Hylomorphism—Persistent Critter

Hylomorphism reared its head again in blogs I occasionally read—and every time it does I think of Thomas Aquinas’ extensions of Aristotle’s definition of substance (fusion of matter and form). He extended that definition by adding the principle of a double composition; in that the pairs are essence and existence. In Aristotle unformed, prime matter and immaterial form have a kind of shadowy quasi-reality until they meet and interact—but when form and matter separate again, as at the death of a human, nothing is left. Hence Aquinas’ extensions. In effect he added existence as a third component—and was thus able to assert the reality of angels and of God. Man is matter, substantial form (essence), and existence. An angel is substantial form and existence. And God’s essence is his existence. Elegant, but one wonders about the role of matter in all this. If genuinely higher beings are possible without it, what purpose does matter actually serve?

And every time I think of this, the same thought occurs. Hylomorphism is problematical. I’ve held for a long time that the scheme should be abandoned—but it hangs on because its tough to abandon a functioning raft as we try to build a new one while still sailing choppy seas—read our ignorance in this dimension. What is matter? What is form?

The concept of matter has become genuinely problematical now that we have some operational knowledge of electromagnetism. It should have been equally problematical for past ages too if they had thought more about air and light. Our own theories about the nature of atoms cause them to manifest as forces, not really as tiny solids held by forces. And as solidity disappears, form morphs (pun intended) into the behavior of forces.

Form has always been, as it were, a handy way of distinguishing classes of tangibilities one from others, with accidents (individually distinguishing features) a kind of work around the limitations of a fundamentally imprecise concept. The concept is indispensable in ordinary thought, of course, but really only means “the way things appear and act,” thus what is usually called their phenomenological aspect. We know that they exist by means of our perceptions; if we can see or feel or smell or hear them, we cannot doubt that they are there. The separation of phenomena and noumena is at root only a mental game; no experiential proof of the distinction may be had. And so are other separations, though less obviously: form and matter, or, as above, force and behavior. If something exists, it behaves—simply by enduring.

There is a game side here—and a practical one. The practical issue is our ability to perceive—and intersubjectively, thus many people having the same perception. Seeing ghosts or angels (to cite two that defy hylomorphism) is a rare and almost always individual experience—and from such perceptions no science can develop. Aquinas extended the concept to angels—by adding his double composition—because angels figure in the Bible, a source of information he saw as transcending the ordinary realm. If vast numbers experienced angels, we’d think of them as casually as we think about air.

For me, washed as I am in the waters of modernity (polluted although they are), hylomorphism is a cul de sac. I’ve suggested on this blog elsewhere that thinking of form as intention promises a fruitful way out. In nature the intention is transcendent, in human products traceable to us. In living nature the intention may be some third agency, above or below. Intention works very nicely as a substitute—and introduces the missing link in logic: agency.

Now as for what spirits are doing here in the material dimension, where we need intricately engineered bodies even to perceive, that is a really good question.

More Notes on Real and Nominal

One of the most ancient philosophical debates is rooted in that seemingly magical power of the human mind to form what are called universals. All humans innately understand the difference between this particular dog, let’s call him Blackie, and the concept of dog meaning that category of animal to which all dogs belong. The first is a particular dog, the other is a universal. And the debate has swirled around the actual existence of the universal. Does that all-encompassing umbrella, Dog, under which all canines belong, really, substantially exist? Apart from people? Apart from human thought? If all people disappeared, indeed if all dogs died out—if the planet were engulfed by our sun going into nova, would there still be Dog the Universal somewhere out there, somewhere in the cosmic whole?

Plato answered Yes, and his eternal forms or ideas are precisely these universals. He was therefore a realist: universals are real. Aristotle answered No, but he is viewed as a moderate realist because he said that they do exist, but only ever if instantiated. If only the earth had dogs, and the earth blew up, Dog the Universal would disappear. (I for one consider Aristotle a nominalist, but never mind.) The nominalist position holds that universals are simply concepts, thoughts in the mind, objects of language. Redness, for instance, does not exist by itself separate from red things in actual existence. These three positions might be rendered as universals before the thing, universals in the thing, and universals after the thing. The last might be rephrased universals in the head.

This subject has fascinated me for years. My own intuition is Platonic. If the distinctions we perceive out there are real, that distinction must come before its manifestation. Plato certainly thought of his forms as generative principles. Only this view produces a meaningful cosmos in my view; the nominalist position, however, is compatible with a materialistic take on reality in which pure chance is the only causative principle. And I find moderate realism incoherent: the world is either meaningful or not. You can’t stop half way between these two positions.

At the same time, I’ve always had problems with Plato’s eternal forms out there, especially if used as an explanation for universals. A tricycle is a universal. Has it been eternally in the sky? Pondering this matter some years ago, and working from the bottom up—thus looking at human creations first—it occurred to me that Plato’s forms suddenly become quite meaningful if conceived of more dynamically as divine intentions. Other universals, in turn, may be referred to as human intentions. Now intentions derive their substantial reality from the agent who has intentions. God is God and humans are immortal; therefore all intentions retain their substantial reality, whether manifested or not, because the agents remain in existence.  This, I submit, is a nice solution to the problem of universals, favoring the Platonic view.

To this I might add another note yet. There is a difference between an intention on the one hand and its perception on the other. We did not intend the dog or redness. Those universals we merely perceive. But we perceive them because someone intended them and they do actually manifest.

The above as an elaboration to the mention of Ochkam’s nominalism toward the end of yesterday’s post.