idioms originates from a certain natural and common agreement of people.43
Breaking the pact of meanings undermines the community because the community
is grounded on such pacts. Indeed, the pact of signs has a fundamental value as a
social institution. The nature of the institution of signs is now clearer and can be
useful to support what I tentatively suggested above: it spreads from a collective
agreement or rather ‘a breathing together,’ i.e. a collective intention of people. The
realities of languages and idioms originate from there. They have the same ontology
and, hence, the normativity of a right or a law (ius linguarum et idiomatum). In the
Tractatus de contractibus, which deals with monetary value or price and common
decisions about monetary value, Olivi says that what depends on an agreement and
collective decision (and in the case of a law about monetary value what is decided
on for the good of the community) has the force of common right (ex respectu ad
totam communitatem, quia quod ex consensu et statuto communi et pro communi
omnium salute procedit, eo ipso optinet equitatem et robur iuris communis) (Olivi,
Tractatus de contractibus, q. 5 (2012, 129)). In describing the habitual side of sig-
nification, Olivi makes a similar move: signs are social objects instituted by a com-
mon agreement, and for this reason they have the force of common right (ius
commune). The stable side of signs is grounded on the relational nature of habitual
and common signification, i.e. the relation between a collective will44 and a signifi-
cate. Ultimately, not transgressing this relation is what allows for the possibility of
communicating and maintaining a society.
43
Olivi, In Mt: ‘Sexto, ex respectu ad communem pactum seu ad communem institutionem signo-
rum. Infringere enim commune ius aut commune pactum est illicitum, saltem illi qui est subiectus
illi pacto et illi communitati. Quanto autem pactum est maioris firmitatis et conradicalitatis ac
necessitatis et utilitatis, tanto peius est infringere ipsum sed pactum signorum quibus loquimur est
cuius, quia ex quadam naturali et communi conspiratione gentium manat ius linguarum et idioma-
tum.’ (2015, 109).
44
One could rightly question the nature of such a collective will. Is it an aggregate of all the wills
that first agreed with one another and together performed a first act of imposition, or it is more than
a sum of individual wills? Olivi does not say this explicitly and there is not enough textual evidence
to find a solution to this question. However, he could reasonably support the idea of an initial set
of wills as a sum of wills. Nevertheless, such an initial set of wills is different from the sum of an
actual set of individual wills to signify. And, it should be emphasized—confirming that not all
social realities are ultimately founded on God, and in particular the words of the languages—that,
in dealing with lying, Olivi states that divine (figurative) language is not subject to the human pact
of languages, which implies the purely human origin of the institution of language: Olivi, In Mt:
‘Unde Iacob dicendo patri suo, Ego sum Esau etc. motus est intentione simplicissima et affectione
spirituali et divina et ex auctoritate Spiritus Sanctus, qui potest licite uti locutionibus translativis
seu figurativis cum ipse non alligetur legibus ydiomatum, nec statutis aut pactis humanis.’
(2015, 111).
4.5 Conclusion
Olivi focuses on the nature of signs as social objects that are the products of human
(not divine) acts of institution or imposition, realized by a collective will. Signs,
indeed, are relations between the intentions of intellectual persons and significates.
Olivi underlines the normative power of signs by distinguishing between a sign’s
habitual signification, which is the dispositional meaning produced by an act of
imposition, and its actual signification, which is the actual use of a certain meaning
by an individual speaker. Considered from the perspective of its habitual side, as a
relation (habitudo) to a common intention, the sign has a similar reality to a com-
mon right (ius communis). Thanks to his ontology of social objects, Olivi can
explain how the sign can exercise its normative power without impressing coercive
force on speakers and hearers as the sign did in the Modists’ Aristotelian (i.e. hylo-
morphic) ontology of signs. Indeed, according to her or his own individual inten-
tion, the speaker can decide to actualize the imposed meaning or to deviate from the
habitual signification as set by the community. For this reason, signification is
defined as a moral act, as it implies the possibility of signifying in accordance with
the rectitudo of the sign or, conversely, with a deceptive intention. In this latter case,
the speaker becomes a sinner since they break the pact of meaning in which signs
originate and that, like other social objects, is crucial for maintaining the social
world (community, mutual confidence, pacts, friendship). The common right of lan-
guage (ius linguarum) turns out to be even more important since all communication
between people is grounded on this right. Hence, transgressing a habitual significa-
tion implies a fundamental responsibility toward the whole community, since doing
so poses a real threat to the whole community.
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Chapter 5
Enrico del Carretto: Why a Religious
Order Is Not a Mere Collection
of Individuals
Roberto Lambertini
5.1 Context
Indeed on this matter Gregory inserted in his explanation the following: “We say that they
should have property neither individually nor in common; but let the order have the use of
the equipment, books and movable things which it is licit to have, and let the Brothers use
these things according as the minister general and provincials think should be ordered”. The
aforementioned Innocent and Alexander said in their explanations: “We say, moreover, that
since it is contained expressly in the Rule that the Brothers should not appropriate anything
to themselves, neither house, nor place, nor anything, that they should not have property
either in common or individually; but let the order have the use of the places, houses, equip-
ment, books, and things it is licit to have, and let the Brothers use them according as the
general and provincial ministers think should be ordered.” For when it is said in the above
explanations that the order should have the use of the foregoing things, this must refer to use
of right. Facts, indeed, which are of singulars, need and require a true person: but an Order
is not a true person but must rather be regarded as a represented and imaginary person.
Those things which are of fact therefore cannot truly befit it, though things which are of
right can suit it.1
This passage is taken from Pope John XXII’s bull Quia quorundam mentes, issued
on November 10, 1324. In this document, the Pope counters blow-by-blow the
1
I am using John Kilcullen and John Scott’s translation; see Kilcullen and Scott (1998); I checked
it against the critical edition of the bull in Tarrant (1983, 257–287, in particular 266–267). I am not
using the translation available at https://franciscan-archive.org/bullarium/qquor-e.html (accessed
23/05/2020) because, besides being less precise, it has a lacuna in this very passage.
R. Lambertini (*)
Department of Humanities: Languages, Mediation, History, Literature, Philosophy, University
of Macerata, Macerata, Italy
e-mail: roberto.lambertini@unimc.it

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_5
80 R. Lambertini
accusations contained in Louis of Bavaria’s so-called ‘Sachsenhausen Appeal’

(May 22, 1324). There, Louis, the would-be German emperor, accused John XXII
of having fallen into heresy because of his various bulls on Franciscan poverty
(Louis IV 1909–13, 732–741; cf. Wittneben 2003, 229–254). In the passage quoted
above, the Pope is giving his interpretation of the bull Quo elongati, issued by his
predecessor Gregory IX (Grundmann 1976; Flood 1988). John XXII insists on the
fact that the term ‘usus’ must be understood as ‘usus iuris’, that is use of right as
opposed to use of fact. He argues that an order, such as the Order of the Friars
Minor, cannot have the use of fact of things. The distinction between use of right
(usus iuris) and use of fact (usus facti) was a highly controversial issue of the
debates on Apostolic poverty. Usus iuris designates the use of a thing according to
a legal right to do so (e.g. one can sign a contract according to which she has the
right of using an apartment in Paris for a month). Usus facti, on the contrary, desig-
nates the use of a thing that takes place without a legal right (e.g. one stays at her
friend’s apartment while he is abroad). Franciscans defending the interpretation of
Minorite poverty accepted prior to John XXII’s decisions maintain that the concept
of usus facti applies to the use of things not only by an individual friar, but also by
the Order as a whole. The Pope rejects this claim (see Robinson 2012, 4–6).
To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time that an official document in the
dispute concerning the Franciscan theory of poverty during the pontificate of John
XXII refers to the Franciscan Order as a ‘represented and imaginary person.’ The
pope’s main concern is to refute the very assumptions of the Franciscan idea of
Apostolic poverty. According to the Franciscans, Christ and the Apostles were per-
fectly and absolutely poor in the sense that they as individuals and as a community
did not own anything and enjoyed no legal right of use of the things available to
them, things which they used. In this particular passage, John XXII also raises a
specific claim: some actions, such as those actions that qualify as use of fact, cannot
be attributed to a group like a religious order, which is merely a ‘represented person’
or, in other words, that a religious order only exists in a legal sense.
This was not, however, the first time that the question of the nature of an order
was raised within the wider discussion concerning Apostolic poverty.2 Among the
many participants in the debate, the Franciscan theologian Enrico del Carretto had
claimed, prior to John XXII’s bull in 1324, that the Franciscan Order possesses a
form of existence that transcends the sum of his members. The subject of the present
paper is a presentation of Enrico del Carretto’s position.
According to Brian Epstein (2018), ‘a prominent topic in social ontology is the
analysis of social groups’ and in the context of such analysis the question of the kind
of entity groups are is often raised, together with discussions about their properties
and the actions they can perform. Although cast in terms of theology and canon law,
2
In a vernacular version of the so-called ‘Chronicle of Nicholas the Minorite’ (see Nold 2003,
12–18 for analysis and an English translation), which is an interpolated and anonymous account of
a consistory that took place in 1322, John XXII apparently declared that the Order of the Friars
Minor is ‘mattematico et fantastico.’ For an edition of the original, see Zambrini (1864), esp. 75.
A more recent edition (Flora 1942) was unavailable at the time of writing.
5 Enrico del Carretto: Why a Religious Order Is Not a Mere Collection of Individuals 81
the medieval question about the nature of religious orders, discussed by Enrico, and
the claim made by the pope are pertinent to social ontology.
5.2 Enrico del Carretto and His Treatise
John XXII reiterated his position in his later treatise Quia vir reprobus of 1329 (also
see Brunner 2014; Lambertini 2020): ‘…a community cannot have use of fact, since
such use requires a true person, which a community is not, but is rather a person
imaginary or represented’.3 As a consequence of this position, the ontological status
of a religious order became the object of a lively debate with some of his most
famous adversaries, such as Francis of Marchia in his Improbatio (1993, 114) and
William of Ockham in Opus Nonaginta Dierum (1974, 366). As mentioned before,
the issue was already ‘in the air’ during the preceding period, when the debate about
Christ’s poverty, triggered by the pope himself, was seemingly still open, that is
before the pope had taken an official stance on the issue with his Cum inter nonnul-
los (1323). This is witnessed by Enrico del Carretto, a Franciscan theologian who
had been appointed bishop of Lucca in 1300. At the time of the debate on Franciscan
poverty, dating from the publication of John XXII’s Quia nonnumquam (26 March,
1322), Enrico was staying in Avignon in a sort of ‘golden exile,’ because Ghibelline
groups had taken over Lucca. He was among those Friars Minor (such as Walter
Chatton) who were simultaneously extremely loyal to John XXII and yet firmly
believed in the Franciscan doctrine of Apostolic poverty. Enrico’s death in the sum-
mer of 1323 spared him a bitter disappointment in John XXII (Emili 2009; Del
Punta 2015–16), but he had managed to draft his own contribution to the debate, a
treatise that, despite being unfinished, occupies 50 folios in the only extant manu-
script witness, the codex Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294.4 In this work, whose title is
Tractatus de statu dispensativo Christi et specialiter de paupertate eius et
Apostolorum, Enrico argues at length in favor of an interpretation of Franciscan
poverty that is compatible with a papalist ecclesiology according to which the pope
is the absolute monarch of the Church (Emili 2005).
The length of Enrico’s treatise, which has been a major obstacle to its publication
today, is due to the fact that he chose to include several digressions relevant to a
more comprehensive account of the nature of human society (Emili 2005), econom-
ics (Lambertini 2011), and politics (Lambertini 2016) within his discussion on
Franciscan poverty. The fact that Enrico’s digressions often concern issues relevant
to political and social thought, however, does not imply that one should expect a
3
This is Kilcullen and Scott’s translation, Kilcullen and Scott (1998). For the original text, see Gál
and Flood (1996, 559).
4
For a description of the manuscript, cf. Maier (1952, 333–335). In what follows, I will refer to this
work in the following way: Enrico del Carretto, Tractatus, chapter number and folio number in the
only manuscript known so far. The text is based on Barnaba’s Hechich transcription, revised by the
team currently working on the edition, cf. Emili et al. (2003–2004).
82 R. Lambertini
systematic treatment of political and social philosophy. Enrico’s aim is to support

the traditional Franciscan doctrine of Apostolic poverty. It goes without saying that
such a doctrine implies an interpretation of the foundations of social and political
life, which are far from obvious (Brett 1997; Lambertini 2000; Mäkinen 2001).
Enrico is well aware of this state of affairs and tries his best to make explicit some
key assumptions concerning the origins and nature of human communities, and to
corroborate them.
5.3
Societas and Collegium
Enrico deals with the concept of communitas at the beginning of his treatise in the
opening chapters devoted to the definitions of the terms of the quaestio raised by
John XXII. According to Enrico, the pope had asked him to answer the question
‘Utrum asserere Christum et apostolos non habuisse aliquid in communi sit hereti-
cum’ (Whether it is heretical to affirm that Christ and the Apostles had nothing in
common).5 A crucial point of the discussion is what kind of things can be held ‘in
common.’ Chapter 7 of Enrico’s treatise is devoted to the meaning of ‘having in
common’ (quid est habere in communi (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, c. 7, fol. 3v)). In
the first lines of the chapter, Enrico asserts that the ratio communitatis that is at
stake is not a mere concept existing in the intellect, but something concerning real
human actions. He distinguishes between several meanings of communitas. Leaving
aside the case of inheritors, who all have the right to succession as individuals, he
mentions two further meanings: ‘communitas as societas’ and ‘communitas as
collegium.’
Building on his knowledge of canon law,6 and referring to Innocent IV’s com-
mentary on the Decretals,7 Enrico here distinguishes between a societas and colle-
gium. Societas—we should remember that in the thirteenth century a merchant
company could be called ‘societas’—represents a level of association among a plu-
rality of individuals where they participate in the same good. He proceeds by stating
that this is only the first kind of transformation by which a bare multitude of indi-
viduals turns into a group that has a sort of unity. There is, in fact, a further level,
and this is what is meant with terms such as ‘collegium,’ ‘universitas,’ and ‘civitas’.
This second level is characterized by the presence of a ‘head’ and of a power rela-
tion that establishes an order. Every community in this second sense is also a soci-
etas but the converse is not true.
5
Enrico’s wording of the question differs from that we find in other sources see Tabarroni
(1990, 21–23).
6
See Conetti (2011, 199–204; 237–239) for Enrico’s references to canon law.
7
Innocent IV is a key figure in the development of the legal concept of persona ficta (Belvisi 1993;
Grossi 1995, 219–222).
[…] being one because of sharing some goods is specific of a society, while the unity of a
city consists in power, because the unity of a city doesn’t consist in number, but in the
power of participation. For this reason, participating in a city, in a college or in a body,
implies the existence of a real society. Not every society, however, is a body or a college;
but only a society established according to the right, that possesses a head, is a body.8
This double level of human aggregation has relevant consequences. For example,
according to Enrico, in a societas goods belong in common to all the members of
the societas as individuals, but in a collegium goods belong to individuals as the
parts of the collegium. The distinction between societas and collegium also affects
the way decisions can be made. Only in the case of the collegium can the majority
decide against the minority, whereas in the case of a societas, everybody’s consent
is needed.9
One of the terms Enrico uses as a synonym of ‘collegium’ in this context is ‘civi-
tas.’ Turning from canon law to Aristotle, Enrico refers to Politics VII, without quot-
ing the text literally. According to Enrico, Aristotle maintains that a plurality of
persons does not establish a civitas, but rather potentia does.
Many humans, taken according to their number, are said to be many in quantity, but a mul-
titude does not establish either a society or a city, as it is said in Politics VII, because the
good and powerful establish a city in a multitude.10
Enrico probably has in mind the Aristotelian passage in Politics VII, 4 (1872, 258;
Petrus de Alvernia 2021, 463)11 that many centuries later Benjamin Jowett trans-
lated in the following way:
Most persons think that a state in order to be happy ought to be large; but even if they are
right, they have no idea what is a large and what a small state. For they judge of the size of
the city by the number of the inhabitants; whereas they ought to regard, not their number,
but their power. (Aristotle, The Politics, 1885, 214)
Moerbeke had similarly translated the original Greek ‘dynamis’ with potentia,
allowing for an interpretation that is most probably not faithful to the Stagirite’s
8
Enrico, Tractatus 7: ‘Sed unum participatione bonorum consistit in societatis ratione, unitas vero
civitatis consistit in potestate, cuius unitas non est in numero sed in potentia respectu participatio-
nis. Propter quod participatio civitatis vel collegii aut corporis est vera societas. Sed non omnis
societas bonorum est corpus vel collegium, sed societas iuris, habens caput, est corpus.’ (Bibl. Ap.
Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
9
Enrico, Tractatus 7 (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v). For this distinction, Enrico is explicitly
drawing on the canon law tradition, in particular on Innocent IV’s Apparatus on the Liber Extra;
cf. Innocent IV, Apparatus super V libris Decretalium (1535, 2vb). In this context, Innocent distin-
guishes between the actions of the members of a cathedral chapter either as individuals or as the
parts of the collegium.
10
Enrico, Tractatus 7: ‘plures homines, accepti secundum rationem numeri, dicuntur multi quanti-
tate, que multitudo non facit societatem neque civitatem, ut dicitur VII Politicorum, quia bonum et
potentia faciunt civitatem in multitudine.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
11
Aristotle, Politics VII. 4, 1326 a10: ‘secundum numeri enim multitudinem inhabitantium iudi-
cant magnam, oportet autem magis non ad multitudinem sed ad potentiam adspicere.’ (1872, 258;
a new, more reliable criticaledition of Moeberke’s translation [books III–VIII] is now available in
Petrus de Alvernia 2021, here 463).
84 R. Lambertini
intention. In fact, when dealing with the issue of the perfect polis, Aristotle merely
remarks that the number of citizens is not decisive, but rather the capacity to reach
its goal is (cf. Neschke-Hentschke 2001, 178). This potentia in Moerbeke’s transla-
tion is interpreted by Enrico as being synonymous with potestas in the sense of
political power. Indeed, according to the Franciscan theologian, a multitude of
human beings becomes a political community only if a power relation is established
that goes beyond the mere participation in some good. Only the ratio dominii allows
a political community to fulfil its own proper operation. For its part, the ratio domi-
nii, which is a power relation, requires that the community has a head or a leader, in
other words, a ruler.
The first multitude, merely consisting in sharing goods, precedes the second multitude,
which is ordered under one head, according to the order of generation. But the second pre-
cedes the first according to the order of perfection. The head, leader, or prince, or generally
speaking the ruler, is established—according to the natural way—by way of election and
consent of the people for the common good. For this reason, one should say that the first
operation of a multitude is consenting to share goods, but the second is consenting to a
power relation.12
Civitas is, therefore, a kind of community that unlike a societas is kept together by
a power relation among its members. From this point of view, one can better appre-
ciate Enrico’s account of the origin of a civitas. According to Enrico, Aristotle
maintains in Politics I that the polis is in some way natural because human beings
are naturally social, however only a dictate of reason brings this inclination to its
perfection. Enrico’s interpretation of Aristotle is undoubtedly rather peculiar,13 and
what follows is clearly more reminiscent of the Franciscan tradition. Enrico contin-
ues, in fact, asserting that human beings, who by the law of nature were all equal,
nevertheless follow a dictate of reason in giving their consent to a prince or ruler,
who as ‘head’, caput, initially establishes a collegium, which, in this respect, is
equivalent to a civitas.14According to Enrico, therefore, the establishment of a
political community not only rests on natural human sociability, but needs a volun-
tary act of consent that puts an end to natural law equality and designates a ruler.
Except for his stress on collegium and the peculiar canonistic flavor of his lan-
guage, Enrico’s account unquestionably and strongly resembles Scotus’s position
12
Comparing societas (called in this context prima multitudo) to civitas, Enrico, Tractatus 7:
‘Prima igitur multitudo, in simplici bonorum participatione, precedit—ordine generationis—
secundam multitudinem, ordinatam sub capite uno; sed secunda precedit primam perfectione. Et
quia caput et rector seu princeps vel universaliter dominus secundum modum naturalem est ex
electione et consensu communi populi, propter bonum universale, dimittendo proprium equalitatis,
ideo dicendum quod prima operatio multitudinis est consensus in participatione bonorum com-
muni, secunda vero est consensus ex ratione dominii.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
13
For the discussion on the naturalness of human association see Toste (2014) and Toivanen
(2020a, b, esp. 56–123).
14
Enrico, Tractatus 7: ‘Dicitur enim I Politicorum quod civitas est aliqualiter a natura, quia homi-
nes naturaliter sunt sociales et civiles, quam namque perficit rationis dictamen, mediante quo
homines, qui lege nature erant equales, consenserunt in principem et rectorem, ut caput quod
constituit rationem collegii.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
as Scotus develops it in his commentary on Book 4 of the Sentences.15 In compari-

son to Scotus, however, Enrico emphasizes more that only the ratio dominii allows
a political community to fulfil its specific operation. This specific operation con-
sists in reaching the perfect good (Enrico ascribes this claim to Aristotle) on the
basis of an act of consent and in accordance with an order under the guidance of
one ‘head’:
the second [kind of community], that is a collegium, expresses many votes and performs
many actions by common consent, or on the basis of one act of consent, according to a com-
mon and specific order, under one head, concerning one perfect good, as it is manifest from
the whole book of the Politics.16
5.4 Communities Are Real Beings
Furthermore, Enrico claims that a community that is provided with its own specific
operation, an operation that is different from the operations of its members, is real.
In other words, without an operation of its own, a communitas would be an entity
deprived of any degree of reality, reduced to nothing more than a sum of individuals
and, as Enrico puts it, would be ‘mathematical.’
If a community had no operation of its own, it would be useless according to its own reason,
and an association would not be anything besides the number of its members; in this way, it
would be mathematical, not real.17
Interestingly enough, in the first redaction of his bull Ad conditorem canonum, John
XXII had used the adjectives ‘mathematical’ and ‘verbal’ in contrast to ‘real’ when
he ironically described the kind of lordship effectively exerted by the papacy over
15
Scotus, Ordinatio, IV, 15, q. 2: ‘…utpote si ad civitatem aliquam aedificandam vel inhabitandam
concurrerunt extranei ali, videntes se non posse bene regi sine aliqua auctoritate, poterant concord-
iter consentire ut vel uni personae vel communitati committerent illam communitatem’; (2011,
82). Translation with some modification from Allan Wolter: ‘…if some persons, strangers to one
another, banded together to build a city or live in one, seeing that they could not be well governed
without some form of authority, they could have consented to commit their community to one
person or to one community.’ (2001, 41). Parisoli (2001, 104) analyses this famous passage in the
context of an interpretation of Scotus’ political thought with which I do not completely agree, see
Lambertini (2003).
16
Enrico, Tractatus 7: ‘secunda vero, scilicet collegium, habet multa vota et multos actus ex com-
muni consensu, vel ex uno consensu et communi et determinato ordine, sub uno capite, circa unum
perfectum bonum, ut patet ex toto decursu libri Politicorum.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
17
Enrico, Tractatus 7: ‘si communitas non haberet operationem propriam sibi debitam, esset frus-
tra secundum rationem propriam, nec esset universitas aliquid preter numerum hominum, et sic
esset res mathematica, non realis.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
86 R. Lambertini
the goods that the Friars Minor used.18 He was criticized by Bonagratia da Bergamo
in his appeal, who opposed ‘mathematicum’ to ‘efficax’ and ‘reale’.19
If a community is not real, moral sciences such as economics and politics, which
deal with communities, would not be practical or real sciences. Moreover, laws
would be nothing more than figmenta, that is mental constructs devoid of any cor-
respondence with reality,20 and even the kingdom of Christ would lack foundation:
‘Christ’s kingdom would be founded on nothing,’ since Christ’s laws and precepts
would be only figmenta; his laws would in fact be mere beings of reason, and the
same would hold for the relation between Christ and the faithful. On the contrary,
Enrico insists, collegia do have their own specific operation. The example he
chooses is election. He insists on the fact that individual members express their vote
in such a process but that an election is an action of the group as a whole. In order
to corroborate his claim, Enrico refers here to canon law, and in particular to a
decretal letter by Innocent III. In this text, the election of a bishop is judged invalid
because the members have voted separately, while they should have expressed their
decision for one candidate together.21 Commenting on this decretal letter, and in
particular on the phrase nec ex singularibus, the Glossa ordinaria stresses that if the
right of electing is common to everybody (that is to all members of a collegium), it
should not be divided and attributed to the single members taken separately.22
According to Enrico, therefore, canon law supports his claim that a collegium per-
forms an operation that cannot be ascribed to its members taken separately:
In fact, in this case there is one common election where there are many votes and voices, as
it is apparent when many persons are towing a boat: each of them pulls, but there is only one
18
John XXII, Ad conditorem (first version): ‘Dominium autem Romanae ecclesiae reservatum ex
eo videri potest nudum, verbale et mathematicum.’ (Gál and Flood 1996, 86). This could be trans-
lated as: ‘The lordship retained by the Roman Church can seem empty, verbal, and mathematical
for this reason.’ On the use of mathematicus in this sense see Miethke (2016).
19
Bonagratia de Pergamo, Appellatio: ‘[…] non est nudum, verbal seu mathematicum, sed multum
utile, efficax et reale.’ A possible English translation is: ‘it is not empty, verbal, or mathematical,
but very useful, effective, and real.’ (Gál and Flood 1996, 110).
20
Enrico, Tractatus, 7: ‘Et sic scientia moralis, saltem respectu economie et politie, immediate ex
hac ratione totius, esset non realis nec practica, et leges essent figmenta, et regnum Christi esset
fundatum in nichilo.’; ‘And in this way moral science, at least with reference to the science of
household and to politics, immediately because of this nature of the whole, wouldn’t be either real
or practical.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
21
Corpus Iuris Canonici, II, Liber Extra, I, VI, 55: here the pope declares the election invalid also
because the electors expressed their vote separately: ‘nec etiam electio communiter celebrata.’
(1872, 94–95).
22
Glossa ordinaria to Liber Extra, I, VI, 55: ‘neque voces eorum tamquam plurium admittuntur,
quos diversitas temporum simul interfuisse prohibuit.’ A possible English translation is ‘[…] nor
are their votes accepted as if they were more persons who expressed their intention at different
times and therefore did not gather together.’ (1582, 203–4).
motion of the boat. The same happens with the agreement of that cathedral chapter on a
candidate.23
The example of people pulling a boat from the banks of a river, taken from everyday
medieval life and by no means original,24 will be evoked for the same purpose in
Francis of Marchia’s Improbatio (1993, 114) and Ockham’s Opus Nonaginta
Dierum (1974, 366). Both authors use the case of a group performing an action
together thanks to common effort in their criticisms of against John XXII’s Quia vir
reprobus.
Returning to the same issue in another chapter of his treatise, Enrico underlines
that the community is not a being of reason but a real being, existing outside of the
intellect and possessing its own real act(s) thanks to the unity that it has by virtue of
the order that its members bear to one another. An example of a real act performed
by a community of this kind is ‘consilium’. This key-term in medieval moral psy-
chology is very often rendered as ‘deliberation’. Many authors connect it to the role
played by the intellectual faculty prior to a moral decision. In this passage the bishop
of Lucca suggests that a community deliberates as a whole.25 On the basis of the
results of this collective intellectual scrutiny, the community can express a single,
unified consent, which depends on the will and, most importantly, can exert the
power of jurisdiction just as a single person can.26
Enrico del Carretto claims, therefore, that will and consent are simultaneously
constitutive of the political community, and that they give rise to an entity that can-
not be reduced to its individual members but possesses a reality of its own. He does
not specify, however, what kind of reality this is. In his Tractatus the reader would
look in vain for an explicit ontological distinction between physical entities, colle-
gia, and other communities of the sort that we can find in Olivi (Boureau 1999;
Rode 2014; Piron 2016; Toivanen 2016). Enrico del Carretto agrees, however, with
Olivi that the will is the proper key to a correct understanding of the origins of
human communities. Such ‘voluntarism’ does not lead—at least to Enrico’s mind—
to equating human communities to beings of reason, which Peter Auriol holds
(Lagarde 1958, 274–301; Flüeler 1994). It would not be too far from the truth to
claim that according to Enrico such beings possess a sort of ‘epistemische
Objektivität,’ as Christian Rode (2014) writes, although Enrico’s stress falls more
on the role played by the will than on knowledge (Emili 2012; Lambertini 2018).
23
Enrico, Tractatus, 7: ‘Est enim hic communis electio ubi sunt multa vota et voces, sicut apparet
in trahentibus navem: quilibet enim trahit, et tamen unus est navis motus; et ita est illius capituli
unus consensus circa unum electrum […]’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 3v).
24
One can find this example in, e.g. Aquinas, Sententia libri Ethicorum, I, 1 (1969, 4).
25
Cf. Casagrande (2004). For a discussion of consilium as a social activity from a neo–Thomist
point of view, see Hain 2015; for the historical background, see Saccenti (2016, 129–138).
26
Enrico, Tractatus, 67: ‘Item etiam, non solum est in periculo unus homo ex lege peccati, sed
communitas: non enim communitas est ens rationis sed reale, extra intellectum habens verum
actum realem ex unitate ordinis, scilicet ratione intellectus et voluntatis unum consilium et unum
consensum, Extra, De electione, In Genesi. Habet etiam iurisdictionis potestatem: unde precipere
potest et agere et obligare, et alia sicut homo unus facere.’ (Bibl. Ap. Vat., Borgh. 294, fol. 22r).
88 R. Lambertini
As noted at the beginning of this chapter, Enrico del Carretto’s treatise was left
unfinished before John XXII used the claim that the ‘Order is a represented person’
to counter the arguments put forward by the supporters of the Franciscan theory of
Apostolic poverty. The death of the Franciscan theologian antecedes the last stages
of the dramatic escalation of the controversy, although an anonymous account of the
consistory held on the 6 March, 1322 reports that John XXII had already insulted
him for his steadfast defense of the Franciscan position.27 According to this account,
before reproaching the bishop of Lucca, the Pope had defined the Order of the Friars
Minor as ‘mathematical.’ Enrico’s claim that the Order, being a collegium but some-
thing ‘real’ that can perform real acts, is incompatible with John XXII’s understand-
ing of ‘legal entities’ as mere fictions. This would remain a key point in the defense
of the Franciscan position, since the use of fact is understood to be a real act of the
whole Order.28
5.5 Conclusion
Turning our attention back to the entry on social ontology in the online Stanford
Encyclopedia of Philosophy, one cannot miss the fact that its historical part, after
briefly noting developments in ancient philosophy, moves directly to Hobbes. The
historical supplement to the same entry only mentions Augustine for the entire
period from the Roman jurist Paulus to the author of the Leviathan (Epstein 2018).
The purpose of the present chapter, however, was not so much to show the necessity
of filling the gap in our awareness of the history of what is now called ‘social ontol-
ogy,’ since other scholars have anticipated me in this endeavor with pioneering con-
tributions (e. g. Rode 2014). I wanted to draw attention first to the fact that
lesser-known medieval authors, such as Enrico del Carretto, are also worth being
investigated, and second, that their contributions to social ontology are often deeply
linked to the political and ecclesiological controversies of their times.
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Chapter 6
The Emergence of Social Life
and the Ontology of Consociatio
in the Political Theory of Johannes
Althusius
Jukka Ruokanen
6.1 Introduction
In the following contribution I will explore the social ontology that we find in the
political theory of Johannes Althusius1 (1557–1638), as presented in his main politi-
cal work Politica Methodice Digesta, Atque Exemplis Sacris et Profanis Illustrata
(1614).2 Politica provides a theory of politics, which is the art of ‘associating (con-
sociandi) men for the purpose of establishing, cultivating, and conserving social life
1
Friedrich has called Althusius ‘the clearest and most profound thinker which Calvinism has pro-
duced in the realm of political science and jurisprudence’ (Introduction to Politica (1932, xviii)).
Henreckson estimates that Althusius was prominent in early Reformed political thought in two
ways: ‘first, in the sense that his work was given a quasi-canonical status by many of his immediate
heirs and critics; and second, insofar as his work was a crystallization and even culmination of the
thought of many of his contemporaries’ (2019, 128). Nevertheless, Althusius’ work fell out of
grace after the mid–seventeenth century as he was ‘routinely denounced as a dangerous theorist of
anti-state riots and his book of politics as “poison” for the youth, a “pestilence,” and “worthy to be
tossed into the flames”’ (Hueglin 1999, 18). Only by the end of nineteenth century was Althusius
recovered form relative obscurity by Otto von Gierke, who laid the groundwork for renewed inter-
est in Althusius’ thought in the twentieth century (Carney’s introduction to Politica (1995, ix)).
2
There are three different editions of Politica dating from 1603, 1610, and 1614. The last is the
most substantial and the one that scholars have conventionally studied. In addition to Politica,
Althusius’ main theoretical works consist of judicial and ethical writings. His principal ethical
work is Civilis conversationis libri duo (1601) and his central legal works are Jurisprudentia
Romanae (1586) and Dicaeologicae (1617).
J. Ruokanen (*)
e-mail: jukka.ruokanen@gmail.com

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_6
94 J. Ruokanen
among them’ (Politica I, § 1 (1995, 17)).3 Social ontology is understood here

broadly construed as something that can be discovered behind every political and
social theory in the explicit and implicit positions taken concerning social and polit-
ical phenomena. These underpinnings can be found by asking questions like: who
or what are the agents in social and political matters; how far do their agency or
decision-making capabilities reach; what limits their possible and acceptable ways
of behavior; what kind of motivations, reasons, or even forces drive social and polit-
ical life; and between whom or what social and political reality exists, etc.
To start with, my aim is to discover what sort of preconditions and commitments
social life (vita socialis) is built on. To this end, I will analyze the different elements,
forces, and agents at play in the emergence of social life in Sect. 6.2. ‘Social life’ is
understood as a broad and general term referring simply to life that is lived with
other people. I show that nature and God create the reason, motivation, and purpose
for individuals to engage in social life, but that in the end it is human will that brings
about and maintains particular associations. In Sect. 6.3, I will analyze the ontology
of consociatio, i.e. association or union, that is the fundamental building block of
society understood as aggregation of multiple consociationes ordered in a proto-
federalist manner. Consequently, social life takes place within and between differ-
ent consociationes. The existence of consociatio will be shown to depend on the
shared legal and political order called symbiotic right (jus symbioticum), which is
essential for a specific kind of social life that Althusius argues for, i.e. symbiosis. In
order to deepen our understanding of the ontology of consociatio, I will utilize
Emmanuel Renault’s (2016) division between ‘substantial’, ‘relational’ and ‘pro-
cessual’ ontology in Sect. 6.4. The possibility of understanding consociatio as rela-
tional, processual, as well as substantial relies on the possibility of conceiving it as
a hylomorphic construction made of matter (members of the consociatio) and form
(its symbiotic right). The analysis will show that regardless of its clear substantial
basis, the ontology of consociatio also manifests relational and processual
dimensions.
My interpretation and argumentation are built on a close textual and structural
analysis of Politica. I seek contextual depth particularly in connection with the
numerous concepts that Althusius develops. Three influences on Althusius’ theory
are especially important for my study.4 Althusius, like several other pre- and early
modern thinkers, clearly accepts a broadly Aristotelian framework in connection to
social and political life, which is evident in his argumentation concerning the natu-
ralness of social life. Just as clearly, however, he modifies the Aristotelian frame-
work in light of his Christian, and particularly Reformist, commitments and
3
The marking ‘I, § 1’ refers to the first book and the first paragraph of Politica. Occasionally I do
my own translations which are indicated by reference to Politica (1981) which is a reprint of the
1614 Latin edition. In many cases I have also included Latin original in the footnote for further
reference. As a general reference, I have opted to use Carney’s abridged English translation of
Politica (1995) for accessibility.
4
For a fuller account of the numerous sources that Althusius draws on, see e.g. Carney’s introduc-
tion to Politica (1995).
6 The Emergence of Social Life and the Ontology of Consociatio in the Political… 95
conceptions. This is manifested by the role he gives to God and the needs of the soul
(e.g. eternal life) in connection to the formation of social life. Finally, Althusius’
legal background and his knowledge of Roman law should be noted. It is obvious to
anyone reading Althusius that his argumentation involves an abundance of legal
terms and that he gives a prominent role for right (jus) and law (lex) in his under-
standing of social life.
6.2 Three Main Factors of the Emergence Social Life:

Nature, God and Human Will
In this section I will trace the three main factors behind the emergence of social life.
These will be shown to be nature, God, and human will. The last is the efficient
cause of an association, or consociatio in Althusius terms (see Sect. 6.3), while God
and nature can be understood as defining the final causes of social life. To get to this
conclusion we need to start by investigating the essential premises for the existence
of social life, which are already given at the beginning of Politica (I, § 3 (1981, 2)):
‘The end of political symbiotic human being is holy, just, comfortable, and happy
symbiosis, a life lacking nothing necessary or useful. But no-one is self-sufficient
by himself or adequately equipped by nature to live such a life.’5 The first sentence
describes humans as bound to a certain qualitative form of social life, or symbiosis,6
as their end, whereas the latter sentence states that the natural condition of human
beings is somehow inadequate7 to achieve this. Together these statements create a
fundamental tension between man’s end and his condition that needs to be eased.
Note that I will draw a distinction between symbiotic life and social life at the end
of Sect. 6.3, but for the time being it is enough to consider them as more or less
synonymous, as Althusius himself hardly makes a clear distinction between them.
That said, I strive to treat ‘social life’ as a general term simply indicating life lived
with other people while ‘symbiotic life’ points to the more qualified type of social
life that Althusius promotes.
5
‘Hominis politici symbiotici finis est sancta, justa, commoda & felix symbiosis, & vita nulla re
necessaria vel utili indigens. Ad hanc vero vitam vivendam, nemo hominum per se est αὐτάρκης,
vel sufficiens & satis a natura instructus’ (Politica I, § 3 (1981, 2)).
6
‘Symbiosis’, i.e. ‘living together’. The concept of symbiosis and its derivatives are important and
characteristic expressions in Althusius’ theory. For an in-depth analysis of ‘symbiosis’ see e.g.
Friedrich’s Introductory Remarks in Politica (1932), Scattola (2002), and especially Malandrino
(2010b).
7
For Althusius the perfect human condition is destroyed through the Fall of man (Koch 2009, 82).
He sees human beings as limited in their abilities, such as their intellectual abilities, and prone to
evil (Friedrich’s Introduction to Politica (1932, lxx–lxxi). In their fallen state, human beings are
temporarily inclined and hostile toward God (Koch 2005, 62). Although, education provides a way
of bringing the human soul back to its original perfection (Koch 2009, 82). Note that for the deeper
understanding of Althusius’ view of man, both Koch and Friedrich rely on Althusius’ De Utilitate,
Necessitate et Antiquitate Scholarum, which is printed as an appendix to Politica.
96 J. Ruokanen
Althusius explicates the inadequate condition of human beings in the oft-quoted

paragraph I, § 4 (Politica (1995, 17)) where the helpless, naked, and defenseless
human baby is ‘cast forth into the hardships of this life, not able by his own efforts
to reach a maternal breast, nor to endure the harshness of his condition, nor to move
himself from the place where he was cast forth.’ This condition of lack spans from
childhood to adulthood since ‘[n]or in his adulthood is he able to obtain in and by
himself those external goods he needs for a comfortable and holy life, or to provide
by his own energies all the requirements of life.’ Human beings need help from one
another to overcome this fundamental insufficiency so that together they can pro-
duce the necessary and useful things they need.
These necessary and useful things do not refer only to material things. Indeed, it
is an integral feature of Althusius’ theory that politics has to do with the needs of the
soul as well as the needs of the body (See e.g. Politica I, § 6, 14, 27 (1995, 19, 21,
23)). The body needs sustenance and protection whereas the soul needs to be
‘formed and imbued with doctrine and knowledge’ provided by education, which
covers true knowledge and the worship of God, duties towards one’s neighbors and
the correction of evil customs and errors (Politica I, § 14–15 (1995, 21)). On the one
hand, in an Aristotelian sense, education is needed because human beings cannot by
themselves ‘show forth the light of reason’ even if they are well nourished in body
(Politica I, § 4 (1995, 17)). On the other hand, the needs of the soul extend beyond
this world to soul’s eternal life—to the need of salvation (Politica IX, § 31–32 (1995,
75)). However, salvation as such is not a subject of politics but rather of theology
(Politica XXI, § 41 (1995, 146–148)). Eternal life is relevant for politics to the
extent that in this finite life the way to salvation needs to be taught and practiced
(Politica IX, § 31–39; XXVIII § 48 (1995, 75–76, 169–170)). For Althusius, the
subject matter of politics is both pious and just symbiosis (Politica III, § 42 (1995,
31–32)). Thus, for him, human associations involve both an ecclesiastical and secu-
lar dimension.8 There has been a considerable debate about what way the religious
dimension of Althusius theory should be best understood.9 Here it is relevant that
due to the care for the needs of the soul, his understanding of politics and social life
as qualitatively symbiotic life manifests a certain transcendental character along
with its immanent character pertaining to the secular life.
Getting back to paragraph 1 § 4, the symbiotic life provides relief for the human
condition of inadequacy and his need of other people’s help: ‘[t]herefore since rem-
edy and help is presented for him in symbiotic life, he is led, almost impelled to
8
Although, this varies depending on the type of association (defined in Sect. 6.3). Public associa-
tions, that is cities, provinces and realms, clearly manifest both secular and ecclesiastical sides. In
the case of private associations, families and collegia (professional associations, guilds), the exis-
tence of the double concern (over body and soul) is not as clear.
9
Particularly in the twentieth century secularizing interpretations of Politica were common, but
since the end of the last century there has been a growing interest in understanding the numerous
biblical references of Politica (e.g. Janssen 1992) and to read Politica in the context of Reformist
theology as well as political thought (e.g. Henreckson 2019).
embrace it if he wants to live comfortably and well, or indeed to live at all.’10 The
phrasing here crucially invokes some sort of leading, guiding, and pulling (duco), or
even a drive or push (impello) towards social life. What or who is responsible for
this directing is not explicitly mentioned, but the dual orientation of qualitatively
symbiotic social life—needs of the body and soul—sheds light on the question.
Firstly, it is important that Althusius’ discussion involves expressions that
emphasize the naturalness of social life. For example, he writes in reference to
Aristotle: ‘(c)learly man by nature is a gregarious animal born for cultivating soci-
ety with other men, not by nature living alone as wild beasts do, nor wandering
about as birds’ (Politica I, § 24 (1995, 22)).11 Occasionally he writes about a natural
inclination or instinct towards social life, which is described as a God-given capac-
ity of human beings for maintaining themselves (e.g. Politica I, § 32–33 (1995,
24–25)). In case of certain associations, like families and collegia (i.e. professional
associations), the bond between members includes an affectional dimension, par-
ticularly so in the relationship between a husband and wife (Politica II, § 14, 38; III,
§ 18–21; IV, § 23 (1995, 28–30, 37)). However, most important for the naturalness
of human social life are the (created) natural differences between human beings:
God distributed his gifts variously among human beings. For he did not give everything to
one person, but some to one and some to others, so that I would need yours and you mine.
In this way arises the need for sharing necessary and useful things, which cannot take place
except in political and social life. Thus, God willed that one needs the services and help of
another, that friendship would bind everyone together, and that no one would consider
another of no importance.12
Here we can see that Althusius considers human beings to be different from each
other and that these natural differences are what enable different people to provide
different necessary and useful things. Thus, social life and the help of others is not
needed only because of a lack of strength of individuals, but because other people
also provide different capabilities and skills from our own and these can help us.
This goes some way to show that Althusius has in mind a stratified or specialized
(and hierarchical)13 society, ‘a diversity of farmers, craftsmen, laborers, builders,
soldiers, merchants, learned and unlearned men’ (Politica I, § 27 (1995, 23)) united
by the will of God as the creator of their differences. God in a sense expects human
10
‘Cum itaque remedium & auxilium illi ostendatur in vita symbiotica, ad hanc, si commode &
bene, imo si vivere cupit, amplectendam ducitur, & quasi impellitur [...]’ (Politica I, § 4 (1981, 3)).
11
See also Politica I, § 32 (1995, 24).
12
Althusius, Politica I, § 26. ‘[…] Deus opt. Max. sua dona varie distribuit inter homines. Non
enim uni contulit omnia, sed aliis alia, ut ego tuis, tu meis indigeres, ita ut quasi necessitas com-
municandorum necessariorum & utilium hinc nata sit, quae communicatio non nisi in politica vita
sociali fieri poterat. Ideo Deus voluit, ut alter alterius opera & auxilio egeret, ut devinciret omnes
& singulos amicitia, ne alius alium floccipenderet.’ (1981, 8)
13
This can be seen by numerous references to natural order of things, the inequality of human
beings and the fact that some people are better suited to rule than others. See e.g. Politica I, §
34–38; VI, § 47 (1995, 25–26, 49–50).
98 J. Ruokanen
beings to associate because he created them to be different. Consequently, they are

self-sufficient only when they come together.
Hence the fact that human beings are different by nature, and the fact that they
need others to satisfy their own needs, together form the content and dynamics of a
natural inclination towards social life and entitle us to call social life ‘natural.’ As
Althusius (Politica (1981, 10)) concludes in paragraph I, § 33:
[n]ecessity therefore urges association; and the need of things necessary for life, which are
acquired and communicated by the assistance and advice of associates, conserves it […]
For this reason, it is evident that the state [civitas], i.e. the political community [civilis
societas], exists by nature, and that a human being is by nature a political animal, who
clearly strives after association.14
These remarks primarily exemplify the naturalness of social life. However,

Althusius’ argumentation involves also a type of divine guiding or expectation for
social life that seems distinct from the natural dynamics of human social life.
Promoting active and practical life against passive and theoretical life in solitude,
Althusius (Politica I, § 25 (1981, 8)) writes:
And so, the misanthropic and stateless hermits, living without settled heart or home, clearly
miserable by themselves, are no use to themselves or to others. For how can they promote
the advantage of their neighbors, if not by making their way to human society? […] How
can they offer works of love to others when they live outside human fellowship? How can
the Church be established and the remaining duties of the first table of the Decalogue duly
fulfilled?15
The crucial point here is that an individual cannot follow God’s commandments if
isolated from other human beings.16 He or she cannot fulfil his or her duties toward
God (the duties of the first table) or fellow human beings (the duties of the second
14
‘Necessitas igitur suasit consociationem & indigentia rerum ad vitam necessariarum, quae con-
sociatorum ope & consilio adquiruntur & communicantur, eam conservat. […] Qua ratione mani-
festum est, civitatem, i. e. civilem societatem natura consistere, hominemque natura esse civile
animal, eamque consociationem sensim appetere.’ (Politica I, §33 (1981, 10)).
15
‘Itaque eremitae μισάνθρωπο & άπόλιδες, sine certo lare, foco, vel domicilio & sede viventes,
plane per se miseri, neque sibi, neque aliis utiles sunt. Nam quomodo proximi sui commoda pro-
movere hi possunt, nisi societati humanae se insinuent? (Eccl.cap.4.5.6.7.8) ubi Junius notat utili-
tates vitae socialis (1.Cor.cap.12.7&seqq). Quomodo caritatis opera aliis possunt praestare, quando
extra consortium hominum degunt? Quomodo ecclesia aedificari & reliqua primae tabulae officia
commode praestari possunt?’ (Politica I, § 25 (1981, 8)). See also I § 23 where Althusius describes
the meaning of the second table of Decalogue.
16
Miegge (2010, 149–150) sees that Althusius condemns the life of hermits, because one cannot
learn of God in isolation nor take part in building the Church.
table,17 i.e. works of love) that lead the way to salvation.18 It is noteworthy here that
God plays a different role than before, when he expected social life to emerge by
creating differences between humans. Here he is a commander or redeemer rather
than a creator, and as such, clearly separate from nature, speaking through Scripture
rather than through creation.19 As such he is an agent whose will is relevant for
emergence of social life. However, even here social, or symbiotic, life as such is not
directly commanded—as it was not directly created—but is rather given as a pre-
condition for procuring eternal life.
Regardless of the necessity involved and the guiding and pushing towards social
life—by nature and Scripture, by the needs of the body and soul, by God the creator
and God the redeemer—its emergence still lacks a crucial component: the human
will. Althusius explicitly writes, ‘the efficient cause of political association [conso-
ciationis politicae] is consent and agreement among the communicating citizens’
(Politica I, § 29 (1995, 24)). This consensual character of human association takes
different expressions in different types of associations.20 The exact significance and
extent of this ‘will-factor’ has been a debated issue for a long time.21 It seems clear
though that, besides the establishment of an association, the continued existence of
an association also requires ongoing consent (Henreckson 2019, 143–44). All things
considered, I find it difficult to disagree with Carney’s assessment that the ‘[s]ymbi-
otic association requires thus a balance between social necessity and social
volition.’22 While the establishment and continued existence of an association
requires human will, this happens in a highly charged framework where the (cre-
ated) nature of human beings and the expectations of God based on the promise of
salvation almost impel human beings to associate. As this push is not enough to
actually cause any particular association, nature and God are best understood as
providing the final causes of the association, or rather the final causes of social life,
17
That Althusius has in mind the duties of the second table of Decalogue when he speaks of activi-
ties or attitudes towards fellow men is clear in other sections, such as Politica I, § 22–23; IX, § 31;
XXI, § 27–28 (1995, 22, 75, 142–144).
18
Althusius does not talk much about how salvation is procured, but rather how pious life is
attained. For my purposes it suffices to treat these equivalent, as I am not debating (Reformist)
theology. For the connection between following God’s commandments and the attainment of pious
(and ultimately eternal) life, see e.g. Politica VII, § 5–6; IX, § 28, 34, 38, 39; XXI, § 18 (1995,
51–52, 74–76, 139).
19
Malandrino (2010b, 344) and others who emphasize the Reformist context tend to conflate these
roles and see God as a kind of a caller in the sense that he irresistibly (at risk to their salvation) calls
human beings to take part in symbiotic life according to their pre–ordained place, role, and occupa-
tion (vocatio) in society.
20
The consensual or contractual character of consociatio is most visible in case of collegium and
universal association (realm) (Politica IV, § 1–3; IX, § 1, 3 (1995, 33, 66)), but the family and city
also manifest this voluntary aspect (Politica II, § 14; V, § 1, 8 (1995, 28, 39–40)). The province’s
contractual character remains less specific. In Sect. 6.3 I explain the different types of association.
21
In this respect see e.g. Friedrich’s introduction to Politica (1932), Hueglin (1999), Duso (2002),
and Henreckson (2019).
22
Carney, ‘Translator’s introduction,’ in Politica (1995, 11).
100 J. Ruokanen
since they do not direct human beings to any particular association but to associate
in general. Thus, nature and God give the reason and motivation to pursue social
life, while the human will is responsible for the establishment and continued exis-
tence of particular associations.
6.3 The Existence of Consociatio in Communicatio

and Symbiotic Right
This section deals with the existential basis of consociatio,23 i.e. an association or a
union, and the role that nature, God, and human will play in its formation. I show
that the existence of consociatio depends on the existence of its right (jus), and this
right in turn includes natural law, divine law, and human made ‘proper laws’ (leges
propriae, i.e. positive law). We shall begin by examining the relationship between
social life and consociatio. Briefly stated, the latter is the locus, mode, and funda-
mental building block of structured social life. In other words, consociatio is where
and how social life takes place. However, a definite feature of Althusius’ theory is
that society is understood as an aggregation of multiple consociationes that grow
upwards, from bottom to top. From private consociationes, such as families and
collegia (i.e. professional associations, guilds)24 to public consociationes such as
cities and provinces (which are particular public consociationes) all to way to the
level of the realm (a universal public consociatio) and even beyond to confedera-
tions of realms, all the way securing relative autonomy for lower levels—a feature
which has inspired interpreting Althusius as a (proto-) federalist.25 Thus, social life
is as much about the relationships between consociationes as relationships within
them. In this section and Sect. 6.4, I will concentrate on analyzing the ontology of
the consociatio in general, which will encompass both aspects. In my view, creating
a new higher level consociatio is always a reiteration of the same general formula,
and consequently the basic ontology of consociatio does not differ between differ-
ent types and levels. This holds even when taking into account that private
23
An exemplary analysis of the concept of consociatio can be found in Zwierlein (2010) where he
identifies and discusses four different contexts of consociatio (the Ciceronian and Ramist influ-
ence, in federal theology, Roman law, and ‘koinônia’ in Aristotelian thought) and reflects on their
similarities and differences in regard to Althusius’ use of the concept.
24
According to Althusius types of collegia vary depending on the circumstances of persons, crafts,
and functions. They exist for different social, religious, educational or commercial ends (Benoist
2000, 34). Althusius gives examples like collegia of bakers, tailors, builders, merchants, coiners of
money, philosophers, theologians and government officials (Politica IV, § 24 (1995, 38)). The
notion of collegium is important for Althusius’ thought also because decision-making in different
types of consociationes (excluding the family) is clearly collegial. Thus, for example, a collegium
of officials of a public consociatio is functionally rather a (public) administrative organ than a
(private) professional association.
25
For Althusius’ federalism see e.g. Woldring (1998), Hueglin (1999), and Malandrino (2010a).
consociationes are composed of individual human beings whereas the public conso-
ciationes are composed of lower level consociationes.
6.3.1 The Right of the Consociatio as the Basis

of Its Existence
Consociatio is fundamentally about communicatio26—i.e. sharing or making com-

mon—what is useful and necessary for (social) life. For, the subject matter of poli-
tics is ‘consociatio, in which the symbiotes [members of the consociatio, participants
in common life] pledge themselves each to the other, by explicit or tacit agreement,
to mutual sharing of whatever is useful and necessary for the exercise and sharing
of social life.’27 What is useful and necessary does not include only things (res), but
especially also services (operae) and right(s) (jus) (Politica I, § 7 (1995, 19)).28 In
different types and levels of consociationes these have varying content and exten-
sion (Politica I, § 21; V, § 4 (1995, 22, 39)). In communicatio, in general, the sym-
biotes bring ‘useful and necessary goods to the social life […] for the common
advantage of the symbiotes individually and collectively’ and contribute ‘their
labors and occupations for the sake of social life’ (Politica I, § 8–9 (1995, 19)).
Although, according to Althusius (Politica I, § 7 (1995, 19)), the mutual sharing of
things, services, and right is what constitutes and conserves social life, nonetheless
the communicatio of right, ‘the process by which the symbiotes live and are ruled
by just laws in a common life among themselves’ (Politica I, §10 (1995, 19)) is the
26
For an analysis of communicatio, see particularly Povero (2010). He emphasises that communi-
catio is for Althusius a dynamic term in the sense of ‘creating community’ and ‘taking part in
something common.’
27
Althusius, Politica I, § 2 ‘Proposita igitur Politicae est consociatio, qua pacto expresso, vel tacito,
symbiotici inter se invicem ad communicationem mutuam eorum, quae ad vitae socialis usum &
consortium sunt utilia & necessaria, se obligant’ (1981, 2).
28
Generally, communicatio concerns especially jus, res and operae but often also help (auxilium)
and advice (consilium) among other things. Reflecting these five major objects of communicatio,
Povero (2010, 142) has identified five areas of communicatio in Politica: legal, economic, that of
sharing skills, that of subsidiarity, and that of moral support in the name of Christian charity. With
Povero ‘subsidiarity’ seems to refer loosely to sharing aid in various ways, but in general it refers
to the principle that matters should be decided on and executed by the level of structured social life
to which they are most proper. In Althusius’ scheme, higher level consociationes are established
for greater self-sufficiency. For example, the realm is created to provide things that are not attain-
able by individual cities and provinces. Crucially, after the establishment of the the realm it does
not take over the matters of cities and provinces (nor of course families or collegia)—its jurisdic-
tion covers only those things that were deemed proper to it.
102 J. Ruokanen
most important aspect of communicatio and, as I think, crucial for the existence of
consociatio.29
This shared right, the law of consociatio and symbiosis, or the symbiotic right
(jus symbioticum), has two aspects: ‘one functioning to direct and govern social life,
the other prescribing a plan and manner for communicating things and services
among the symbiotes’ (Politica I, § 10 (1995, 19)). The second aspect shows that the
communicatio of right addresses the question of how the sharing of useful and nec-
essary things will take place. Thus, the symbiotic right is needed to provide a
scheme, design, or way (ratio and modus) of sharing of things and services, and in
this respect the communicatio of right is primary to the communicatio of things and
services. Regarding the first aspect, Althusius firmly holds that it is necessary for
every consociatio to have a leader or a governing entity (Politica I, § 11, 12 (1995,
19–20)). Referring to Petrus Gregorius’ De republica, Althusius declares that with-
out such a guiding and leading function, confusion, discord and dissolution of soci-
ety will occur (Politica I, § 34–37 (1995, 25–26)). The leader does not, however,
govern according to his own will, but according to the laws of the consociatio and
for the benefit of the consociatio and its members.30 For example, the leader of a
consociatio does not decide on his own the plan and manner of communicatio, but
executes it according to the laws and customs of the consociatio. Together the two
aspects of jus symbioticum manifest the important order-giving role of right (jus)
that enables a broader communicatio.31 On the one hand, every consociatio has its
own laws and leaders. On the other hand, at the level of the realm, all the lower level
consociationes come under shared law and leadership that keeps the whole together.
29
De Vries and Nitschke also underline the centrality of symbiotic right in communicatio and note
how it holds the community together, gives it the order it requires, and separates it from a mere
crowd (2004, 107). They also emphasize how for Althusius (following Calvin) law and order are
indispensable parts of political system, and note that for him a well-functioning community can
only exist and be held together based on law and order (2004, 113–114). However, they also bring
up the necessity of consensio and concordia for the existence of consociatio, since without them
the system of order would collapse (2004, 116–117). This is an important point to consider because
it reveals that the existence of consociatio and the symbiotic right are not static, but rather dynamic,
even volatile, phenomena which need to be constantly reaffirmed and supported by facilitating
consensus and harmony. Above I have accounted for the necessity of mutual agreement by refer-
ring to the efficient cause of consociatio, but otherwise it is not analyzed further here. For a more
in–depth interpretation of concordia in Althusius’ theory, see e.g. Lazzarino Del Grosso (2010).
30
See e.g. Politica I, § 13 (1995, 20) for a general statement; II, § 3,5 (1995, 27–28) for a family
and collegium; V, § 1,5, 8, 22–23 (1995, 33–35, 37) for a city or community (universitas); VII, § 3,
VIII, § 1,50, 52, 56 (1995, 51, 53, 61–63) for a province; and IX, § 21 ff. (1995, 71ff) for the realm.
31
Scattola (2002, 220–221) emphasises the order-giving role of ‘jus symbioticum’ and the primacy
of communicatio of right over other kind of sharing. However, he also notes that since man is by
nature determined to this order, the relationship between communicatio and jus symbioticum
becomes mutual, so that the communicatio is both the cause and the consequence of the jus symbi-
oticum. Consequently, it seems difficult to determine which comes first, communicatio or the order
of communicatio, especially when considering the possibility that order arises from practice, from
the tacit agreement to share, to take part in what is common. (See e.g. Politica I, § 2, 29 (1995, 17,
24), and IX, § 1–2 (1995, 66) cited above). Nevertheless, it still seems impossible that there could
be sharing without the order of sharing.
As a consequence, an ordered society with both local and universal leadership

arises, with a local and universal plan and way for sharing things and services.
The fact that jus symbioticum—which is discussed using varying terminology in
the context of different kinds of consociationes—is a necessary condition for the
existence of a consociatio can be deduced from the following kinds of statements by
Althusius32:
Humans who have gathered together without symbiotic right are a crowd, throng, multi-
tude, gathering, people or nation.33
When a community is deprived of its common right, it ceases to exist.34
Universal, public, and greater consociatio is where many cities and provinces obligate
themselves to hold, constitute, exercise, and defend the right of the realm (jus regni) through
mutual communicatio of things and services and by common strength and resources. For
without these supports and the right of sharing (jure communicationis), it is not possible to
establish, cultivate and preserve pious and just life in universal symbiosis.35
The middle citation is most explicit but refers directly only to the lowest levels of
public consociationes, i.e. cities (civitas) and local communities (universitas) in
general. The last citation, concerning the universal consociatio, shows how the right
(of the realm)36 is not all that is needed for the social life, but that it nevertheless
plays a prominent role—it is basically what is established when a universal conso-
ciatio is established. Furthermore, it is interesting that in the first citation Althusius
draws a distinction between humans gathered together with or without symbiotic
right. Elsewhere he writes in relation to the right of the realm (jus regni) and power
to establish it that,
Therefore, as long as this right of the realm (jus regno) thrives and rules this political body,
so long it lives and thrives […] However, if this right is removed, the whole symbiotic life
32
In addition, see also e.g. Politica II, § 3, 5 (1995, 27–28) concerning private and simple conso-
ciationes in general; II, § 14–15 (1995, 28–29) concerning family; IV, § 1, 8, 16–17 (1995, 33–37)
concerning collegium; V § 5, (1995, 39) concerning public consociationes in general; V, § 8; VI, §
15 (1995, 40, 46) concerning city or community; VII, § 1, 3, (1995, 51) concerning province; and
IX, § 16–17 (1995, 70) concerning universal consociatio; for the existential importance of laws in
general see e.g. X, § 4, 8; XXI, § 18 (1995, 80–82, 139).
33
Althusius, Politica V, § 4. ‘Homines congregati sine jure symbiotico, sunt turba, coetus, multi-
tudo, congregatio, populus, gens.’ Los. d. c. 2. n. jp. & seqq (1981, 59).
34
Politica VI, § 45. ‘Contra, quando haec jura communia universitati adimuntur, desinit esse uni-
versitas.’ (1981, 101)
35
Politica IX, § 1–2. ‘Universalis, publica, major consociatio est, qua civitates & provinciae plures
ad jus regni mutua communicatione rerum, operarum, mutuis viribus & sumptibus habendum,
constituendum, exercendum & defendendum se obligant. Nam sine hisce praesidiis & jure com-
municationis, vita pia & justa in symbiotica universali institui, coli & conservari nequit.’ (1981, 167)
36
At the level of the realm, the discussion of ius regni is closely related to jus symbioticum as they
both describe the jus, in sense of order, stemming from the community (Scattola 2002, 221–223),
but also include the guiding or leading function to uphold that order (see e.g. Henreckson 2019,
153). Thus, I treat jus regni and jus symbioticum synonymous.
104 J. Ruokanen
collapses, or becomes a band of robbers and association of evil men. It can even happen that
one realm disintegrates into many separate realms or provinces […].37
The last sentence underlines an important point: even if the realm would cease to
exist, the lower level consociationes could continue their separate existence,
although if we take the middle sentence as a description of this state, it does not
seem desirable. Generally, however, Althusius does not really address the case
where there is no a universal consociatio but only cities and provinces. Yet, it is
clear that the universal level is established to enable the communicatio between cit-
ies and provinces, and that the state of peace and harmony are pursued and enforced
by laws and leadership (see e.g. Politica IX, § 1–2; X, § 4, 10–12; XXIV, § 8 (1995,
66, 80, 83–84, 152)).
The quoted passage shows also that for the particularly symbiotic life that the
social life in consociatio aims at, the right of the realm is essential, but this does not
necessarily mean that there could not be other types of gatherings (congregationes)
as quoted above in 1981, V § 4. However, the way Althusius describes the latter
points more to a group or gathering of individuals than to a separable unity or a
body, which according to Koch (2009, 76–80) defines the consociatio. In another
section Althusius declares that symbiosis deprived of piety and justice is not really
‘a political and human society’, but rather ‘a beastly congregation of vice-ridden
men’ (Politica XXI, § 41 (1995, 147)). Consequently, some (undesirable) sort of
gatherings of human beings are possible without symbiotic right, but it is not the
type of social life to strive for, nor the type Althusius is theorizing about.
6.3.2 Origin of the Right of the Consociatio
I will return to the ontology of consociatio in Sect. 6.4, but let us first consider
where symbiotic right comes from. The short answer is that it partially originates in
the symbiotes (the members of the consociationes) themselves and it is partially
given to them by nature and God. The dynamics between these two sides will be
further analyzed in the following section but for now it is important that the deter-
mination of symbiotic right involves human input, most notably in the determina-
tion of proper laws (leges propriae) that are the laws by which particular
consociationes are ruled (Politica I, § 19 (1995, 21–22)). Just as clearly, though, this
human contribution has definite limits. As Duso (2002, 18 ff.) argues, Althusius still
belongs to a world where there is an objective, natural, normative order that limits
the role that the human will can play in the creation of the political order and
37
Althusius, Politica IX, § 17. ‘Quamdiu igitur hoc jus in regno viget, & hoc corpus politicum regit,
tamdiu illud vivit & bene habet, Novel. 105. c. 2. c. 4. eo vero sublato, omnis illa vita symbiotica
concidit, & vel incipit esse latrocinium, malorumque hominum congregatio, vel ex uno regno fiunt
diversa plura alia regna, aut provinciae.’ Rosenthal. lib. I. de feud. c. 5. conclus. 10 & 11 (1981,
175); See also e.g. Politica XIX, § 10, 35; XXI, § 18; XXXVIII, § 72 (1995, 121–122, 124–125,
139, 197).
therefore of the symbiotic right. In Duso’s interpretation human beings accommo-

date themselves to a pre-existing, normative order of the world rather than create
their own order, as in modern natural law theories.
What instructs the human will is the common law (jus communis), i.e. law that is
common to all human beings and consociationes.38 The law that is common to all
consociationes is simply the stipulation that every consociatio need to have a guid-
ing and leading function (Politica I, § 11–12 (1995, 19–20)). The law that is com-
mon to all people includes (at least) two distinct dimensions: divine and natural law
(jus divinum et naturale, lex divina et naturalis)—distinct even though Althusius
sees these compatible, even the same (Politica XXI, § 19ff (1995, 139ff)).39 Divine
law contains at its core the Decalogue, which Althusius considers relevant for poli-
tics insofar as it directs symbiotic life and prescribes what ought to be done therein
(Politica XXI, § 41 (1995, 147)).40 The first table of the Decalogue prescribes the
duties toward God and the second table toward our neighbors—accordingly they
have to do with piety (in relation to God) and justice (in relation to neighbors)
(Politica XXI, § 22–24, 41 (1995, 140–141, 146–148)).
This dualism between piety and justice is not quite the same as the dualism
between the needs of the body and soul, which we noted in the previous section.
Those directed human beings toward social life as the means of satisfying these
needs, whereas here social life itself, or more accurately the symbiotic life, i.e. life
with piety and justice, has two directions: God and neighbor. These dual orienta-
tions are not identical for the further reason that the satisfaction of the needs of the
soul is not simply a matter of the human–God relationship but also require human–
human relationships, as we saw in Sect. 6.2. The needs of the body, on the other
hand, can be satisfied solely by human–human relationships and they do not seem
to require a relationship with God. This does not mean that the two dual orientations
are not closely connected. The Decalogue plays a key role in both. On the one hand,
the need to live as God expects or commands in part drives humans to social life,
and on the other hand, God’s commands direct humans toward him and other people.
Finally, the natural law or natural right is natural knowledge and the inclination
towards the right and law is implanted in all human beings by God; it is, in a word,
conscience (Politica XXI, § 20 (1995, 139)). By this impulse a human being is
‘urged to perform what he understands to be just, and to avoid what he knows to be
38
Note that in discussion of common and proper law Althusius tends to use law (lex) and (jus)
interchangeably. See Carney’s footnote 28 in Politica (1995, 139–140).
39
De Vires and Nitschke (2004, 115) note how Althusius, like Calvin, does not differentiate
between the natural and divine law. Althusius also employs other terms such as lex moralis and ius
gentium as well as aequitas moralis, communis et perpertua lex, jus gentium commune (Koch
2005). In my view these other terms do not create new dimensions discernible from divine and
natural law but go under ‘common law.’ According to Witte (2007), the trend to collapse kinds of
laws other than proper laws together is particularly clear in Althusius’ latter major legal work
Dicaeologicae (1617) where they are treated under ‘natural law.’
40
For the role of Decalogue in politics and social life see also Politica VII, § 7–12; IX, § 21; X, §
3–12; XVIII, § 40–42; XXI, 19–29, 41 (1995, 52–53, 71–72, 79–84, 98, 139–144, 146–148) and
particularly the preface to the third edition of Politica (1995, 11–13).
106 J. Ruokanen
wicked’ (Politica XXI, § 20 (1995, 140)). However, the degree of this knowledge
and inclination varies between humans, which leads—together with the fact that
natural (and divine) law give only general rules—to the need of proper (i.e. positive)
laws (Politica XXI, § 21, 31 (1995, 140, 144)). The relationship between natural
and divine law is that the ‘Decalogue has been prescribed for all people to the extent
that it agrees with and explains the common law of nature for all peoples’ (Politica
XXI, § 29 (1995, 144)). Hence, divine law has a reaffirming and explanatory role in
relation to natural law. The fact that these are compatible and not in any way contra-
dictory is not really proven, but rather presumed by Althusius.41 In respect to divine
and natural law, human-made proper laws are adaptations of the first two to the
circumstances of particular consociationes (Politica XXI, § 30 (1995, 144)). The
guidelines that the divine and natural law offer are general, but the point is that
proper law cannot (or should not) contradict them.
To sum up, regarding the question of where symbiotic right stems from we
encounter the same three factors that were present in relation to the question what
drives people towards social life. These are nature (natural law), God (divine law),
and human will (proper law). In the case of symbiotic right, we can see the close
connection between the three as parallel forces more clearly. In the broader picture,
should we believe, as I argued in Sect. 6.3.1, that symbiotic right is essential for the
existence of consociatio, we can now see that, since symbiotic right is based on
divine law as well as natural and human law, consociatio involves at its core ontol-
ogy a connection beyond this human world. This connection is essential for the
qualitatively symbiotic life that Althusius promotes, that is ‘holy’ as well as ‘just,
comfortable and happy,’ as Malandrino (2010b, 344–345) points out. Achieving
both ends requires living piously and justly, that is, according to the first and second
table of Decalogue. Since Althusius concentrates on advancing his understanding of
social life as symbiotic life, it is difficult to determine to what extent, if any, he truly
recognized the possibility of non-symbiotic social life. In Sect. 6.3.1 we saw some
talk about ‘beastly life of vice-ridden men,’ and different gatherings of individual
human beings, but these were not really considered as human (social) life. However,
Althusius also holds that even infidels and heathens can be called just, innocent and
upright in political life if they perform the works of Decalogue with the guidance of
their natural inclination toward it (Politica XXI, § 41 (1995, 147)). This points to the
possibility of living a good political life by following the norms of Decalogue (and
natural law) while not having the true faith.42 Consequently, it seems that social life
in general requires justice while symbiotic life specifically requires both justice and
piety. Note that in both cases divine and natural law still form the basis of justice
41
See, however, Witte’s (2007) interesting interpretation of Althusius’ ‘demonstrative natural law.’
42
Although, sound worship and fear of God are the ‘cause, origin, and fountain of private and
public happiness’ and on the other hand, ‘the contempt of God, and the neglect of divine worship,
are the causes of all evil and misfortune’ which indicates that societies of infidels and true believers
are not equally good and that the neglect of the needs of the soul (referring now specifically to
salvation) can lead to difficulties also for the satisfaction of the needs of the body (Politica XVIII,
§ 8 (1995, 95)).
and human made laws. For example, the second table of Decalogue stipulates to all
people the duties toward one’s neighbors, thereby forming the universal basis of
justice in human relations. Therefore, the only clear difference between social life
in general and symbiotic life specifically seems to be the actual faith of the people—
the fact that do they genuinely hold the first table of Decalogue (duties toward God)
in particular, and thus strive for ‘holy’ as well as a ‘just, comfortable, and happy’ life.
6.4 Substantial, Relational and Processual Dimensions

of the Ontology of Consociatio
In this section, I will examine the ontology of consociatio in terms of Emmanuel

Renault’s division between substantial, relational, and processual (social) ontology.
There are three reasons for this. First, such an approach builds a bridge between the
history of philosophy and contemporary social ontology. Second, Renault’s analysis
and the threefold distinction is general and does not require a commitment to any
specific basis for examining the social world. Third, Renault’s account seems to
assume that (a) Aristotelian substantial ontology has been a dominant type of ontol-
ogy for social phenomena in the history of philosophy while fundamentally rela-
tional and processual understandings are rather late additions, and that (b) substantial
ontology cannot accommodate change broad enough for social theory. In order to
test these assumptions, I will examine to what extent, if any, it is possible to con-
sider Althusius’ understanding of social life, and particularly of consociatio, as
manifesting especially relational and processual ontology. As it turns out, the ontol-
ogy of consociatio, and by extension social reality, fits well within the schema of
substantial ontology, but at the same time, consociatio manifests relational and even
processual dimensions as well. This results from the observation that insofar as
consociationes themselves are substances, they are substances of peculiar kind that
can undergo changes in their constitutive form.
While Renault is arguing for a fundamentally processual ontology in the social
sciences, particularly in critical theory, he admits that substantial, relational, and
processual ontologies are ideal types and that many theories of the social world
manifest aspects from more than one type (Renault 2016, 26). He also emphasizes
that, for example, fundamentally substantial ontology can manifest relational or
even processual elements without losing its substantial basis (Renault 2016, 22).
By ‘substantial ontology’ Renault (2016, 20) means the primacy of substance
over relations and becoming. This entails that there can be relations and processes,
but their existence presupposes the prior existence of substance(s). It is substances
that are related and substances that undergo change. Renault argues that Aristotle’s
thinking is a prime example of substantial ontology. By contrast, in relational ontol-
ogy, relations have more reality than the related items (Renault 2016, 21). Renault
presents the idea of a physical law as an exemplar of this way of thinking. The laws
of nature ‘elaborated by Newton or Galileo are sets of constant formal relations that
108 J. Ruokanen
attribute spatio-temporal properties, that is, relational properties, to the interrelated

entities. They explain the physical behavior of these entities by a functional relation
between these properties’ (Renault 2016, 21). Renault notes that various forms of
sociological structuralism—from Lévi-Strauss to Bourdieu—share relational
assumptions of reality. Finally, in processual ontology, ‘the interrelated elements
exist nowhere else than in their interrelations so that the elements are no longer
external to their relations (as in substantial ontologies (Renault 2016, 21)). However,
‘their interrelation is nothing else than the development of their own activity so that
the relation does not have any kind of ontological priority over the elements (as in
relational ontologies)’ (Renault 2016, 21). Thus, the idea of process ‘denotes the
fact that the mutual activity has the power to modify the properties of the elements
as well as the form of relation that shapes this mutual activity’ (Renault 2016, 21).
According to Renault, the best examples of processual thinking in the field of phi-
losophy can be found in the works of Hegel and Dewey (Renault 2016, 21–22).
Coming back to Althusius, we can distinguish clear elements of substance ontol-
ogy in the constitution of consociatio. For instance, private consociationes, families
and collegia, unite individual human beings (Politica II, § 4; IV, § 4 (1995, 27–28,
34)). Public consociationes have as their members the families and collegia in the
level of city or community (Politica V, § 1, 10 (1995, 39–40)), and on the higher
levels of province and realm the lower level public consociationes (Politica VII, §
1; IX, § 1, 3, 5; XXXIX, § 84 (51, 66–67, 207–208)). Even though consociationes
(apart from marital relationships) can continue to exist with a change in their mem-
bers, they cannot exist without any members (e.g. Politica III, § 2; IV, § 5; V, § 2–3,
27 (1995, 30, 34, 39, 41)). Thus, the existence of a consociatio is dependent on the
existence of its members, which implies that the existence of the members is pri-
mary for the existence of the consociatio. At the level of individual human beings,
this existence is practically quite limited since individuals need help from others—
communicatio in and between consociationes—to satisfy their various needs. At
lower level consociationes, which are members of upper level consociationes, the
balance seems to shift. Families, cities, and provinces exist by nature prior to the
realm, and lower level consociationes can persist without provinces or the realm
although they will lack many advantages and necessary support for life (Politica IX,
§ 3; XXXIX, § 84 (1995, 66, 207–208)).
This makes a good case for substantial ontology. However, it hardly tells the
whole story. The unity of a consociatio that is created out of the plurality of its
members is based on the concord, harmony, and order that is created between mem-
bers by sharing with symbiotic right (Politica I, § 33 ff.; V, § 1, 5; IX, § 3, 7–8, 12,
16 (1995, 24–26, 39, 66–67, 69–70)).43 Thus, in addition to its members, the conso-
ciatio also consists of the symbiotic right that combines its members. I suggested
that we can interpret the ontology of consociatio through Aristotelian hylomor-
phism: a consociatio is an entity whose existence is due to the combination of its
However, see footnotes 29 and 31, and note that on the other hand consensus and concord also
43
uphold the existence of consociatio and its symbiotic right.

matter (members) and form (symbiotic right). Althusius himself writes (Politica I, §
29 (1981, 9)) that the formal cause of consociatio is association brought about by
bringing together and sharing with one and another.44 This emphasizes the role of
communicatio in general in the formation of consociatio and points to a rather
dynamic formation of consociatio, but as we saw in Sect. 6.3.1, communicatio gen-
erally rests on the sharing of symbiotic right.45 Consequently, I think that in this
instance the form of the consociatio can be understood to be the symbiotic right.
Hence, I think there is clearly a substantial basis or anchor in the being of consocia-
tio through its matter. But, through the analysis of its form, the symbiotic right, we
can observe considerable relationality, even processuality, in its being as well.
Relationality is apparent by the fact that symbiotic right—that which is estab-
lished when a consociatio is established—relates and organizes the members of the
consociatio when it sets the plan and manner of communicatio and the guiding and
leading function of the consociatio. It even equips individuals with roles attached
with rights and duties that they otherwise would not have. For example, there could
be men and women, but not wives and husbands outside marriage—nor colleagues
outside collegia and citizens outside cities.46 Symbiotic right is not only normative,
telling us how to live in relation to other people and to God, but also constitutive,
since without it there would not be social life, nor consociationes at all. Concrete
relations between members of a single consociatio, or between different consocia-
tiones, exist only through sharing symbiotic right (and of things and services respec-
tively). Thus, relations are elementary for social life but not—at least logically—for
life as such outside the ‘social’ dimension.
Focusing on symbiotic right not only exposes the relationality of consociatio but
also its processuality. The processual dimension of the ontology of the consociatio
is due to the human contribution in the establishment and change of symbiotic right
and by extension the consociatio. Although natural and divine law are the basis of
the normative order of the world, and thus give human beings knowledge and a
model of how to behave toward God and other people, this order becomes truly
binding only through the founding of particular consociationes and through the for-
mulation and change of their own laws (Woldring 1998, 127).47 To determine the
extent of change to the form of the consociatio is, then, to determine the extent of
change in human-made law in respect to divine and natural law. In what follows I will
concentrate on the level of universal consociatio (the realm, or the common-
wealth), since this is the level at which Althusius has the most to say about
44
See also Politica XXXVIII, § 132) where—in discussion of the effects of tyranny—it is stated
that the form of a society is based on a contract: ‘Nam haec facta tyranni, contraria sunt causae
finali, ob quam politia & socialis vita haec est constituta, atque formam societatis legitime contrac-
tae tollunt’ (1981, 938–939) (my emphasis).
45
See also footnotes 29 and 31.
46
Henreckson (2019, 142) notes that the power that a husband has over his wife, for example, is not
natural but due to their being married. In other words, even in marriage power is contractual.
47
See also Eikeme Hommes (1988) who gives a thorough analysis of the relationship of common
law and proper law in Althusius’ thought.
110 J. Ruokanen
human-made (i.e. proper) law in relation to natural and divine law. In principle,
however, every level of consociationes manifest their own laws, their own symbi-
otic right.
As mentioned in Sect. 6.3.2, proper laws are necessary in part because common
law only gives general rules. These general rules and natural justice are adapted to
the nature and special circumstances of the particular consociatio—circumstances
like time, place, persons, and things (Politica I, § 19–21; X, § 8–9; XXI, § 30,
32 (1995, 21–22, 81–82, 144–145)), which yield proper law. Thus, creating proper
law is not an act of will in the sense of creating a new normative order or system,
but an act of reasoning that adapts common law to the particular situation and to the
purpose of the consociatio (Politica XXI, § 30, 32, 33 (1995, 144–146)). Due to its
circumstantial character, proper law is open to change, either because circumstances
change or because order and utility are understood better (Politica XXI, §
32 (1995, 145)). The possibility of change in proper law opens up the possibility of
a processual dimension of symbiotic right because the form of the consociatio is
mutable. Crucially the possibility of change extends all the way up to the fundamen-
tal law of the realm (lex fundamentalis regni), that is the pacts between members
that establish the universal consociatio (Politica XIX, § 49 (1995, 128)). This fun-
damental law can be understood in a sense as the constitutional (proper) law of the
realm (Wyduckel 2002, 19 ff.): ‘(w)hen common consent is withdrawn from these
covenants and stipulations, the commonwealth ceases to exist, unless these laws are
rejected and terminated by common consent, and new ones established […]’
(Politica XIX, § 49 (1995, 128)). Like other proper laws, fundamental law also
adheres to the common law, but compared to other proper laws it is more of an act
of will than reason. For the establishment of the realm, like the establishment of any
other consociatio, and the establishment of its fundamental law is essentially volun-
tary—no amount of reasoning brings about the realm or its constitution. This volun-
tarity not only encompasses the act of creating the realm, or the decision to part take
in it, but at least partially also the content of the fundamental law, e.g. the form of
government, which is not stipulated in common law.48 The fact that fundamental law
48
The formation of the governmental order of the universal consociatio is a complex, and some-
what confusing process. Althusius discusses the agreement (conventio mandati) made in the name
of the people to establish magistrates (XVIII § 7 (1981, 178)), the contract (pactum seu contractum
mandati), and oath (juramentum) between supreme magistrate and the people (XIX, § 6–9, 23–37;
XX in toto (1981, 328–330, 336–343, 380–393)), and finally the religious covenant (pactum reli-
giosum) between God, supreme magistrate, and the people (XXVIII, § 15–19 (1981, 575–580)).
To what extent these are fully separate agreements or rather different dimensions of the original
agreement or consent (consensus) to establish universal consociatio is unclear (IX, § 3, 7; XVIII,
§ 10; XIX, § 15 (1981, 167, 279, 332)); see also Witte (2007, 191). However, the logical sequence
of the main phases is clear: first an agreement between the members, then between the people and
the leader, and finally the covenant with God. Note that some of these contracts are more change-
able than others. For example, the covenant with God is rather a take-it-or-leave-it offer by God
whereas the other contracts appear more negotiable. However, even in the latter case the content of
the negotiable contracts cannot go against common law without risking their validity.
can change shows the depth of the possibility of change in the form of the universal
consociatio.
For such a possibility of change to be considered as a sign of a truly processual
ontology two things are required, according to Renault’s definition of processual
ontology quoted above. First, that the change is due to the activities of the related
elements and that the change concerns relations between the related elements.
Change in the fundamental law (the constitutional proper law of the realm) implies
exactly this. It arises from the will of the members of the universal consociatio and
changes the relations that these members bear to each other and toward the govern-
mental structure of the universal consociatio. Second, the existence of the elements
must depend on changing relations. Alas, this is clearly not the case, since for
Althusius the existence of the members is prior to the existence of the consociatio—
most explicitly so in the case of the universal consociatio. Even so, the fact that
individuals or consociationes become members of another consociatio affects their
being. Symbiotic right is normative for the members of the consociatio and consti-
tutive for some of their properties (e.g. citizenship, in case of individual human
beings). Thus, symbiotic right is a relation between the members of the consociatio,
both normative and constitutive. Normative relations can change due to changes in
circumstances and understanding, and constitutive relations can change due to the
will of the members of a consociatio. What a consociatio adds to reality are these
same relations—its form—but not its members, who were already there.
Based on this analysis, we have good reasons to consider the ontology of conso-
ciatio as substance-based. However, relationality and processuality are involved
through the form of the consociatio, although not to the extent that would overturn
its being based on a substance ontology. How should we reconcile these claims? It
is noteworthy that while I have chosen to approach consociatio as a hylomorphic
entity, it is not such in a strictly Aristotelian sense. For, in the Aristotelian frame-
work, a form of a substance (natural or artificial) cannot change strictly speaking.
According to Aristotle, changes are either accidental or substantial. The former con-
cerns change in the properties of a substance and the latter the generation and
destruction of a substance (Ainsworth 2020). Change in the form of a substance is a
substantial change and it means that the existing substance is destroyed or new sub-
stance is generated. In the case of political communities, Aristotle distinguishes
poleis by their constitution,49 i.e. by their form (Aristotle, Politics III. 3, 1276 b1–11
(1998, 70); see also Johnson 2015, 34–35, 63–67)), and considers a change in the
constitution as a change of one polis into another polis.50 With Althusius there is no
49
Johnson (2015, 64) explains that Aristotle’s notion of constitution ‘may be defined as the distri-
bution of offices among people who share a common conception about distributive justice, or as
Aristotle says, among people who share a certain way of life.’
50
However, Aristotle, Politics V.1, 1301 b5–25 (1998, 135) also distinguishes between the com-
plete and partial change of constitution, and it is not entirely clear that a partial change would
amount to a change from one polis to another. If it does not, this suggest that even for Aristotle a
form of a polis can change, making it thus quite another kind of substance than natural or artificial
substances generally are.
112 J. Ruokanen
indication that changing the fundamental laws—the covenants that establish a uni-
versal consociatio—would change the realm into another realm. If consent for
mutual life is altogether withdrawn, the universal consociatio ceases to exist, but
altering fundamental laws in other respects does not entail such drastic consequenc-
es.51 While this suggests that Althusius’ universal consociatio can change to a
greater degree than Aristotle’s polis while remaining the same thing, the difference
should not be overstated. For example, for Althusius no constitutional change can
change fact that sovereignty always belongs to the people (Politica IX, § 4, 16,
23–27 (1995, 66, 70, 73–74)), while for Aristotle, for example, a democracy can
change into oligarchy, and vice versa (1998, 135).52
Regardless, the important point is that if and when a consociatio is considered a
substance (as a polis can be considered as a combination of matter and form)53 it
cannot be considered a substance in the sense that would make it a fundamentally
immutable, static entity. Both its members (matter) as well as its symbiotic right
(form) can change. This goes further than what Renault (2016, 22–23) sees possible
within a substance ontology, since in his view substance ontology can (at most, I
presume) incorporate change in the generative sense, i.e. in the sense that ‘sub-
stances become what they essentially are in a process of generation, before losing
their essential attributes in a process of corruption.’ Such change is about actualiz-
ing (and, in the end, losing) a fixed form but not about changing it. However, what
remains of substance ontology is the fact that for there to be a unity called consocia-
tio both the members and the symbiotic right are required.
However, it does not follow that the form of a (universal) consociatio is open to
any change whatsoever. There are also clear limits to these changes imposed by the
common law as noted, and by certain other axioms such as the aforementioned
inalienability of a people’s sovereign rights, but also by the end of human beings.
The fact that social life is to provide for the needs of the body and soul limits what
can be pursued. The end of human beings, the ‘holy, just, comfortable and happy
symbiosis,’ is not really a matter of political decision; only the means to achieving
51
The people, or the members of the realm, have the power to change, annul, and establish new
forms for universal consociatio in certain situations (Politica XIX, § 72, 73; XX, § 20 (1995,
128–129, 134). See also footnote 48.
52
For Althusius the pact between the people and the leader (summus magistratus) determines the
extent the leader can administer the sovereign power of the people, but it—or any other covenant—
cannot transfer this power completely to the leader. (Politica IX, § 4, 7, 16, 23–27; XIX, § 4, 6–8,
15 (1995, 66–67, 70, 73–74)).
53
E.g. Hansen (2013, 22) treats a polis as a substance, as a combination of politai (matter) and
politeia (form).
it are.54 Thus, through its form, the ontology of consociatio is processual only in a
limited sense—in regard to the means to the end. This end, in turn, is fixed and
unchangeable by the nature of the human being and the will of God, as we saw
already in Sect. 6.2. I presume these limitations are unacceptable from Renault’s
point of view, because he promotes processual ontology in the social sciences in
order to ground radical social transformation ontologically present in critical theory
particularly (Renault 2016, 27 ff.). Radical social transformation as a continuous
process is hardly something that Althusius strives for. For him the general thrust of
political theorizing is still aimed towards immutable truths and stability in social life
where change is rather an inconvenience for the theorist. This is apparent to anyone
who reads Althusius’ prefaces to the first and third edition of Politica.
Furthermore, the given nature and end of human beings means that even if con-
sociationes are special kinds of substances that can undergo changes in their form—
though not changes as radical as might be hoped for—human beings themselves
seem more like traditional natural substances. This anchors consociationes to (natu-
ral) substance ontology because on the ground level individual human beings make
up the matter of consociationes. This also means that while becoming a member of
a consociatio affects the being of an individual, the change is not so fundamental
that it would change the given nature and end of that human being, but rather pro-
vides a remedy for the deprived condition of individuals, as noted in Sect. 6.2. For
the ontology of a consociatio this means that not only is the existence of prior matter
(individuals or other consociationes depending on the level) necessary for its estab-
lishment, but also that this matter, when it consists of individual human beings, is
inevitably already of certain kind by nature, even if human beings attain new prop-
erties and a way of life by becoming members of a consociatio.
Finally, while Renault (2016, 27) notes that some might hold that social reality
can be too diverse and fragmented to be subjected to a unique ontological descrip-
tion, he nevertheless rejects this objection, and thinks that general social theory
must necessarily support one of the three social ontologies. If this is true, we must
conclude that the ontology in Althusius’ theory is substance-based. That said, when
we take a closer look at the ontology of the consociatio in particular, it rather seems
that it is not possible to understand that social phenomenon solely through one type
of ontology. Relationality is accounted for because consociatio introduces social
relations to the world of otherwise separate, though pre-existing, entities.
Processuality is present because the laws of consociatio are destined to constant,
though preferably slow and gradual, change due to changes in circumstances and
understanding. As noted, these changes have limits imposed on them especially by
54
There might be the need for a political decision to pursue the ends of the human being, but there
is no genuine possibility of deciding to follow alternative ends. This is verified by Althusius’
(Politica I, § 30 (1981, 9)) definition of the aim of politics which manifest the dual ends human life:
‘The end of politics is the enjoyment of comfortable, useful, and happy life, and of common wel-
fare […] The end is also the conservation human society, which aims at having a life in which it is
possible to worship God quietly and without error.’ By comparison, Aristotle seems to think that
different poleis can have different conceptions of the good life as their aim (Johnson 2015, 64).
114 J. Ruokanen
the common law and the nature and end of human beings, which rules out the com-
plete overturning of the social order and open-endedness of common life. Notice,
that it is these particular limitations inherent in Althusius’ theory that mainly limit
the scope of change in consociatio, the scope of its processuality, and not the mere
fact that we can conceive of human associations as substances of some kind: unities
compounded of previously existing matter/substances (human beings, or other asso-
ciations) and form (constitution).
6.5 Conclusion
According to Althusius, social life is the result of different factors and manifests a
complex ontology. Human beings are social by nature, which means they are
impelled to lead a social life to meet the needs of the body and soul. These needs can
only be satisfied with the help of others, by sharing and making common useful and
necessary things that takes place in and between various consociationes. Hence a
particularly social form of life arises. There is no definite limit on what can be
shared and made common, but the sharing of right is a precondition for other kinds
of sharing, namely of things and services. Individual human beings need to be orga-
nized, related to each other and to their leader. This is done by symbiotic right,
which gives form to social life in and between consociationes. Human beings and
their social life are attached to a framework that is not solely of their own making.
Natural and divine law set general norms on human behavior in their pursuit of the
holy, just, comfortable and happy life, while the exact laws of communicatio are
drawn up by humans. This life is qualitatively symbiotic rather than merely social if
it adheres to both divine and natural law and thus enables both pious and just life.
However, the mere existence of objective normative bounds of human social life
does not exclude change and processuality. Much in the organization of communi-
catio still demands a human contribution—in a word, politics—and the decisions
taken do not set the order of things or human beings, or the existence of consociatio,
for perpetuity but only for the present condition.
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Chapter 7
Spinoza on the Ontology of Justice:
The Role of ‘Beings of Reason’ (Entia
Rationis)
Michael A. Rosenthal
7.1 Introduction
Justice is important to most any theory of politics. Among recent political philoso-
phers, John Rawls has placed the question of how to ground justice through a fair
procedure at the center of his contractarian account. Once we have arrived at the
principles of justice, he argues, then we can derive the justification and the broad
contours of the contract itself (Rawls 1971). It is perhaps surprising, then, to find
that among the founders of social contract theory in the seventeenth century, justice
was not the starting point of their theory, but a consequence of it. It is not as if
Hobbes and Spinoza were not concerned with justice; rather, they seem to think that
the contract must be established first and only then can justice be defined. As became
clear later in his work, one reason why Rawls attempts to derive the principles of
justice first is that he thinks the theorist can and ought to avoid the tangled thicket
of metaphysical issues around the nature of society.1 Early modern thinkers, in
contrast, thought that politics ought to be based on metaphysics and a proper under-
standing of human and social nature. The challenge was that they believed the tra-
ditional metaphysical foundations had to be replaced.
Spinoza is undoubtedly one of the most radical metaphysicians of the seven-
teenth century. Like Descartes, whose work he studied and commented upon,
1
Justice is political, not moral, and certainly not metaphysical. See Rawls (1996). Jürgen Habermas
has also articulated a version of this solution in his ‘post-metaphysical’ approach to politics. See
Habermas (1992).
M. A. Rosenthal (*)
Department of Philosophy, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON, Canada
e-mail: m.rosenthal@utoronto.ca

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_7
118 M. A. Rosenthal
Spinoza rejects Aristotelian philosophy and embraces the new mechanist view of
the world. Indeed, he goes far beyond his predecessor when he rejects the idea of a
transcendent being and embraces substance monism. Spinoza did not even dare to
publish any portion of his magnum opus, the Ethics, in his lifetime. Spinoza’s politi-
cal theory is equally radical. It should not surprise us, then, that the political treatise
he did publish, albeit anonymously, the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus (TTP), was
immediately attacked, banned, and even burned by government authorities in the
Netherlands (Israel 1995, 920–21).
As in his metaphysics, scholars have assessed the challenge of his political the-
ory in quite different ways. Some have seen the doctrine as more or less a derivative
of Hobbesian social contract theory, which itself marked an important break with
traditional natural law theory, as we shall discuss below (Verbeek 2003). Jonathan
Israel proclaimed Spinoza as the central figure of the ‘radical Enlightenment,’ which
advocated for a secular, democratic view (Israel 2001). Others have argued that he
is working in the civic humanist or even republican tradition (Rosenthal 2017;
Steinberg 2018). Some have even claimed that Spinoza was the harbinger of a radi-
cal Marxist theory of resistance and liberation (Negri 1991).
Spinoza bases his political theory on the conception of human nature that he
develops in his metaphysics, one that is, he believes, at odds with traditional views.
In the opening sentences of his unfinished Tractatus Politicus (TP), Spinoza attacks
contemporary political philosophers, because, he writes:
They conceive men not as they are, but as they want them to be. That’s why for the most
part they’ve written Satire instead of Ethics, and why they’ve never conceived a Politics
which could be put to any practical application, but only one which would be thought a
Fantasy, possible only in Utopia, or in the golden age of the Poets, where there’d be abso-
lutely no need for it. (Spinoza 1972, TP, 1; GIII/273)2
In contrast, Spinoza follows Machiavelli in basing his political theory on a clear and
cold assessment of how people actually are. This is based on experience but also on
his new idea of philosophy. This is what is often called Spinoza’s political ‘realism’:
the idea that politics should be based on human nature as he as describes it and that
this will better accord with what we observe in the world.
Because each of these interpretations of his political theory depends to a greater
or lesser extent on a reading of Spinoza’s metaphysics, the question of social ontol-
ogy would seem to be the middle ground of the debate. If we understand the meta-
physical foundation of his social ontology, then we can derive the proper meaning
of the political concepts he uses. However, there is, unsurprisingly, no consensus
among scholars on the interpretation of either the basic principles of this ontology
or how they apply to his politics. For instance, there has been a debate in the
2
I refer to Spinoza’s political writings by work, chapter, and section number. The reference to the
Latin follows with volume and then page number. The translation I use is: Spinoza (2016) The
reference to the Latin edition (G) is: Spinoza (1972) References to the other works use the follow-
ing translation: Spinoza (1985) As is standard, references to the Ethics [E], will use the following
abbreviations: Part number, d [definition], ax [axiom], p [proposition] number, dem [demonstra-
tion], c [corollary], and s [scholium].
7 Spinoza on the Ontology of Justice: The Role of ‘Beings of Reason’… 119
secondary literature on the status of social groups. One camp has argued that there
are only two sets of real things in Spinoza’s system: substance itself and finite indi-
viduals. The collection of finite individuals into social groups happens through
association, but it is a mistake to think that these aggregates constitute a distinct
ontological entity. They claim that Spinoza is not a realist about political groups per
se but rather a nominalist (Rice 1975; Den Uyl 1983; Barbone and Rice 2000). This
leads to the view that the contract is important as a kind of artifice. The second camp
argues that there are many kinds of finite individuals and that aggregates of humans
can constitute new kinds of individuals, which are the object of a scientific political
ontology (Matheron 1988). This view diminishes the importance of the contract and
emphasizes instead the mechanisms of social psychology. In either case, the meta-
physics matters for how we understand the political theory.
As we shall see, there are obvious implications in this debate for how we are to
understand the ontology of justice in Spinoza’s view. In what follows, I shall sug-
gest that there is a way around this apparent impasse. Although Spinoza rejects the
Aristotelian metaphysics of scholastic natural law theory, I argue that he adapts—or
better put, repurposes—some elements of scholasticism to solve some problems in
various parts of his theory of justice. Roger Ariew writes: ‘Cartesian philosophy
should be regarded, as indeed it was in Descartes’ own day, as a reaction against, as
well as an indebtedness to, the scholastic philosophy that still dominated the intel-
lectual climate in early seventeenth century Europe’ (Ariew 2011, 1). The same can
be said of Spinoza.3 In order to better understand the ontology of justice in Spinoza’s
political theory, I shall make four, related points.
In the second section of the chapter, I shall elucidate an apparent contradiction in
Spinoza’s theory of justice. On the one hand, in the TTP (published in 1670), he
argues that justice is entirely conventional and depends on the ruler’s decision. On
the other hand, in the later and incomplete TP (published in his posthumous works
in 1677), he claims that man really is a social animal and that we can articulate ideal
forms of justice on that basis. How can he say without contradiction that justice is
both conventional and yet a product of man’s natural social nature?
In the third section, I shall show that in order to address this apparent inconsis-
tency, we need to look at Spinoza’s use of late scholastic metaphysics. Although he
rejects scholastic natural law theory, he adopts another concept from the scholastics
that is crucial for his theory: the notion of a ‘being of reason’ (ens rationis).
In the fourth section, I shall claim that, if we consider justice as a kind of being
of reason, then we can resolve the apparent contradiction in Spinoza’s approach. I
will try and define the sense in which justice is both conventional and natural in
Spinoza’s system.
In the fifth and concluding section, I shall claim that Spinoza’s social ontology of
political concepts like justice has some distinct advantages for contemporary theory.
Much of the discussion of early modern political thought tends to be quite
3
For a useful survey of the ways in which the early modern philosophers engaged with their medi-
eval predecessors, and Latin scholastic philosophy in particular, see Schmutz (2012).
120 M. A. Rosenthal
anachronistic, partly because it seeks to avoid the metaphysics and focuses on the
normative questions as if they could be answered independently of the metaphys-
ics.4 I think that if we focus on Spinoza’s use of late scholasticism in his political
theory, we might find something quite different and new. One important conse-
quence is that this approach shows how we might be able to provide a metaphysical
framework to integrate politics and natural science—especially as it relates to our
understanding of human nature—without reducing one to the other.
7.2 The Problem of Justice
Like Thomas Hobbes, whose work he read, Spinoza broke with natural law theorists
who claimed that justice is based on a natural law instituted by God. In the
Theological Political Treatise (TTP), which he published anonymously in 1670,
Spinoza accepts the scholastic definition of justice ‘as a constant and perpetual will
to give to everyone his due,’ but claims that it is derived from the will of man and
not God (Spinoza 1972, iv.8; III/59). In chapter XVI of the TTP, he makes it clear
that justice depends on the ‘civil laws’ (Spinoza 1972, xvi.42; III/196) and that in
the state of nature before civil society is instituted there is not any law at all (Spinoza
1972, xvi.54; III/198).5
This view of justice is grounded in a new conception of natural law that Spinoza
articulates in chapter IV of the TTP. In order to see the radical nature of Spinoza’s
view, it will help to have a quick summary of a more traditional view, espoused by
the late scholastic of the early modern period, Francisco Suárez (1548–1617).6
Suárez distinguishes between eternal law, natural law, divine positive law, and posi-
tive law.7 The eternal law is found in the very nature of God. It is essentially rational,
universal, and necessary (Book II, chapter IV, 185). The effect of this law is to ‘lay
a binding obligation on the subjects,’ which are rational beings (186). Although
natural law requires reason, it is not constituted by reason, since it depends on the
eternal law for its existence. As Knud Haakonssen puts it, ‘[n]atural law is simply
the way in which the eternal law applies to human moral nature’ (17). It seems to be
4
Rawls’ own lectures on the history of political philosophy seem partly to bear out this claim. See
Rawls (2007).
5
‘So before revelation no one is bound by a divine law he can’t help but not know. We mustn’t
confuse the state of nature with the state of religion, but must conceive it as being without religion
or law, and hence without sin or violations of right’ (xvi.54; III/198).
6
Suárez has been described as part of the ‘School of Salamanca,’ a group of theologians and phi-
losophers in Spain and Portugal in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. See Izbicki and
Kaufmann (2019). An overview of his views and a brief account of his importance to early modern
and later thinkers can be found in Shields and Schwartz (2019).
7
I shall rely on his text, Tractatus de legibus ac Deo legislator (1612), as found in Suárez (2015)
For an overview of Suárez, a brief discussion of his complicated relation to the medieval natural
law tradition (as in Aquinas), and the evolving conception of natural law theory in the early modern
period (albeit with a complete absence of discussion of Spinoza), see Haakonssen (1996).
the particular binding form of the eternal law as it applies to human nature. Both
kinds of positive law require a legislator who serves as the intermediary to com-
mand the law. In the case of divine positive law, the legislator is God himself. As
Suárez says, natural law can be known by reason or it can be commanded by God,
as in the Decalogue (Suárez 2015, 152). Suárez also argues that humans have the
power to legislate laws independently of the natural law (Suárez 2015, 417ff). This
follows, as Aristotle realized and Aquinas confirmed, from their social nature. When
positive law is derived from the command of a human legislator, then it can stray
from natural law. As Haakonssen notes, the natural law serves then as the ‘moral
measure’ of human positive law (17). There is a natural moral order, derived from
God’s eternal law, which binds rational beings and serves as a standard to judge
those who act less than rationally.
Spinoza adopts some of this terminology, but he uses it for very different ends.8
He first defines ‘law’ in a quite general way, as ‘when each individual, or all or some
members of the same species, act in one and the same fixed and determinate way’
(Spinoza 1972, iv.1; GIII/57). He then distinguishes two kinds of law: it ‘depends
either on a necessity of nature or on a human decision’ (Spinoza 1972, iv.1; GIII/57)).
The first kind, or ‘universal law,’ is nothing other than the law of nature itself, which
Spinoza identifies with the ‘eternal decrees’ of God in the TTP (see Spinoza 1972,
iii.8; GIII/46), and with God’s very nature itself in the Ethics. The example Spinoza
gives is the law of physical motion. The second kind, he writes, ‘which depends on
a human decision, and which is more properly called legislation, is one which men
prescribe for themselves and others, for the sake of living more safely and conve-
niently, or for some other causes’ (Spinoza 1972, iv.1; GIII/57). Spinoza makes it
clear that, because his conception of eternal law is based on ‘fixed and determinate
causes,’ there is no meaningful sense in which universal law depends on any con-
ception of a legislator. Indeed, strictly speaking, it is wrong to apply the label of
‘law’ to these regular phenomena. In contrast, there are two meaningful senses in
which we can speak of ‘human decisions’ in this deterministic framework: first,
insofar as the mind is part of nature; and second, when the mind is the proximate
cause of an action (Spinoza 1972, iv.3–4; GIII/58). There is an important corollary
to the second case, namely, when, due to our finite nature, we cannot understand
how the mind functions as part of a necessary system of nature, then, for practical
purposes, we must act as if our decisions matter (Spinoza 1972, iv.4; GIII/58)). If
we were fully rational, then we would know how our volitions are part of determi-
nate system of nature, but since we are not, then we must make do with a kind of
ersatz system of law based on decisions.9 In short, Spinoza has undermined the idea
of God as legislator, redefined the idea of natural law in terms of necessity, and
turned positive law into a practical, albeit metaphysically problematic, requirement
for human agency.
8
A classic statement of Spinoza’s break with the scholastic natural law tradition is found in
Matheron (1986).
9
For an excellent discussion of some of the complexity of this scheme, see Rutherford (2010).
122 M. A. Rosenthal
As a consequence of this critique of scholastic natural law theory, Spinoza will

reject a conception of justice based on a system of natural law legislated by God.
One of the central targets of the last few chapters of the Theological–Political
Treatise is the view that there is an independent standard of value (right and wrong,
justice and injustice) in nature itself derived from the command of God to which
sovereigns are obligated.10 This critique plays a crucial role in the overall argument
of the TTP. The church’s claim to political authority is based on the idea that revela-
tion, of which it is the true interpreter, is the true source of moral authority. Spinoza
attempts to undermine the authority of the church in political matters: first, through
questioning the epistemological privilege of revelation (it is a product of the inferior
imagination rather than superior reason); and second, through arguing that the moral
and political lessons of Scripture are always tied to the institution of sovereign
authority. In effect, following other Erastian thinkers like Hobbes, Spinoza reverses
the position of the church so that it is under the authority of the secular sovereign.11
To be more specific, although the church claims authority to define justice based
on its doctrine of divine natural law, which is independent of and morally prior to
civil society, Spinoza argues that any moral prohibition only comes into effect and
has meaning after the institution of mundane sovereign authority. Spinoza’s defini-
tion already alerts us to this fact: ‘Justice is a constancy of mind in apportioning to
each person what belongs to him according to civil law’ (Spinoza 1972, xvi.42;
GIII/196; my emphasis). Justice is defined through the social contract and does not
exist prior to it. There is no place for it in the state of nature:
Justice, then, and all the teachings of true reason, without exception (and hence, loving-
kindness [charitas] towards one’s neighbor), acquire the force of law and of a command
only by the right of the state, i.e. […] only by the decree of those who have the right to
command. And because (as I have already shown) God’s kingdom consists only in the law
of justice and charity, or of true Religion, it follows, as we claimed, that God has no king-
dom over men except through those who hold political authority. (Spinoza 1972, xix.9;
GIII/230)
Spinoza appears to make a distinction here, though, that complicates matters, one
between the conception of justice and the force of it as law. I shall return to this
issue in a little more depth below. For now, let me suffice to say that besides making
the distinction between meum and teum, this definition of justice is almost com-
pletely empty.12 It does not specify any method for determining what the grounds of
property rights, for instance, might be. In addition, in the passage just prior to the
last quote, Spinoza writes:
That’s why we were not able to conceive of sin in the state of nature, nor of God as a judge
punishing men for their sins, but could only conceive that all things proceed according to
10
Spinoza’s critique is quite general and would apply to any number of natural law views, whether
intellectualist or voluntarist. See Chap. 2 of Schneewind (1998).
11
For a fuller discussion of this topic, see Rosenthal (2003).
12
But see E4p45c2, where Spinoza says, ‘Whatever we want because we have been affected with
hate is dishonorable; and [if we live] in a State, it is unjust.’ As Andrew Youpa points out, this sug-
gests that the dishonorable is the pre-political, ethical grounding of value. See Youpa (2010).
laws common to the whole of nature, and that (as Solomon puts it) the same outcome hap-
pens to both the just and the impious, the pure and the impure, and that there is no place for
justice or for loving-kindness. (Spinoza 1972, xix.8; GIII/229)
In the state of nature, Spinoza says, we cannot conceive of injustice, let alone jus-
tice. Certainly, if we live in society and have adopted certain conventions of justice
as established by the social contract, we could project back into a state of nature and
say that the situation there, outside society, is, in contrast to the one in society,
unjust. But the comparison only makes sense once a concept of justice has been
established in society. Strictly speaking, Spinoza thinks that there is no justice or
injustice in nature.
However, Spinoza does not think that justice is entirely conventional. In the TTP
he argues that the contract is grounded on the principle of utility (Spinoza 1972,
xvi.20; GIII/192). And this would seem to provide content to the earlier claim in
chapter IV that ‘the person who knows the true reason for the laws’ (i.e., their util-
ity) is just (Spinoza 1972, iv.7; GIII/59). In the Tractatus Politicus (TP), a later work
that abandons the mechanism of the social contract, Spinoza echoes the same claim
that justice only is meaningful within a state (Spinoza 1972, TP, ii.23; GIII/284).
Yet, he also notes that the state should be established so that it serves the common
good and not just that of the sovereign (Spinoza 1972, ii.3,5,6; GIII/285–6).13 The
invocation of notions like utility and the common good suggest that justice is some-
thing more than the arbitrary will of the sovereign. In the TP, he provides a relatively
elaborate typology of counter-factual models of the classical forms of the state. He
uses the typical forms of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy, and then considers
permutations of each form to determine the best of each. It seems that some forms
of the state are better than others in producing just outcomes, and this provides the
standard of a normative conception of justice that can be used to criticize actual
state forms (Rosenthal 2018). How can Spinoza maintain without contradiction that
justice is both conventional and natural?
7.3 Beings of Reason (Entia Rationis)
We can answer this question if we explore the ontology of social concepts like jus-
tice. As we have seen, Spinoza does not accept the scholastic account according to
which justice is ultimately rooted in divine decree. Spinoza thinks that social con-
cepts are products of the imagination, that is, they depend on human intentions. On
the other hand, these human products are embedded within the framework of nature,
which Spinoza believes does not follow the purposes of human beings but can none-
theless be known through reason. It turns out that Spinoza adopts another aspect of
13
Spinoza himself refers back to these sections in a later chapter on monarchy, where he notes that
although all law is the King’s will, not everything the King wills is law, see Spinoza (1972, TP,
vii.1; GIII/308).
124 M. A. Rosenthal
scholastic theory—the doctrine of ‘beings of reason’—to make sense of the status

of justice in his system.
Since the important work of J. Freudenthal in the nineteenth century—‘Spinoza
und die Scholastik’—and that of Henry Wolfson in the late 1930s—which empha-
sized the importance of medieval Jewish thinkers to the development of Spinoza’s
metaphysics—there has been only intermittent attention paid to Spinoza’s relation
to medieval thought and late scholasticism (Freudenthal 1887; Wolfson 1962).
However, in some of my recent work I have argued that there is an important and
neglected source for Spinoza’s thinking on a variety of crucial issues in his philoso-
phy (Rosenthal 2019). This is the medieval doctrine of Entia Rationis (Beings of
Reason), especially as it was developed by the late scholastic thinker, Francisco
Suárez, and discussed by the very post-Cartesian philosophers in the Netherlands—
such as Burgersdijk and Heereboord—among whom Spinoza first developed his
systematic views (Burgersdijk 1653; Heereboord 1680).14 There is striking evidence
of this in his early works—the Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione (or Treatise on
the Emendation of the Intellect), the Korte Verhandeling (or Short Treatise on God,
Man, and his Well-being), and the Cogitata Metaphysica or (Metaphysical
Thoughts), which he appended to his exposition of Cartesian thought.
His analysis of ‘beings of reason’ follows a three-part structure: (1) an analysis
of their problematic status within ontology, or the study of being as such; (2) an
explanation of why we tend to use them despite the fact that they are false; and (3) a
guide toward their proper use. First, he claims that these entia are strictly speaking
false and do not refer to anything real. Spinoza is keen to criticize much of what we
take to be true in metaphysics because these notions are really ‘beings of reason,’
that is, entities that philosophers assert to be real, but which in fact are the product
of our ignorance. Here he follows the claims of the late scholastic philosophy,
Francisco Suárez, whose ideas he encountered in his reading of Dutch
post-Cartesians.15
In his Metaphysical Disputations, Suárez wavered over whether to include a sec-
tion on beings of reason at all. The subject of a treatise on metaphysics must be real
beings. But beings of reason are by definition not real beings but what he calls
‘shadows’ of being. Suárez writes in the prologue, ‘since beings of reason are not
true beings […] they are not intelligible through themselves’ (Suárez 1995, 57).
Suárez argues that the cause of a being of reason is the intellect alone and that
beings of reason are real only to the extent that they are objects of understanding.
While some of his interlocutors had argued on similar grounds that a discussion of
beings of reason was useless, because they had no being in things themselves
(something substantial or in substance), Suárez nonetheless claimed that ‘cognition
and knowledge of these [beings] is necessary for human instruction’ (57). Indeed,
14
For a discussion of how and why these post-Cartesian thinkers adopted scholastic concepts as
part of their projects, see Ariew (2014).
15
Of course, Suárez did not invent this idea but develops it in the context of a significant medieval
discussion going back to Aquinas. See, for instance, Philippe (1975) and Klima (1993). For a sur-
vey of the debate in Suárez’s period see Novotny (2013).
they are necessary to metaphysics itself, natural philosophy, logic, and even
theology.
There are several kinds of being of reason. The first is what we can call a ‘posi-
tive’ kind, which is a relation created between two or more things, such as a ‘goat-
stag’ (hircocervus) or smiling meadow. This relationship is not based on any
intrinsic qualities of the two things but rather is extrinsic, or based on the fact that
the two qualities have been placed together by an act of will: ‘For since it [the intel-
lect] sometimes cannot know things as they are in themselves, the intellect con-
ceives them by comparison with one another, and in this way forms relations of
reason where there are no true relations (Suárez 1995, 64, Section I.8).16 And
although the relationship apparently refers to something real, that reference is
improper (improprius), for the relationship is only analogical: ‘being is not said of
a being of reason except through some analogy, at least of proportionality, or some
reference (habitudo), i.e., because it is in some way founded on being or refers to it’
(Suárez 1995, 65; I.9). A further relevant distinction among these so-called ‘posi-
tive’ beings of reason is that between possible and impossible entities. Possible
beings are those whose existence is not necessary but also not impossible. For
instance, we may think about a golden mountain, which is possible, if not real.
Impossible beings of reason are those whose nature contains a contradiction. A
square circle, for instance, is by its very nature impossible (Suárez 1995, 64; I.8).
The other two kinds of being of reason are negations and privations. These are
purely mental entities that appear to have being but in fact do not. A privation of
some quality is not itself a being of reason, but only becomes one when it becomes
an entity that makes a positive claim, as if there is something that is not (III.6).
Examples are ‘nothing,’ ‘absence,’ ‘evil,’ ‘death,’ ‘blindness,’ and ‘silence.’17
Although Suárez focuses on these privations, they do not exhaust the scope of pos-
sible beings of reason. In his discussion of relations of reason, he notes, following
his medieval predecessors, that many grammatical and logical terms may include
non-existing objects as part of their class and thus are not real relations but beings
of reason (Suárez 1995, 64; IV.8).
The reason why beings of reason can be useful, even if they are not real, is that
they are understood by comparison to true and real beings: ‘For what is fictitious
(fictum) or apparent must be understand by comparison to what truly is’ (Suárez
1995, 58; Prologue). Although they exist only objectively in the intellect, beings of
reason gain their value through their analogical relation to real things. One purpose
16
The role of extrinsic relations in Suárez’s idea of beings of reason is nuanced. In many cases, they
do involve merely ‘extrinsic denominations’ (II.6 and II.8), but not all extrinsic denominations are
beings of reason (II.10). See Doyle (1984). In the same way, although beings of reason are rela-
tions of reason, because they stem from the intellect, not all relations of reason are beings of reason
(II.11ff). In section IV of the disputation Suárez notes that relations of reason that ‘have some
foundation in existing things’ can be subdivided according to the degree of that foundation and can
have extremes in which there is no being at all (VI.4; 118–19).
17
See John Doyle’s introduction to Suárez’s treatise, page 31. Privation is the lack of something in
a subject, which it would naturally have, while negation is the absolute lack of something (32).
126 M. A. Rosenthal
of the analysis of beings of reason is to explain what we think of when we are think-
ing of something that does not (or cannot exist) in extra-mental reality. As such they
are part of a general theory of intentionality.18 Another purpose is to justify the use
of these terms in relation to things that really do exist. We want to know why a meta-
phor works or how grammatical categories relate to the world or why an artificial
system of measurement can be applied successfully in our observation of phenom-
ena.19 In other words, in this sense, their being is understood only in relation to the
being of real things. A classic example of a being of reason is a goat-stag (hircocer-
vus) or a chimaera formed from the compound of the ideas of two real things.
Likewise, the idea of a smiling meadow involves the joining of a smile with a
meadow, a being that does not exist yet seems to signify something with meaning to
us. Of course, neither the goat-stag nor the smiling meadow exist as real beings; but
their component parts do and so the reality of the being of reason is found by anal-
ogy to what is real.20 Suárez seems to suggest that the value of beings of reason
depends in part upon the degree of reality that they indirectly reflect.
Spinoza also demonstrates an ambivalent attitude—often mistaken as simple dis-
dain—towards these beings of reason. In the unfinished Treatise on the Emendation
of the Intellect (TIE), Spinoza takes pains to catalogue the types of mistaken ideas
that prevent us from becoming aware of our rational ideas that lead us to the truth
(Spinoza 1972, §50; GII/19). When we feign ideas, we attribute existence to that
which has no existence; in other words, we produce a ‘fiction’ (Spinoza 1972, §52;
GII/19). Spinoza describes the activity of feigning in a similar way as Suárez
describes the different sorts of entia rationis. We can feign the existence of an
impossible thing, like a square circle, or we can feign the existence of a possible
thing. In the Cogitata Metaphysica (CM), which he appended to Descartes’
Principles of Philosophy, and published in 1663, he distinguishes more carefully
among these feigned ideas. In part this is because, even as feigned ideas mislead us,
sometimes they actually might be useful. He describes ‘chimaeras,’ as those beings
that cannot exist (i.e., whose nature is impossible), ‘fictitious beings,’ as the ideas
that the will has arbitrarily joined together, and ‘a being of reason’ as ‘nothing but a
mode of thinking, which helps us to more easily retain, explain, and imagine the
things we have understood’ (Spinoza 1972, CM 1.1; GI/233). The problem, of
course, is how something that is a mere shadow of being can help us know things
that are real.
The second part of his account attempts to explain why it is that we have the
tendency to devise and use such false notions. In some cases, like the chimaera,
Spinoza suggests that we are simply mistaken, and we should stop employing them
18
I owe this point and its language to Jenny Pelletier.
19
Suárez refers to measurement in VI.4, page 119.
20
Thus, as John P. Doyle points out in his introduction to the fifty-fourth Disputatio, this analogical
relationship can also be expressed as a metaphor (23). The meadow is not really smiling but the
semi-circle of blooming flowers makes it seem as if it were. Because the entities have this analogi-
cal relation to real being, they can guide us (or perhaps more often than not, misguide us), albeit
indirectly, in the world. For further discussion see Ashworth (2008).
except for entertainment, which is nothing more than titillation. Yet, in other cases,
such as when we need to measure something and not know their real relation or
when we want to compare apparently similar things, we will use beings of reason
instead of true ideas of those things. The root cause is the lack of true ideas, which
stems from our limited natures. Even if components are true, like the goat or stag,
the composite is not. In the case of general ideas, we may need to use them and
might think of them as true, even if we cannot deduce them from our limited knowl-
edge of the nature of things. We compensate by generalizing from our particular
experience and in this way we can and often do substitute inadequate ideas based on
the imagination for true ideas based on reason. Spinoza is worried here that philoso-
phers mistake the modes of thinking for things themselves.
We need to note one of the apparent discontinuities with the scholastic tradition
that Spinoza appropriates. As we have seen, Suárez emphasizes the fact that the
intellect is the cause of beings of reason. He says that ‘A being of reason comes to
be through an act of the intellect’ (Suárez 1995, 75; II.15), not through the senses or
the appetite (Suárez 1995, 77–78; II.17). Nonetheless, he does note that the ‘human
imagination […] sometimes fashions certain beings which in fact never exist, nor
even can exist, by composing them from those beings which are sensed’ (Suárez
1995, 79; II.18). To explain this power, he suggests that ‘the human imagination in
this case participates somehow in the power of reason’ (Suárez 1995, 79; II.18).
Hence, we can call these ideas ‘beings of reason’ and discuss them under the
intellect.
In his early writings, as we have seen, Spinoza consistently employs the term
‘beings of reason.’ Yet, he has adopted the Cartesian theory of mind that rejects the
division of the soul into intellective, sensitive, and appetitive parts. Reason refers to
a certain kind of idea, defined by its causal origins and relation to particular essences
and what they have in common. The imagination refers to ideas that come from
without and are understood through the images that we form of our body. It is clear
in his later work, the Ethics, that what the scholastics attributed to the intellect,
Spinoza wants to attribute to the imagination. Even though he persists in using the
term ‘being of reason’ in the Ethics, in the ‘Appendix’ to Part 1 he writes:
We see, therefore, that all the notions by which ordinary people are accustomed to explain
nature are only modes of imagining, and do not indicate the nature of anything, only the
constitution of the imagination. And because they have names, as if they were [notions] of
beings existing outside the imagination, I call them beings, not of reason, but of imagination
(ens imaginationis). (Spinoza 1972, E1app; GII/83)
However, just as in Suárez, the distinctions are not always so neat. Reason seems to
depend upon certain images that correspond to material things. Imagination is not a
mere image but also the power to combine images into an idea that, even if it does
not derive from reason, certainly can look rational. In short, the apparatus of beings
of reason that Suárez has attributed to the intellect, albeit with some help on occa-
sion from the imagination, Spinoza adopts to explain the workings of the complex
imagination, which sometimes seems to function like what many would call reason.
128 M. A. Rosenthal
His account of universals in the Ethics (E) illustrates this problem well.21 For
only reason, not the imagination, can rightly claim to know the internal properties
of finite modes. This is the peculiar danger of philosophy. It uses the principle of
likeness, itself based on ideas of extrinsic rather than intrinsic qualities of things, to
claim knowledge of the essences of things. This is where Spinoza criticizes the
‘universals’ that have been constructed by other philosophers:
These notions they call Universal, like Man, Horse, Dog, and the like, have arisen from
similar causes, namely, because so many images (e.g., of men) are formed at one time in the
human body that they surpass the power of imagining […]. (Spinoza 1972, E2p40s2,
GII/121)
In other words, what seems like reason is really the imagination in action. If the idea
of man, for instance, is formed on the basis of a principle of analogy, using either a
partial set of ideas as its basis, or a single idea derived from experience that serves
as the primum analogatum (or basis of the analogy) and helps us pick out others as
lesser examples of the model, then we mistake the partial and particular for the truly
universal.22
Hence, third, the challenge is not simply to reject all of these notions, which
would be a kind of epistemological utopianism, but rather to find ways to use them
constructively. While some of his interlocutors had argued on similar grounds that a
discussion of beings of reason was useless, because they had no being in things
themselves (something substantial or in substance), Suárez nonetheless claimed that
‘cognition and knowledge of these [beings] is necessary for human instruction’
(Suárez 1995, 57; Prologue). Likewise, Spinoza thinks that in many domains,
including physics and morals, we do not have any choice except to use them.23
This tension is expressed the clearest in the Preface to Part IV of the Ethics.
There he notes that, ‘perfection and imperfection […] are only modes of thinking,
that is, notions that we are accustomed to feign because we compare individuals of
the same species or genus to one another’ (Spinoza 1972; GII/207). He then goes on
to say that ‘as far as good and evil are concerned, they also indicate nothing positive
in things, considered in themselves, nor are they anything other than modes of
thinking, or notions we form because we compare things to one another.’ Nonetheless,
despite these conceptual limitations, ‘still we must retain these words’ because we
want to form a model of human nature that help us become more perfect. The con-
cept ‘good’ is what ‘certainly is a means’ to come closer to that model, and the
concept ‘evil’ as that which does not (Spinoza 1972; GII/208).
21
For a recent and more in-depth discussion of the relation of ‘beings of reason’ and universals in
Spinoza see Hübner (2016) and Newlands (2017).
22
In the TIE, Spinoza describes this as the case when fictions produce the ‘greatest deception,’ that
is, when ideas of the imagination become adopted by the intellect (Spinoza 1972, TIE, §74;
GII/28).
23
On a metaphysical level, Spinoza recognizes, as did Suárez, the importance of including a variety
of kinds of objects in his ontology. In this spirit, Spinoza asserts in the Cogitata Metaphysica that
‘Being is badly divided into real being and being of reason’ (Spinoza 1972; CM I.1; GI/235).
As we have seen, beings of reason play a variety of roles: they measure and thus
help us compare things, they serve as models to explain complex phenomena, and
they establish a standard on the basis of which we value things as beautiful and ugly,
or, most importantly for our purposes, as better or worse.
It is an important corollary to this view that, while beings of reason can be ana-
lyzed through reason, they cannot, as a category of imaginative experience, be elim-
inated or reduced to true things known by reason. When we employ these ideas in
practice, we must first become aware of the epistemic advantages and disadvantages
of the notions. If we think that they have being themselves, then we mistake the
shadow for the reality. When we know that the shadows bear a relation to something
real, the laws of nature properly speaking, then we can use our increasing stock of
rational knowledge to check the construction and use of these concepts.
7.4 Justice as a Being of Reason
If we consider justice as a kind of being of reason, then we can resolve the apparent
contradiction in Spinoza’s approach. Although most scholars think (correctly) that
Spinoza attempts to naturalize politics—by eliminating the role of any supernatural
explanations, for example, and treating God not as a legislator but as the structure of
nature itself—they do not always consider the important role that the imagination
continues to play in his theory. I think that, strictly speaking, concepts of justice are
not natural but imaginative ‘beings of reason.’ They are products of convention that
are not derived from general features of the world but from particular circumstances.
However, we can use either experience (as do most good politicians) or reason (as
do political scientists) to determine the conditions under which we construct,
employ, and then judge the success of these concepts. It is in this sense that justice
is both conventional and natural in Spinoza’s system.
Before we return to the philosophical reasons for considering justice as a ‘being
of reason,’ we ought to point first to the textual evidence for this interpretation. Even
if Spinoza does not explicitly say that justice is a ‘being of reason,’ he includes in it
in the family of value terms that he identifies, whether directly or indirectly, in his
works, including the political ones, as a ‘being of reason.’ The clearest and thus
most important text for our purposes is the passage in the Short Treatise on God,
Man, and His Well-Being (or Korte Verhandeling [KV]), in which Spinoza tells us
‘What Good and Evil are’:
[1] Some things are in our intellect and not in Nature; so these are only our own work, and
they help us to understand things distinctly. Among these we include all relations, which
have reference to different things. These we call beings of reason.
[2] So the question now is whether good and evil should be regarded as beings of reason or
as real beings. But since good and evil are nothing but relations, they must, beyond any
doubt, be regarded as beings of reason. For one never says that something is good except in
respect to something else that is not so good, or not so useful to us as something else. So,
one says that a man is bad only in respect to one who is better, or that an apple is bad only
130 M. A. Rosenthal
in respect to another that is good, or better. None of this could possibly be said if there were
not something better, or good, in respect to which [the bad] is so called.
[3] Therefore, if one says that something is good, that is nothing but saying that it agrees
well with the universal Idea which we have of such things. But as we have already said,
things must agree with their particular Ideas, whose being must be a perfect essence, and
not with universal ones, because then they would not exist. (Spinoza 1972, KV Part 1, ch.
X; GI/49)
He says that all relations are beings of reason, that the most basic ethical terms—
‘good’ and ‘evil’—are relations and thus beings of reason, and that our description
of something good depends upon referring to a universal. He also provides a crite-
rion for a critique of these ideas, namely, that, when the relational basis of the judg-
ment (of whether something is good or evil) depends upon a universal, then it is
more likely to be wrong, given the constructed nature of a universal, than if it were
based on true knowledge of a particular essence. A few chapters later, Spinoza
makes explicit the connection made in sections 1 and 2 of the quotation above, when
he writes, ‘that in Nature there is no good and no evil,’ and that it is a being of reason
that we use to construct the idea of a ‘perfect’ man as a model (Spinoza 1972, KV
I, IV; G/59). He also points out that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are ‘only modes of thinking’
(Spinoza 1972, KV 1, IV: G/61). In the Ethics, as we have seen, especially in part
IV (preface and elsewhere), though he is not always consistent, Spinoza does use
the terms ‘being of reason’ and ‘beings of the imagination’ (which, as I have shown,
he identifies) in relation to his discussion of value terms like ‘good,’ ‘evil,’ and ‘per-
fection.’ Moreover, he uses the same locution, saying that they are ‘only modes of
thinking’ which we use to compare things of a certain kind through reference to an
imagined universal (Spinoza 1972, II/207/19 and II/208/9–10).
Even though Spinoza does not explicitly use the scholastic terminology of a
‘being of reason’ in his political works, we find not only the same conceptual struc-
ture but at least some of the same locutions. In particular, as we saw in section two
above, Spinoza says in chapter XVI that justice depends on the ‘civil laws’ (Spinoza
1972, xvi.42; III/196) and that in the state of nature before civil society is instituted
there is not any justice at all. In chapter XIX, Spinoza emphasizes that an appeal to
divine law does not solve the problem of diverse political conceptions of justice
since that too needs to be interpreted and implemented through the sovereign state
(Spinoza 1972, xix.5–7; II/229). It is worthwhile to note that here Spinoza pairs his
discussion of divine justice with the idea of sin, which also cannot be conceived in
nature but only in a state. In the Tractatus Politicus (or Political Treatise [TP]), he
connects them again directly:
Therefore, like sin and obedience, taken strictly, so also justice and injustice can be con-
ceived only in a state. For in nature there’s nothing which can rightly be said to belong to
one person and not to another. Instead, everything belongs to everyone—that is, to whoever
has the power to claim it for himself. But in a state, where it’s decided by a common Law
what belongs to one person and what to another, a person is called just if he has a constant
will to give to each person his own, and unjust if he tries to make his own what belongs to
someone else. (Spinoza 1972, TP ii.23; III/284)
In both cases, though, Spinoza does think that reason can help us refine our moral
concepts within a state. When it comes to sin, he claims that reason can tell us, not
what sin is in itself (or in nature), for there is no such thing, but rather how the state
fails to live up to its own purpose. Properly speaking, the state cannot sin against
itself, because it is the state that makes the laws that define right and wrong within
its borders. However, even if there is no independent or intrinsic moral order to use
as a standard, the laws of nature, which also include human nature, such as psycho-
logical or affective regularities, can be used to measure the effectiveness of a regime
in securing its goal of security. As Spinoza writes,
The Commonwealth sins, then, when it does, or allows to happen, what can be a cause of
its ruin. We say then that it sins in the same sense in which Philosophers or Doctors say that
nature sins. In this sense we can say that the Commonwealth sins when it does something
contrary to the dictate of reason. For a Commonwealth is most its own master when it acts
according to the dictate of reason (by iii, 7). Insofar as it acts contrary to reason, it fails itself
or sins. (Spinoza 1972, TP IV.4; III/292–93)
We can use this later analysis of sin to make sense of the expression ‘divine justice’
in chapter XIX of the TTP, where Spinoza writes, ‘We don’t find any traces of
divine justice except where the just rule’ (Spinoza 1972, TTP xix.20; II/231). In a
strict sense, whatever the ruler decrees is just. There is no natural justice. But when
we begin to consider, from the point of view of experience and reason, what best
leads to the security and stability of the state—the so–called ‘dictates of reason’—
we can develop an internal norm that serves to correct the laws.
In addition to the textual evidence, which shows that Spinoza considered justice
part of a family of value terms that he described as ‘beings of reason,’ there is the
conceptual structure of his idea of justice that fits the structure of the idea of a being
of reason. Of course, as we saw above, justice is a political construct that depends
on the sovereign state. The external authority and power of the sovereign to compel
people to redistribute goods (for instance) is crucial. It is a human construct, and it
is not defined by a moral law, found independently in nature, or decreed by God. It
is a being of reason, something that we have imagined, and it does not refer directly
to anything that we find in the world independently of us.
The idea of justice is a model that is used by the sovereign to produce and shape
relations among its subjects. Because the model is produced through the imagina-
tion, what results from the model can vary and requires constant interpretation.
Although justice takes the concrete form of decrees and laws, these decrees can be
understood variably. Like other forms of the imagination, the idea of justice is vivid
as long as it is present, but it is quite imprecise. That is, it requires an interpretation
to apply the imaginative ideal to a particular situation. Each interpretation itself will
itself vary, depending on the disposition, set of prior associations, and the context of
the interpreter. The model of justice is thus doubly contingent, first on the will of the
sovereign, and second on the set of interpretations that enact it in practice. It is gen-
eral in form but quite particular in its applications.
As a model, the imaginative idea of justice has a built-in mechanism to motivate
people to participate in its application. The imagination is, as we have seen, vivid,
imprecise, and contingent. The model is often cloaked in further images to enhance
132 M. A. Rosenthal
its appeal. It is not an accident that justice is personified in figures and stories. The
fact that it must be interpreted draws individuals into the model and the act of inter-
pretation that each of us must perform invests us in the outcome. The contingency
of the model means that it is variable and can be adapted to our circumstances
through the very act of interpretation.
Justice as a being of reason thus serves as a norm within the strictures of actual
political authority. It is what we might think of in modern terms as part of the ideol-
ogy of a state. This explains why these imaginative models more often than not seek
to hide their contingent origins in a claim to some kind of transcendence. These
claims vary but may include religious or philosophical claims like those of divine
command or natural law. In this way, justice as a being of reason participates in the
general dynamic that we outlined in the last section. On the one hand, through a
rational analysis of the structure and history of our concepts of justice, we can
reveal how these allegedly rational and transcendent concepts are rooted instead in
the variable circumstances of the imagination. On the other hand, in politics (and in
other domains) we cannot do without these norms. It is not possible to replace
political concepts with rational substitutes, for they are products that serve the
essentially mutable circumstances of political life.
What we can do is criticize and discard badly formed imaginative notions and
replace them with better considered ones. What does this mean? We should use
natural law in the proper sense to reform our imaginative notions, indirectly. Facts
about human biology, psychology, and economics, etc. should inform our discourse
about what is right and wrong, but they cannot tell us itself the answer to our moral
questions.
7.5 Conclusion
Spinoza’s social ontology of political concepts like justice has some distinct advan-
tages for contemporary theory. Much of the discussion of early modern political
thought tends to be quite anachronistic in that it reflects contemporary debates like
those between contractarians and communitarians, or between liberals and neo-
Marxists. I think that if we focus on Spinoza’s use of late scholasticism in his politi-
cal theory, we find something quite different and new. The most important point is
that this approach shows how we might be able to provide a framework for integrat-
ing politics and natural science without reducing one to the other. We use concepts
like justice to solve practical problems within a context in which most people are led
primarily by the imagination and their passions. We can claim both that political
ideas are the products of convention and that disciplines like biology and psychol-
ogy can indirectly inform our thinking about politics. Let me conclude with a sim-
ple example to illustrate this point.
A sovereign declares that she will make her state more just through increasing
the tax rate. This will have the effect of producing more income, which the state can
redistribute to subsidize healthcare, education, and to help the needy. The origin of
the norm of justice itself that guides this decree has a rather contingent history based
on the complicated culture and politics of the state. The precise tax rate is a compro-
mise among parties. The socialists want a maximum of 60% based on their belief in
the inherent inequality of capitalism. The liberals claim that a maximum tax rate of
40% would achieve the greatest good for the most people without violating the
individual right to a fair outcome. The conservatives seek a maximum of 20% based
on their ideals of a minimally regulated economy. Each of these groups have their
own justification of the tax rate in terms of their ideology. The socialists appeal to
Marx; the liberals to Rawls; and the conservatives to Ayn Rand or natural law theory.
Spinoza thinks that there cannot be a rationally justified ideal of justice. It is
essentially dependent on the will of the state and the circumstances in which that
will is produced. Moreover, we can show that various justifications proffered are
themselves more often than not the products of their contingent circumstances,
which are flawed and incomplete. Spinoza himself does not provide anything more
than a shell of a theory of justice. Nonetheless, we cannot do away with these ideals.
We cannot replace them with a better concept because the domain of politics is
inherently the domain of the imagination and contingent interests. And yet in this
domain we need some idea to serve as an action-guiding norm or ideal. There is not
going to be something inherent in the proposed norms of justice to recommend one
over the other. But we can supplement our discussion of these norms with the results
of scientific investigations into the actual laws of nature. The laws of biology might
determine what the minimal standards of health for a human being are. The laws of
psychology might tell us something about the limits of self-sacrifice in service of a
perceived higher good. The laws of economics might tell us about the effects of the
different tax rates. Note that none of these scientific discourses can directly tell us
what is just. They do tell us something about the origins, content, and effects of the
ideal of justice, and so they indirectly inform our choice of the ideal. In this way, an
imaginative being of reason can be (and ought to be) indirectly shaped by rational
knowledge.24
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Part II
Contemporary Issues
Chapter 8
Social Entities with and without Explicit
Establishment
Ludger Jansen
8.1 Introduction
In the last decades, the main paradigm in social ontology has been to explain social
entities by means of collective intentionality, and an enormous effort has been put
into the discussion of the nature of collective intentionality and the exact way in
which our social world can be explained in terms of it. Two prominent advocates of
this view are John Searle (1995, 2010) and Margaret Gilbert (1989, 1996, 2000,
2006, 2014), who both, of course, propose their own view on collective intentional-
ity. But there is also a growing number of objections. Some argue that much of the
mainstream discussion is too one-sided, and that not only cognitive and conative,
but also emotive intentions have to be taken into account (Schmid 2005). Others
point to social phenomena that are not based on collective intentionality, while
adhering to the general intentional approach (Khalidi 2013, 2015). Still others have
argued that collective intentionality is not the only way to ground or anchor social
facts, and that social ontologists should widen their horizon accordingly (Epstein
2014a, 2017).
There is, however, an ambiguity of the term ‘intentionality’ that is often noted
(e.g. by Searle 1995, 7n.), but rarely examined with respect to its bearing on social
ontology. Philosophers use the term ‘intentionality’ to talk about the general mark
of mental acts—i.e., that they are all directed at some content. This terminology
follows a venerable tradition that began in medieval philosophy and was adapted
L. Jansen (*)
Institute of Philosophy, University of Rostock, Rostock, Germany
PTH Brixen, Bressanone, Italy
e-mail: ludger.jansen@pthsta.it

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_8
140 L. Jansen
into modern philosophy via Brentano and Husserl (Spiegelberg 1994). In contrast,
more vernacular usage reserves the predicate ‘intentional’ for purposefully planned
actions, which is only a tiny fraction of the more general philosophical usage of the
term. In this chapter, I will pick up the more limited common usage of the term
‘intentional’, and discuss the relevance of purposeful actions for the ontological
analysis of social entities. This will also shed new light on the more general project
to root social entities in collective intentionality taken at large. In doing so, I will
expand on my previous work on social ontology (Jansen 2017), to which I will regu-
larly refer throughout the chapter.
Some social entities are clearly brought into being by explicit intentional acts.
Presidents are elected and inaugurated. Laws are established, bank notes are issued,
companies are founded, and priests are ordained. At least some of these entities of
necessity require an explicit establishment. Not all social entities are of this kind,
though. Most prominently, friendships and natural languages do not need to be
explicitly established. This contrast between social entities that are explicitly
declared to come into existence, and those that are not, is a touchstone for any the-
ory in social ontology. The social sciences often address these two groups of social
entities as ‘formal’ and ‘informal institutions’, respectively. Because of its challeng-
ing character, the contrast between the formal and the informal deserves further
elucidation.
For this purpose, I will first look at two of the most influential accounts in social
ontology, namely the ones by John Searle and Margaret Gilbert, and how they deal
with the contrast between explicitly and non-explicitly established social entities
(Sect. 8.2). As both approaches turn out to be wanting, I turn to a closer examination
of those social entities that are explicitly established, and argue that this variety of
social entities comes along with certain typical features (Sect. 8.3). I will then turn
to those varieties of social entities that exist without an explicit declaration (Sect.
8.4). To do so, I use a selection of examples taken from the works of John Searle as
a starting point (Sect. 8.4.1), focusing then on the case of natural language (Sect.
8.4.2), and on friendship in contrast to marriage (Sect. 8.4.3). Finally, I will com-
pare my results in this chapter with related suggestions in the literature by
Muhammad Ali Khalidi and Brian Epstein. This will lead to two important results.
First, my results show how Khalidi’s tripartite classification of social kinds can be
developed into a more fine-grained and complete classification of social kinds (Sect.
8.5). Second, my results are also relevant for Epstein’s project of identifying the
grounds and anchors of social entities. They not only converge with Epstein’s gen-
eral tenet that not all the work in the construction of the social world is done by
collective intentionality alone, but also show that the answers to Epstein’s research
questions will depend on whether the social entity in question has been explicitly
established. Explicitly established social entities, for one, turn out to be grounded in
the deontic structures that arise from their establishment, where these grounds are
anchored in these acts of establishment (Sect. 8.6).
8 Social Entities with and without Explicit Establishment 141
8.2 Searle and Gilbert on Explicit Establishment
There can be little doubt that there are social entities that are explicitly created by
human beings. Companies are established, charities are founded, constitutions
approved and amended. Important proposals in contemporary social ontology take
on this idea of the explicit establishment of such institutions. Margaret Gilbert, for
example, suggests that people can fuse to so-called plural subjects—subjects, that
is, for joint actions—by mutually signalling their will to participate in these joint
actions. One person asking, ‘Shall we go for a walk?’, the other person answering,
‘Yes, let’s do it!’, is sufficient to establish a plural subject for walking together. And
at least one strand in John Searle’s complex theory of the construction of the social
world uses the language of explicit speech acts to establish institutional facts: we
can declare the bazaar open, the electorate of the United States can elect someone
President of the United States, and the President can then be explicitly inaugurated.
(I will turn to other strands of Searle’s theory, and to other examples discussed by
Searle, in Sect. 8.3.4 and 8.4.)
Gilbert and Searle agree that paradigmatic social entities are established through
explicit speech acts, but they identify different kinds of speech acts to be relevant for
such an explicit establishment of social entities. While Searle stresses declarations,
Gilbert rather cites commissive speech acts like promises or agreements. Not all
social entities, however, are explicitly established. Both Searle and Gilbert mention
and discuss various examples of such entities. These include cocktail parties, infla-
tion, friendship, and language.
Both Searle and Gilbert want to extend their respective accounts to cover at least
some entities that are not established explicitly. For Searle, institutional reality is
rooted in collective intentionality—that is, according to Searle, in sufficiently many
individuals having appropriate we-intentions for the ascription of a certain institu-
tional status. These intentions are part of a complex neural–causal ‘Background’ in
our brains that leads to role-conforming behaviour (Searle 1995, Ch. 6; 2010, 31–32
and 155–160). For Gilbert, in turn, plural subjects are constituted by joint commit-
ments—by networks of mutual obligations between the members of plural subjects.
Such joint commitments, or so Gilbert claims, can arise without an explicit agree-
ment, e.g. gradually by repeated interaction of the same kind.
Both of these strategies are problematic. Gilbert’s strategy faces the problem that
it cannot explain how repeated actions can have the same obliging power as an
explicit agreement. While repeated interaction will indeed lead to certain expecta-
tions on the side of participants, these seem to be rather epistemic than deontic
expectations. Searle’s strategy fails for the opposite reason: if having the appropri-
ate neural-causal background is sufficient for the ascription of an institutional sta-
tus, it is difficult to explain how this can possibly come along with the transfer of
deontic powers. An explicit establishment comes along with the immediate transfer
of deontic powers and the possibility of codification. This is, however, not possible
without an explicit establishment, because without it, no such transfer of deontic
powers is possible. Instead of leading to obligations, matching we-intentions lead to
142 L. Jansen
matching dispositions of their bearers to act accordingly. Analogously, repeated

interaction will primarily lead to action dispositions, not to joint commitments.
Only secondarily, duties can be attached to the action patterns in question. These
duties will be derived from moral norms, i.e. from norms that exist independent of
any particular preceding social act. In contrast, the explicit establishment of social
entities brings about social norms, i.e. norms that only exist because of the very
speech act that established the social entity in question (Jansen 2014).
8.3 Making It Explicitly
I will now, in due order, discuss formal and informal institutions. I start with formal
institutions, i.e. with social entities that are explicitly established. First, I will review
what is presupposed by the explicit establishment of an institution. Second, I will
analyze what exactly happens (or needs to happen) when an institution is explicitly
established (Sect. 8.3.2). Third, I will discuss the properties of formal institutions
(Sect. 8.3.3), and then, fourth, the two varieties in which formal institutions can be
established, namely as types or as tokens (Sect. 8.3.4).
8.3.1 Presuppositions of Explicit Establishments

of Institutions
First, what preconditions have to be fulfilled for an explicit creation of institutions?

Most explicit establishments of institutions make use of language. It is matter of
debate whether this language needs to be a language shared by all participants, e.g.
in a social contract. Maybe participants can, to employ Gilbert’s terminology, signal
their readiness in languages not shared by the others, be it by means of a translator
or by means of natural meaning. What seems clear, though, is that institutional facts
need to have a specific linguistic description that is part of the intentional content of
what goes on in establishing an institution. Someone who does not know what dol-
lar bills are cannot issue them; and whoever does not know that they are currently
about to marry cannot be said to actually marry someone. This makes also clear that
the establishment of institutions requires a shared cultural background.
Understanding the word ‘marriage’ implies rich knowledge of not only linguistic
but also social, legal, and cultural norms. If marriage is not known in a culture, it
will be very difficult for two people to marry.
Moreover, whoever wants to establish an institution needs the authority to do so.
Only the Queen can confer knighthood, and only a bishop can ordain priests.
Whence comes such authority? Often, the authority to establish an institution seems
itself to be an institution. In fact, in most of the examples mentioned, the acts of
establishment employ a pre-existing institutional framework. When companies are
established, they are established within the legal framework for businesses of the
respective country. When charities are founded, they are founded on the background
of the respective laws for association and taxation. When priests are ordained, they
are ordained according to the respective church regulations. But the institution pro-
viding the authority to establish these social entities needs itself to be established,
and thus in need for an authorized act of establishment requiring a pre-existing
authority allowing for this. If this is so, we are about to enter an infinite regress.
Not all establishments of institutions, however, require a pre-existing formal
institutional framework. If they did, that would generate a regress problem, as a
formal institutional framework would itself be in need of a pre-existing framework
to establish it. The good news is that such a formal framework is not always neces-
sary. For even in the absence of a binding legal framework, there is one mechanism
always at hand to create institutions, namely the expression of unanimous agree-
ment among a plurality of persons. For a long time, political theorists have dis-
cussed the idea that states and government have their roots in a social contract—an
agreement that requires no more than individual expressions of will in a mutually
understood language. For present purposes, it is not important whether actual states
have in fact been established this way. The point is rather, that creating a formal
institution by unanimous agreement does work in at least some context. Indeed,
unanimous agreement seems to be the basic mechanism for explicitly establishing
institutions. At this point, the seemingly vicious circle can be broken, because we
can create institutions ‘from scratch’ by a unanimous consent.
Unanimous agreement is, thus, the primary mechanism to establish formal insti-
tutions. But it is by far not the only mechanism. Using unanimous agreement,
groups can establish other and more sophisticated mechanisms—by passing consti-
tutions, laws, and by-laws, which from then on regulate further acts of establish-
ment of institutions. Not all institutions are established by unanimous agreement.
Some institutions may have members without them knowing that they are members
of this institution, and many institutions (like money or borders) do not have mem-
bers at all. Margaret Gilbert (1989) discusses a whole series of such mechanisms for
the explicit establishment of the special variety of institutions she analyzes, namely
plural subjects: persons can decide to join forces for a single action, but they can
also decide to join forces for regular actions (e.g. meeting every Wednesday), or
conditional actions (e.g. meeting if the weather is fine). Persons can also delegate a
certain decision to a particular person or group; e.g. a couple may decide to go to the
cinema together and leave it to her to decide which film to watch. Delegation is, of
course, also possible to people outside the group (as in Hobbes’s social contract
theory of the state, where the sovereign is not part of the group establishing the
state), or to a subgroup, or to another group altogether. These are all ways in which
a plural subject can give itself an institutional structure, and thus further the growth
of the realm of institutions. It all starts, however, with the possibility of creating
institutions by unanimous consent, and the possibility to join in with such a consent
is a natural authority possessed by everybody. Hence, the explicit establishment of
institutions does often make use of pre-existent formal institutional framework, but
it does not presuppose such a framework.
144 L. Jansen
8.3.2 What Happens in an Explicit Establishment

of Institutions?
I turn to the second question now: what happens when institutions are explicitly
established? First, of course, there need to be some mental acts: the relevant partici-
pants of the act of establishment need to have appropriate intentions; they need the
will to establish the institution in question. However, a mere mental act of willing is
not normally sufficient for the establishment of an institution. That is, second, some
actual speech acts are necessary in order to establish the institution in question, be
they in spoken or written language (Searle 1969, 1979). In the latter case, we could
more appropriately talk about ‘document acts’ (Brochhausen et al. 2013; Smith
2013). In some cases, establishment will be not by way of acting but by way of
omission. To miss a deadline, to allow a moratorium to elapse, or to accept a certain
official act by way of not appealing it in the appropriate period of time, you have to
do exactly nothing. In these cases, institutions can be established by omissions of
speech acts or document acts. In the following, I will thus use the term ‘speech act’
in a generic way in order to include acts in both spoken and written language, as
well as omissions of such acts. I will now argue that these speech acts can be of dif-
ferent types.
Theories of the social world differ with respect to which kind of speech acts they
give pride of place. Central to Gilbert’s theory are promises and agreements—that
is, commissive speech acts. In contrast, declarations are central to Searle’s account
of institutional facts: X counts as Y in a context C, because someone has declared X
to be a Y in C. To be sure, these speech acts do not need to be explicit speech acts,
but they may well be explicit. Typical examples of such speech acts are ‘I declare
you man and wife’, spoken by the registrar or priest in a marriage ceremony, or, in
a less formal environment, the utterance ‘I agree to go for a walk with you’ to
arrange for a joint outing. Note that direct speech acts like these make direct and
explicit use of the illocutionary verb that marks the illocutionary force of the speech
act in question. In this vein, our sample declaration makes use of the phrase ‘I
declare …’, and the agreement makes use of ‘I agree to …’.
Establishing speech acts do not need to be explicit, for the same illocutionary
force can be exercised by utterances that are implicit speech acts. Implicit speech
acts do not contain any illocutionary verb at all to mark the illocutionary force of the
speech act. For the examples given, ‘You are now man and wife’ could serve as an
implicit counterpart at the marriage ceremony, which has, then, of course no descrip-
tive but declarative force. Similarly, ‘I will go for a walk with you’ can substitute the
explicit agreement for the outing; in this case, its point is not descriptive but com-
missive. Note again, that neither of these examples contains an illocutionary verb
that indicates the illocutionary force of the utterances; nevertheless, recipients are
generally able to infer the illocutionary force from the utterance and its context.
Somewhat paradoxically, that is, an explicit establishment of an institution may
make use of an implicit speech act.
We can escalate the paradoxical ring even more when we make use of an indirect
speech act. Indirect speech acts guise as a speech act of one kind in order to express
a speech act of another kind. Prominent examples are the use of questions for com-
mands (‘Could you pass the salt?’) or affirmations (‘May I tell you that your shirt is
dirty?’). Again, speakers can normally infer the intended illocution from the con-
text—according to Searle by help of Gricean conversation axioms (Searle 1979, Ch.
2). With respect to our examples, the expression of readiness for a joint walk can
take on, e.g. the form of a question or a request. Whoever wants to initiate a walk
can ask, ‘Do you want to go for a walk with me?’, or say something like: ‘Come on.
Go for a walk with me!’ Interestingly, this does not work quite the same way for the
marriage example, as the institutional setting (in front of a clerk, with a codified
procedure) does not leave room for such variants. Nevertheless, there is space for
such improvisation, not for marriage, but for engagements. For even if such a ques-
tion (‘Do you want to marry me?’) or request (‘Marry me!’), together with the
matching affirmative response, are not appropriate means for the actual marriage
ceremony, they are appropriate means to enter into an agreement to get married in
the future, which is commonly called an engagement. Thus, in many cases there is
some variability of the speech acts used to establish a certain formal institution,
even if the degree of variability of speech acts may differ from case to case. Maybe
the speech act is even replaced by (or combined with) a non-linguistic symbolic act.
But some intentional symbolic act is necessary for the explicit establishment in
any case.
8.3.3 Properties of Explicitly Established Institutions
So far, I have argued that the explicit establishment of an institution requires one or
several speech acts. This implies that explicitly established institutions have a num-
ber of important properties. To start with, the establishment of such an institution
will be datable, as we can date the respective speech act. The time at which the
speech act is completed is the time at which the institution begins to exist. Even
when an institution is established by omissions, we can assign a date. If, for exam-
ple, an institution comes into existence because nobody objected to it within a speci-
fied period, the expiry of that period will be the moment when the institution
officially comes into existence. We will thus be able to say when the institution
commences. Normally we do not need to know the exact time at which, say, two
people married or a contract was signed, as the day of these acts is sufficient for
most practical purposes. But we could date the establishment of a formal institution
more precisely, bounded only by the limits of measurability.
Second, we will be able to attribute the establishment to the speakers (or writers)
of these speech acts. Note that not everyone who is the first to speak about an insti-
tution is the one who establishes it. Often, linguists are the first who speak or write
about the grammatical rules of natural languages; they do of course not thereby
establish the rules of the languages they report on, but only describe them (Jansen
146 L. Jansen
2017, 199–202). Third, as speech acts can be counted, we will also be able to count
explicitly established institutions. Fourth, explicit establishment comes along with
a clearly ascribed status and specific deontic powers. Finally, there are often cultur-
ally or even legally approved procedures to establish an institution of a certain kind.
A paradigmatic example for explicitly established institutions is marriage, and
particular marriages do indeed display all of these five traits. First, we marry by
uttering speech acts in churches or town halls. We memorize the date and celebrate
it every year. Normally, we register in detail who married whom. We can count how
many marriages there have been in a given church or registry office in a given year.
Though people may be married to more than one partner (either successively, or in
some cultures even at the same time), people normally know exactly how many
times they have been married. Fourth, married people are, for example, mutually the
heir apparent of the other; they may be eligible for tax reductions, or special housing
benefits, and so on. There are, thus, predefined rights or duties connected to the
status of being married. Finally, cultures, states or religious communities normally
have specific rites or procedures about how to marry, which most people are glad to
obey. Hence, the formal institution of marriage does indeed fit these five properties.
8.3.4 The Objects of Explicit Establishments: Kinds

and Their Instances
So far, I have focussed on acts of establishments that refer to a single particular

institution that is to be established: a certain marriage, a certain plural subject for a
walk, or a certain president of the US. This is not the only possible case. One prob-
lem case discussed by Searle is his example of a particular dollar bill that has fallen
between the cracks in the printing plant (Searle 1995, 32). Nobody has ever had any
intentional attitude towards this particular dollar bill. And, to shift the focus from
attitudes to acts of establishment, nobody ever declares this particular dollar bill a
dollar bill. As a particular, it will never be the object of any thought or speech act.
Nevertheless, Searle tells us, it can have the institutional status of a dollar bill
because there is a status ascription to the type it belongs to: all instances of the type
Green rectangular paper with certain specified properties, printed following a
request from the Federal Reserve will have the status of being a dollar bill. The rule
regarding this type of paper needs, of course, to be explicitly established by law or
decree. Dollar bills, thus, are explicitly established institutions, but they are estab-
lished on the level of types, not of particular tokens. This means that the object of
the intention accompanying the act of establishment was not a certain particular, nor
a number of certain particulars, but a type of social entity. Establishing acts can,
thus, occur on two different levels: they can establish particular tokens or types of
institutions. The dollar bill that has fallen between the cracks can nevertheless be a
dollar bill, or so Searle tells us, as in this case it is sufficient to be the instance of an
institutional type that has been explicitly established in order to be an explicitly

established institution.
The type–token distinction used by Searle is close to the distinction between a
universal and its instances, with the difference that types can be delineated quite
arbitrarily and can also comprise arbitrarily defined classes (as the example shows).
Other authors talk about ‘social’ or ‘human’ kinds (Thomasson 2013; Khalidi 2013,
2015). The example of the dollar bills, one could say, is an example where a social
kind is established by the authorities, but where no explicit establishment is neces-
sary in order for a particular piece of paper to be an instance of that social kind. In
many cases, there will be explicit acts of establishments for both kinds and instances.
E.g. constitutional law lays out specification for the legal kind President, whereas
by a particular course of events, including elections and culminating in an inaugura-
tion, a particular person is established to be a new instance of this legal kind.
8.4 Beyond Explicitly Established Social Entities
8.4.1 Two Kinds of Deviant Examples
Having discussed explicitly established institutions and their typical properties, I

will now review a number of deviant examples harvested from Searle where particu-
lar institutions are not explicitly established: episodes of inflation, cocktail parties,
language (Sect. 8.4.2), and friendships (Sect. 8.4.3).
An episode of inflation is a clear case of a social entity without any establishment
at all. Searle calls such entities ‘systematic fallouts’ (Searle 2010, 22). In fact, as
Amie Thomasson (2003) first pointed out, such social entities are both epistemically
and conceptually opaque. That is, there can be an episode of inflation without any-
one knowing that there is such an episode (maybe because of lack of memory, or of
lack of market transparency). There can even be an episode of inflation without
anyone having the concept of inflation. This seems to contradict what Searle calls
the ‘self-referentiality of institutional concepts’ (Searle 1995, 33). Åsa Burman has
defended Searle’s account by pointing out that a phenomenon like inflation is some-
thing like a ‘macro institutional fact’ that is causally and ontologically dependent on
‘micro institutional facts’ like money and prizes that fit Searle’s account (Burman
without year, building on her PhD thesis, Andersson 2007). For my present pur-
poses, it is not so much important whether the macro entities can be reduced to the
micro entities (as Burman claims), or whether they merely supervene on them, or
whether they emerge from them. What counts for present purposes is that whether
there is an episode of inflation or not does not hinge at all on someone declaring
something an episode of inflation. Nor does it require anyone to know that there is
an episode of inflation. An episode of inflation surely requires a dynamic develop-
ment of the exchange value of money. That money has a certain face value is an
institutional fact explicitly established by law. That you can exchange it for a certain
148 L. Jansen
amount of bread is also an explicitly established institutional fact, though this fact
is normally established not by law but by bakers and grocers—and, of course, caus-
ally influenced by consumers and their willingness to pay the required prices. While
the face value remains stable, the prices for bread may change. Inflation, one may
say, is the average development of prices in a certain regional market. It does not
need to be explicitly established, but supervenes on (or can be reduced to, or emerges
from) the explicit price decisions in this market. It is clear, thus, that the social
domain does not only consist of explicitly established institutions.
Cocktail parties are another interesting example discussed by Searle. Again,
nobody needs to explicitly declare a certain party a cocktail party. But, or so Searle
suggests, somebody has at least to think that it is a cocktail party: ‘Where money is
concerned a particular token could be money even if no one thought it was money,
but where cocktail parties are concerned if no one thinks of a particular event that it
is a cocktail party, it is not a cocktail party’ (Searle 1995, 53; cf. also 34). Close to
cocktail parties are, according to Searle, friendships and ‘dates’ (1995, 88). In all of
these cases, Searle says, there needs to be a mental representation of the party as a
cocktail party, of someone as your date, or of that acquaintance of yours as a friend.
If Searle is right, this is a clear difference to the macro-level ‘fall-out’ entities.
Cocktail parties, dates and friendships are, then, mind-dependent in a different way
than episodes of inflation. Nobody needs to think about the inflation as an inflation,
in order for it to be an inflation. But according to Searle’s analysis, we need to think
about our friends as friends in order for them to be our friends. Another difference
between informal institutions and macro-level entities is that we do establish infor-
mal institutions, even if we do not need to establish them explicitly. As we say, we
‘make’ friends. We need to be in contact with people and interact with them in order
to befriend them. In contrast to friends and prices, episodes of inflation are not in
need of acts of establishment. Hence there are two general kinds of social entities
that are not explicitly established: those that are not established at all (like episodes
of inflation) and those that are established, but not explicitly (like cocktail parties
and friendships). I will now look more closely at this latter kind, and I will start with
a discussion of natural language, which is, at least for the most part, an informal
institution. It is indeed the most prominent and important example of this latter kind
of institution.
8.4.2 The Presupposition of Language
The deviant examples discussed so far show that there must be more to the institu-
tional world than explicitly established institutions. As we have seen, there are many
institutions which are not explicitly established. Moreover, in establishing institu-
tions, we rely on language. Language itself can, at least in its very beginnings, not
have been created by the use of language, as this did not yet exist. At the most basic
level, language cannot be introduced by an explicit act of establishment—or, as
Searle says, by declaration—because this would already presuppose language

(Searle 2010, 12).
Once we have language, we can use it to establish other institutions, and we can
also use it to introduce new linguistic elements. For example, we can introduce new
words by means of an explicit definition. This happens very often in mathematics,
science, or law. But this cannot be the first beginning of language—again because it
already presupposes language. This argument bears a strong structural similarity to
the regress problem for definitions. Definitions are sometimes said to be futile
because they are either circular, yielding an infinite regress, or they use undefined
terms (as was notably pointed out by Popper 1986, 21). Along this line, we can build
a regress argument for the ultimately informal basis of social entities: formal institu-
tions presuppose language as a means for their establishment. Ultimately, language
itself cannot be established by means of language. Hence, at its bottom, language
cannot be a formal institution (Jansen 2017, Sect. 10.1).
Whitney has put forward yet another argument against the creation of language
by means of an explicit establishment (Whitney 1867, 444). We can, of course,
imagine that someone constructs a whole new language—like Esperanto or Volapük,
for example. But what happens in the construction of such an artificial language is
like what happens when we today tell an engineer to ‘invent’, say, a steam engine or
a car. Today, an engineer already knows what a car is and how it functions, and she
may exchange some parts and improve on others. Before the invention of the car,
however, it would not make any sense to encourage anyone to ‘invent a car’, because
nobody knew what that was. The same applies to language. Before there was lan-
guage, nobody knew what language was about, how it could function and for what
purposes it might be used. Thus, it is not possible to construct a language if there is
not already a language that could serve as its paradigm. Instead of ordering the con-
struction of a car, one could, of course, tell an engineer to invent a mode of transpor-
tation that travels on the ground, runs on gas, can carry several people, etc. For
obvious reasons, we cannot say such a thing in order to motivate the invention of
language without using it. Again, it is not possible to describe the requirements for
constructing a language without already using a language with sufficient expressive
power. We can conclude that language is fundamentally an institution that is estab-
lished, but not explicitly so. It is fundamentally an informal institution.
8.4.3 Friendship as a Paradigmatic Informal Institution
We have, thus, to acknowledge the existence of institutions that are not explicitly
established. If the above argument is correct, we cannot do without institutions that
are non-explicitly established. So the social domain seems to be split into at least
two realms: the realm of explicitly established institutions and the realm of institu-
tions that are established but not explicitly so. One might be tempted to defend the
unity of the social domain by dismissing the class of explicitly established institu-
tions. This, however, is not possible either. We cannot simply banish explicitly
150 L. Jansen
established institutions from social ontology, as institutions without an explicit

establishment have quite different properties (Jansen 2014). Marriages, I said, are
paradigmatic explicitly established institutions. They are crisp entities in several
respects. First, marriages are temporally crisp; they have a crisp beginning and a
crisp end (by death or divorce). Second, they are intensionally crisp; there is a clear
meaning connected to the term ‘married’, and couples either are married or they are
not. Third, they are extensionally crisp; there is no vague field of transition between
clearly married and clearly non-married people, notably because there is a clear
ritualized or bureaucratised procedure for marriage, which establishes the institu-
tional status together with the codified rights and duties that come with it.
In contrast to marriage, friendship is a paradigm for an institution that is non-
explicitly established. Friendship is different in all of these respects. First, friend-
ship is temporally vague. Often, we cannot point to the very day and hour when we
became friends with each other. Second, friendship is intensionally vague; there are
quite different types of friendship, which are often not distinguished terminologi-
cally—like business friends, sport friends, intimate friends, and so on. Third, friend-
ship is extensionally vague. Friendship comes in degrees, and sometimes it might be
difficult to tell whether someone is a distant friend or only a good acquaintance.
Finally, friendship does not come along with codified rights and duties. The contrast
between friendship and marriage very well illuminates how informal institutions
differ from formal institutions.
We have, thus, to distinguish two varieties of institutions. First, there are explic-
itly established institutions—sometimes called ‘formal institutions.’ Second, there
are those institutions that are not explicitly institutionalized—sometimes called
‘informal institutions’ in the social sciences (Jansen 2017, Ch. 10). Next to these
kinds of institutions, there are those social entities that do not need to be established
at all—the macro-level ‘fall-out’ entities.
Belonging to these kinds seems to be an essential feature for social entities. I
already noted that for many formal entities it seems to be essential to be explicitly
established. A president that is not explicitly established as a president is hardly
conceivable. It would also be very strange if someone wanted to bring about an
episode of inflation by explicitly establishing it. In the same vein, at least some
informal institutions are essentially informal. Friendship is a case in question.
Friendship as we know it is an institution without an explicit establishment, and it is
not possible to turn it into an explicitly established formal institution. Just imagine
what would happen if states introduce the status of ‘officially registered friendship’.
Just as now in the case of marriage, we would go to the town hall and register as
friends, and have the respective rights and duties conferred on us. However, as in the
case of sham marriages, we can imagine people registering as friends with arbitrary
people without really being befriended with them, in order to take advantage of the
codified benefits connected with this institutional status. Explicit establishment of
an institutional status, that is, comes along with the possibility of abuse. (One might
wonder how close the status of ‘friends’ in social media comes to this thought
experiment.) In addition, it seems to be essential for friendship that the exact bene-
fits are not explicitly codified and enforceable. It is true that one has duties to one’s
friends, but these duties do not emerge out of a quasi-contractual relation between
friends, but from general duties against all humans that are then specialized to one’s
friends, or from the special opportunities for action open to friends (Jansen 2014).
There are, thus, informal institutions that are essentially informal. This implies that
at least in some cases it is not an accidental feature whether an institution has been
established explicitly or not.
8.4.4 Establishment of Informal Social Kinds

and Their Instances
When discussing formal institutions, I argued that we need to distinguish between

the establishment of social kinds and the establishment of their instances. Informal
social entities, of course, also come along as types and tokens. But can we choose
to establish either tokens or types, as we can with formal institutions? It is possible
to establish a type of bank note, all instances of which have a certain institutional
status, because there is a finite number of properties that is sufficient to single out
these instances. Obviously enough, this is not possible for friends. We cannot iden-
tify our friends by a shared set of properties in the way we identify dollar bills.
Rather, each friendship has to be established in its own right. By making particular
friends we simultaneously reinforce the kind Friendship, i.e. no separate act was
necessary to establish this kind. The social rules that determine how we deal with
our friends and how we make friends in the first place, are determinations of the
level of the role kind Friend, and not on the level of particulars. Because of this,
social kinds are likely to be in focus when it comes to explanations in the social
domain. It is because some people instantiate the relational role type Friend with
respect to us that we are likely to do good things for them.
Similar things apply to words and other linguistic entities. We attach meaning
and syntactical roles to the word type, and only from there to the word tokens. At
some time someone used ‘we’ as the personal pronoun in the first person plural. Had
it not yet existed, this very act would also have established the kind Personal pro-
noun in the first person plural. But there is a difference between friendships and
pronouns: when we make friends, we acquire a disposition to do good to these
particular persons who become our friends. When we learn a personal pronoun, we
do not acquire a disposition to understand a certain particular sound pattern, or a
certain inscription in a certain way. Rather, we acquire a disposition to understand
all instances of a certain type of sound, or all instances of a certain type of inscrip-
tion in a certain way. While friendship dispositions seem to be token-related dispo-
sitions, linguistic dispositions are type-related. Hence, the establishment of informal
institutions can also relate to tokens as well as to types. Formal and informal institu-
tions are quite analogous in this respect. In fact, kinds of informal social entity can
play an important explanatory role, be it in the sociology of friendship or in gram-
mar and linguistics.
152 L. Jansen
8.5 Classification of Social Kinds
Looking at the role that intentional, explicit actions of establishment play, I have
distinguished several kinds of social entities. First, there are formal institutions,
which are explicitly instituted social entities. Second, there are informal institu-
tions, which are instituted, but not explicitly. Third, there are those ‘macro’ or ‘fall-
out’ social entities which do not need to be established at all in order to exist. Of
course, all three of these varieties of social kinds come along as types and as tokens.
But for the first two varieties, there is the additional twist noticed above: some acts
of establishment establish new types of social entities, while other acts of establish-
ment create more tokens of an already existing social type. All together, these are
five kinds of social kinds.
In an important paper, Muhammad Ali Khalidi has argued that we have to distin-
guish three varieties of social kinds. According to Khalidi, there are (i) social kinds
where neither kinds nor instances depend on our having propositional attitudes
towards them, for example racism or recession; (ii) social kinds where the existence
of kinds but not of instances depend on our having propositional attitudes towards
them, for example war and money; and (iii) social kinds where the existence of both
the kind and its instances depend on our having propositional attitudes towards
them, for example prime ministers or permanent residents (as well as cocktail par-
ties and friends).
Like me, Khalidi starts from a discussion of Searle’s work, and he draws on
nearly the same examples as I do in this chapter, and yet he ends up with a different
classification of social kinds. This invites the question of how these two classifica-
tions relate to each other.
First, one may ask whether Khalidi’s classification is exhaustive. For one possi-
ble combination is missing from Khalidi’s classification, namely (iv) social kinds
where the existence of tokens but not of kinds depend on our having propositional
attitudes towards them. An example in question seems to be leadership (Jansen
2020): since prehistoric times human groups have leaders, but propositional atti-
tudes towards the kind Leader (as opposed to more specific kinds like King or
President) probably arise only later—maybe as late as the twentieth century that
saw the rise of leadership research. To be sure, in these cases still propositional
attitudes to some kind are required, but it suffices that this kind is a subtype of
Leader, such as King or President.
That means that in order to recognize someone as a leader we do not have to use
the term ‘leader’ or to possess the generic concept of Leader, which means that we
have some notion of what it is to be a leader, or some attitudes involving this very
concept. To begin with, on the linguistic level any synonym of ‘leader’ will do, as
will any equivalent of ‘leader’ in another language. But more to the point, any hypo-
nym of ‘leader’ will do as well, i.e. any term that denotes a species of Leader. On
the conceptual level, we do not need a general notion of what it is to be a leader, but
any specific notion of what it is to be a leader of a certain kind, be it a king or a presi-
dent, will also do. It is a plausible historical scenario that humans first had the more
specific concepts for social kinds like King or President, and then only later devel-
oped the more generic concept for the generic kind Leader, which was then discov-
ered to comprise more traditional social kinds like kings and presidents. That is,
while kings always were leaders, that might not have been the object of any propo-
sitional attitudes before the twentieth century.
Leadership researchers sometimes say that Plato’s masterly Republic develops a
theory of leadership (e.g. Bass and Bass 2008). Let us assume that the generic con-
cept of leadership was in fact introduced not before the twentieth century. Only
beginning with the twentieth century, then, one can have propositional attitudes
about leadership. In contrast, then, Plato cannot have had the propositional attitude
that the Republic is about leaders, but he surely had propositional attitudes about
philosophers, statesmen, and kings. Nevertheless, it can be a true statement that the
Republic is about leadership, if kings are leaders—and they are, at least in the
Republic. In general, if we have propositional attitudes towards a kind, then we do
not necessarily have propositional attitudes towards all of its superkinds further up
in the taxonomic hierarchy. This applies to natural kinds as well: a child might
believe that cats have whiskers, without having any beliefs about carnivores, mam-
mals, or vertebrates. There can, thus, be social kinds where we have attitudes
towards the instances without having attitudes towards the kind.
Second, and more importantly, Khalidi explicitly looks at concomitant collective
intentions for setting up his classificatory scheme, while I look at past acts of estab-
lishments. The main difference to Khalidi’s approach is that I am less interested in
possible dependencies of social entities on present propositional attitudes about
them. Rather, I look at the past, at the time when the social entity in question is
established, and I ask for the content of the respective intentional attitude involved
in establishing that institution. This is why I divide each of Khalidi’s two latter vari-
eties, (ii) and (iii), in two distinct subvarieties, namely a formal and an informal one:
some of the social entities that depend on propositional attitudes, be they kinds or
instances, are explicitly established, some are not. While I have shown that formal
and informal institutions differ in many important respects, these are all rooted in
their different mode of establishment. Looking at this, I have a genetic criterion at
hand to classify social entities. As the way of establishment is a historic property, it
is not available to Khalidi. That does not mean that on my account there are no con-
comitant constituents of social entities. I think, in fact, that there are, but there are
different kinds of constitutents for formal and informal social entities: Formal enti-
ties are concomitantly constituted by the deontic powers that were created when
they were established. Attitudes, however, are of crucial importance not so much for
the existence of formal institutions, but for their causal efficacy. Informal entities
are constituted by the respective dispositions in people to act in a certain way, for
example, the dispositions of friends to help each other.
In turn, Khalidi will agree that original attitudes are important, for if attitudes are
required at every time a social entity exists, they are also required at its inception. In
my view, however, if an institution is explicitly established, it is not so much the
pattern of attitudes that makes the institution but the act of establishment. In a sec-
ondary manner, the act of establishment may require some propositional attitudes as
154 L. Jansen
constitutional requirements—like, e.g. a promise requires the intention to put one-

self under a certain obligation (Searle 1969). In contrast, the so-called informal
institutions that are established, but not explicitly, do not at all require any proposi-
tional attitudes for their establishment or constitution, as all there need be is a
matching pattern of dispositions. Focussing on the establishment of social entities
does, thus, lead to a more fine-grained and better-founded classification of social
kinds than a focus on concomitant attitudes.
8.6 Grounding and Anchoring
Closely related to the topic of this chapter is what Brian Epstein has written about
‘social entities without intentions’ (Epstein 2014a). Epstein discusses these social
entities as part of a much wider project. In a series of papers and most notably in his
book The Ant Trap (Epstein 2015), he distinguishes ‘two separated fields of inquiry
in social ontology’ (Epstein 2014b, 42). Epstein calls these two fields the ‘ground-
ing project’ and the ‘anchoring project’ respectively. The grounding project asks for
the instantiation conditions and identity conditions of social entities. In short, the
‘ground’ of a social fact is what makes it the case that this case obtains. E.g. what
makes it the case that a certain dollar bill is a dollar bill is that this bill ‘is a bill
issued by the Bureau of Engraving and Printing’ (Epstein 2014a, 57, Fig. 4.1). This
is in turn due to the following more general social fact:
For all objects z, if z was issued by B.E.P. [= the Bureau of Engraving and Printing], then
there is an object u such that z constitutes u and u is a dollar. (Epstein 2014a, 57, Fig. 4.1)
The anchoring project now inquires as to why it is that this more general social fact
holds. The upshot of Epstein’s discussion is that collective intentionality is not the
only way to anchor general social facts. In fact, there are competing non-mentalistic
theories on offer for both anchoring and grounding of social entities (Epstein 2017).
My analysis in this chapter converges with Epstein’s general thesis that not all work
is done by collective intentionality. In fact, it suggests concrete answers to the
anchoring and grounding questions. These answers will vary for different types of
social entities. If we trace the coming-into-being of presidents and money, we find
legal structures and bureaucratic decisions, but not necessarily collective intention-
ality. A married couple is a married couple, not because there are concomitant prop-
ositional attitudes in a sufficiently large collective, but because they have entered a
certain deontic structure (Jansen 2017, Ch. 13). What grounds or constitutes a mar-
ried couple is this very deontic structure. Now the persistence of deontic structures
is independent from the persistence of certain propositional attitudes, whereas
deontic structures require precise propositional attitudes in order to come into exis-
tence by way of, say, declaration or contract. Generalizing on the marriage example
we can say that formal institutions are grounded in deontic structures. The anchor-
ing question can also be answered: these deontic structures came into existence
through the establishment of the institution in question—e.g. through uttering the
marriage vows, or through inaugurating the president, or whatever act is required to

establish the social entity in question. Hence, the anchors of formal institutions are
the respective speech acts that establish them.
In contrast, Epstein’s two questions require different types of answers for infor-
mal institutions like friendship or natural language. According to the analysis given
here, these social entities are grounded or constituted not by deontic structures but
by appropriate dispositions to act in accordance with the institution. These disposi-
tions, in turn, do not come about through an explicit act of establishment, but
through mechanisms like habituation and social imitation. For macro entities like
episodes of inflation, still another account is necessary. They are grounded in the
respective micro entities, and their anchor is presumably the sum of the anchors of
these micro entities.
8.7 Conclusion
In this chapter, I focused on the contrast between those social entities that are being
established by intentional and explicit acts of establishment, and those which are
not. Explicit acts of establishments, or so I argued, are mostly speech acts or docu-
ment acts, or they are omissions of such acts. Agents of such acts of establishment
can be individuals, collectives, or institutions. Their objects can be types or tokens
of social entities. The fact that speech acts can be dated, gives explicitly established
institutions a crisp temporal beginning, and, in general, a clear state of existence.
These observations can be further developed into a precise formal characterization
of social ontology (Jansen 2019).
As I have shown, there are two general kinds of social entities that are not explic-
itly established: those that are not established at all (like episodes of inflation) and
those that are being established, but not explicitly so (like friendship and natural
language). That, for example, marriages are explicitly established but friendships
are not, proved to be seminal to explain important differences between these para-
digmatic social relations.
Highlighting the fact that some social entities are explicitly established yielded a
three-fold classification scheme for social entities: those that are explicitly estab-
lished, those that are established but not explicitly, and those that are not established
at all. This tripartition proved helpful to further develop Khalidi’s classification of
social kinds. Epstein’s two-fold quest for the grounds and anchors of social entities
provided additional reasons to distinguish between formal and informal institutions,
as these require different accounts for their grounding and anchoring. Not only are
formal institutions grounded in deontic structures, whereas informal institutions are
grounded in matching dispositions of the people involved; they also receive a differ-
ent treatment when it comes to anchoring these grounds, as the deontic structures in
question come into existence through explicit speech acts, while the matching dis-
positions come into existence through mechanisms like habituation and social imi-
tation. All of this shows that the distinction between those social entities that are
156 L. Jansen
explicitly established and those that are not is a crucial one in social ontology. It is
not only a touchstone for every theory in social ontology whether it is able to
account for this contrast. Taking this contrast into account will also help to over-
come the monopolistic focus on collective intentionality.
Acknowledgments Previous versions of this chapter have been presented at workshops and con-
ferences in Bonn, Tampere, and Graz. Part of the material has already been published in the JOWO
proceedings (Jansen 2019). I am indebted to the audiences at these events for inspiring feedback,
and especially to Muhammad Ali Khalidi, Brian Epstein, and Jenny Pelletier for written comments
on an earlier version of the chapter. Research for this chapter has been supported by the German
Research Foundation under the auspices of the project ‘Formal Causation in Aristotle and in
Analytic Metaphysics and Philosophy of Science’ (JA 1904/4-1).
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Chapter 9
From Legal Fiction to Collective Agency:
Contemporary Arguments for Collective
Personhood
Onni Hirvonen
9.1 Introduction
Why would anyone believe that groups are persons? As an Occupy Wall Street pro-
tester succinctly put it, ‘I’ll believe corporations are people when Texas executes
one.’ This statement and the picture that goes with it have since become viral to the
point that Amazon now sells bumper stickers with the slogan.1 Indeed, there are
good reasons to be suspicious of the claim that corporations would be the same as
people. However, many philosophers would be quick to note that groups do not
equal corporations and—more contestably—people do not equal persons.
Before getting to the philosophical accounts of group personhood, it is good to
note that alongside the quick intuitive rebuttal of corporations as people or, to use
the philosophically more accurate terms, groups as persons,2 there are also contrary
everyday intuitions. First, our everyday language is full of group personification.
Groups are described as if they had intentions, beliefs, attitudes, rights, and respon-
sibilities. Standard examples are how British Petroleum was taken to be at fault for
causing the Gulf oil disaster, or how fast food corporations like McDonalds are
1
https://www.amazon.com/Believe-Corporations-People-Texas-Executes/dp/B00M20AS1C
2
No one in their right mind would claim that groups are people: they do not have, for example,
unified bodies or brains. However, it is much more contestable if groups can be seen to be agents
with similar rights that individuals have. These are usually discussed under the concept of person-
hood and thus, the Occupy Wall Street protester should have probably had a sign that said: ‘I’ll
believe corporations are persons when Texas executes one.’
O. Hirvonen (*)
e-mail: onni.hirvonen@jyu.fi

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_9
160 O. Hirvonen
responsible for the obesity of their customers or, if that sounds like too much of a
stretch, for the exploitation of their workers. We talk of groups as if they were per-
sons and, quite interestingly, our brains also react to the group person talk in a simi-
lar manner as they react to individual persons talk (Jenkins et al. 2014).
Group persons also figure in the legal context. Depending on the legal system,
groups—or corporations—can be taken and are taken de facto as legal persons.
Most Western democracies give some sort of legal standing to corporate entities and
there is a long historical tradition of this legal practice. According to Christian List
and Philip Pettit (2011, 174–175) some of the earliest examples of group personifi-
cation can be found from Roman law (which functions as a basis for many of the
legal systems in modern Western countries), which recognized group agents as
separate beings from individuals, and made it clear that the debts of a group are not
the same as individual debts. List and Pettit (2011, 170) note here the key role of
Pope Innocent IV, who argued that corporate bodies are persons, although they are
not fit to be held responsible as they lack a soul. This thought was then taken and
developed by medieval lawyers and other thinkers who began to attribute responsi-
bility to corporate entities as well. However, although groups might have had a legal
status, they were still only considered personae fictae and not the same as natural
persons. The ‘fictional personhood’ of groups has largely remained in the legal
imaginary and although one might say that it is mere legal fiction,3 legal personhood
does carry with it a certain—very real—standing that not all agents (like animals)
are privileged to have.
But the existence of this practice does not so much prove the personhood of
groups as raise a host of new questions. What is the relationship between legal and
‘common’ or ‘more general’ personhood—persona ficta and natural persons?
Where is legal personhood grounded? What is the relationship between agency and
legal personhood? And, to extrapolate further, are there such things as natural per-
sons in contrast to fictional persons? These are questions that cannot be solved by a
mere reference to everyday language use or legal practices. As Tuomas Manninen
aptly states: ‘There is very little in the way of criteria that we can extract from the
ordinary use of the concept of “person”’ (Manninen 2004, 135).
The questions outlined above stem from an everyday and legal understanding but
they are characteristically philosophical. Thus, it is no wonder that we can spot
references to the themes of personhood and group agency throughout the history of
Western philosophy. Thomas Szanto (2015, 296) identifies some of the early origins
of this thought in what he calls ‘Plato’s notorious analogy between the polis and the
human soul’ and it is not uncommon to see societies taken as organisms even in
contemporary philosophy.4 The early modern English philosopher Thomas
Hobbes—an inspiration to some of the contemporary defenders of group
3
Both Peter French (1979) and Kendy Hess (2013) argue that legal personhood is too vague and
often given without any strict standards and thus legal status attribution is of little help in philoso-
phy of personhood.
4
A fairly recent example is Axel Honneth’s defense of organicist thinking in ‘The diseases of soci-
ety: approaching a nearly impossible concept’ (2014).
9 From Legal Fiction to Collective Agency: Contemporary Arguments for Collective… 161
personhood—sees personhood partly as a social status and, interestingly in

Leviathan, he goes as far as saying that ‘Inanimate things, as a church, a hospital, a
bridge, may be personated by a rector, master, or overseer’ (Hobbes 2008, 123).
Although the entities listed by Hobbes lack many agential features of human per-
sons, human beings can impersonate them, represent and speak for them, which
makes all these entities persons in social relations. However, they are still imaginary
or fictional persons that could not exist without there being some sort of ‘civil gov-
ernment’ within which their status makes sense (Hobbes 2008, 123).
The idea of collective personhood is also present in some other members of the
social contract tradition. A clear example can be found from Jean-Jacques Rousseau
who sees that coming together to constitute general will also constitutes a collec-
tive person:
Instantly, in place of the particular person of each contracting party, this act of association
produces a moral and collective body made up of as many members as there are voices in
the assembly, which receives from this same act its unity, its common self, its life, and its
will. This public person thus formed by the union of all the others formerly took the name
city… (Rousseau 2012, 173).
Here we see an emergence of some of the elements that are central for contemporary
group personhood theorists. The ‘city’ or city state has its own will and its own self.
It leads its own life that is distinct from its members’ lives.
Non-individual agents are also present in German Idealism, especially in G. W. F
Hegel’s philosophy. He famously emphasizes the Spirit as the subject of world his-
tory. Although Spirit is not necessarily a group, nevertheless, Hegel entertains an
organistic idea of the state. According to Frederick Neuhouser’s interpretation, for
Hegel a state (or social order) ‘must itself be a self-determining entity, that is, a liv-
ing, self-reproducing system that […] exhibits the basic features that any rational
(self–determined) entity must possess’ (Neuhouser 2000, 121). Here the focus is not
on personhood as such but Hegel seems to attribute certain features to society that
are often thought of as agential, as features of agents. The echoes of Hegel’s spirit
reverberate further in Marx’s ideas of class consciousness.
Through these quick examples, it should be clear that the idea of collective
agency or collective personhood is present in our everyday and legal language and
practices, as well as in the canon of philosophical thinking. Further examples could
be adduced in the form of Durkheim’s structuralist sociology, which emphasizes the
quasi-independent, thing-like nature of social entities. Nevertheless, the presence of
group agency and group personification in everyday thinking and the history of
philosophy does not prove that these ideas are sound. For example, groups’ distinc-
tive lack of singular brains or cohesive bodies (or phenomenological conscious-
nesses) certainly raises some doubts. Especially so, if we include these features in
the definition of personhood. Margaret Gilbert has aptly summarized this uneasi-
ness towards collective agency and group personhood through two commonly held
contemporary intuitions, which she calls ‘psychologism about belief’ and ‘anti-
psychologism about groups’ (Gilbert 1992, 238). The first means that whatever it is
that makes something have a mind is something ‘psychological’—and we might
162 O. Hirvonen
have different theories about what constitutes this, be it biological brains or a soul
or something else. The second merely states that groups are not such entities that
would be able to have the psychology-inducing feature.
This chapter presents three contemporary theories that go against the intuitions
outlined by Gilbert, and offer defenses for strong moral and legal status of groups.
The aim is to, first, introduce and analyse the central contributions to the contempo-
rary discussions on group personhood: namely, Peter French’s, Carol Rovane’s, and
Christian List and Philip Pettit’s theories of group personhood. These theories have
been chosen because they represent the most recognized and the most developed
arguments for group personhood in the contemporary literature, stemming from
French’s work in the 1970s to Rovane’s in 1990s, and finally to List and Pettit’s
contribution in 2010s. They also provide a representative a cross-section of a dis-
tinctive brand of theories of personhood: they all emphasize rationality as a person-
making feature. These sections of this chapter are mostly descriptive.5 Secondly,
after the three theories are laid out, they are critically evaluated. They all face the
same challenge, namely, that theories based on independent reasoning and rational
performance in the public sphere do not pay enough attention to the relevant differ-
ences between human and group agents and they (unfairly) emphasize the similari-
ties. The paper finishes with two suggestions to avoid the troubles posed by the
criticism: (1) we could focus on relevant kinds of agency and let go of the problem-
atic notion of personhood altogether (as suggested by Kendy Hess 2013) or (2) we
could give a more elaborate view of personhood that allows for differences between
agents (as suggested by myself in Hirvonen 2017a). The latter suggestion has its
roots in Hegelian philosophy—and as such it closes the circle going from the his-
torical examples to contemporary theories and back. The suggestions sadly cannot
be fully developed here, but they hopefully provide the reader with directions from
which to look for answers to the issues that the most well-known contemporary
theories of group personhood suffer. However, before all that, we should start with
a short summary of what is at stake in the discussions of group personhood.
9.2 What Makes a (Group) Person?
There are two elements that go into claiming that groups are persons:
[theory of personhood] + [theory of collective agency] = [view on group
personhood].
This formalization only means that, in the most basic terms, one needs to have a
picture of what persons are (or what are conditions of personhood) and a picture of
what sort of entities groups are to be able to say whether groups are persons. Here
5
This part of the paper is based on an earlier short paper (Hirvonen 2017b). However, here all three
authors are analyzed in greater detail.
it is assumed, in line with standard philosophical views of personhood, that only

agents can be persons.
Why would we be interested in the personhood of groups? These reasons are
analysed in more detail in Sect. 9.4, but the simple answer is that personhood—in
most of its formulations—is a key term in responsibility attribution. Only persons
can be morally responsible for something. This also gives a hint of the content of the
theories of personhood: they most often combine ideas of (moral) agency with cer-
tain attributions of social statuses.
Arto Laitinen (2007) condenses this idea in arguing that personhood can be
understood in two interrelated senses. First, personhood is a psychological concept
that describes certain capacities or agential features of entities. Most of the standard
theories of personhood (e.g. those by Daniel Dennett 1976 or Harry Frankfurt 1971)
list a range of features like intentionality, self-reflective skills, and linguistic skills
among those that are required for personhood. The second sense of personhood is
personhood as a normative status concept. In this view personhood is a socially
given standing, an honorific status, that grants certain rights, responsibilities, or
deontic powers to the bearer of the status. The idea of personhood as a legal status
emphasizes this second sense of personhood. It is notable though that the attribution
of personhood often requires something from the objects of the status attribution. In
short, personhood is only attributed to suitable agents that (at least potentially) fulfil
certain conditions of personhood. In this sense, the full concept of personhood can
be thought to include both elements: capacities and statuses.
Michael Quante (2007, 59–62) outlines four separate but interlinked questions
that need to be considered in giving an account of personhood or personal identity.6
First, one could look for the general conditions of personhood. These would include
those capacities and properties (or even social statuses) that are needed for an entity
to count as a person. The second and third questions are focused on more specific
metaphysical issues. To give a full account of personhood, one would need to
explain the condition of unity of personhood as well as its conditions of persistence
over time. In other words, how is one exactly the one and same person at a particular
point of time, and how does one stay the same person over time, or when and how
does one change into another person. Fourth, a full account of personhood should
include an account of the structure of personality. This question focuses on what it
means to be a person for the person herself and gives practical content to the con-
cept of personhood.
Whereas Quante’s outline concerns theories of personhood in general, Thomas
Szanto (2015, 297) gives a useful characterization of the four requirements that are
specific to theories of group personhood. The plurality requirement states that an
account of group personhood should concern entities that consist of multiple indi-
viduals. The integrity requirement states that these multiple individuals should con-
stitute a single unified person whose personhood is not reducible to its members’
6
It should be noted that personal identity is a slightly different issue from personhood as such. The
former asks for the conditions of sameness over time whereas this question is not necessarily
included in the question of personhood as such.
164 O. Hirvonen
personhood. According to the normativity requirement a theory of group person-

hood should account for the normative status of group persons. Are they similar to
individual persons or are there relevant differences that need to be taken into
account? Finally, the anti-collectivism requirement states that a theory of group per-
sonhood should not undermine individual personhood and, thus, any full account of
collective personhood should also provide an account of how collective personhood
does not undermine the personhood of individuals. This last requirement seems
more like a preference than an actual necessary theoretical requirement. After all, it
could be the case that we are socially determined parts of greater wholes that act and
thus the 'real personhood' would lie on a different ontological level.
With these desired theoretical features in mind, it is now time to take a look at
three distinct arguments for group personhood, which highlight the current state of
the debate from the perspective of the arguments for group personhood.
9.3 Three Arguments for Group Personhood
9.3.1 Internal Decision-Making and Corporate Personhood
In his article, The Corporation as a Moral Person (1979), Peter French argues for
the full moral personhood of corporate agents. In order to do this, he first distin-
guishes legal, moral, and metaphysical senses of personhood. Legal personhood is
something that can be attributed at will—for example, in New Zealand certain rivers
and mountains have legal personhood—and therefore French (1979, 208) deems it
to be a concept that is ‘virtually useless for moral purposes.’
Contrasted to having a mere status in a legal system, French defines moral per-
sons as the subjects of rights in the sense of being administrators of rights. Moral
persons are such entities that can attribute and administer rights and responsibilities.
Not all personal responsibilities are of course moral but French states that ‘moral
responsibility […] is not a class apart but an extension of ordinary, garden-variety,
responsibility’ (French 1979, 211). Put in simple terms, responsibility tracks cases
where someone has done something and has a liability to answer.
Generally, then, ‘moral person’ refers to an agent that can administer rights and
take moral responsibility. What would it mean for a corporation or a group to be
such an agent? As French puts it:
For a corporation to be treated as a Davidsonian [intentional] agent it must be the case that
some things that happen, some events, are describable in a way that makes certain sentences
true, sentences that say that some of the things a corporation does were intended by the
corporation itself (French 1979, 211).
It is true that no corporation can manage without its individual members. French
(1979, 212) acknowledges this and sets himself the goal of showing that there must
be a way in which corporations’ reasons to act differ from their members’ reasons
to act. Here the key is that every corporation has its own internal decision (CID)
structures, which combine ‘the intentions and acts of various biological persons into
a corporate decision’ (French 1979, 212). The forms of CID structures of course
differ, but most corporations have some sort of flow chart of the corporate roles and
decision-making processes. They also need recognition rules, which inform what
acts are counted as being done in the name of the corporation.7
French (1979, 213) characterizes the CID structures as constitutive rules that
define in what relations corporation personnel stand with each other and it also
gives new meanings for the acts of the personnel working in any particular role. To
give an example,8 a professor may be licensed to buy a computer for her university
and if she does, then it could be said that the university bought a computer. However,
if she steals the computer, this goes beyond the actions licensed by the CID struc-
tures and it would be thus odd to say that university stole the computer. The recogni-
tion rules are used to define a corporate policy, which, in turn, informs which acts
and decisions are to be counted as done for corporate reasons.
In French’s picture, corporate interests and intentions are dependent on the CID
structures, and as such they do not necessarily match with the interests and inten-
tions of corporation’s members. Instead, they make it possible that we can describe
events as incorporated acts and not merely as acts of singular individuals. French
(1979, 214) notes that this may seem that corporate intentions are merely some sort
of ‘illegitimate offspring’ of human intentions but this is, according to him, a result
of an anthropocentric bias. What is relevant is that corporations can be legitimately
described as centers of reason and this, in turn, is enough to enable us to say that
they are agents. In a sense then, we have two possible descriptions available for
corporate acts. We may describe them through the individual acts of personnel but
at the same time we may describe them as corporate acts that follow corporate rea-
soning that is in accordance with the CID structures. If this is correct, and if being
an intentional reasoning agent is enough for moral personhood, then, as French ends
his piece: ‘Grounds have been provided for holding corporations per se to account
for what they do, for treating them as metaphysical persons qua moral persons.’
(French 1979, 215)
9.3.2 Revising Metaphysics
In her famous book, The Bounds of Agency (1998), Carol Rovane provides a non-
committal defense of the possibility of group personhood. That is to say, she does
not commit to the view that there are actual group persons but merely that it is not
impossible for there to be group persons.
7
This creates also morally interesting cases where individuals might disavow themselves from
morally dubious corporate acts. See especially Holly Lawford-Smith’s book Not in Their
Name (2019).
8
Thanks to Arto Laitinen for the example. I heard this the first time in a private conversation
with him.
166 O. Hirvonen
Similar to French, Rovane sets rationality at center stage of her defense.

According to her, agency is always exercised from a rational point of view, and
rational unity is a normative ideal that any agent should strive to fulfil. In her
own words:
There is a certain universal goal that any agent is bound to have. This goal is to bring the
events that fall within the agent’s domain of intentional control into line with the dictates of
its rational point of view, so that what it does is what it has most reason to do (Rovane 1998,
86. Original italics).
Persons, in turn are a specific sub-category of agents. They are those agents ‘who
can engage in agency-regarding relations. […] one agent attempts to influence
another, and yet aims not to hinder its agency’ (Rovane 1998, 131). They are social
and reflective agents that can take other agents into consideration, and who are ‘sus-
ceptible to rational modes of influence’ (Rovane 1998, 131).
These descriptions characterize agents and persons in general, but they do not yet
explain the role of groups in the equation. Rovane (1998, 140) emphasizes that
members of a group have reasons to achieve rational unity as a group if they are
committed to a joint project or doing something together, and if that endeavor
requires rationality. Here the expectation is that if we want to achieve something
together, the success of this project cannot be trusted to pure luck but rather requires
some commitment to rational constraint in our acts, beliefs, and intentions regard-
ing the goal.
From the rational unity of a group follows group agency and, with some small
argumentative steps, personhood. To quote in length, Rovane outlines:
a sufficient condition for the identity of a group person who is composed of many human
beings. There is a set of intentional episodes such that:
1. these intentional episodes stand in suitable rational relations so as to afford the possibil-
ity of carrying out coordinated activities;
2. the set includes a commitment to particular unifying projects that require coordinated
activities of the very sorts that are made possible by (1);
3. the commitment to carrying out these unifying projects brings in train a commitment to
achieving overall rational unity within the set (Rovane 1998, 164).
To this, it should be added that the group agent should also have the capability to
engage in agency regarding relations and not only pursue its own projects. This,
however, is not a major challenge as the members of the group can be assumed to
have all the required communicative skills that they can use to communicate the
group’s reasoning to others. In other words, group members can take part in agency
regarding relations from the perspective of the group’s reasoning. In this sense, the
set of people—committed to a project—is also capable of communicative interac-
tion about the project. Therefore, in Rovane’s theory, if it is possible for groups to
achieve such rational unity, there is no reason to think that they would not be
persons.
9.3.3 Functionally Performing as a Person
Christian List and Philip Pettit provide the latest account (of the three examples
given here) of group personhood in their Group Agency (2011) book. As is the case
with Rovane—and partly with French as well—List and Pettit begin with a general
account of agency. From this they develop an account of agency that is fit to be held
responsible, and ultimately end up with an argument that some groups are respon-
sible agents and, thus, also personifiable.
Let us start from the beginning. List and Pettit (2011, 20) argue for what could
be called a thin functionalist belief–desire model of agency. Beings who have some
kind of representational states about their surroundings (i.e. beliefs), some kind of
motivational states of how the surroundings ought to be (i.e. desires), and a capacity
to act according to these states are agents. This definition does not yet say anything
about how conscious these states need to be or how they ought to be realized in the
agent. In other words, animals, bacteria, and simple programmed robots count as
agents according to the thin functionalist definition.
On its own, thin functionalism is too broad but List and Pettit identify a smaller
subset of agents that are ‘fit to be held responsible’ (List and Pettit 2011, 155).
These include those agents that face choices of normative significance, who have
judgmental capacities, and some sort of control over their own actions. Those agents
who are capable of informed choices between good and bad are also fit to be taken
responsible in a social setting. This does not mean that they always have to reflect
their actions but that they are in principle capable of reflection and that they make
choices in the sphere that we would usually call moral.
To get from general conditions of agency to group agency, List and Pettit (2011,
69–71) argue that groups can ‘collectivize’ reasoning, thus becoming centers of
rationality. It is worth noting that their argument focuses on purposeful groups with
(more or less) democratic decision-making mechanisms. This helps them to push
the point that because of the intrinsic properties of collective decision-making,
some groups have to start reasoning from the group’s perspective to count as effec-
tive pursuers of their goals. According to a so-called impossibility result in collec-
tive decision-making, there is no such collective decision-making-mechanism that
would retain responsiveness to individual beliefs, collective rationality, and democ-
racy.9 There are cases in which we want to hold onto the last two of these features,10
and in those cases there can be discontinuity between group’s beliefs and desires
and its members’ beliefs and desires. This gives reasons to think that, in the func-
tionalist sense, the group has quite literally a mind of its own. In general, List and
Pettit’s account relies on findings in collective decision-making processes to argue
9
For a fuller explanation of the impossibility result, see List and Pettit (2011, chap. 2) or List and
Pettit (2004).
10
For example, if we wish to have a democratic group that is an effective pursuer of its goals.
Collective rationality is required for a group to be seen as efficient in pursuing its aims. If this were
not the case, the group would lose the hold over its members (Pettit 2003, 176–177).
168 O. Hirvonen
for a ‘holistic supervenience’ (List and Pettit 2011, 69) of group minds. Group
minds are dependent on a larger set of individuals’ beliefs and desires but not
directly continuous with them or reducible to them.
Groups do not only have minds of their own but they are also fit to be held
responsible. First, purposive groups have goals and desires that are related to human
social life—obviously so as the groups are formed by individual humans in order to
pursue some goals in their lives. Therefore, it is also likely that groups of this kind
will face questions of normative significance. Second, ‘there is no principled rea-
son’ (List and Pettit 2011, 159) why groups should not be able to make judgments
on normatively significant matters. Many organizations do this routinely within
their corporate boards and ethics boards. It is true that sometimes groups fail to
make judgments on normative matters that they should have thought of, or that nor-
mative matters are actively kept out of the agenda. However, this does not mean that
these groups would not have capabilities of making the sorts of judgements they are
not currently making.
To be fit to be held responsible, groups would also need to be seen as actively
capable of pursuing their ends and keeping their commitments. The danger here is
that as every act of a group is realized by an individual agent (or agents) who is in
control of her own actions, then the group would not be able to consistently follow
its judgments because individuals can always act according to their own will, which,
in turn, does not necessarily match the group’s will. List and Pettit argue that this is
not a problem because groups can ensure that one or more of their members perform
in a relevant manner. The group’s will does not override individuals’ wills but, pre-
suming that the individuals are committed to the group, the group can ensure that its
ends will be met—even if some of its members would not act accordingly.11 Thus,
as the third step in their argument, List and Pettit (2011, 163) conclude that there are
good reasons to think that certain kinds of group agents are in control of their
actions. That is to say, groups are agents that are fit to be held responsible.
If an entity is fit to be held responsible, this does not mean that it is automatically
taken as a person. Rather, it means that the entity is part of a set of entities that can
(and perhaps ought to) be taken as persons. List and Pettit’s account of personhood
has its roots in Hobbes and Locke and what they call performative theories of per-
sonhood. Whereas intrinsicist theories of personhood would claim that some psy-
chological (or metaphysical) fact—like rationality—makes a person, according to
the performative theory, ‘a person is an agent who can perform effectively in the
space of obligations’ (List and Pettit 2011, 173).
The central claim is that personhood is a status that is acquired through adequate
performance rather than something that is attached to certain intrinsic features of an
agent. Nevertheless, personhood requires some capabilities: persons are agents that
can move others and be moved by the force of mutual obligations. This assumes
some cognitive capabilities like (common) awareness of obligations and also
11
This is in fact an existential question for a purposive group agent: List and Pettit describe groups
that are based on collective decision-making and commitment. If either of these is lacking, the
group agent dissolves.
reciprocal power to address claims to others. Shifting into a more normative tone,
List and Pettit (2011, 174) state that we should grant the status of personhood to any
agent that is ‘capable of an addressive performance towards us.’ In short, all those
entities that can function in practical normative relations should be taken as persons.
At this point it is easy to notice the emerging picture: if groups are fit to be held
responsible, it means that they are agents that perform in a system of mutual obliga-
tions by making addressive claims and being targets of addressive claims (List and
Pettit 2011, 174) and, therefore, they are personifiable. Groups are (in some legisla-
tions) persons before the law, they make morally relevant judgments and act accord-
ingly, and they can be asked to take part in the game of giving and asking for reasons.
To List and Pettit, group personhood is actual personhood as it is precisely these
sorts of performances that are at the crux of personhood. However, although groups
are real (and not fictional) persons, List and Pettit (2011, 180) state that their status
is not the same as with natural human persons. Rights of natural persons can over-
ride the rights of group persons.
9.4 Motivations and Evaluations
The three theories of group personhood, one from the nineteen seventies, the second
from nineteen nineties, and the last from twenty tens, all share crucial features—
although their areas of emphasis differ slightly. They all focus on rational unity,
purpose, and decision-making. All of them also put weight on performance in the
social (or moral) realm. List and Pettit see social performance as central in person-
making, whereas Rovane provides perhaps the strongest defense of rational unity as
a defining feature of personhood. French, in turn, focuses mainly on corporate
decision-making structures and their role in ascribing intentionality and responsibil-
ity. Despite the differing details, it is safe to say that they are part of same family of
theories where rational decision-making and social performance ground group
personhood.
But why should anyone want to argue that groups are persons? (Except to per-
haps avoid individual responsibility in court by making a separation between one-
self and one’s corporation.) There are in fact several reasons why one would
investigate the possibility of group personhood.
1. Philosophical exploration and justification of everyday attitudes. As noted
above, we often take groups to have their own intentions and all of the above
theories defend the position that our everyday attitudes are not completely mis-
taken. All three theories provide an account of the common practice of group
personification, making it to be something more than just metaphorical short-
hand for actions of multiple individuals. List and Pettit (2011, 176–177) make
this specifically explicit, stating that group personhood is not misleading nor
honorific.
170 O. Hirvonen
2. Clearing up the concepts of agency and personhood. Delving into the potential
agency and personhood of groups helps to demarcate and sharpen our intuitions
about what really goes into these categories. If we tend to personify certain kinds
of intentional agents, and if groups are such agents, it seems reasonable to see
whether the concept of personhood extends to groups as well. In other words,
group personhood works as a test case for the limits of the concept of person-
hood. Whereas medieval discussions had, for example, God as a non-human
rational agent (and person, three in fact),12 the contemporary discussion has
groups, corporations, social robots, animals, and aliens as potential cases of non-
human persons. Thinking of what it would require to take something like these
to be a person can serve the function of clearing up our intuitions about what
should or should not go into our theory of personhood. The general aims of
clearing up the concepts related to agency and personhood are clear in Rovane
(1998, 8), whose point is to give a revisionary normative analysis of personal
identity. However, at the same time she remains agnostic on the reality of actual
group persons.
3. Social-ontological analysis of the objects of social sciences. Analysis of group
agency and group persons can be taken as a philosophical attempt to demarcate
and define different groups that are investigated in the social sciences. What are
social movements? What are institutions, corporations, states, and so forth?
Having systematic criteria for group agency and group personhood will clarify
what kind of entities we are dealing with and what properties, capabilities, and
attitudes can or cannot be attributed to them. Again, this aim is made explicit in
List and Pettit (2011, vii): ‘One can often achieve greater descriptive and explan-
atory parsimony by viewing a collective as a single agent, acting in pursuit of a
single set of desires, in accordance with a single set of beliefs.’
4. Mapping out the moral landscape. Perhaps some of the clearest reasons for con-
sidering group personhood are moral. French (1972) was troubled by the case of
My Lai, a massacre in the Vietnam War, as well as corporate wrongdoings.
Rovane sees personhood as a normative concept, tied to a moral standing that
persons share.13 Both French and List and Pettit also focus on corporate respon-
sibility. Arguing for group responsibility (as accountable persons) we can avoid
some ‘deficits of responsibility’—cases where no responsible agent is found for
a morally meaningful act. Group personhood is a conceptual tool that can ‘ensure
that there is as much blame delivered as, on the face of it, there is blame deserved’
(List and Pettit 2011, 167). Holding groups as moral persons opens up the pos-
sibility of tracking obligations, entitlements, and power relations in places where
12
Risto Saarinen’s Recognition and Religion (2016) gives a wealth of examples of God as a coun-
terpart in (interpersonal) recognition in medieval theology and philosophy.
13
She gives the examples of women and slaves as entities with relevant capabilities but who have
been denied personhood and therefore lack moral standing (Rovane 1998, 120). They have been
denied full personhood on (mistaken) metaphysical grounds, and so clearing up the concept of
personhood will also provide a means for the oppressed to state their claim to full personhood.
we might not have previously seen them and this, according to the defenders of
group personhood, gives a fuller account of the moral realm.
All the above aims are commendable, but there are doubts as to whether the focus
on rationality and social performance of groups is as fruitful a solution as French,
Rovane, List, and Pettit want it to be. Critics have in fact identified several weak-
nesses in theories that ground group personhood in rational group agency. First, the
metaphysics of group agency itself can be challenged. Reductionistic accounts, if
true, would make the talk of group personhood empty. If the metaphysics of group
agency is somehow mistaken and groups are not rational agents over and above
their members, then it would require a stretch of the imagination to take them as
persons. However, this is not place to be bogged down with the details of reduc-
tionism versus group agency debate—it is enough to say that the above theorists
spend a great deal of time arguing why groups ought to be understood as agents in
their own right and that not everyone agrees that these arguments are strong
enough.14
Second, it can be argued that the rationalist picture is overly simplified. Focusing
on rationality as the central person-making feature is too narrow as it overlooks the
importance of feelings, unified personal (phenomenological) consciousness, and the
first-person perspective that we might argue persons should have. In one sense,
focus on rationality seems reasonable as almost all theories of personhood (or mor-
ally responsible agency) require some sort of accountability and rational respon-
siveness, whereas feelings or phenomenological consciousness alone are not useful
in distinguishing persons from non-persons. Rationality is often agreed to be a nec-
essary condition for personhood; however, this does not mean that it is sufficient.
Against List and Pettit’s account, Martin Kusch (2014, 1596) argues that (along-
side misinterpreting historical sources and being normatively vague) they overlook
relevant differences between group agents and individual agents. This challenge
aims at both agency and personhood in two senses. First, they ignore the relevant
empirical differences between different kinds of agents—human individuals and
groups. Similarities are emphasized whereas dissimilarities are downplayed.
Further, they do not acknowledge the vagueness, contestability, and politics of the
concept of personhood itself.
Kusch’s criticism extends to all theories that focus so strongly on one person-
making feature. However, an option for all of the three authors considered here is
biting the bullet: they explicitly and knowingly restrict their concepts of personhood
to features that might abstract from some of the other properties that we usually
attribute to individual human persons. The further challenges that arise from priori-
tizing rationality are explicit in Rovane’s analysis. Her theory includes certain oddi-
ties that more life-centered personhood theorists15 would not accept. For example,
according to Rovane (1998, 185), ‘human beings are […] the site of personal lives.’
14
For example, Anthony Quinton (1976), John Searle (1995), and Seumas Miller (2001) all are
well-known defenders of individualist accounts that reject irreducible group agency.
15
Erik Olson’s (2007) animalism puts a greater weight of the continuity of the living body as rel-
evant for the person.
172 O. Hirvonen
They are not persons as such, but they are persons insofar as they manage to uphold
rational unity. Persons can also ‘reason their way out of existence’ (Rovane 1998,
248) by committing to a different rational unity (or, presumably, by not being ratio-
nal). In this picture not every human animal is a person, but this does not mean that
they would not have any moral status as moral patients—as the recipients, but not
the makers of moral statuses. These are very contestable thoughts but Rovane is
presumably happy with this: revising the metaphysics of personhood might bring
some surprising or counterintuitive results, but this does not mean that it is mistaken.
Third, these theories of group personhood are not, in fact, complete as theories of
personhood. All three examples manage to fulfil Szanto’s requirements for theories
of group personhood. They give accounts of plural agents (plurality requirement)
who somehow constitute rational unity (integrity requirement), which is norma-
tively significant (normativity requirement) but does not threaten individual agency
(anti-collectivism requirement). However, one might doubt whether they are suc-
cessful at providing good enough grounds for the differing normative statuses of
groups and individuals.
When examined in light of Quante’s more general desiderata, these group per-
sonhood theories appear lacking—although not drastically so. First, it should be
noted that they are not aiming to give a full account of personhood in the sense
outlined by Quante, and so using his desiderata might seem unfair. Nevertheless,
French, Rovane, List and Pettit all provide general conditions of personhood.
Capabilities for intentional agency, rationality, and being fit to be held responsible
define personhood—alongside social recognition and taking part in the social life of
persons. However, their answers to the specific metaphysical questions of the unity
and persistence of personhood are vaguer—except in Rovane’s case. For her, unity
and persistence conditions can be mapped onto the rational perspective. If the ratio-
nal perspective changes or disappears, so does the person. The multiplicity of per-
sonalities/persons in a single body is also a possibility as single bodies can, at least
theoretically, hold many rational perspectives. The performative accounts similarly
sidestep the issues of unity of persons: if social attribution of status is taken as a key
element in personhood, singular bodies embodying multiple persons is not a theo-
retical problem—although it might well be a practical and a legal one. Thus, though
it is debatable if group personhood theories have sound solutions to the metaphysi-
cal problems of theories of personhood, they have at least potential solutions to
those issues. It is a weakness with French’s and List and Pettit’s accounts that they
do not explicitly address these issues at length. The largest issue though, for all three
theories, is the question of the structure of personality. Their focus on groups as
rational persons leaves open relevant questions of what their ‘psychology’ is or
what kind of persons groups are. All the authors defend the view that groups are
rational agents, capable of standing in ethical relations. However, this leaves a lot of
room for development and opens them up to criticism of the type that Kusch has
levelled against List and Pettit—that they overlook the relevant differing features
that are central to lives of persons.
The emerging theoretical uptake is that a robust defense of group personhood
requires differentiating between the social (or performative) side of personhood and
its enabling conditions (or the psychological/agential side of personhood). However,

alongside these, the political-historical side of personhood and the contestability of
the concept itself should be acknowledged, and furthermore there is a need for a
clearer focus on the differences between individual and group persons. The next
section concludes this chapter by suggesting two alternative views that avoid some
of the issues that our three showcased theories face.
9.5 Further Developments
Recent discussions have suggested two alternative non-reductive accounts of how to

think of group personhood and its relation to collective responsibility. In this section
I will briefly introduce both. However, I cannot not fully argue for either account in
here. The purpose of the section is to disclose options for theoretical development
towards a more nuanced picture of group agents, responsibility, and personhood
than presented by the three theories analyzed above. One option is to argue, as
Kendy Hess (2013) does, that we do not need to take groups as persons to be able to
get to their moral responsibility. The second option is to argue for a more differenti-
ated concept of personhood that would allow groups to be partial persons and would
also explain more clearly why they are not exactly persons similar to individual
human beings. This is the position I have endorsed and defended in more detail
elsewhere (see Hirvonen 2017a).
In her account, Hess wants to challenge the entailment of moral agency to per-
sonhood. According to her (Hess 2013, 320) the ‘highly sophisticated moral agency
of corporations does not entail the kind of personhood at issue here.’16 What she
refers to is the kind of personhood that comes with ‘significant rights and protec-
tions’ (Hess 2013, 320). The crux of the argument is that we can make sense of
groups as agents that are literally intentional agents with their own beliefs and
desires and a rational point of view or, in Hess’s words, a corporation is ‘a logically
integrated complex of commitments’ (Hess 2013, 323). These features make corpo-
rations (and other suitably arranged groups) moral agents but, crucially, it does not
mean that corporations would have the rights and protections that individuals have,
and hence are not persons.
Hess (2013, 328) distinguishes four paradigms of personhood that are derived
from law, business ethics, political philosophy, and the broader culture. She states
that legal personhood is based on the whims of the legislature and thus it is not
suited for giving criteria for what entities should be given rights and protections.
Here Hess at least partially defends a psychological or capability-centered sense of
personhood against the status view of personhood. The business ethics and the polit-
ical philosophy paradigms, in turn, give clearer criteria of personhood but they tend
16
Hess is mostly concerned about corporations and not groups in general. However, her points
about moral agency apply to any suitably arranged groups of individuals, not only those that are
corporations in a legal sense.
174 O. Hirvonen
to assume, according to Hess (2013, 331), the equivalence of rational moral agency
and personhood. In a critique that mirrors Kusch’s challenge, Hess sees that in their
focus on rational agency, these theories abstract too much from the other relevant
person-making features—features that are relevant for rights and protections.
Alongside rationality, human beings are also vulnerable and this is why they need
protections. ‘They have those rights because they are valuable and vulnerable, in
very specific ways. And for all their sophisticated rational and moral agency, corpo-
rations are not’ (Hess 2013, 334).
Hess’s view manages to highlight one very important difference between human
agents and group agents: they are physically a very different kind of entity and
therefore not everything that is suitable for humans is equally suitable for groups.
However, there are two criticisms against the easy separation of moral agency and
personhood. First, group agents can also be vulnerable—even if their vulnerability
is not of the same sort as individual vulnerability. A football team’s defense might
be vulnerable in ways that individual defenders are not vulnerable. A liberal democ-
racy might be vulnerable to forms of hybrid warfare in different ways than individ-
ual is vulnerable to them. In other words, it is not evident that all the relevant
vulnerabilities are attached to individuals. Second, if a group acts like a moral agent,
and is taken as a moral agent, then why would it not be a moral person? The defend-
ers of the performative view and status view of personhood seem to be onto some-
thing when they suggest that what personhood really is, is precisely being a relevant
and capable member in a moral or ethical community, a system of obligations, or
something similar. To those defending the performative theory, personhood is about
statuses given to agents who are—using French’s terms—capable administrators of
these statuses. Hess focuses more on protection and vulnerabilities of agents than
the capabilities of agents (who in the performative view decide which vulnerabili-
ties ought to be protected). Despite this difference, both lines of thought see that to
be a person is to be treated in a manner that suits one’s dignity as an agent.
The multi-dimensional view of personhood has, or so I argue (see also Hirvonen
2017a), the potential to have both sides of the above story: respect for agents’ capa-
bilities and still uphold that they have differing statuses. The multi-dimensional
view is based on the Hegelian concept of recognition. Recognition denotes various
person-making attitudes that are responsive to and constitutive of different aspects
of personhood. In contemporary recognition theories it is commonplace to distin-
guish three different forms of recognition (or ‘recognitive attitudes’).17 Love as a
form of recognition responds to needs and emotions, respect-recognition is tied to
moral responsibility, and esteem-recognition is directed towards traits, abilities, and
achievements. To be a person in the full sense of the word is to be recognized in all
the three spheres of recognition.
What is notable about this account of personhood is that all the forms of recogni-
tion have their own enabling conditions. An entity with a rational perspective (and
17
The central reference in contemporary literature for the three forms of recognition is Axel
Honneth’s The Struggle for Recognition (1995). See also Ikäheimo (2020) for a short summary of
the connections of recognition and personhood.
some communication skills) might prove to be worthy of respect and have dignity
as a rational being. However, this does not yet guarantee esteem as a contributor to
value community or love as a being whose ends and needs are important in them-
selves. The reader has probably guessed already where the argument is going: if
person-making recognition comes in different forms, all of which have different
conditions, then it is possible to fulfil some of those conditions while others remain
unfulfilled. Some of the rights and protections that we want to give to persons are
related to their physical needs and emotional wellbeing—and these are not appli-
cable to group agents. However, groups might qualify as rational entities that should
deserve respect in decision-making, as well as esteem-worthy contributors to com-
mon goals.
The suggestion here is that the differentiated or multi-dimensional view of per-
sonhood offers more ‘content’ to the concept of personhood. Personhood is seen
here as partly psychological or intrinsic, as there are certain conditions that one
needs to fulfil to be a suitable object of recognition. However, recognition is at its
core also status-giving: recognition theories give a performative, social account of
personhood. Furthermore, recognition theories provide a political-historical con-
cept of personhood with multiple dimensions. The enabling conditions of recogni-
tion are historically changing and, for example, the current demands for equal worth
of all human beings is a result of a political struggle for expanding the sphere of
respect, of broadening the area of personhood.
In short, the recognition-theoretical view of personhood manages to acknowl-
edge the potential differences between recognized agents, the social and psycho-
logical sides of personhood, and the historical struggles around the content of the
concept of personhood. This does not mean that group agents would obviously be
persons, but the ‘multi-dimensional’ view can accept the disanalogies between indi-
vidual and collective agents while keeping the door open to the idea that perhaps
collective agents (if they exist) can be persons in a partial sense, fulfilling conditions
for certain aspects of personhood.
9.6 Conclusion
Contemporary philosophical literature on group personhood has drawn attention to

the special nature of groups, their agency, and their forms of rationality that spring
up from the collective decision-making procedures. They provide an account of
group agency, combined with a theory of personhood, which together constitute a
defense of group personhood. Whereas the arguments for group agency are lengthy,
sadly the complex nature of personhood itself continues to be underestimated, and
this has been noted in the challenges mounted against these theories. However, this
does not mean that accounts of group personhood are outright undefensible. If we
move beyond the focus on abstract rationality to more differentiated views of per-
sonhood, it becomes easier to make sense of groups as responsible members of
social world—but with limited rights and protections.
176 O. Hirvonen
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Part III
Historical and Contemporary Perspectives
in Dialogue
Chapter 10
Cooperation, Community, and Institution
Falk Hamann
10.1 Introduction
A social ontology must be able to accommodate three kinds of phenomena that are
central to human social life―namely, cooperation, community, and institutions. As
practical beings, we share certain ends with one another and often pursue them
cooperatively, that is, we act together in order to accomplish those ends. I will use
the term ‘cooperation’ here in a broad sense so that it applies to all kinds of joint
action. However, humans not only cooperate with one another, but also live together
in various forms of community. Almost everyone of us is, for example, a member of
her or his family, has friends and neighbors, and is a citizen of her or his state. I will
use the term ‘community’ here, again, in a broad sense so as to cover all these stable
forms of living together. Finally, apart from cooperation and community, we create
and maintain a vast range of institutions such as money, universities, and govern-
ments that facilitate and cultivate our life both as individuals and as a society.
Cooperation and institutional reality have received much attention from social
philosophers over the past decades. On the one hand, the discussion on collective
intentionality originated in the question of how individual action differs from joint
action and how we have to account for the latter. John Searle’s attempts to provide
a comprehensive ontology of social reality, on the other hand, kindled an interest in
institutional reality and thus opened up a new field for ontological research. The
concept of community, however, seems more or less absent from the contemporary
debate. Yet this does not mean that the corresponding phenomena, that is, stable
forms of living together such as families, friendships, or states, have been neglected
or overlooked. They are just discussed under another title, for example, ‘social
F. Hamann (*)
Christian-Albrechts-Universität zu Kiel, Kiel, Germany
e-mail: falk.hamann@mailbox.org

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_10
182 F. Hamann
groups,’ ‘collectives,’ or ‘plural subjects.’ My reason for using the term ‘commu-
nity’ instead is that I think it captures more accurately what those forms of living
together are, which will hopefully become clear in the course of this paper.
My aim here is to work towards a deeper understanding of those three concepts—
cooperation, community, and institution—and of how they are related to one
another. For this, I will examine accounts from both contemporary social ontology
and medieval philosophy that try to elucidate the social phenomena to which these
concepts refer. In the following section, I start with Margaret Gilbert’s plural subject
theory, which contains a particular conception of the relation between cooperation
and community: cooperation or joint action are thought to provide the model accord-
ing to which we can understand more complex forms of collectivity such as com-
munities. After that, I will consider John Searle’s account of institutional reality,
which treats communities like friendship or marriage as institutional entities. Both
Gilbert and Searle fail, however, to provide a convincing account of community. In
the final section, I will therefore introduce some ideas on the ontology of communi-
ties that can be found in Thomas Aquinas.1 For Aquinas, every community is con-
stituted by some form of friendship, which accounts for the fact that community
members typically cooperate with one another. At the same time, this conception
allows us to recognize the difference between institutional and pre-institutional
kinds of community. Aquinas, I argue, offers us an understanding of cooperation,
community, and institution that can benefit the present discussion in social ontology.
10.2 Margaret Gilbert on the Structure of Social Groups
The topic of cooperation or joint action is one of the most prominent in contempo-
rary social ontology and has given rise to an extensive discussion on the nature of
collective intentionality. At the center of this discussion is the question of how indi-
vidual action differs from joint action in terms of the intentions that agents act on.
For some authors, however, that question points beyond the field of action theory in
the direction of a comprehensive theory of social groups, which covers not only
people acting together but also more complex groups such as families, friendships,
or even states. One of these authors is Margaret Gilbert. In her paper ‘Walking
Together: A Paradigmatic Social Phenomenon,’ she suggests that ‘analysis of our
concepts of “shared action” discovers a structure that is constitutive of social groups
as such’ (Gilbert 1990, 2). This idea is central to her entire theory of human collec-
tivity: Gilbert takes cooperation to be a paradigm of human collectivity, which can
shed light on all kinds of social groups including a vast range of communities.2 Both
1
See the contribution by Fabrizio Amerini in this volume on Aquinas’s conception of social
aggregates.
2
There are also other authors today who subscribe to this idea: Hans Bernhard Schmid, for exam-
ple, considers collective action ‘the most elementary form of community’ (Schmid 2005, 371; my
translation).
10 Cooperation, Community, and Institution 183
community and joint action exhibits the same ‘constitutive structure,’ as Gilbert has
it, which means there is no essential difference between them, but only one of
complexity.
I want to argue that Gilbert is wrong on this point and that community and coop-
eration are in fact essentially different social phenomena. To see this, we first have
to take a look at her analysis of joint action and the way in which she applies it to
those complex groups that we termed ‘communities.’ Gilbert’s account starts from
an observation about the kind of norms involved in cooperation. Joint actions, she
claims, exhibit a special kind of normativity that is not to be found in the case of
individual action: when I act individually, I am subject to norms too, yet these norms
do not necessarily make reference to persons other than myself. In preparing a par-
ticular meal, for example, the recipe serves as a norm that I ought to follow to
achieve the intended result. Moreover, I can ask myself whether the meal itself is
good for me or whether I should rather choose to make a different meal in light of
my health or financial situation. Norms such as these involve no reference to other
persons apart from the agent. However, if two or more persons act together, Gilbert
claims, they have obligations towards each other. At the very least, each of them has
the obligation not to stop acting unless he or she makes an excuse, or explains him-
self or herself, to the other(s). If two people are, say, on a walk together, it would be
rude if one of them simply turned around and walked away, and the other one would
be perfectly justified to rebuke this kind of behavior. For Gilbert, this is the kind of
normativity a theory of joint action has to account for.
To accommodate the obligations and entitlements the agents have towards one
another, Gilbert analyzes joint action as being grounded in what she calls a ‘joint
commitment’ to pursue a particular goal together that mutually binds the agents.
Once a joint commitment is in place, Gilbert writes, ‘no one can release himself
from the commitment; each is obliged to all the others for performance; each is
(thus) entitled to performance of the rest’ (Gilbert 1990, 8). The joint action itself,
then, is the acting out of the underlying commitment, which is only dissolved either
by reaching the respective goal or by the agents releasing one another from their
obligation to perform. The concept of a joint commitment is thus designed to
account for the specific kind of normativity that is found in joint action. Besides its
normative dimension, however, this concept is supposed to have also an ontological
point: for Gilbert, the agents who are mutually bound by a joint commitment con-
stitute what she calls a ‘plural subject’ or ‘pool of wills.’ That is, they constitute a
social group dedicated to the pursuit of a shared goal (see Gilbert 1990, 8). Joint
commitments are thus the ontological principle of human collectivity on the level of
single acts of cooperation.
Gilbert ultimately thinks that all social groups are plural subjects: ‘in order to
form a social group,’ she writes, ‘it is both logically necessary and logically suffi-
cient that a set of human beings constitute a plural subject’ (Gilbert 1990, 9; see also
Gilbert 1992, 205). Her notion of a social group comprises not only ephemeral
groups of people acting together, but also stable forms of living together such as
families or friendships, which I termed above ‘communities.’ All these social groups
are thought to be grounded in joint commitments of some kind. With regard to
184 F. Hamann
communities, this idea has indeed some appeal since members of the same com-
munity do in fact cooperate with one another, not only once but repeatedly and in
specific ways. Family members, for example, eat together, share other daily rou-
tines, and sometimes go on vacation together. Joint action and community are social
phenomena that are tightly related. Gilbert, however, claims more than this: she
believes that cooperation and community have the same constitutive structure so
that a community can in principle be reduced to the joint commitments underlying
the joint activities of its members. What constitutes a community is for her thus
nothing other than the joint commitments of its members.
In order to see that this is effectively how Gilbert views communities, we can
take a look at her so-called ‘contractual’ account of marriage (see Gilbert 2014).
Marriage certainly counts as a community in our sense: it is a stable form of two
people living together. Gilbert views a married couple as a social group or plural
subject that is constituted by, and thus comprises, a multitude of joint commitments.
She gives the following description of marriage:
First, the parties have one or more major long-term projects, such as living together harmo-
niously for the rest of their lives (“‘til death do us part”), creating and maintaining a com-
fortable home, raising a family, and so on. Such projects generate a plethora of smaller joint
projects, both long- and short-term, such as maintaining a joint bank account, buying a car,
visiting parents, and taking the kids to the zoo. Second, over time negotiations take place
and agreements are reached on a multitude of issues, major and minor, such as whether we
can afford to buy a house, who is the best babysitter, and how often we should eat fish. Such
agreements arise in part in the course of carrying out joint projects. There are also many
random conversations that result in joint acceptance of some proposition, value, or principle
(Gilbert 2014, 266).
In contrast to a single joint action, a marriage is a complex social group with a vari-
ety of ends jointly pursued by the couple. It cannot, therefore, be reduced to only
one joint commitment. Moreover, in marriage, people not only commit themselves
to the pursuit of particular goals, but also to certain principles and values that guide
their living together. A couple may, for example, agree that financial decisions have
to be made unanimously and jointly hold onto certain religious beliefs. Hence, mar-
riage not only comprises multiple joint commitments, but also a variety of different
kinds of these commitments. To accommodate complex groups such as a marriage,
Gilbert allows for other kinds of joint commitment than that of a shared goal in joint
action. In just the same way, she argues, people can jointly accept principles of
action and jointly subscribe to beliefs (see Gilbert 1992, ch. 5–6). Thus, Gilbert’s
theory becomes more complex when it comes to communities such as marriage.
However, it does not include a qualitatively new element: as a social group, a mar-
riage, just like each single joint action, is grounded in and constituted by joint
commitments.
This account of marriage gives us a striking example of how Gilbert tries to
accommodate communities in her social ontology: they are reduced to a set of joint
commitments that unite the persons in question as a complex social group. Such an
account of community, however, faces problems with regard to explaining the unity
and identity of communities. The question here is: why should all the joint
commitments in Gilbert’s account of marriage constitute one, and only one, plural
subject? One might think that these joint commitments are themselves somehow
united. In the passage quoted above, we discern roughly two ways in which joint
commitments are related to one another:
First, joint commitments can stand in a kind of means-end relation that integrates
them into one joint project, so to speak. The commitment to buy a house together,
for example, makes it necessary for a couple to decide how they are going to raise
the required amount of money. The actions by which they raise the money are thus
part of the overarching project of buying a house together. This is the way in which
some of the commitments that Gilbert lists under ‘first’ are related, and in these
cases the overarching project can determine the identity, and guarantee the unity, of
the community. Second, joint commitments can also be only loosely related in one
way or another, which holds, I think, for most of the joint commitments in Gilbert’s
account of marriage. They, as she puts it, ‘take place over time’ or arise ‘in the
course of carrying out joint projects,’ which means that these commitments are
more or less logically independent from one another: they are not an integral part of
one joint project, but merely obtain between the same persons. To use two of
Gilbert’s examples, an agreement on how often one is going to eat fish is, in most
cases, not an integral part of the project of raising a family. Dietary decisions can,
of course, be deeply tied to the identity of a community, like the joint decision to
abstain from meat on Fridays in Catholic families. Yet most dietary decisions in
marriage, such as to order pizza on Wednesdays, are rather arbitrary and not an
integral part of raising a family. This is even more so when it comes to ‘the joint
acceptance of some proposition,’ which often may not even have practical relevance
for any joint project a married couple will engage in—for example, the proposition
that Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature deservedly. With regard to com-
mitments like these, the question arises: if every joint commitment constitutes a
social group, as Gilbert holds, why then are all the commitments listed in the pas-
sage above part of one and the same community, instead of constituting many dif-
ferent communities?
Gilbert is aware of this problem. In On Social Facts, she discusses the identity of
social groups over time; her example here is that of three people who are a group
with the shared end of walking together and later go on to undertake another joint
commitment that is supposed to be unrelated to the first one. The diachronic stetting
of the example, which is similar to Gilbert’s portrayal of marriage, merely high-
lights the mutual independence of the joint commitments in play. Here is how
Gilbert describes and comments on the example:
Tom, Dick, and Harry can form a walking party, and a new social group, at a certain time.
In terms of my theory, they can have pooled their wills to a given end. However, they will
not thereby have pooled their wills in relation to other ends, except those necessarily
reached in fulfilment of the first one. Unless they go through something like the original
process of group formation—affirmation of an additional joint goal, or a substitute, seen as
such—then they will already have pooled their wills or contracted their wills, so to speak,
in pursuit of a quite distinct end, in relation to a distinct set of circumstances. But this need
not mean that the end of walking together is now an end of that other, previously formed
186 F. Hamann
group. Presumably the underlying reason has to do with the understandings everyone has
about what is going on (Gilbert 1992, 221).
Gilbert wants her theory to leave room for two cases: one in which the same set of
people form two groups in virtue of two distinct joint commitments, and another in
which one and the same group is characterized by two distinct commitments. It is
not clear, however, how she can account for this difference. In her account of mar-
riage, there is one group with distinct joint commitments, while, in the walking
party example, each joint commitment constitutes a different group. Gilbert does
not make clear how we are to distinguish these cases ontologically, apart from her
remark that it ‘has to do with the understandings everyone has about what is going
on.’ In reality, of course, most of the time we have no difficulties telling whether a
particular commitment we undertake is part of our identity as a group or not. A
theory of social groups, however, must give clear criteria for the identity and unity
of social groups—that is, it must make explicit ‘what is going on’ in one case and
the other.
Hence, Gilbert’s plural subject theory does not provide a convincing account of
the identity and unity of social groups, particularly with regard to complex groups
such as communities. This is, I think, a direct consequence of her guiding idea that
cooperation and community have the same constitutive structure. As it turns out,
joint action cannot serve as the paradigm according to which we have to understand
all other social groups. Instead, we have to distinguish between joint action or coop-
eration, on the one hand, and community, on the other. Even though members of the
same community do cooperate with one another, repeatedly and in specific ways,
their being a community cannot be reduced to their cooperation. To put it simply,
living together is more than acting together. If we grant that, to use Gilbert’s words,
the ‘constitutive structure’ of community differs from that of cooperation, we need
to look for other accounts of community that do not use cooperation or joint action
as the paradigm of human collectivity.
10.3 Searle’s Conception of Community as an Institution
John Searle’s social ontology offers an alternative approach to community that, in

contrast to Gilbert’s plural subject theory, draws a clear distinction between com-
munity and cooperation. One might wonder whether Searle has anything to say at
all about community, given that communities do not figure prominently in his books
on social ontology. Yet if we consider the comprehensive character of his theory,
that is, the attempt to provide an account of ‘social reality’ or ‘the social world,’ it
seems more than justified to take Searle’s ontological analyses to be applicable to
communities as well. Moreover, there are a few passages in which Searle at least
briefly refers to examples of community in our sense. In this section, I want to
reconstruct Searle’s account of community and show that, for him, communities are
a particular kind of institution. Though this account may be appealing for some
forms of community, as a general thesis about communities it turns out to be wrong:

especially informal communities, I will argue, are in fact ‘pre-institutional’ entities.
According to Searle, all social entities have a functional character in that they are
created by us to serve certain ends that, in many cases, we could not pursue without
them (see Searle 1995, 4). Due to their functional character, social entities bear an
essential relation to human action—Searle even refers to them as ‘placeholders for
patterns of activities’ (Searle 1995, 57). If communities are social entities, which
seems hard to deny, they too must stand in a relation to action, and it seems only
natural to suppose that the ends here are mostly shared ends and the actions joint
actions. Hence, Searle can account for the tight relation between community and
cooperation, which lies behind Gilbert’s claim that both share the same constitutive
structure. Unlike her, however, Searle does not simply reduce community to the
joint actions of community members. There are passages that show that he instead
conceives of community as what he calls an institution: for example, he speaks of
friendship and family as ‘uncodified institutions,’ in contrast to marriage, which is
described as a codified and structural institution (see Searle 1995, 87–88; 2010, 91).
While cooperation only requires collective intentionality on the part of the
agents, namely, the collective intention to do something together, institutional facts
are thought to be the result of the collective assignment of a new functional status to
an object that, without the status, could not fulfill that function. This idea of status
assignment is the core element in Searle’s account of institutional reality. A standard
example of an institutional fact is money, where the status of a valid means of pay-
ment is collectively assigned to, say, a piece of paper, which qua material object is
economically almost worthless. It is the functional status or, more precisely, the
collective acceptance of it that makes the piece of paper money. Searle expounds
this concept of an institutional fact as follows:
humans, through collective intentionality, impose functions on phenomena where the func-
tion cannot be achieved solely in virtue of physics and chemistry but requires continued
human cooperation in the specific forms of recognition, acceptance, and acknowledgment
of a new status to which a function is assigned (Searle 1995, 40).
If we think of a community as an institution in Searle’s sense, a community such as

friendship is basically a functional status collectively assigned to a set of people
who thereby are united as a group and become entitled or obliged to cooperate with
one another and interact in specific ways. Friends, for example, often share certain
interests and engage in the corresponding activities together; moreover, they turn to
one another for assistance and counsel, and expect these kinds of thing from one
another. The general idea here is that they would not cooperate and interact the way
that they do were they not friends―just as a piece of paper would not be used for
payment if it did not have the status of money. Hence, for Searle, communities are
understood as institutional entities that unite people as a group and thus enable them
to cooperate and interact in ways specific to communal life.
Despite its prima facie plausibility, this account of community is utterly prob-
lematic and, as I want to argue, fails with regard to most kinds of community. The
central problem resides in the idea of collective assignment of the relevant status.
188 F. Hamann
For Searle, such an assignment is not an arbitrary act of these or those individuals,
but rather a general practice guided by rules that are embedded in a culture—only
in this way can we account for the stability and intersubjective robustness of our
everyday institutions.3 Searle calls these rules, which guide the creation and main-
tenance of institutional facts, ‘constitutive rules,’ and he considers the existence of
such rules the defining mark of institutional reality:
A test for the presence of genuine institutional facts is whether or not we could codify the
rules explicitly. In the case of many institutional facts, such as property, marriage, and
money, these indeed have been codified into explicit laws. Others, such as friendship, dates,
and cocktail parties, are not so codified, but they could be (Searle 1995, 87–88).
The assignment of a status is rule-governed, therefore, no matter if these rules are

codified in some form or just implicitly known by those who live in the same cul-
ture. This must hold for communities as well, for we count as, for example, a family
not just any set of people but only particular sets (though our concept of family can
change over time). But what could the constitutive rules of community as an institu-
tion look like? Here I mean not this or that particular kind of community but com-
munities in general. In other words, what are, in principle, the criteria according to
which we assign such statuses to particular sets of persons?
From an ontological perspective it is not difficult to see that monadic properties,
which are attributed to persons individually, are not the right criteria for assigning a
status as community. Such properties, for example, ‘having a particular hair color’
or ‘holding certain beliefs,’ are too widespread to single out a particular set of peo-
ple in order to assign the relevant status to them. There are, of course, properties that
may enable a person to become a member of some community—as, for example,
kindness and generosity make it more likely to become a friend to others—but even
here we do not say that people constitute a community just because they have those
properties.4 This is why Searle himself suggests that the assignment of a status as
community must make reference to certain relations in which the persons in ques-
tion already stand to one another. He writes that,
Often the status is imposed on people and groups of people in virtue of a set of pre-
institutional relations among them. Thus a collection of people might constitute a city-state,
or a man and woman might constitute a married couple, but such constitution is not simply
in virtue of being a collection of people of the right size, but rather in virtue of the relations
among the members of the collection (Searle 1995, 97; my italics).
However, even if we focus on ‘pre-institutional relations,’ as Searle suggests, the

idea of status assignment remains problematic here. On the one hand, the relations
3
Searle himself speaks of ‘the Background,’ that is, a set of neuro-physiological capacities that
enable those intentional acts through which the respective status is assigned and thus the corre-
sponding institution is maintained (see Searle 1995, 129–137).
4
An exception to this are groups in a statistical sense, for example, the group of female academics
in the humanities or the group of coal miners in England. In contrast to communities, however,
which are real entities that become manifest in the joint actions and interactions of their members,
statistical groups are abstract entities constructed by sociologists through an act of abstraction (see
von Hildebrand 1955, 135–136).
between the members of a community have to be pre-institutional, that is, they must
not presuppose the very status the assignment of which they are supposed to govern
as criteria, otherwise the idea of status assignment would simply be circular. On the
other hand, however, they cannot be just of any kind: relations such as ‘being taller
than’ or ‘living next door to’ are, again, too widespread to single out a particular set
of people for assigning the status to them. The only kind of relation that would work
are, I think, interactions and joint actions that take place between those, and only
those, who are to count as members of one community: that is, persons to whom we
collectively assign a status as community must already stand in relation to one
another by doing things together, seeking the company of and caring for one another,
etc. Moreover, such actions have to occur with some kind of regularity, for we do
not regard a set of people as a community who have cooperated with one another
only once or twice.
Yet relations of this kind—regular interaction and cooperation—within a partic-
ular set of people cannot be ‘pre-institutional’ in Searle’s view. Of course, interac-
tion and cooperation as such are only a matter of individual or collective
intentionality, and thus do not necessarily require institutions, according to him. Yet
the fact that people interact and cooperate with one another regularly needs a further
explanation, for it indicates a kind of social unity that extends beyond each single
action. This kind of unity cannot, therefore, be accounted for in terms of intentional
acts, individual or collective. For Searle, it is the institutional status of community
that unites people as a group and enables them to interact and cooperate on a regular
basis, which means that these actions are themselves (to some extent) institutional
phenomena. This creates a problem for Searle’s account: either it contains a kind of
circularity (or regress) if the actions that are to be the basis on which the status of
community is assigned already presuppose an institutional status that unites the
people in question as a group, or it takes regular interaction and cooperation between
the same people as entirely pre-institutional phenomena, in which the social unity
underlying these actions remains unexplained. Hence, Searle’s theory of institu-
tional reality does not ultimately offer a comprehensive account of community.
To be sure, there are some kinds of community for which Searle’s account is
convincing, namely communities with a formal structure such as marriage in its
legal form or the state. Here we do have a declarative act by which a new status,
together with certain obligations and entitlements, is conferred on the persons in
question. We should notice, however, that these are secondary cases in which an
already existing, mostly informal community attains a new structure: the institution
of marriage bestows a legal structure on a partnership of two persons, but does not
create that partnership in the first place,5 just as political communities such as the
state mostly evolve out of smaller communities that are united by a governmental
structure. An essential feature of these institutional kinds of community is the (often
5
There are, of course, marriages that do not emerge out of a pre-existing partnership but are, for
example, the result of an arrangement between two families. Even these marriages, however, can-
not simply be reduced to the legal codification of rules, but require the partners to also develop an
informal kind of community, as I argue in the following section.
190 F. Hamann
legal) codification of rules to facilitate or stabilize the respective form of living

together. Searle’s theory offers a convincing account of these communities. Yet with
regard to informal kinds of community such as friendship, partnership, or family,
his idea of status assignment leads to the problem that I have just discussed: it
requires people to interact and cooperate in a way that, according to Searle’s theory,
is either already the result of an institutional status that establishes a kind of social
unity between them or can no longer be accounted for. Such informal communities
thus appear to be pre-institutional entities, which are not the result of the collective
assignment of a status. Therefore, for these kinds of community we need a different
account.
10.4 Community and Friendship in Aquinas
The result of the previous sections is twofold. First, the discussion of Gilbert’s plu-
ral subject theory has shown that community and cooperation are essentially differ-
ent social phenomena so that one cannot be reduced to the other. Second, there is a
broad range of communities that are not institutions in Searle’s sense, but rather
pre-institutional entities. Thus, so far, we have focused more on the ontological dif-
ferences between community, cooperation, and institution. In this final section, I
want to give an outline of a positive account of community by drawing on some
ideas from the social philosophy of Thomas Aquinas. This account incorporates the
results of our previous discussion and provides a better understanding of how coop-
eration, community, and institution are related to one another. Moreover, by draw-
ing on Aquinas in this way I give an example of how contemporary research in
social ontology can benefit from engaging with ideas from medieval philosophy.
Aquinas develops his account of community through a deep engagement with
Aristotle’s philosophy of friendship. The term ‘friendship’ (amicitia) in Aquinas
has several meanings, two of which are pertinent here: First, the term denotes a form
of habitual love by which we wish and do good to other persons—which is why
Aquinas sometimes speaks of the ‘love of friendship’ (amor amicitiae).6 Second,
the term also refers to the kind of social relationship constituted by such a love. In
this latter sense friendship ‘requires mutual love, for a friend is friend to a friend’.7
For Aquinas, this form of relationship is not confined to what we today call by the
name of friendship—namely, a specific kind of community, which we distinguish
from other kinds such as romantic partnership or the family. Friendship in the
6
Aquinas, Sum. theol. I–II, q. 26, a. 3: ‘amicitia, secundum Philosophum in VIII Ethic., est quasi
habitus’ (1962, 178; italics deleted); a. 4: ‘ad illud autem cui vult aliquis bonum, habetur amor
amicitiae’ (1962, 180).
7
Aquinas, Sum. theol. II–II, q. 23, a. 1: ‘requiritur quaedam mutua amatio: quia amicus est amico
amicus’ (Aquinas 1963, 141; my translation). See also Aquinas, In Ethic. VIII, l. 2, n. 1561
(1964, 414).
Aristotelian-Thomistic sense is rather a general form of relationship that can emerge

wherever people share some interest or end in life.8 Aquinas writes that:
all friendship is concluded upon the basis of something common among those who are to
be friends, for we see that those are united in friendship who have in common either their
natural origin, or some similarity in habits of life, or any kind of social interests.9
In Summa theologiae II–II, he states more succinctly that ‘all friendship is based on
some commonality (communicatio) in life.’10 Aquinas can thus speak of the friend-
ship between, for example, blood relatives, comrades in arms, or even fellow citi-
zens.11 It is this breadth of the notion of friendship that makes it a powerful
conceptual tool for social ontology.
In the passage just quoted, Aquinas uses the term ‘societatis communio,’ which
has been translated non-specifically as ‘social interest.’ I do not think this transla-
tion is erroneous, but it surely needs some clarification. Like ‘communicatio,’ the
term ‘communio’ here denotes the sharing of something, the fact that people have
something in common. For Aquinas, one reason why people share certain interests
is that they are members of the same ‘societas,’ that is, association.12 Those who live
together in a village, for example, are typically interested in making and keeping it
a place that is worth living in, which may include things like maintaining its basic
infrastructure or taking care of the local environment. In this sense, the residents of
a village share ‘social interests,’ and these interests serve as the basis on which the
residents can develop a kind of friendship. Hence, in these cases, a pre-existing
association provides the context in which friendship can arise. I will argue, however,
that, for Aquinas, it is only by developing a kind of friendship that these associations
become communities in a full-fledged sense and are able to persist as stable forms
of living together.
8
This difference between the Aristotelian-Thomistic and the modern notion of friendship has been
stressed by many commentators. See, for example, Stern–Gillet (1995, 5–7); Nussbaum (2001,
354); Schwartz (2007, 2).
9
Aquinas, De regno I, c. 10: ‘omnis autem amicitia super aliqua communione firmatur: eos enim
qui conveniunt vel per naturae originem vel per morum similitudinem vel per cuiuscumque soci-
etatis communionem, videmus amicitia coniungi’ (1979, 461; transl. Phelan).
10
Aquinas, Sum. theol. II–II, q. 25, a. 3: ‘omnis amicitia fundatur super aliqua communicatione
vitae’ (1963, 167; my translation). See also Aquinas, In Ethic. VIII, l. 9, n. 1660 (1964, 439).
11
Aquinas, Sum. theol. II–II, q. 23, a. 5: ‘alia species amicitiae est consanguineorum, et alia con-
civium aut peregrinantium’ (1963, 145); Aquinas, Sum. theol. II–II, q. 26, a. 8: ‘amicitia consan-
guineorum fundatur in coniunctione naturalis originis; amicitia autem concivium in communicatione
civili; et amicitia commilitantium in communicatione bellica’ (1963, 185).
12
I am deliberately using here the unspecific term ‘association’ in order to cover an equally wide
range of cases as ‘societas’ does in Aquinas. Some people can be associated with one another by
some institutional structure, as in a village or state, whereas others like, for example, the members
of a family are associated with one another by biological relations of consanguinity. All these
associations can be communities, that is, stable forms of living and acting together, if their mem-
bers are also united by some kind of friendship.—I thank one of the anonymous reviewers and
Jenny Pelletier for pressing me to clarify this point.
192 F. Hamann
Aristotle too considers friendship not just one kind of community among others:
for him, it is the constitutive principle of human community in general. In Politics
III, he refers to friendship as ‘the motive of social life,’13 and in Nicomachean Ethics
III, he claims that ‘in every community there is thought to be some form of justice,
and friendship too.’14 Aquinas adopts this notion of friendship as the constitutive
principle of community: as stable forms of living together, all communities are con-
stituted by some kind of mutual love or friendship that unites a set of people as a
group. This idea may sound rather sentimental, but it is not. The notion of friendship
in Aquinas is not necessarily that of an intimate or passionate relationship, but artic-
ulates a general principle that can be found in every community: wherever people
pursue the same ends or have similar interests in life, they are in a position to recog-
nize one another as good and lovable in light of these ends and can thus develop a
relationship of mutual love that unites them as a group. For Aquinas, communities,
therefore, also have a teleological dimension: ‘[e]very community,’ he writes, ‘is
established for the sake of some good.’15 Friendship as we understand it today is just
one, perhaps an exemplary, instance of this general principle that can be found in
other kinds of community as well—for example, in families, romantic partnerships,
and even political communities.
This conception of community sheds light on the concepts of cooperation and
institution as well. First of all, Aquinas claims that there is a link between commu-
nity and cooperation in that being members of the same community leads people to
cooperate with one another. As we have seen, friendship as the constitutive principle
of community is a relationship based on mutual love that has a habitual character: it
is ‘like a habit,’ as Aquinas (1962, 178) puts it in Summa theologiae I–
II. Corresponding to its habitual character, there are phenomena in which the love
of friendship manifests itself or, to use a more traditional term, in which friendship
is ‘actualized.’ In his Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics, Aquinas states that
‘two works belong to the act of friendship: living together and bestowing favors on
one another.’16 Besides wishing and doing good to one another, friends strive to live
together in a way corresponding to their kind of relationship, that is, they cooperate
with one another with regard to the interests on which their friendship is based. As
friends, they not only have these interests in common, but also pursue them together.
Living together as a community is thus for the most part a matter of cooperation or
joint action. Business friends, for example, will primarily talk about and pursue
their common projects, family members cooperate with regard to organizing and
13
Aristotle, Pol. III.9, 1280a38–39: ‘ἡ γὰρ τοῦ συζῆν προαίρεσις φιλία’ (1957, 218; trans.
Rackham).
14
Aristotle, EN VIII.9, 1159b26–27: ‘ἐν ἁπάσῃ γὰρ κοινωνίᾳ δοκεῖ τι δίκαιον εἶναι, καὶ φιλία δέ’
(2010, 168; trans. Ross).
15
Aquinas, In Politic. I, l. 1, n. 9: ‘Omnis communitas est instituta gratia alicuius boni’ (1966, 6).
16
Aquinas, In Ethic. VIII, l. 5, n. 1600: ‘duo […] ad actum amicitiae pertinere: scilicet convivere et
tribuere invicem bona’ (1964, 425; transl. Litzinger). Following Aristotle, Aquinas eventually dis-
tinguishes three works or acts of friendship: beneficence, concord, and goodwill. A detailed
account of these acts can be found in Schwartz (2007, 6–21).
maintaining their household, and the members of a choir gather to sing together.
Hence, in communities, cooperation takes place regularly because it is an actualiza-
tion of the friendship that constitutes the community.
Aquinas’s account of community thus accommodates the relation between com-
munity and cooperation that motivated Gilbert’s claim that community and joint
action share the same constitutive structure. This claim is partly true insofar as both
have a teleological structure: as Aquinas argues, every community is directed to a
common good that is pursued cooperatively by its members.17 In contrast to Gilbert,
however, he makes an ontological distinction between community and cooperation,
which allows for a better understanding of the identity and unity of communities.
For Aquinas, it is friendship as a stable relationship of mutual love that unites a set
of people as a community and preserves its identity.18 The community then provides
the context in which the members are motivated to undertake and to fulfill joint
commitments with regard to particular goals, principles, or beliefs, which they con-
ceive of as part of their collective identity.
Apart from the relation between community and cooperation, Aquinas’s account
also sheds light on those kinds of community that come with an institutional struc-
ture. Though friendship itself is an informal and, as I have argued, pre-institutional
kind of relationship, it is central to institutional kinds of community as well, accord-
ing to Aquinas. The institution of marriage, for example, essentially consists in the
codification of rules for a particular form of living together, which often already
exists on a pre-institutional level. At least today, there already is a couple, that is, an
informal community based on mutual love, which adopts this kind of institutional
structure for the raising of children or some other reason.19 Aquinas too conceives
of marriage both as an institution and a relationship of mutual love or friendship.
Following Aristotle, he speaks of the ‘conjugal friendship’ (amicitia coniugalis)
between husband and wife that is based on their common interest to raise children
and their need for mutual assistance in domestic life.20 It is this kind of friendship—
which may subsequently acquire an institutional structure—that motivates spouses
to fulfill their vows and thus maintain the institutional structure so that without love
or friendship the institution of marriage could hardly survive. Mutual love and
friendship are what turn a merely institutional association of two persons into a
community and allows it to persist as a stable form of living together.
17
For a detailed account of the notion of common good in Aquinas, see Froelich (1989) and (2008).
18
Aquinas touches on the topic of the identity of communities in In Politic. III, l. 2, n. 364, where
he argues that, for all composite beings, ‘there is a different identity whenever there is a specifi-
cally different kind of composition’ (1966, 126; trans. Regan). In the case of communities, the
‘kind of composition’ is determined by the form of friendship that unites a set of people as a group
directed to some common good.
19
See Aquinas’s definition of marriage in Sum. theol. Suppl., q. 44, a. 1: ‘per matrimonium ordi-
nentur aliqui as unam generationem et educationem prolis; et iterum ad unam vitam domesticam’
(1958, 207).
20
See Aquinas, In Ethic. VIII, l. 12, n. 1721: ‘in hominibus mas et femina communicant non solum
causa procreationis filioroum, sed etiam propter ea, quae sunt necessaria ad humanam vitam’
(1964, 452).
194 F. Hamann
A more challenging example of an institutional kind of community is the state,

which appears to be quite far from the notion of friendship. Aquinas, however,
applies his account of community to the state as well, even though he is well aware
that there can be no friendship between all citizens in a state. What he claims is
rather that friendship must obtain between the citizens, on the one hand, and the
government, on the other. Every state is in need of a government or ruler to preserve
its unity as a community. ‘For where there are many men together,’ Aquinas argues,
‘and each one is looking after his own interest, the multitude would be broken up
and scattered unless there were also an agency to take care of what appertains to the
commonweal.’21 It is the institution of government that constitutes the state as a
social entity by establishing a formal structure of living together that is directed to
the commonweal of the people governed. The relation between government and
citizens is, however, not solely an institutional one, but also characterized by a form
of friendship, of course in a less intimate or passionate sense. Since the common-
weal is an end shared by all citizens, a government that wisely promotes it will be
respected and loved by them. As Aquinas points out, good kings ‘are loved by many
when they show that they love their subjects and are studiously intent on the com-
mon welfare.’22 Conversely, the citizens are loved by their ruler or government if
they observe the laws and do their personal share in promoting the commonweal,
for example, by providing for their own families and showing civic engagement.
The state as a community requires a governmental structure due to its size, but
this structure can only be maintained if the relation between government and citi-
zens is also one of mutual love or friendship. For without such a friendship, which
motivates the members to promote the commonweal, the state will either collapse
into a form of tyranny or disintegrate entirely. In the former case, the institutional
structure of the state is preserved, but now used by the ruling party to suppress its
subjects for its private benefit, while in the latter case, this structure can no longer
be upheld. Hence, it is again a kind of friendship that turns those living under a
governmental structure into a community and allows to uphold this structure. To see
that Aquinas’s analysis of the state applies to modern states as well, we only have to
look at current examples, such as Syria, where the interests of particular groups in
the state become so disparate that people stop promoting the commonweal and the
institutional structure alone is not enough to preserve the state as a community.
Aquinas’s account of community can thus accommodate the concepts of coop-
eration and institution (at least with regard to institutional forms of community).
Note, however, that my use of the term ‘institution’ slightly differs from the way
Searle uses it. Here it refers to the actual codification’ of certain rules, for example,
rules defining the governmental structures and procedures in a state. Searle, by
21
Aquinas, De regno I, c. 1: ‘Multis enim existentibus hominibus et unoquoque id, quod est sibi
congruum, providente, multitudo in diversa dispergeretur, nisi etiam esset aliquis de eo quod ad
bonum multitudinis pertinet curam habens’ (1979, 450; trans. Phelan).
22
Aquinas, De regno I, c. 10: ‘At boni reges, dum communi profectui studiose intendunt et eorum
studio subditi plura commoda se consequi sentiunt, diliguntur a plurimis’ (1979, 461; trans.
Phelan).
contrast, holds that the mere codifiability of such rules is already sufficient to speak
of an institution. This terminological difference is a consequence of the fact that
Searle’s theory of institutional reality fails to account for informal kinds of com-
munity, which are, as I have argued above, rather pre-institutional entities in his
sense. If we assume Aquinas’s account of community, we come to see why at least
some kinds of community need a formal or institutional structure. This may have
different reasons: the state needs a governmental structure to preserve its unity due
to its size, while in the case of civil marriage, the reason seems to have something
to do with the fact that this kind of community is deemed important for the well-
being of children and thus for the subsistence of the state itself.
10.5 Conclusion
My aim here was to elucidate the concepts of cooperation, community, and institu-
tion and to examine how they are related to one another. I have discussed two theo-
ries from contemporary social ontology in which community is either reduced to
cooperation or treated as a kind of institution like money or governments. The dis-
cussion has shown that both these theories fail to provide a convincing account of
community: while the first neglects that cooperation and community are essentially
different social phenomena, the second cannot accommodate informal kinds of
community such as friendship or family. In medieval philosophy, Thomas Aquinas
offers an account of community that allows us to understand communities as social
entities that are distinct from, though tightly related to, the joint actions of their
members. The constitutive principle of community is a form of friendship that
unites a set of people as a group and directs them to a common end, which they
pursue together. Regular cooperation or joint action is a manifestation community.
At the same time, Aquinas’s account can accommodate institutional kinds of com-
munity, which are characterized by a formal structure and the codification of rules
regarding the way in which their members live together. Hence, Aquinas offers an
account of community that omits the problems we encountered in the other theories,
but can still incorporate some of their central elements.
References
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Aristotle. 1959. Politics (trans: Rackham, Harris). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
———. 2010. Ethica Nicomachea [EN], ed. Ingram Bywater. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press. English edition: Aristotle. 2009. The Nicomachean Ethics (trans: Ross, William David).
Froelich, Gregory. 1989. The equivocal status of Bonum commune. The New Scholasticism 63
(1): 38–57.
———. 2008. On the common goods. The Aquinas Review 15: 1–26.
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Gilbert, Margaret. 1990. Walking together: A paradigmatic social phenomenon. Midwest Studies
in Philosophy 15: 1–14.
———. 1992. On social facts. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
———. 2014. Fusion: Sketch of a ‘contractual’ model. In Joint commitment: How we make the
social world, 259–270. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Hildebrand, Dietrich von. 1955. Die Metaphysik der Gemeinschaft. Regensburg: Verlag
Josef Habbel.
Nussbaum, Martha Craven. 2001. The fragility of goodness: Luck and ethics in Greek tragedy and
philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Schmid, Hans Bernhard. 2005. Wir-Intentionalität: Kritik des ontologischen Individualismus und
Rekonstruktion der Gemeinschaft. Freiburg: Karl Alber.
Schwartz, Daniel. 2007. Aquinas on friendship. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Searle, John Rogers. 1995. The construction of social reality. New York: The Free Press.
———. 2010. Making the social world: The structure of human civilization. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Stern–Gillet, Suzanne. 1995. Aristotle’s Philosophy of Friendship. Albany: State University of
New York Press.
Thomas Aquinas. 1958. Summa theologiae. Supplementum. Indices [Sum. theol. Suppl.]. Madrid:
La Editorial Catolica.
———. 1962. Summa theologiae. Prima Secundae [Sum. theol. I–II]. Madrid: La Editorial
Catolica.
———. 1963. Summa theologiae. Secunda Secundae [Sum. theol. II–II]. Madrid: La Editorial
Catolica.
———. 1964. In decem libros Ethicorum Aristotelis ad Nicomachum expositio [In Ethic.], ed.
Raimondo M. Spiazzi. Turin: Marietti. English edition: Thomas Aquinas. 1993. Commentary
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———. 1966. In libros Politicorum Aristotelis expositio [In Politic.], ed. Raimondo M. Spiazzi.
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———. 1979. De regno ad regem Cypri [De regno]. Opera omnia. Leonine edition XLII, 417–471.
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King of Cyprus (trans: Phelan, Gerald Bernard). Westport, CT: Hyperion Press.
Chapter 11
‘I Obey the Rule Blindly’. Wittgenstein’s
Contribution to the Ontological
Conceptualization of the Social
Stephan Zimmermann
11.1 The Intentionalist Paradigm in Social Ontology
The ontology of the social, as it is widely understood since the relevant writings of
John Searle and as I understand it too, is not limited to this or that social phenom-
enon. Neither does it want to set up an ideal in terms of which certain social rela-
tions can be regarded as just, fair, or rational in contrast to others. Nor does it address
only a certain sub-area of human society, e.g. politics or economics, or only some
forms of interpersonal contact, or some epochs of social development as opposed
to others.
Rather, social ontology reaches out into this as well as that social phenomenon.
It asks about something that affects all social relations, including those that are
unjust, unfair, or irrational; what it wants to bring into focus is not an ideal at all.
Moreover, it is something that runs through the other sub-areas of human society as
well, for instance, as law and art, sports and education; and it encompasses all forms
of interpersonal contact and outlasts all epochs of social development.
The ontology of the social seeks to uncover a continuous unity within the rich
abundance of social phenomena. Despite all the differences that exist between these
phenomena, its sole concern is to grasp them in that very regard in which they coin-
cide purely insofar as they are social. The much-cited formula that classically indi-
cates such an ontological question is ‘as such’. Formulated in the slogan of this
tradition, social ontology aims at what the social is as such: what characterizes a
social phenomenon in general.
I interpret the addition ‘as such’ in the strict sense. It marks the search for the
condition that is not merely necessary but moreover sufficient for something to be
S. Zimmermann (*)
Department of Philosophy, University of Halle-Wittenberg, Halle, Germany
e-mail: stephan.zimmermann@phil.uni-halle.de

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7_11
198 S. Zimmermann
something social. The ontological conceptualization of the social is the attempt to

expose a condition without the fulfilment of which something cannot be social, but
which entails, if it is fulfilled, that the respective something must inevitably be social.
One possible answer to this socio-ontological question is the following. Recent
and older research suggests a paradigmatic approach according to which it is human
consciousness and its intentional constitution—that it is consciousness of some-
thing—, which must provide the framework for identifying the mark of the social in
one way or another. I want to call this the intentionalist paradigm, and we can see it
in many relevant works from those of modern sociologists like Georg Simmel and
Max Weber to those of contemporary philosophers such as Margaret Gilbert and
Searle himself.1
All these authors suggest that the social dimension of human beings is ultimately
a matter of their intentional consciousness. Gilbert, for instance, speaks of plural
subjects, and has done so since the publication of her monograph On Social Facts.
Where several people relate to each other and act with, for, or against each other,
they form a plural subject; as when Sue and Jack go for a walk together (cf. Gilbert
1990). And Gilbert binds a plural subject to the underlying intentions of the indi-
viduals involved: ‘a social group’s existence is basically a matter of the members of
a set of people being conscious that they are linked by a certain special tie’ (Gilbert
1989, 148 f.; see also 13, 17, 146 ff., 204, 222).
This idea is not new. In his Sociology, Simmel also builds up society from the
consciousness of individuals. In the famous ‘Excursus on the Problem: How Is
Society Possible?’, one reads: ‘the consciousness of constituting with the others a
unity is the whole unity in question’ (Simmel 1908, 29). Weber, in his Basic
Sociological Concepts, explains the social in terms of the meaning an actor attaches
to his or her behavior: ‘Such an action, however, is a “social” action where the
meaning [Sinn] intended by the actor or actors is related to the behavior of others,
and the action is so oriented’ (Weber 1980, 1).
This view can also be found in Searle. In The Construction of Social Reality, he
notes: ‘By stipulating I will henceforth use the expression “social fact” to refer to
any fact involving collective intentionality. So, for instance, the fact that two people
are going for a walk together is a social fact’ (Searle 1995, 26). The notion of inten-
tion is not restricted to action plans. Searle means every directedness of our con-
sciousness, whether it be volitional, cognitive, affective, etc. And collective
intentionality is supposed to be the minimal mark of the social. According to Searle,
everything that is social is either itself a collective intention or depends on a collec-
tive intention for its possibility, such as persons’ actions with, for, or against
each other.
1
I leave aside here the question whether all consciousness is intentionally structured. This thesis
goes back to Franz Brentano (Brentano 1874). In the 1950s, Roderick Chisholm introduced the
thesis into Anglo-analytical philosophy (Chisholm 1955, 1957, 168 ff.). In contemporary discus-
sions on the philosophy of mind, Fred Dretske and Alex Byrne, among others, argue that intention-
ality is the or a decisive characteristic of the mental (Dretske 1995; Byrne 2001). Colin McGinn
and Ned Block, for example, criticize this view (McGinn 1982, 8 ff.; Block 1995, 230 ff.).
11 ‘I Obey the Rule Blindly’. Wittgenstein’s Contribution to the Ontological… 199
To be sure, nowhere does Searle qualify human consciousness as social.

Throughout his works, he speaks of collective intentions (as opposed to individual
intentions). This is, however, only a matter of naming. For, Searle attaches the col-
lectivity of such intentions to their content. Essentially, intentions are social insofar
as they intend something social, e.g. acting with, for, or against others. So, by reduc-
ing something social to collective intentions, Searle does not reduce it to something
non-social. I too am disinclined to think that the necessary and sufficient condition
for something to be social should be understood in this way, as reducible to some-
thing non-social. The socio-ontological problem does not concern the non-social
(extrinsic) conditions of the social but those (intrinsic) characteristics that some-
thing exhibits if it is something social, that is, the minimal mark of its sociality.
A number of other authors could be added here. I want to leave it at that, how-
ever, and claim instead that this kind of answer is unsatisfying. I believe the inten-
tionalist paradigm is wrong. In what follows, I would like to cast doubt on the
assumption that human consciousness is something ‘irreducibly final [unreduzier-
bar Letztes]’ (Natorp 1912, 27), as the neo-Kantian Paul Natorp puts it. This convic-
tion—that human consciousness is something irreducibly final—is representative of
a great modern tradition within which the paradigmatic approach to the ontology of
the social can be situated (although Natorp does not formulate this conviction with
regard to social ontology). Furthermore, I also want to show that the social cannot
be settled by reference to an allegedly self-dependent intentionality either. For, I
contend that consciousness and its intentionality actually presuppose something
that is itself already social, namely our implicit knowledge, which is an enabling
condition for consciousness and something that we share with others.
11.2 Wittgenstein’s Use Theory of Linguistic Meaning
There are several authors who can help social ontology to address this issue. I want
to single out only one. A dimension of human existence that is distinct from con-
sciousness and intentionality arises in the late philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein.
Wittgenstein certainly does not pursue any socio-ontological problem. From the
beginning of his philosophical work, he rather tries to get a grip on the realm of
human language or, to be more precise, its meaningfulness. And yet, as I will show,
some of his reflections on this topic can be of service to the ontology of the social.
In his Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein reproaches the entire history of
philosophy for having misinterpreted the function of language.2 One such misinter-
pretation is a one-sided focus on the function of linguistic representation. In retro-
spect, this was a defect present in Wittgenstein’s own early major work, the Tractatus
Logico-Philosophicus. For the Tractatus has only truth-apt sentences in view; it
2
That these misinterpretations lead to pseudo-problems of which philosophy has to be cured, is
only the negative result of Wittgenstein’s late philosophy of language. See Beermann (1999, 47 ff.)
200 S. Zimmermann
erroneously assumes that every meaningful and hence understandable sentence is of

this kind. According to the truth-conditional semantics developed by the early
Wittgenstein, the meaning of a sentence consists in its truth conditions: ‘To under-
stand a sentence means to know what is the case if it is true’ (Wittgenstein 1974,
TLP 4.024). By contrast, from the beginning of the 1930s, Wittgenstein sought to
take account of the complete range of language functions. By speaking, a speaker
sometimes greets or commands, doubts or complains, sometimes he thanks or
curses, sometimes he prays or swears, etc.3
The Philosophical Investigations highlight the performative character of linguis-
tic meaning as well. It is not that words have the symbolic content they do and can
thus be used accordingly, but that by being used as they are they have a correspond-
ing symbolic content. Language lives in the performance of speaking and listening,
writing and reading, which occurs in manifold ways and thus possesses manifold
meanings. Not only can the occurrence of something that is represented be of a dif-
ferent kind, but to greet and command, doubt and complain, thank, curse, pray,
swear, etc. can also mean different things.4 Thus, Wittgenstein replaces the former
objective, which he set for philosophy, of producing an ideal language that is crystal
clear with a description of the ordinary language behavior of people in their actually
practiced life forms. This behavior is interwoven with nonverbal activities and cir-
cumstances in these actually practiced life forms.5
The performance of language—and this is the innovative insight of the
Philosophical Investigations—is context-relative. It is embedded in an environment
that can neither be shaken off nor remain insignificant. In the factual use of an
expression, the expression receives a meaning relative to the respective context, i.e.
the previous and subsequent verbal behavior and non-verbal activities of the partici-
pants as well as the extra-verbal circumstances. The meaning of a term solidifies by
being repeated in similar situations into a more or less stable rule. Its meaning con-
sists in nothing other than the role the term typically provides in a language game.
Wittgenstein’s pragmatist semantics switches to the use conditions of words.
Linguistic meaning is subject to the condition of what surrounds our speaking and
listening, writing and reading: ‘the meaning [Bedeutung] of a word is its use in the
language’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 43).6
The issue of the social belongs to Wittgenstein’s use theory of linguistic meaning
insofar as no rule of the typical use of a term is exclusive to one individual alone. As
Wittgenstein puts it, there can be no ‘private language’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 259).
3
In what follows, I refer to individuals as males, in order to ensure consistency with quotations
from Wittgenstein.
4
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 24).
5
This is the positive consequence of Wittgenstein’s reflections that the obligation of philosophy is
to provide an overview on our factual use of language. Cf. Goldfarb (1983); Arrington (1990).
6
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 20, 30, 138, 197, 421, 432, 532, 556); Wittgenstein (1969, OC 61);
Wittgenstein (1974, PG I 23). Unlike Wittgenstein’s only half-hearted distinction between the
meaning (Bedeutung) of a word and the sense (Sinn) of a sentence to which Hallet refers, I use the
first expression with regard to both, words and sentences. See Hallett (1977, 123).
This does not concern the contingently lonely speaking in the form of a ‘mono-
logue’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 243), whether spoken aloud or within the speaker.
The possibility of soliloquies, which someone utters in the absence of others,
remains untouched. What Wittgenstein questions is instead the basic idea of solip-
sistic semantics. This semantics was, according to Wittgenstein, formative for
Western philosophy and found its manifestation even in the Tractatus (another
defect of this early work).7
Under the cipher of ‘private language’ Wittgenstein argues against an opponent
who holds that to learn a language, to mean something by it, and to understand it
consists in mental activity. The symbolic content of a verbal expression is supposed
to bear on an act of its user’s consciousness: the symbolic content is what the user
has in mind when he uses the verbal expression. ‘The individual words of this lan-
guage are to refer to what can only be known to the person speaking; to his immedi-
ate private sensations [Empfindungen]’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 243). It is the ‘person
speaking’ who establishes the said reference of a word and who ‘can’ only do so.
The meaning of a term is seen as the result of an intentional act of assignment. It
shall be whatever the user assigns to it by reference to his own mental states.8
11.3 The Private Language Argument
It is this semantic position, i.e. solipsistic semantics, against which Wittgenstein

takes a stand with his so-called private language argument (he himself does not use
this phrase). This argument, however, is not a conclusion that follows from the prag-
matist semantics, which Wittgenstein had already developed up to this point in the
Philosophical Investigations.9 If we look carefully at the private language argument,
it turns out to provide the foundation for Wittgenstein’s own semantic position by
means of an indirect proof, by refuting a different semantics that Wittgenstein
assumed to be incompatible with his own semantics.
At the center of Wittgenstein’s refutation is the scenario involving a sensation
diary borrowed from Moritz Schlick.10 This does not mean, however, that a ‘private
language’ is supposed to be merely a language of emotions; it by no means consists
only of emotional expressions.11 But ‘sensations’ are recommended as unsurpass-
able examples of solipsistic semantics, the point of view that advocates mental
7
That the Tractarian semantics constitutes a private language since it is the ‘metaphysical subject’
(Wittgenstein 1974, TLP 5.633), which is supposed to assign truth conditions to a sentence, see
Hacker 1972, 217.
8
See Cook (1972, 43, 53, 67). An example for this is John Locke: ‘Words are the sensible signs of
his ideas who uses them’ (Locke 1823, III.2, §2).
9
Cf. Kripke (1982, 79 f.)
10
Cf. Schlick (1938, 177 ff.)
11
Cf. Kenny (1973, 179 ff.)
202 S. Zimmermann
meanings. For, sensations seem to be accessible only to him who has them and thus
to be ‘private’ in the highest degree.
The scenario is that someone keeps a diary about a recurring sensation
E. Whenever he feels this sensation, he enters the sign ‘E’. That is, he assigns to the
sign ‘E’ the sensation E as its meaning. However, the problem that arises is that the
diarist lacks a criterion, which remains beyond his control, to decide on the right-
ness or wrongness of his respective use of the sign. The diarist is unable to distin-
guish between really and seemingly following the rule; in fact, this difference
becomes entirely obsolete. A ‘private language’ (and this is Wittgenstein’s objec-
tion) is lodged in the arbitrariness of the irregular: ‘There is not enough regularity
[Regelmäßigkeit] for us to call it “language”’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 207).
For, as Wittgenstein’s justification goes, the sign ‘E’ in every case has that mean-
ing that the diarist currently assigns to it. That this assignment always has to be the
same, i.e. that always the same type of sensation, namely E, must be indicated by it,
is not given by ‘something independent [eine unabhängige Stelle]’ (Wittgenstein
1958, PI 265). The private language speaker is not bound by his previous use of the
sign, even if he remembers this use correctly.12 And since there is ex hypothesi no
other instance that could provide this bindingness, he uses the sign irrespective of
whether he is using it rightly or wrongly at that moment: ‘But in the present case I
have no criterion of rightness. One would like to say here: whatever is going to seem
right to me is right. And that only means that here we can’t talk about “right”’
(Wittgenstein 1958, PI 258).
How the result of Wittgenstein’s private language argument is to be classified
exactly is not necessary for us to examine. There is some indication that the conclu-
sion according to which there can be no ‘private language’ has to be taken in a rather
weak sense, namely as a grammatical consideration. Using the example of a sensa-
tion diary, Wittgenstein’s point is not that there can be no such language in the
strong, ontological sense, but rather that it is a semantic impossibility: according to
the grammar of our use of the word, we are not prepared to call something like that
‘language’. As Wittgenstein notes: ‘There is not enough regularity for us to call
[nennen] it “language”.’13 One of the conditions that the rule specifies for the typical
use of the word ‘language’ and that, in view of the given scenario forces us to
become aware of, is not fulfilled. The condition that is clearly unfulfilled in the
sensation diary scenario is about how the term is typically used. Whatever lacks
‘regularity’ cannot be called ‘language’.14
It is enough to state that for Wittgenstein there can be no private language (in any
closer interpretation of ‘cannot be’) because it lacks the ‘regularity’ that is
12
That Wittgenstein argues on the basis of the fallibility of our memory see Raatzsch (2008, 184 f.);
Vossenkuhl (2003, 218); Candlish (1998, 157). This is rightly criticized by Hacker (1990, 108).
13
Wittgenstein explicitly makes a grammatical classification of his considerations in other con-
texts: ‘This is of course a note on the grammar of the expression “to obey a rule”’ (Wittgenstein
1958, PI 199). See also 90, 150 fn., 232.
14
So recently Fogelin (2009, 56 ff.) See already Stern (1995, 175 ff.); Baker (2004, 116, 126, 128,
132); Conant (2004, 187 f.)
constitutive of language. It lacks ‘regularity’—this is what makes Wittgenstein’s

late philosophy of language interesting for the ontology of the social—because
other people do not share this language as speakers and listeners, writers, and read-
ers. Wittgenstein does not simply claim that the sounds of speech and characters
used in human life forms have to be common ones. He argues instead that their
common use is a condition for the ‘regularity’ of the use: ‘Is what we call “obeying
a rule” something that it would be possible for only one man to do, and to do only
once in his life? […] To obey a rule, to make a report, to give an order, to play a
game of chess, are customs (uses, institutions)’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 199). To
learn a language, to mean something by it, and to understand it is a public phenom-
enon. In order to be possible as such, the rules of our language games must be fol-
lowed by many; they must be of social character.15
11.4 Wittgenstein’s Conventionalism and the Normativity

of Rule-Following
Wittgenstein often expresses the idea that stable meaning can only be found in a
public space by talking of a certain agreement that exists between the speakers
involved. Human beings ‘agree [stimmen überein] in the language they use. That is
not agreement [Übereinstimmung] in opinions but in form of life’ (Wittgenstein
1958, PI 241).16 The ‘agreement’ according to which the same use of speech sounds
and characters has the same meaning must not be confused with the result of an
agreement that many people reach here and now, an arrangement or a deal. It is the
agreement of many people that founds their language community and ‘form of life’
and thus sets the groundwork for something like arrangements or deals, which pre-
suppose a language with stable meaning. By mastering linguistic rules, we agree
with other speakers, even if we do not utter the same ‘opinions’ as they do.17
With Michael Dummett, we can call Wittgenstein’s use theory of linguistic
meaning a ‘full-blooded conventionalism’ (Dummett 1959, 329). Real conventions
are not external behavioral expectations that are annoying to the person concerned
(even if they sometimes, of course, are). Prior to that, the individual has always
accepted and internalized any habits of the language games in which he partici-
pates. This is what makes somebody a competent user of language who can reliably
and successfully communicate with others of the same linguistic community.
15
Wittgenstein does not use the term ‘social’. For the term ‘custom’ see also Wittgenstein (1958,
PI 198, 205, 337); Wittgenstein (1964, RFM VI 43), and for the term ‘institution’ see also
Wittgenstein (1958, PI 337, 380, 540, 584); Wittgenstein (1964, RFM VI 32).
16
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 224, 355); Wittgenstein (1974, PG I 138). ‘The word “agreement” and
the word “rule” are related, they are cousins. The phenomenon of agreement and of acting accord-
ing to a rule hang together’ (Wittgenstein 1964, RFM VI 41). See also VI 39, VII 39.
17
Cf. Hunter (1971, 289).
204 S. Zimmermann
Somebody is a competent language user only through adapting his own utterances
to how others tend to understand them.18
Literally understood, a convention marks the point at which an individual comes
together with others (Lat. convenire) and the regularity of their utterances is one and
the same.19 In this sense, although Wittgenstein does not speak of conventions in the
Philosophical Investigations, he claims the conventional nature of the order of our
language games. And this indeed in the full-blooded sense of ‘conventional’. For,
the rightness or wrongness of all linguistic learning, meaning, and understanding is
supposed to be measured by the agreement in the regularities shared with other
people, and which are thus conventional in the literal sense.
The conventionality of linguistic rules springs from what is commonly discussed
under the cue of the normativity of rule-following. A behavior that adheres to rules,
strictly speaking, shows more than mere ‘regularity’. What occurs again and again
in the same way is what happens regularly; for instance, the moon rises every night
and goes down in the morning. By contrast, as people practice rule-following, it is
controlled so as to be conducted in the same way over and over again. That has to
be done because following a rule has the possibility of being done erroneously and
of deviating from the rule; if necessary, the way of following a rule has therefore to
be corrected.20
Wittgenstein presumes that our rule-governed behavior, contrary to merely regu-
lar processes in nature, has the potential for error and deviation. And he recognizes
that the condition of related control and correction by others is indispensable, both
in the initial learning of a rule as in the continuous, corresponding meaning and
understanding. For, by ensuring the necessary conventionality, this lets the rule be a
rule in the first place. Social order is only attainable as an order by being a social one
or, as Wittgenstein puts it, a ‘common behavior of mankind’ (Wittgenstein 1958,
PI 206).
Rule-following is normative in that it cannot be left to the discretion of the indi-
vidual. Within a language community, it is to be expected that a person agrees with
others in talking and listening, writing, and reading: for the sake of the stability of
meaning, and hence of its understandability, the person’s use of language shall have
conventional traits. Only the observance of rules allows communication between
ego and alter. But the condition to which the alter’s correct and regular understand-
ing of the meaning of an expression is subject to is the same as that to which the
ego’s correct and regular use of that expression is subject to; and that is the agree-
ment between ego and alter to use and understand the expression.
Thus, according to Wittgenstein, the criterion for distinguishing the use of lan-
guage as right or wrong is beyond the control of a speaker insofar as it lies in other
speakers. Whether I really or only seemingly adhere to a rule is decided by the reac-
tion of my counterpart who belongs to my language community: the difference
18
Cf. Krebs (2007, 47).
19
Cf. von Savigny (1983, 34 ff.)
20
Cf. Kemmerling (1975, 116 ff.)
between right and wrong, which is essential for the ‘regularity’ of speaking, func-
tions in such a way that my counterpart brings it to bear in one way or another and
thereby moves me into a common realm of meanings. That happens, to be sure,
mutually; the semantic habits of a life form settle down in reciprocity. ‘And hence
also “obeying a rule” is a practice. And to think one is obeying a rule is not to obey
a rule. Hence it is not possible to obey a rule “privately”: otherwise thinking one
was obeying a rule would be the same thing as obeying it’ (Wittgenstein 1958,
PI 202).21
11.5 The Problem of Rule-Following
What can the ontological conceptualization of the social learn from Wittgenstein?
Not so much the fact that we follow rules in our language games and life forms,
which are conventional in nature and, in this sense, social rules, but more so how
this happens. It is in Wittgenstein’s reflections on the problem of rule-following
where contemporary social ontology, insofar as it stands under the paradigm of
consciousness and intentionality, is confronted with an idea that brings about a com-
plete turn-around.
Section 201 of the Philosophical Investigations is considered to be the locus
classicus for Wittgenstein’s preoccupation with the problem of how we follow rules.
There, he completes an argument that he had begun earlier but interrupted. The
question mainly discussed in these sections can be stated as follows: how exactly
does one follow a rule? Provided that all speaking and listening, writing, and read-
ing amounts to following social rules, how is such a rule there for me so that I am
able to follow it? How is such a rule given to me in order that I am capable of a
behavior that does not just happen to coincide with the rule but that is gov-
erned by it?22
Difficulties arise if one assumes that a rule only orientates my use of language
when it ‘comes before my mind [mir vorschwebt]’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 139).
That is, when I am conscious of it, when it is given to me as the content of an inten-
tional state of mind.23 Wittgenstein undermines this view by revealing its absurd
21
This is not contradicted by the case of Robinson Crusoe. Wittgenstein’s thesis is not that I can
only follow a rule if someone else who follows the same rule is present, if he confirms or corrects
me. But that another, if he were present, could confirm or correct me. Crusoe had already made
certain habits of a life form his own before he was stranded on a lonely island. Cf. Baker and
Hacker (1984, 39).
22
‘But how can a rule show me what I have to do at this point?’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 198)
23
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 20, 51, 71, 140 f., 210, 323, 329, 663).
206 S. Zimmermann
consequences. The reductio ad absurdum he undertakes results in a ‘paradox’

(Wittgenstein 1958, PI 201).24
For this purpose, Wittgenstein calls upon a certain type of language game: ‘A
gives an order B has to write down series of signs according to a certain formation
rule’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 143). The ‘signs’ mentioned are, as Wittgenstein illus-
trates the example, the natural numbers of the decimal system. And the ‘series’ in
which B has to name them is given to him by A in the form of the algebraic formula
n + 1 followed in normal counting. A teacher, for instance, has taught his pupil the
natural numbers of the decimal system as well as counting, so that the pupil is now
able to form the series ‘0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, …’ by himself without error.
After a few interruptions, Wittgenstein picks up the scenario again: ‘Now—
judged by the usual criteria—the pupil has mastered the series of natural numbers.
Next, we teach him to write down other series of cardinal numbers’ (Wittgenstein
1958, PI 185). The language game becomes more complex as the ‘formation rule’
of counting becomes more complex. We ‘get him to the point of writing down series
of the form o, n, 2n, 3n, etc. at an order of the form “+n”; so at the order “+1” he
writes down the series of natural numbers.’ For practice and as a sample, the teacher
asks him to continue with the series up to 1000, which the pupil succeeds in doing.
But then the pupil commits an error: ‘Now we get the pupil to continue a series (say
“+2”) beyond 1000—and he writes: 1000, 1004, 1008, 1012.’ So, after he has
steadily added 2, the pupil surprises the teacher with the fact that from 1000 onwards
he unexpectedly begins to add 4.
A then tries to point out B’s mistake: ‘We say to him: “Look what you’ve
done!”—He doesn’t understand. We say: “You were meant to add two; look how
you began the series!”—He answers: “Yes, isn’t it right? I thought that was how I
was meant to do it.’ The pupil rejects all of the teacher’s attempts and claims to have
continued the series of numbers as required. All of the teacher’s objections, which
insist on looking at the given ‘examples’ or listening to the given ‘explanations’
more closely, confirm the pupil’s view of the matter: ‘It would now be no use to say:
“But can’t you see …?”—and repeat the old examples and explanations.’
In the present case, therefore, B’s error is not a consequence of a negligent look-
ing or listening that can be remedied by repeating what has been said. He under-
stands the ‘examples’ and ‘explanations’ of the formula n+1 differently than what
A means. Only afterwards, it becomes clear that what the teacher had asked had a
different meaning for the pupil and that he, without being immediately noticeable,
adhered to quite another ‘formation rule’ in his counting. As Wittgenstein explains:
‘In such a case we might perhaps say: by nature, this person understands our order
24
This is a different issue than that with which the private language argument deals. There the ques-
tion was whether a speaker, when using linguistic terms, founds their meaning through an inten-
tional act of his consciousness. The answer was that this is not the case; the use one makes of a
term has to be conventional because it has to be regular. Here the subsequent question is how a
speaker follows these conventional rules, which imply their meaning under contextual conditions
of use. One possible answer is to think that they have to come before his mind.
with our explanations as we understand the order: “Add 2 up to 1000, 4 up to 2000,

6 up to 3000 and so on”.’
11.6 Neither ‘Expression’ nor ‘Interpretation’ of the Rule
This scenario draws attention to two things. On the one hand, Wittgenstein wants to
demonstrate that the expression of a rule does not determine its application. To
articulate a rule and to illustrate it by ‘examples’ as the teacher does to his pupil
does not provide a secure basis for following it. The indication of the rule, here the
algebraic formula n+1, remains compatible with an arbitrary use of the expressions
to which the rule extends. Errors and deviations are not prevented by this.25
Wittgenstein speaks of a paradox: ‘This was our paradox: no course of action
could be determined by a rule, because every course of action can be made out to
accord with the rule’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 201). The emphasis is on ‘every’. And
Wittgenstein goes on: ‘The answer was: if every course of action can be made out
to accord with the rule, then it can also be made out to conflict with it. And so, there
would be neither accord nor conflict here.’ However, such an absurdity according to
which the possibility of all rule-following collapses arises only on the premise that
‘rule’ is taken as ‘expression [Ausdruck] of the rule’. It is the ‘expression of a rule’
which does not function as a necessary condition for following the respective rule.26
On the other hand, Wittgenstein wants to demonstrate that there is just as little
need for an interpretation of the rule: ‘It can be seen that there is a misunderstand-
ing here from the mere fact that in the course of our argument we give one interpre-
tation [Deutung] after another; as if each one contented us at least for a moment,
until we thought of yet another standing behind it’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 201). To
interpret a rule is to give ‘explanations’ just as the teacher does to his pupil. One
utters the rule, e.g. the ‘formation rule’ n+1, and adds a circumscription intended to
provide clarity. ‘But we ought to restrict the term “interpretation” to the substitution
of one expression of the rule for another.’
Doing so is, however, useless for the same reason as before. Every paraphrase
finds itself confronted with the aforementioned ‘paradox’. Even the paraphrase’s
articulation does not guarantee a deviation-free implementation of it at all. Once
again, ‘every course of action’ can be made out either ‘to accord with the rule’ or ‘to
conflict with it’. As Wittgenstein remarks: ‘any interpretation still hangs in the air
along with what it interprets, and cannot give it any support. Interpretations by
themselves do not determine meaning’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 199).27 Rule-
following is also impossible on the premise that it has to take its measure from an
25
Cf. Hunter (1985, 77 ff.)
26
Cf. Fogelin (1976, 142 f.); McGinn (1984, 42 f.). Consequently, no rule skepticism and semantic
nihilism can be derived from that scenario. The ‘paradox’ is not Wittgenstein’s own. See
Read (2000).
27
Cf. Wittgenstein (1964, RFM VI 38).
208 S. Zimmermann
‘interpretation’ of the rule. The ‘interpretation’ of a rule, too, does not function as a
necessary condition for following the respective rule.28
The upshot of the example is therefore negative at first. The assumption that
Wittgenstein examines with the example should be denied: if rule-following requires
neither an expression nor an interpretation of the rule, then the rule apparently does
not need to come before my mind in order for me to be able to follow it. To be sure,
it may happen that someone, before he or his counterpart complies with the custom
of a language game or a life form, for some reason becomes aware of the rule or
makes his counterpart aware of it. At various points in the Philosophical
Investigations we see where this does indeed take place.29
However, it remains unnecessary. Being conscious of a rule does not map out
fixed rails (to pick up Wittgenstein’s much-cited metaphor) that ensure the continu-
ation of the respective custom.30 Whether the expression of the rule, together with
an interpretation of it, is before my eyes and ears or only present in my mind is
irrelevant for the application of the rule. I can have an idea of the regularity of a
commonly shared practice but I do not have to. Intending to continue such a regular-
ity in a given situation, does not enable me—Wittgenstein puts his finger on this
fallacy—to do so. For this, something different is needed.31
11.7 Wittgenstein on the Other ‘Way of Grasping a Rule’
So how do I follow a rule? The example scenario serves Wittgenstein even further.
The failure it includes clears the way for another analysis of rule-following. For, it
makes apparent what the cause of this failure is: something is missing, and this
something comes to light precisely as missing. Several times, Wittgenstein takes the
opportunity to construe the lack that the pupil shows his teacher and that causes his
error as a positive insight.
Wittgenstein notes: ‘We may perhaps refer to the fact that people are brought by
their education (training [Abrichtung]) so to use the formula y = x2 that they all
always work out the same value for y when they substitute the same number for x
[my emphasis]’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 189). And: ‘What is the criterion for the way
the formula is meant? It is approximately the kind of way we steadily use it, the way
we are taught to use it [my emphasis]’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 190). Again: ‘I have
been trained [abgerichtet] to react to this sign in a particular way, and now I do so
react to it. […] On the contrary; I have further indicated that a person goes by a
28
This does not change with the fact that we continue the explanations and ‘give one interpretation
after another’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 199). For this can never lead to a final explanation, which
constitutes an unmistakable guideline for the application of the respective rule. Such a requirement
would result in an infinite regress. See von Savigny (1998, 108 f.)
29
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 54, 87, 141); Wittgenstein (1964, RFM VI 30).
30
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 218).
31
Cf. Puhl (1998, 129 ff.)
signpost only insofar as there exists a regular use of sign–posts, a custom [my
emphasis]’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 198). Finally, as already quoted: ‘Is what we call
“obeying a rule” something that it would be possible for only one man to do, and to
do only once in his life? […] To obey a rule, to make a report, to give an order, to
play a game of chess, are customs (uses, institutions).’
Wittgenstein’s idea is the following. What is expressed in all these descriptions,
at least sketchily and against the background of the above-discussed conventionality
and normativity of rule-following, is that the observance of a conventional rule is
not mediated by its expression or interpretation but instead happens immediately. A
rule directs its implementation if and only if the implementation of the rule is an
actualization of a learned, well-rehearsed capacity acquired by virtue of repetition
and having proven itself as well as of normative control and correction or, as
Wittgenstein briefly puts it, by Abrichtung.32
That is the reason why the language game of counting fails. The teacher means
the algebraic formula n+1 as he means it because he has learned to use it through
‘education (training)’ by others, to ‘always’, ‘steadily’ use it in the same way as ‘all’
do. On several occasions he has practiced how to ‘react’ rightly and is now able to
actualize that habitually. The pupil, however, understands n+1 as he understands it
wrongly because he lacks such a habit. Due to the lack of practice (‘by nature’), the
formula has no or an arbitrary symbolic content for him. For, he has never followed
it beyond the mark of 1000, he has not been controlled and corrected by a counter-
part, and has not proven himself repeatedly. So, the respective way ‘to react’ for the
pupil has not been well rehearsed. He still has to be ‘trained’ for the ‘custom’, the
‘regular use’ that ‘we’ make of it.
In Section 201, Wittgenstein indicates that there is another ‘way of grasping a
rule […] which is expressed in what we call '“obeying the rule” and “going against
it”’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 201). The mentioned ‘way of grasping a rule [Auffassung
einer Regel]’ contains the solution to the problem. For this is nothing other than the
way a rule has to be there for me so that I am able to adhere to it. The ‘way of grasp-
ing a rule’ in question is characterized by the fact that it is not expressed by me but
expresses itself. That it is the ‘way of grasping a rule’ which ‘is expressed [sich
äußert]’ in my actions reveals that it is not an awareness of the rule. To grasp a rule
does not mean to express or interpret it or to otherwise intend its implementation.33
Wittgenstein says this most clearly in section 219: ‘When I obey the rule, I do not
choose. I obey the rule blindly’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 219). ‘Blind’ in the present
32
Cf. Baker and Hacker (2009, 135 ff.) In German, abrichten sounds a little harsh insofar as it is
rather animals that are abgerichtet. But Wittgenstein only hears in the term that one is rectified (lat.
rectus, right) or made right by another in the sense of correcting his behavior, however gently or
harshly this may happen. For the German abrichten contains the verb richten (straighten), which
is a derivation of the adjective richtig (right). For this, see Giesinger (2008).
33
Continuing a distinction from the Tractatus, namely that between saying (sagen) and showing
(zeigen), one can also formulate that the ‘way of grasping a rule’ is not one that is said: ‘how he
“takes” [auffasst] the definition is seen [zeigt sich] in the use that he makes of the word defined [my
emphasis]’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI 29).
210 S. Zimmermann
context does not mean, as in the phrase ‘blind obedience’, that I defer my own judg-
ment and uncritically accept that of another person. Rather, a judgment that names
a semantic rule is not needed in order to comply with the rule.34 Everything depends
on the fact that, according to Wittgenstein, the habits of a life form must already
have become usual to the individual, like a ‘second nature’ (Williams 1991, 115), so
that his actions can be a case of following a rule rightly or wrongly. The observance
of a rule is based on the matter of course with which the rule used is followed in
similar situations and circumstances.35
This does not exclude the possibility that even experienced speakers may deviate
here and there, with the result that continued control and possible correction by oth-
ers remains inevitable. Wittgenstein, however, argues for the thesis that I obey a rule
(not although I am ‘blind’ to it but) in being ‘blind’ to it. The rule makes me see the
proper behavior where I do not see the rule itself: it instructs my behavior in the
usual way without me being aware of it and choosing a behavior because it is a
proper one. I speak (listen, write, or read) when I conform to the rule without having
to tell the rule to myself inwardly or to pronounce it aloud. I conform to the rule
because it is there for me in a different way: because the rule is given to me in a
non- and pre-intentional manner.36
11.8 Implicit Knowledge
The Philosophical Investigations express this thought, among other things, through
the linguistic relation of ‘knowledge’ and ‘ability’. ‘The grammar of the word
“know” [wissen]’, Wittgenstein writes, ‘is evidently closely related to that of “can”
[können], “be able to” [imstande sein]. But also closely related to that of “under-
stand” [verstehen]. (“Master” [beherrschen] a technique.)’ (Wittgenstein 1958, PI
150). The term ‘know’ coincides or overlaps in one of its uses (in German as well
as in English) with the term ‘can’. It then means the same as ‘be able to’, ‘under-
stand’, or ‘master’. To know how to follow a rule is to be able to follow it.37
To be precise, we have to say that such an ability includes knowledge (cf. Abel
2010, 321). That the application of a rule is not completely identical with the cor-
responding knowledge of the rule, which allows its application, can be seen from
34
Likewise, it is not a matter of coercion. The rule does not force me to obey it because there is
nothing that hinders its compliance and against which it must be enforced. Cf. von Savigny
(1994, 266 f.)
35
John McDowell, however, denies that ‘a concept of custom and its cognates’ is part of
Wittgenstein’s ‘constructive philosophical response to questions like “How is meaning possible?”’
(McDowell 1998, 275).
36
Andrea Kern considers this to be Wittgenstein’s true insight for the explanation of human action.
Cf. Kern (2010, 206).
37
Cf. Wittgenstein (1958, PI 151); Wittgenstein (1969, OC 534f). For differences between the
terms ‘knowledge’ and ‘ability’ see Baker and Hacker (2005, 328f).
the case of failure. After all, an action can be criticized from (at least) two points of
view, both in that the correct rule is applied wrongly and in that the wrong rule is
applied correctly. In the first case, the rule appropriate to the situation is known and
applied but its application is incorrect given the current situation. In the second case,
the rule appropriate to the situation is not known, although the application of the
rule applied instead may be correct, irrespective of the current situation.
Consequently, this ability has to be conceptually separated from the knowledge
of the rule of the respective action from which the action takes its measure. The rule
must already be there for me, it must be given to me somehow in order to be able to
apply it in a situation (instead of just happening to coincide with it). What I can do
is to apply what I know: I must already know about the rule in some way so that my
behavior can be governed by it.
Already in section 89, Wittgenstein points to the peculiarity of such knowledge,
which is an ability or, more precisely, an involvement in that ability. He does so with
a quotation from the Church father Augustine. Writing on the question of time in
book XI of his Confessions, Augustine states, somewhat puzzled, that hardly any-
one can explain what time is while everyone is able to speak meaningfully and
understandably of time.38 Wittgenstein takes the general idea from this: ‘Something
that we know when no one asks us, but no longer know when we are supposed to
give an account of it, is something that we need to remind [besinnen] ourselves of’
(Wittgenstein 1958, PI 89).
With this, Wittgenstein touches upon a distinction between two forms of knowl-
edge. The first one is explicit knowledge: what is not or cannot be made a subject of
discussion (‘when we are supposed to give an account of it’) is not known in this
way. The second one is implicit knowledge: what is known in this way (‘when no
one asks us’) does not need to be made a subject of discussion and cannot easily
be.39 It goes without saying that the attribution and denial of the latter form of
knowledge is confronted with difficulties different from that of the former. But that
need not concern us here.40
In the example of the teacher and pupil, Wittgenstein picks this up again: ‘But
what does this knowledge consist in? […] Or is what you call “knowledge” a state
of consciousness or a process—say a thought of something, or the like?’
(Wittgenstein 1958, PI 148). The question is to be answered in the negative. The
respective knowledge, Wittgenstein wants to say, is not a ‘state of consciousness’,
not a ‘thought of something’. Following the convention of a language game does not
require me to be conscious of that convention and to think of it. Insofar as the ability
to speak is not based on linguistic knowledge, it is not based on an explicit knowl-
edge of the respective rule. However, following the convention of a language game
requires being familiar with it in such a way that the user does not need to be
38
Cf. Augustine, Confessions XI, 14 (1981, XI.14).
39
Canfield argues that for Wittgenstein rules can be made ‘explicit’ by speaking, in contrast to the
fact that they remain ‘implicit’ in speaking (Canfield 1974, 72f).
40
Cf. Miller (1997).
212 S. Zimmermann
conscious of it, that I do not have to think about it. Insofar as the ability to speak is
indeed based on linguistic knowledge, it is based on an implicit knowledge of the
rule in question.41
In the same section, Wittgenstein answers a statement of his fictional dialogue
partner with the question: ‘When do you know that application? Always? Day and
night? Or only when you are actually thinking of the rule?’ (Wittgenstein2 1958, PI
148). With this he further profiles the peculiarity of the said knowledge. Someone
knows the ‘rule’ that he knows to observe not ‘only’ as long as he observes it. He
has the knowledge in question ‘Always’, ‘Day and night’, i.e. even when it remains
unclaimed. Just as we do not possess an ability only ‘when’ we prove it, the imma-
nent knowledge of what is important in each case surpasses the moment of its being
claimed. While the time of explicit knowledge is a definite and determinable one—
namely, the duration of the related ‘state of consciousness’ or ‘thought of some-
thing’42—, time here expands to an indefinite and indeterminable duration, since the
knowledge is implicit and need not be claimed.43
11.9 The Refutation of the Intentionalist Paradigm
What is the contribution of Wittgenstein’s late philosophy to the ontological con-

ceptualization of the social? As I see it, Wittgenstein’s reflection can open up a new
horizon for social ontology. The decisive thought is that the rules we follow in
speaking and listening, writing, and reading are, on the one hand, never those of an
individual alone but are intrinsically social and that, on the other hand, one does not
need to be conscious of them in order to follow them. This displaces the problem of
the social by shifting it behind, as it were, consciousness.
Wittgenstein’s late philosophy of language suggests that the intentionalist para-
digm only survives thanks to the disregard of what our conscious intentions (voli-
tional, cognitive, affective, or of whatever sort) presuppose. Conscious intentions
rest on something that makes them possible in the first place. And it is Wittgenstein’s
approach to this presupposition that is capable of providing a new entry point into
the conceptual apparatus of social ontology. In short, our intentional consciousness
presupposes something, and this presupposition already bears the mark of the social.
For, according to Wittgenstein, language games and forms of life are held
together not only by explicit knowledge but also by an ability borne by implicit
41
That the transition from a model of explicit to one of implicit rule-following can escape
Wittgenstein’s ‘paradox’ is put in doubt by Glüer (2002).
42
See also Wittgenstein (1967, Z 78).
43
Cf. Wittgenstein (1967, Z 75, 77). For this, see Kober (1993, 97 f.). Other authors who could be
cited in this context are, among others, Gilbert Ryle, Michael Polanyi, Jürgen Habermas, and
Robert Brandom. These authors also distinguish two forms of knowledge, an explicit one and an
implicit one. Ryle, for example, speaks of knowing that and knowing how (Ryle 1949), Polanyi of
explicit knowledge and tacit knowledge (Polanyi 1966).
knowledge that realizes itself in, among other things, our actions with, for, and
against each other. The actors’ knowledge of social rules functions as the premise
for their being able to communicate with each other. Such actions depend not only
on our conscious intentions but already on what our intentional consciousness itself
presupposes. A social rule is given to me in my non- and pre-conscious, implicit
knowledge of it. And this knowledge has a social side precisely in that it is a knowl-
edge of the commonly shared rules of our acting with, for, and against each other.
Having the notion of implicit knowledge in mind that Wittgenstein puts forward,
we can see what is wrong with the intentionalist paradigm. According to this para-
digm, it is only when people have formed a certain kind of intention, e.g. a collec-
tive one, that something social is at work. The truth is, however, that people are only
able to form such an intention in the first place if something social is already at
work. Something social is already an enabling condition to form collective inten-
tions; being a social being is a condition for the formation of collective intentions.
It is only insofar as, and to the extent that, actors bring along implicit knowledge of
conventional rules, for instance in acting with, for, and against others, that they are
able to communicate. It is their implicit knowledge about commonly shared rules
that initiates their communication in speaking and listening, writing, and reading
over and over again, and makes this communication possible in its turn as a mean-
ingful one according to the relevant rules.
With this insight, Wittgenstein contributes to refuting the intentionalist para-
digm, which simply ignores the possibility that intentional acts of consciousness
presuppose something else of a different sort. Against Natorp, consciousness and
intentionality are not the ‘irreducibly final’ of the human self. Wittgenstein opens
the door to a dimension of our self as distinct from our mental states, where the
ontology of the social should rather take hold. The social does not only, nor primar-
ily, have to do with conscious intentions but with an underlying implicit knowledge
that Wittgenstein touches upon in the problem of rule-following.44
However, we have not yet established the necessary and sufficient condition for
something to be social. All we have done is point toward another location where it
may be found. I do not want to defend Wittgenstein’s pragmatist semantics as a
whole here. And I do not need to either. Wittgenstein’s late reflections on language
contain at least some indication that allows us to surmise where we might find the
condition we are looking for: in people’s implicit knowledge. But at this juncture,
this is merely a suggestion for further consideration.
If something commonly shared is implicitly known, e.g. the rules of social prac-
tice, this includes that the implicit knowledge is itself commonly shared and thus
something social. One person alone does not know the rules of social practice but
all participants do. Therefore, if we could find an example of something that is not
44
Searle also recognizes a ‘Background of Intentionality’ (Searle 1998, 107). All conscious inten-
tions depend on ‘capacities, abilities, tendencies, habits, dispositions, taken-for-granted presup-
positions’ or, in short, on a ‘know-how’ (107 f.) that are not conscious and intentionally structured.
Searle, however, does not attribute any social quality to what he calls the ‘Background.’ This is also
criticized by Luutz (1998, 710 f.)
214 S. Zimmermann
social but that we nevertheless have implicit knowledge of (one possible candidate
are natural phenomena), it may still be the case that our implicit knowledge of it is
itself a commonly shared one. This could be the minimal mark of the social that the
socio-ontological question aims at: the commonality—the being shared—of implicit
knowledge of any object (whether it is social or not, e.g. natural phenomena). This
may be where all social phenomena coincide insofar as they are social: to be a social
phenomenon is to be either itself a commonly shared implicit knowledge or depend
on commonly shared implicit knowledge in order to be possible, such as people’s
actions with, for, or against each other.45
However, this further consideration, which is decisive for the ontology of the
social, cannot be accomplished with Wittgenstein. What we can say with Wittgenstein
is that belonging to a group and being a social being is not only, nor primarily, a
function of the consciousness of belonging to the group. I may still be a social being
even when, and as long as, I am not conscious of it. The social cannot be settled
through reference to intentionality; the notion of consciousness and its intentional
constitution is obviously unable to take into account everything that is social. The
ontological conceptualization of the social must rather focus on the presupposition
of our consciousness instead. It should focus on the social dimension of our implicit
knowledge. The social as such might consist in the agreement, to use Wittgenstein’s
expression, in the implicit knowledge that several people share (no matter what it
may be that they know implicitly). However, how far such an agreement goes surely
remains an empirical question, which has to be answered in each case anew.
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Index
A Amerini, F., 7, 22, 182

Abel, G., 210 Anchors/anchoring, 3, 109, 113, 139,
Actions 140, 154–155
common, 24, 85–87, 140, 169, 195 Andersson, Å., 147
human, 53, 56, 187 Animal
joint, 9, 142, 181–184, 186, 187, 189, political, 29, 98
193, 195 Anscombe, G.E.M., 214
political, 10, 24, 53 Anselm of Canterbury, 60, 62–65, 72
Acts Appolloni, C., 7, 42, 61
declarative, 144, 189 Ariew, R., 119, 124
intentional, 73, 145, 146, 152, 155, 165, Aristocracy, 123
198, 201, 213 Aristotle, 4, 7, 10, 16, 18, 20–22, 25, 28–32,
mental, 144, 148, 201, 213 41, 44, 68, 83–85, 111, 113, 121, 190,
moral, 32, 35, 72, 73, 75, 120, 142, 165 192, 193
political, 31, 34 Arlig, A.W., 18
single, 33, 87, 143, 146, 183 Arrington, R.L., 200
social, 32, 34, 62, 121, 144, 148, 153, Artifacts/artifice, 4, 10, 61, 119
165, 183 Art imitates nature, 28
speech, 8, 32, 36, 141, 142, 144–146, 155 Ashworth, E.J., 61, 126
Adulthood, 96 Attitudes, propositional, 152–154
Agents/agency Augustine of Hippo, 59, 60, 64, 211
collective, 24, 155, 161, 175 Authority, 42, 43, 66, 70, 71, 118, 122, 131,
group, 160–162, 164, 166–175, 182, 183 132, 142, 143, 147
human, 162, 170, 171, 174
intentional, 164, 166, 170, 173
moral, 163, 167, 170, 173, 174 B
rational, 55, 161, 166, 170–173 Bäck, A.T., 17
Aggregates, social, 16, 27, 182 Bacon, R., 60–63, 71, 72
Agreements, 10, 64, 74, 87, 99, 101, 141, Baker, G., 202, 205, 209, 210
143–145, 184, 185, 203, 204, 214 Barbone, S., 119
Alexander of Hales, 4, 65 Bass, B.M., 153
Almeida, M.B., 144 Bass, R., 153
Althusius, J., 8, 93–114 Beasts, wild, 97

Switzerland AG 2023
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-23984-7
220 Index
Beermann, W., 199 Cocktail parties, 141, 147, 148, 152, 188
Beings Collegium/collegia, 8, 82–88, 97, 100,
fictitious, 125, 126, 130 108, 109
real, 3, 4, 8, 33, 37, 49, 51, 87, 88, Collin, F., 3
124–126, 129, 160, 169 Commandments, ten, 98, 99
of reason (ens rationis), 5, 8, 86, 87, 119, Commitment, joint, 6, 10, 141, 183–186, 193
123–133, 165 Commitment, ontological, 35, 42
Belvisi, F., 82 Commonwealth, 109, 110, 131
Beneplacitum/ad placitum, 61, 66 Communication, 22, 30, 59–63, 70, 71, 73, 75,
Benoist, A., 100 100–109, 114, 175, 191, 204, 213
Bettetini, M., 64 Community
Bettoni, E., 49 formation of, 181, 182, 187
Biology, 132, 133 identity and unity of, 186, 193
Block, N., 198 informal, 187, 189, 193, 195
Body, 7, 17, 18, 26, 29, 35, 53, 54, 83, 96, language, 9, 25, 30, 31, 33, 36, 60, 84, 203
103–105, 127, 128, 161, 172 political, 7, 8, 16–34, 36, 84, 87, 98,
Bonagratia da Bergamo, 86 189, 192
Bonaventure, 4, 62, 65 Conant, J., 202
Boureau, A., 41, 44, 45, 52, 65, 87 Conetti, M., 82
Brentano, F., 140, 198 Conscience, 105
Brett, A., 82 Consciousnesses, 9, 161, 171, 198, 199, 201,
Brochhausen, M., 144 205, 206, 211–214
Brower, J., 45, 46, 68 Consent, voluntary act of, 84
Brown, C.M., 22 Consociatio
Brunner, M., 81 political, 8, 93, 103
Burgersdijk, F., 124 Constitution, 7, 32, 34, 108, 110, 111, 114,
Burman, Å., 147 127, 141, 143, 188
Burr, D., 41 Convention, 123, 129, 132, 203, 204, 211
Byrne, A., 198 Cook, J.W., 201
Cooperations, 2, 4, 9, 10, 24, 30, 34, 159, 160,
164, 165, 169, 170, 173, 174, 181–184,
C 186, 187, 189, 190, 192–195
Candlish, S., 202 Correctness, see Rectitudo
Canfield, J.V., 211 Courtenay, W.J., 32
Capacities, 35, 84, 97, 163, 167, 188, 209 Custom, 96, 102, 203, 208, 209
Carney, F.S., 93, 94, 99, 105
Casagrande, C., 64, 72, 87
Categories, Aristotelian, 4, 36, 44, 46 D
Cesalli, L., 60, 61, 66, 67, 69, 70 Decalogue, see Commandments, ten
Change Decision making, 100, 165, 167
Cambridge, 47, 48, 54 Definition, 16, 17, 27, 32, 49, 51, 70, 72, 82,
of meanings, 60 112, 120, 122, 124, 149, 161, 167, 193
relational, 43, 46–48, 55 Deliberatio rationis, 61
Chen, S., 31 Del Punta, I., 81
Childhood, 96 Demange, D., 61
Children, 153, 193, 195 Democracy, 112, 123, 160, 167, 174
Chimaera, 126 Dennett, D., 163
Chisholm, R.M., 198 Den Uyl, D., 119
Church, 4, 59, 81, 98, 122, 143, 146, 161 Descartes, R., 117, 119, 126
Cicero, 34 Desire, natural of understanding, 72
Citizens/citizenry, 7, 16, 17, 19–25, 32–36, 54, Deslauriers, M., 30
84, 99, 109, 181, 191, 194 Destrée, P., 30
City, 8, 10, 17, 19, 20, 22–25, 28, 29, 32–34, Dispositions, 8, 50, 131, 142, 151,
82–84, 98, 100, 103, 104, 108, 109, 153–155, 213
161, 188 Divine command, 132
Index 221
Dodell-Feder, D., 160 Fitzpatrick, A., 22

Dominion, 7, 43, 53, 54, 60, 65–71 Flood, D., 80, 81, 86
Doyle, J.P., 42, 43 Flüeler, C., 87
Dretske, F., 198 Fogelin, R.J., 202, 207
Dummett, M., 203 Form of the living organism
Duso, G., 99, 104, 105 of the political community, 19
Duties Franciscans, 7, 8, 60, 61, 80, 81, 84, 88
towards God, 96, 98, 105 Francis of Marchia, 81, 87
towards human beings, 107, 151 Frankfurt, H.G., 163
Dynamis, 83 Freedom, 53, 61, 62, 65, 67, 72, 73
Dyson, R.W., 16 French, P.A., 9, 160, 162, 164–167,
169–172, 174
Freudenthal, J., 124
E Friedrich, C.J., 93, 95, 99
Ebbesen, S., 42, 66 Friendship, 8, 9
Economics, 2, 34, 81, 86, 132, 133, 197 conjugal, 193
Education, 31, 96, 132, 197, 208, 209 Functionalism, 7, 19, 167
Electio voluntatis, 61 Functions (officia), 2, 25, 121, 187,
Emili, A., 81 205, 213
Enrico del Carretto, 7, 79, 80, 87
Entities
corporate, 160 G
formal, 8, 150, 151, 153, 194, 195 Gál, G., 81, 86
impossible, 125 Galileo, 107
informal, 8, 10, 151, 153 Galluzzo, G., 18
institutional, 141, 142, 147, 187, 194, 195 Gatherings (congregationes), 103, 104, 106
legal, 9, 88, 143, 154, 160, 164 German idealism, 161
macro social, 140, 142, 148 Giesinger, J., 209
mental, 139 Gilbert, M., 6, 9, 10, 139–144, 161, 162,
possible, 32, 125, 141, 150, 175 182–187, 190, 193, 198
social, 2, 3, 7–9, 150–153, 155, 161, 194 Girard, C., 68
Epstein, B., 2, 3, 5, 6, 80, 140, 154, 155 Glüer, K., 212
Eschmann, I.T., 16 Goal, shared, 183, 184
Essence, human, 29 God, 8, 94, 95, 97, 99, 100, 104, 105, 109
Establishment, explicit fear of, 106
acts of, 140, 141, 145, 148, 153, 155 worship of, 96
Evil, 96, 104, 125, 128–130 Goldfarb, W.D., 200
Good
common (bonum commune), 8, 19, 20, 30,
F 34, 74, 123, 192–194
Facts highest, 20
institutional, 2, 41, 42, 48, 52–55, 141, Government
142, 144, 147, 148, 187, 188 forms of, 110
normative, 53, 55 Gregory IX, Pope, 80
social, 2, 154 Grossi, P., 54, 82
Faith, 106, 107 Grounds/grounding, 3, 42, 44, 54, 55, 117,
Falsehood, 64, 65, 72 122, 124, 128, 139, 140, 154–155, 165,
Falsitas dicentis, 65 169, 171, 172
Falsitas dicti, 65 Groups
Family, 4, 10, 16, 28, 97, 100, 108, 131, complex, 173, 182–184, 186
181–185, 187, 188, 190, 192, 194, 195 political, 8, 11, 35, 118
Fiction, 88, 126, 160 social, 11, 80, 140, 169–171, 175,
Fighters (pugnantes), 26 181–186, 214
Finalism, 7, 20, 36 unity and identity, 22, 184
Finnis, J., 16, 35 Grundmann, H., 80
222 Index
H Intention
Haakonssen, K., 120, 121 human, 70
Habermas, J., 117, 212 of language users, 71
Habits, 191, 192, 203, 205, 209, 210 we, 16, 181
Habitudo, see Relation Intentionality
Hacker, P.M.S., 201, 202, 205, 209, 210 collective, 6, 16, 57, 139, 140, 154, 181,
Hain, R., 87 182, 187, 198
Hallett, G., 200 human, 165
Hansen, H., 45, 112 Isidorus of Seville, 34
Harmony, 104, 108 Israel, J., 118
Head of a collegium, 8, 82–86, 88, 100, 103 Izbicki, T., 120
Heereboord, A., 124
Hegel, G.W.F., 108, 161
Henninger, M.G., 36, 44, 45, 47, 48, 68 J
Henreckson, D., 93, 96, 99, 103, 109 Jansen, L., 8, 9, 140, 142, 145,
Henry, D.P., 18, 45 149–152, 154–156
Henry of Ghent, 4, 45 Janssen, H., 96
Hess, K., 160, 162, 173, 174 Jenkins, A.C., 160
Hildebrand, D., 188 Jesus Christ, 44, 80, 82, 86
Hirvonen, O., 8, 162, 173, 174 John Duns Scotus, 45
Hobbes, T., 5, 10, 88, 117, 118, 120, 122, 143, John XXII, Pope, 8, 79–82, 85–88
160, 161, 168 Judges (iudicantes), 26
Holism, 3, 7, 17 Jurisdiction, 43, 87
Honneth, A., 160, 174 Justice, 8, 20, 24, 32, 34, 55, 56, 104–107,
Households, 18, 21, 86, 193 110, 117, 119–124, 129–133, 192
Hueglin, T.O., 93, 99, 100
Hughes, C., 22
Human being qua citizen, 31, 34 K
Human being qua human being, 31, 34 Kaufmann, M., 120
Human beings, 141 Kedar, Y., 61
living among human beings (inter homines Kelly, L.G., 66
esse), 73 Kemmerling, A., 204
the natural difference, 97 Kern, A., 210
of nature are equal, 84 Khalidi, M.A., 139, 140, 147, 152, 153,
Hunter, J.F.M., 203, 207 155, 156
Hylomorphism, 7, 17, 108 Kilcullen, J., 79, 81
Kingdom/realm, 28, 29, 34, 56, 86, 100,
102–104, 108–112, 122, 143
I Kingship, 68, 69
Ikäheimo, H., 174 Klima, G., 124
Imagination, 8, 122, 123, 127–129, 131–133, 171 Knobe, J., 160
Imposition, 61–63, 65, 66, 70, 72, 75 Knowledge
Inflation, 141, 147, 148, 150, 155 explicit, 211, 212
Innocent IV, Pope, 82, 83, 160 implicit, 9, 211–214
Institutions Kober, M., 212
explicitly established, 8, 142, 144–150, Kobusch, T., 5
153, 155 Koch, B., 95, 104, 105
formal, 140, 142, 143, 145, 146, 149, 150, Koinônia, 100
152, 154, 155, 189 Krebs, A., 204
informal, 140, 142, 148–150, 152, 154, 155 Krempel, A., 36
Intellect Kripke, S., 201
act of, 125, 127 Kusch, M., 171, 172, 174
Index 223
L M
Lagarde, G., 87 Maier, A., 81
Laitinen, A., 163, 165 Majolino, C., 60, 61, 66, 69, 70
Lambertini, R., 7, 81, 82, 85, 88 Mäkinen, V., 82
Language, 60, 74 Malandrino, C., 95, 99, 100, 106
artificial, 149 Maloney, S.T., 61
games, 200, 203–206, 208, 209, 211, 212 Manninen, T.W., 160
human, 6, 7, 9, 30–33, 36, 61, 75, Markus, R.A., 60
199, 203 Marmo, C., 59, 60, 62, 65–68
as an instrument, 32 Marriage, 8, 34, 109, 140, 142, 144–146, 150,
legal, 161 154, 155, 182, 184–189, 193, 195
natural, 30–32, 55, 140, 142 Marx, K., 133
ordinary, 61, 160, 200 Matheron, A., 119, 121
performance of, 200 Mayhew, R., 18
as production of an artifact, 61 McDowell, J., 210
spoken and written, 144 McGinn, C., 198, 207
Langue, 62 McInerny, R., 35
Law (lex) Meaning
civil, 120, 130 linguistic, 62, 71, 151, 199, 200, 203
common, 105, 106, 110, 112, 114, 130 stability of, 204
divine, 105, 106, 109, 114, 120, 130 Mereology, 11
eternal, 95, 120, 121 Metaphysics, 1–4, 10, 18, 22, 23, 29, 50, 53,
natural, 56, 105, 106, 109, 114, 118–122, 68, 117–120, 124, 125, 156, 165–166,
132, 133 171, 172
positive (leges propriae), 104, 106, Miethke, J., 86
120, 121 Miller, A., 211
roman, 95, 160 Miller, S., 171
universals, 68, 107, 120, 121 Modistae, 66
Lawford-Smith, H., 165 Molnár, P., 28
Laws of nature (physics), 107, 128, 129, 131, Monarchy, 123
133, 187 Money, 2, 4, 7, 10, 16, 34, 143, 147, 148, 152,
Leader, 43, 84, 102, 114, 152, 153 154, 181, 185, 187, 188, 195
Leadership, 102–104, 152, 153 Morality, 57, 64, 68
Legislation, 7, 34, 121, 169 Mora-Márquez, A.M., 60, 62, 66
Legislator, 35, 121, 129
Leontsini, E., 30
Life N
communal, 187 Natorp, P., 199, 213
eternal, 95, 96 Naturalism, 16, 28–33
finite, 96 Nature, 8, 94, 95, 98–100, 104, 123
form, 22, 26, 192 does nothing in vain, 28
happy, 107, 114 human, 8, 18, 52, 81, 97, 113, 114, 117,
holy, 96, 107, 114 118, 120, 121, 128
as natural, 94, 95, 98 state of, 120, 122, 123, 130
social (vita socialis), 168, 181 Nederman, C.J., 34
symbiotic, 96, 97, 104, 106 Needs
List, C., 9, 160, 162, of the body, 96, 97, 99, 105, 112, 114
167–172 human, 10, 29, 34, 96, 105, 114, 133, 174
Locke, J., 168, 201 of the soul, 95, 96, 105
Louis (IV) of Bavaria, 80 Negri, A., 118
Love, 9, 98, 99, 174, 175, 190, 192–194 Neschke-Henschke, A., 84
Luutz, W., 213 Neuhouser, F., 161
Lying, 60, 62–65, 71–73 Newton, I., 107
224 Index
Normativity, 7, 56, 57, 73, 74, 164, 169, 172, legal, 160, 163, 164, 172, 173
183, 203, 204, 209 metaphysical, 163, 164, 168, 172
Norms moral, 164, 172–174
moral, 36, 142 unity and persistence of, 163, 172
social, 36, 106, 142 Personification, 159–161, 169
Nouns, collective, 35 Peter Auriol, 4, 45, 87
Novotny, D., 124 Peter of John Olivi, 4, 7, 41–57, 59–75
Petit, P., 9
Philippe, M-D., 124
O Pinborg, J., 66
Objectivity, epistemic (epistemische Pini, G., 51
Objektivität), 87 Piron, S., 41, 42, 49–51, 54, 65, 87
Objects, relational, 60, 68, 70, 71 Plural subjects, 141, 143, 146, 182–186,
Obligations, 35, 42, 43, 53, 55–57, 67, 68, 190, 198
120, 141, 154, 168–170, 174, Polanyi, M., 212
183, 189 Politics, 16, 22, 25, 28–31, 81, 83–86, 93, 96,
Oligarchy, 112 101, 105, 111, 112, 114, 117, 118, 120,
Olson, E.T., 171 129, 132, 133, 192, 197
Ontology Potentia, 54, 83, 84
processual, 107, 111, 113 Povero, M., 101
relational, 107 Poverty, Apostolic, 80, 81, 88
substantial, 107 Power
Operations deontic, 35, 141
of a community, 19, 20, 84, 85 political, 41–44, 54–56, 65, 68, 84
of citizens, 25 royal, 55
Order, religious, 4, 7, 79 Practice, social, 213
Organicism, 18, 36, 160 Private language argument, 201–203, 206
Organisms, 2, 17–19, 22, 24–27, 36 Promises, 56, 99, 141, 144, 154
Ownership, 7, 11, 42, 44, 54, 55 Property, 2, 4, 31, 33, 35–37, 41–48, 53, 79,
80, 108, 111, 113, 188
Property right, 42, 43, 53, 55, 66, 68, 122
P Provinces, 100, 103, 104, 108
Pact of meaning Psychologism/psychology, 10, 87, 119, 132,
social, 75 133, 161, 162, 172, 173
Parisoli, L., 85 Puhl, K., 208
Parole, 62
Parts, material
whole, 24 Q
Pasnau, R., 41, 46–50 Quality, 35, 36, 45–48, 52, 54, 125, 128, 213
Paulus, I., 88 Quante, M., 163, 172
Peace, 104 Quinn, T.S., 18
Performance, social, 169, 171 Quinton, A., 171
Person
collective, 34, 161, 164
fictional, 160 R
group, 6, 8, 9, 81, 143, 159, 160, 163, 166 Rand, A., 133
human, 166, 169 Ratio dominii, 84, 85
imaginary or represented, 81 Rationality, 34, 162, 166–168, 172, 174, 175
natural, 34, 122, 160 collective, 175
private, 34 rational unity, 166, 172
public, 34, 161 Rationes
Personhood, 6, 7 reales, 7, 42, 49, 51–56
group, 159–161, 163, 169, 170, 172, secundum dici, 49, 51, 56
173, 175 Rawls, J., 117, 120, 133
Index 225
Read, R., 207 S

Realism, 16, 33, 45, 68, 118 Saarinen, R., 170
Reason, 6, 8, 16, 27, 28, 30, 35, 45, 46, 51, 55, Saccenti, R., 87
57, 61, 68, 71, 73, 84, 85, 94, 96, 100, Sacraments, 42, 59, 65–67, 69
107, 110, 120–123, 125, 127–132, 141, Saussure, F., 62
155, 164–166, 169, 172, 193 Saxe, R., 160
Recognition, 9, 165, 172, 174, 175, 187 Scattola, M., 95, 102, 103
Rectitudo, 62–65, 72, 75 Schlick, M., 201
Reductionism, 3, 16, 171 Schmid, H.B., 6, 139, 182
Re–Identification–of–Parts Process, 26, 36 Schmitt, F.F., 3
Relation Schmutz, J., 119
analogical, 125 Schneewind, J.B., 122
causal, 43, 54, 127 Scholasticism, 4, 119, 120, 124, 132
of reason, 45, 46, 48, 68, 84, 124, 125, Scholastics, 8, 119, 120, 122–124,
127, 130 127, 130
pre-institutional, 188, 189, 193 School of Salamanca, 120
real, 35, 42–49, 53–55, 67, 68, 72, 125, Schwartz, D., 120, 191, 192
127, 129 Schweikard, D.P., 6
Relationality, 109, 111, 113 Science, natural, 3, 120, 132
Renault, E., 94, 107, 108, 111–113 Searle, J., 2, 3, 6, 9, 10, 36, 37, 139–142,
Responsibility 144–149, 152, 154, 171, 181, 182,
corporate, 170 186–190, 194, 195, 197, 199, 213
Res publica, see State Scott, J., 79, 81
Rice, L., 119 Scully, E., 16
Right (ius) Semantics
origin of, 104–107, 132 pragmatist, 200, 201, 213
symbiotic, 94, 102–104, 106, 108–112, 114 solipsistic, 201
Ritchie, K., 6 Sensations, 201, 202
Robinson, J., 80, 205 Shields, C., 120
Rode, C., 1–11, 16, 41, 42, 50, 51, 54, 56, 65, Sigmund, P.E., 35
66, 68–70, 87, 88 Signification
Rosenthal, M.A., 8, 118, 122–124 common/habitual (significatio habitualis),
Rosier, I., 42, 59, 61, 63–67, 70, 72 7, 60, 62, 63, 65, 71, 73–75
See also Rosier-Catach, Irène individual act of /actual (significatio
Rousseau, J-J., 161 actualis), 62, 65, 70, 75
Rovane, C., 9, 162, 165–167, 169–172 normative value of, 71
Rule relation of, 67, 69, 73
application of, 208, 210 Signs, voluntary
codification of, 189, 190, 193, 194 normative power of, 75
constitutive, 36, 165, 188 Simmel, G., 198
expression of, 207, 208 Sin, 72, 73, 122, 130, 131
interpretation of, 208 Slaughter, L., 144
linguistic, 200, 204, 210, 211 Slave(s), 34
obeying, 205, 209 Smith, B., 144
political, 31, 44 Social contract, 34, 117, 118, 122, 123,
Rule-following, 9 143, 161
Ruler, 29, 34, 41–44, 47, 48, 53, 54, 84, 119, Social kinds, 140, 147, 151–155
131, 194 Society, 2, 7, 8, 10, 11, 59, 60, 73, 74, 81–85,
See also Sovereign 94, 97, 98, 100, 102–104, 113, 117,
Rulership, 29 120, 122, 123, 130, 160, 161, 181, 191,
Rutherford, D., 121 197, 198
Ryle, G., 212 Sociology, 2, 151, 161
226 Index
Soul, 18, 22, 26, 29, 96, 97, 99, 105, 112, 114, V
127, 160, 162 Vecchio, S., 64, 72
Sound, vocal, 66, 67, 69–71 Verbeek, T., 118
Sovereign, 112, 122, 123, 130–132, 143 Village, 16, 21, 28, 191
See also Ruler Visser, S., 63
Spiegelberg, H., 140 Vis significativa, 67
Spindler, A., 11, 24 Volition(s), 8, 99, 121
Spinoza, B., 8, 117–124, 126–133 von Savigny, E., 204, 208, 210
Statement (enunciatio), 63, 64, 153 Vossenkuhl, W., 202
State/nation-state, 4, 10, 23, 31, 33, 37, 83, 98,
104, 122, 123, 130–133, 143, 146, 150,
161, 167, 169, 170, 181, 182, 188, 189, W
192, 194, 195, 205 Walter Chatton, 81
Status Weber, M., 198
assignment, 187, 188, 190 Whitney, W., 149
functional, 187 Whole
institutional, 52, 141, 146, 150, 188, 189 natural (t. naturale), 16
normative, 163, 164 per se/per accidens, 27
social, 123, 146, 161, 172, 189, 190 Will
Stern, D.G., 202 acts of the, 54
Suárez, F., 4 freedom of, 7, 10, 42, 53, 54, 61, 67
Subjects, 22, 33, 41–44, 47, 48, 53–55, 67, 68, God’s, 50, 51, 56, 67–69, 113, 121
73, 80, 120, 131, 141, 161, 164, human, 10, 42, 53, 54, 56, 66, 69, 87, 94,
194, 200 95, 99, 100, 105, 106
Substances, 4, 35, 36, 45–47, 52–54, 107, 108, individual–collective, 71, 74
111–114, 118, 119, 124, 128 of the institutor (of language), 61, 67–69
Svoboda, D., 18, 36 voluntarist conception of the, 54
Symbiosis, 94–96, 102–104, 112 William of Auvergne, 59
Szanto, T., 160, 163, 172 William of Moerbeke, 83, 84
William of Ockham, 81
Williams, M., 210
T Williams, T., 63
Tabarroni, A., 82 Witte, J., 105, 106, 110
Tarrant, J., 79 Wittgenstein, L., 9, 199–205, 207–213
Things (res), 101 Wittneben, E.L., 80
Thomas Aquinas, 7 Woldring, H.E.S., 100, 109
Thomasson, A.L., 147 Wolfson, H.A., 124
Toivanen, J., 7, 11, 41–57, 60, 65, 68, Workers (laborantes), 26, 160
69, 84, 87 Works/actions (opera), see Operations
Toste, M., 11, 84 Wyduckel, D., 110
Trott, A.M., 30
Truth, 49, 51, 63–65, 113, 126, 199, 200
Type-token distinction, 147 Y
Tyranny, 194 Youpa, A., 122
Yrjönsuuri, M., 53
U
Universitas, 82, 85, 103 Z
Use of language, 7, 42, 71, 142, 148, 204, 205 Zahle, J., 3
Usus iuris/usus facti, 80 Zwierlein, C., 100

The Reality of The Social World: Jenny Pelletier Christian Rode Editors

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Historical-Analytical Studies on Nature, Mind and Action 12

The Reality of the Social

ISSN 2509-4793 ISSN 2509-4807 (electronic)

1 Introduction to the Reality of the Social World:

Part I Medieval and Early Modern Perspectives on Issues

Part II Contemporary Issues

Part III Historical and Contemporary Perspectives in Dialogue

Jenny Pelletier and Christian Rode

1.1 Social Ontology and the History of Philosophy

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

At the crossroads of metaphysics, social philosophy, political philosophy, and

1.1.1 The Historical Contribution

1.2 Objectives and Description of the Volume

1.3 Possible Further Research

2.1 Introduction: Aquinas and Social Ontology

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 15

2.2 Aquinas’s View of Social Aggregates: Four Basic Claims

This assumption has a consequence. Since Aquinas holds that we express a

This leads to the final claim:

three, namely those of judges (iudicantes), fighters (pugnantes), and workers

2.3 Political Community and Naturalism

This form of rulership implies hierarchy. Each member of a political community is

individuals that compose it and that, through the re-identification of individuals by

2.4 The Ontology of Political Entities

according to different descriptions. A human being qua human being is expected to

or written laws that rule—by permitting or by prohibiting—interpersonal relations

Social ontology may not have existed as a specialized subject of philosophical

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 41

3.2 Political Power as a Relation: How to Read Quid

In a nutshell, Olivi accepts the following claims:

Olivi’s theory of relations must be understood against thirteenth-century discus-

An illustrative example is my thinking of Socrates. When I entertain a thought

Olivi’s discussion of social institutions seems to appeal to a special case of

relata.24 When Socrates becomes a philosopher-king, he acquires a new ratio realis,

3.4 Human Will, Normative Facts, and God

The theory of political power as a certain kind of relation is strongly connected to

institutions:32 we can alter normative reality by creating obligations, transferring

How would it be possible to communicate—and ultimately maintain a society—if

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 59

4.2 The Twofold Signification According to Olivi

In recent sketches of thirteenth-century accounts of the signification of words,3

meaning of words is considered to be the result of a first act of imposition,4 after

4.3 The Ontology of Signs and Significations in Quid ponat

Through the distinction between significatio habitualis and significatio actualis, in

of his Summa on book IV of Sentences, which is usually where medieval theolo-

4.4 The Common Right of Language

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 79

accusations contained in Louis of Bavaria’s so-called ‘Sachsenhausen Appeal’

5.2 Enrico del Carretto and His Treatise

systematic treatment of political and social philosophy. Enrico’s aim is to support

as Scotus develops it in his commentary on Book 4 of the Sentences.15 In compari-

5.4 Communities Are Real Beings

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 93

among them’ (Politica I, § 1 (1995, 17)).3 Social ontology is understood here

6.2 Three Main Factors of the Emergence Social Life:

Althusius explicates the inadequate condition of human beings in the oft-quoted

beings to associate because he created them to be different. Consequently, they are

These remarks primarily exemplify the naturalness of social life. However,

6.3 The Existence of Consociatio in Communicatio

6.3.1 The Right of the Consociatio as the Basis

Consociatio is fundamentally about communicatio26—i.e. sharing or making com-

As a consequence, an ordered society with both local and universal leadership

6.3.2 Origin of the Right of the Consociatio

1 Introduction to the Reality of the Social World:

Part I Medieval and Early Modern Perspectives on Issues

Part II Contemporary Issues

Part III Historical and Contemporary Perspectives in Dialogue

1.1 Social Ontology and the History of Philosophy

1.1.1 The Historical Contribution

1.2 Objectives and Description of the Volume

1.3 Possible Further Research

2.1 Introduction: Aquinas and Social Ontology

2.2 Aquinas’s View of Social Aggregates: Four Basic Claims

2.3 Political Community and Naturalism

2.4 The Ontology of Political Entities

3.2 Political Power as a Relation: How to Read Quid

3.4 Human Will, Normative Facts, and God

4.2 The Twofold Signification According to Olivi

4.3 The Ontology of Signs and Significations in Quid ponat

4.4 The Common Right of Language

5.2 Enrico del Carretto and His Treatise

5.4 Communities Are Real Beings

6.2 Three Main Factors of the Emergence Social Life:

6.3 The Existence of Consociatio in Communicatio

6.3.1 The Right of the Consociatio as the Basis

6.3.2 Origin of the Right of the Consociatio

6.4 Substantial, Relational and Processual Dimensions

7.2 The Problem of Justice

7.3 Beings of Reason (Entia Rationis)

7.4 Justice as a Being of Reason

8.2 Searle and Gilbert on Explicit Establishment

8.3.1 Presuppositions of Explicit Establishments

8.3.2 What Happens in an Explicit Establishment

8.3.3 Properties of Explicitly Established Institutions

8.3.4 The Objects of Explicit Establishments: Kinds

8.4 Beyond Explicitly Established Social Entities

8.4.1 Two Kinds of Deviant Examples

8.4.2 The Presupposition of Language

8.4.3 Friendship as a Paradigmatic Informal Institution

8.4.4 Establishment of Informal Social Kinds

8.5 Classification of Social Kinds

8.6 Grounding and Anchoring

9.2 What Makes a (Group) Person?

9.3 Three Arguments for Group Personhood

9.3.1 Internal Decision-Making and Corporate Personhood

9.3.3 Functionally Performing as a Person

9.4 Motivations and Evaluations

10.2 Margaret Gilbert on the Structure of Social Groups

10.3 Searle’s Conception of Community as an Institution

10.4 Community and Friendship in Aquinas

11.1 The Intentionalist Paradigm in Social Ontology

11.2 Wittgenstein’s Use Theory of Linguistic Meaning

11.3 The Private Language Argument