On What Cannot Be Said: Apophatic Discourses in Philosophy, Religion, Literature, and the Arts. Volume 1. Classic Formulations [1 ed.] 0268028826, 9780268028824

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                

O N W H AT C A N N O T BE SAID Apophatic Discourses in Philosophy, Religion, Literature, and the Arts

 .  

Edited with Theoretical and Critical Essays by

William Franke

University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana

University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana  www.undpress.nd.edu All Rights Reserved Copyright ©  by University of Notre Dame Published in the United States of America Reprinted in  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data On what cannot be said : apophatic discourses in philosophy, religion, literature, and the arts : vol. : Classic formulations / edited with theoretical and critical essays by William Franke. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. -: ---- (cloth : alk. paper) -: --- (cloth : alk. paper) -: ---- (pbk. : alk. paper) -: --- (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-268-07058-8 (web pdf)

. Mysticism. . Negative theology. . Speeches, addresses, etc. I. Franke, William. .  —dc  The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

To my engenderers, nameless and many —nevertheless, namely, Barbara and Paul

CONTENTS

Hymn to the Transcendence of God

x

Preface: Apophasis as a Genre of Discourse



Introduction: Historical Lineaments of Apophasis



T I O .

Plato, Parmenides b–e



.

Plotinus, The Enneads V.v.; VI.ix.–, , ; V.iii., 



.

Porphyry?, Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, Fragments I–VI



.

Proclus, Commentary on the Parmenides, Book VII, K–K



.

Damascius, Doubts and Solutions Concerning First Principles, Part I, chaps. –



T N G .

Bible:  Kings :– (Elijah on Mount Horeb);  Corinthians :– (Paul rapt to the third heaven)



Philo, On Cain’s Posterity –; On Change of Names –; On the Law of Allegory III, –; On Dreams I, –, –



.

Corpus Hermeticum V., –; Asclepius 



.

Tripartite Tractate I, – (Gnostic text from the Nag Hammadi Library)



.

. Clement of Alexandria, Stromate V, chap. XII, .–. .

Gregory of Nyssa, The Life of Moses, Book II, –; On Virginity .–; Commentary on Ecclesiastes, Sermon , .–

. Augustine, Confessions, Book IX.x.xxiii–xxv (The Vision at Ostia)



 

viii

Contents

. Dionysius the Aeropagite, Divine Names, chaps. I and VII, ; Mystical Theology



. Johannes Scotus Eriugena, The Division of Nature I, d–d



. Moses Maimonides, Guide of the Perplexed I, chaps. , , –



. Kabbalah: Azriel of Gerona, “Ein Sof,” “The Annihilation of Thought,” and “Being and Nothingness”; Zohar III, b; Isaac the Blind, “Beyond Knowing”; from Embellishments on the Zohar; Joseph Gikatilla, “The Name of Nothingness”; David ben Abraham ha-Lavan and Asher ben David, “Ayin”; Moses of Léon, “The Wisdom of Nothingness” and ”Ripples”



. Ibn al-‘Arabi, from “The Wisdom of Exaltation in the Word of Noah” and “The Exaltation of Light in the Word of Joseph” in The Bezels of Wisdom



. Rumi, “The Reed Flute’s Song”; “The World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness”; “Quietness”



. Albert the Great, Commentary on Dionysius’ Mystical Theology, chap. 



. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae Ia, q. , arts. –, – (“De nominibus Dei”)



I-, I- S . Marguerite Porete, from The Mirror of Simple Souls, chaps. ,  . Meister Eckhart, German Sermons  and ; Commentary on Exodus, sections –; Granum sinapis, stanzas VII and VIII . Dante, Paradiso, Canto XXXIII, –  . Gregory Palamas, Triads in Defence of the Holy Hesychasts, I.iii, chaps. , , – . The Cloud of Unknowing, chaps. , ,  . Nicholas of Cusa, Dialogue on the Hiddenness of God; On Learned Ignorance, Book I, chaps. – . Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, Sixth Mansions, from chaps.  and 

      

Contents

ix

. John of the Cross, Spiritual Canticle, Prologue, sections  and ; The Dark Night, Book II, chap. XVII, –; Ascent of Mount Carmel, Book I, chap. XIII, ; “The Dark Night” (poem); “Stanzas Concerning an Ecstasy Experienced in High Contemplation”



. Jakob Böhme, On the Election of Divine Grace, chap. 



. Silesius Angelus, selections from The Wandering Cherub



Permissions and Acknowledgments



+Ymnoq e˝q Ueøn

=V påntvn ®p™keina? tº gÅr u™miq “llo se m™lpein; P©q løgoq Êmn¸sei se; S gÅr løgÛ oªdenÁ Whtøq. Mo†noq ®◊n “frastoq? ®peÁ t™xeq Œssa lale¡tai. P©q nøoq “ur¸se se; S gÅr nøÛ oªdenÁ lhptøq. Mo†noq ®◊n “gnvstoq? ®peÁ t™xeq Œssa noe¡tai. Pånta se kaÁ lal™onta, kaÁ oª lal™onta ligaºnei? Pånta se kaÁ no™onta kaÁ oª no™onta geraºrei. JynoÁ går te pøuoi, jynaÁ d| ∫d¡neq Öpåntvn |AmfÁ s™? soÁ d‚ tÅ pånta prose¥xetai? e˝q s‚ d‚ pånta S¥nuema sØn no™onta lale¡ sig√menon ‹mnon. SoÁ ®nÁ pånta m™nei? soÁ d| Ωurøa pånta, kaÁ uoåzei, KaÁ påntvn t™loq ®ssº, kaÁ eµq, kaÁ pånta kaÁ oªd™n Oªx ’n ®◊n, oª pånta? |An√nyme, p©q se kal™ssv TØn mønon Ωkl¸›ston; Êperfan™aq d‚ kal¥ptraq Tºq nøoq oªranºdhq e˝sd¥setai; +Ilaoq e¬hq, =V påntvn ®p™keina? tº gÅr u™miq “llo se m™lpein;1

. Greek text from Proclus, Hymnes et prières, ed. Henri D. Saffrey (Paris: Arfuyen, ), p. . I have preserved the punctuation of the hymn as it appears in Patrologia Graeca, vol. , p. , ed. J.-P. Migne (Turnholti: Brepols, ), where it is wrongly attributed to Gregory Nazianzus.

Hymn to the Transcendence of God

O you, beyond all things! For how else is it fitting to sing you? How can words hymn you? For you are expressed by no word. You alone are unutterable, though all that is spoken is from you. How can mind perceive you? For you are grasped by no mind. You alone are unknowable, since all that is known is from you. All that speaks and does not speak proclaims you. All that thinks and does not think honors you. For all desires and all travailings of all things are directed toward you. All things pray to you, and to you all who know your cipher sing a silent hymn. In you alone all things abide, to you all together rush. For you are the end of all, the one, the all, the nothing, being not one, not all. Nameless, what shall I call you? The only unnameable? What celestial spirit could penetrate your more-than-light darknesses? Be gracious, O you, beyond all things! For how else is it fitting to sing you? 2

. A somewhat different translation of the first several verses of the hymn is offered by Deirdre Carabine, The Unknown God: Negative Theology in the Platonic Tradition, Plato to Eriugena, Louvain Theological and Pastoral Monographs  (Louvain: Peeters Press, ), p. . Throughout, translations not attributed to other sources are my own.

PREFACE Apophasis as a Genre of Discourse

This book brings into comparison some of the most enduringly significant efforts within Western culture to probe the limits of language—and perhaps to exceed them. All tend to delineate regions of inviolable silence. A certain core of readings is made up of classic expressions of negative theology—the denial of all descriptions and attributes as predicated of God. For negative theologies, it is possible to say only what God is not. These attempts to devise and, at the same time, disqualify ways of talking about God as an ultimate reality, or rather ultra-reality, beyond the reach of language, are juxtaposed to (and interpenetrate with) philosophical meditations that exhibit infirmities endemic to language in its endeavor to comprehend and express all that is together with the grounds of all that is. Such philosophical reflections expose necessary failures of Logos that leave it gaping open toward what it cannot say. Likewise, poetry and poetics of the ineffable drive language into impasses, stretching its expressive powers to their furthest limits—and sometimes even beyond. All these discourses are in various ways languages for what cannot be said—languages that cancel, interrupt, or undo discourse, languages that operate, paradoxically, by annulling or unsaying themselves. They manage to intimate or enact, by stumbling, stuttering, and becoming dumb—sometimes with uncanny eloquence—what they cannot as such say. The traditional term for this sort of self-negating discourse—as well as for the condition of no more discourse at all, upon which it converges—is “apophasis.” In fact, a total cessation of discourse may be considered the purest meaning of the term, but in practice this state is approachable only through some deficient mode of discourse that attenuates and takes back or cancels itself out. Thus apophasis can actually be apprehended only in discourse—in language insofar as it negates itself and tends to disappear as language. The many different sorts of discourses that do this may be considered together generically as “apophatic discourse.” In its original employment, “apophasis” is simply the Greek word for “negation.” It is used by Plato and Aristotle to mean a negative proposition, a denial. Neoplatonists, followed by monotheistic writers, extend the term to





Preface

mean the negation of speech vis-à-vis what exceeds all possibilities of expression whatsoever: for them, apophatic discourses consist in words that negate themselves in order to evoke what is beyond words—and indeed beyond the limits of language altogether. The word “apophasis” thus eventually takes on a stronger sense of negation, not just of the content of specific propositions, but of language and expression per se. Since ancient times, therefore, and again as revived in contemporary discourse, the tag “apophasis,” beyond signifying logical negation, also carries a more potent, theological sense of negation that is informed ultimately by the divine transcendence: it indicates an utter incapacity of language to grasp what infinitely exceeds it, a predicament of being surpassed irremediably by what it cannot say. “Apophasis” reads etymologically, moreover, as “away from speech” or “saying away” (apo, “from” or “away from”; phasis, “assertion,” from phemi, “assert” or “say”), and this points in the direction of unsaying and ultimately of silence as virtualities of language that tend to underlie and subvert any discursively articulable meaning. The ultimate apophatic expression is silence, a silence that stretches in tension toward . . . what cannot be said. Only this negation of saying by silence “says” . . . what cannot be said. Nevertheless, apophasis constitutes a paradoxically rich and various genre of discourse. The methods and modes of silence are legion, and numerous new forms of expression of it burst forth in almost every period of cultural history. The irrepressible impulse to “speak” essential silence is a constant (or close to a constant) of human experience confronted ever anew with what surpasses saying. While what is experienced remains inaccessible to speech, there is no limit to what can be said about—or rather from within and as a testimonial to—this experience which, nevertheless, in itself cannot be described except as experience of . . . what cannot be said. For apophatic thinking, before and behind anything that language is saying, there is something that it is not saying and perhaps cannot say, something that nevertheless bears decisively on any possibilities whatsoever of saying and of making sense. In fact, only linguistically is this “beyond” of language discernible at all. Language must unsay or annul itself in order to let this unsayable something, which is nothing, no thing at any rate, somehow register in its very evasion of all attempts to say it. Only the unsaying of language can “say” what cannot be said. This predicament is commonly encountered at the limits of linguistic expression, but certain interpretations emphasize, or at least illuminate, these limits as operative in the form of enabling conditions throughout the whole range of linguistic expression. In this way, the encounter with apophasis becomes pervasive and ineluctable. We begin to perceive the ubiquitous presence of the unsayable in all our saying. All that is said,

Preface



at least indirectly and implicitly, testifies to something else that is not said and perhaps cannot be said. This state of affairs motivates the sort of freely ranging study that the book in hand undertakes. The discovery of unsayability and of its correlative languages of “unsaying”—leading to an appreciation of gaps, glitches, and impasses as constitutive of the sense of texts—is part and parcel of a major intellectual revolution that has been underway now for several decades and, in fact, if only somewhat more diffusely, for at least a century. But just as important is the discovery of long-standing precedents for this revolution in reading. The exigency of bringing out what all discourse necessarily leaves unsaid but which, nevertheless, by its very elusiveness, teases or discomfits discourse, features conspicuously and more or less consciously in a loosely defined lineage of writers across the entire trajectory of the Western intellectual tradition. All produce distinctive languages that, in various ways, withdraw and efface themselves. On this basis, it is possible to define attempts to deal with the unsayable as a sort of cross-disciplinary genre spanning a great variety of periods and regions even within just Western culture. Of course this, like all genre definitions, and perhaps more so than others, can be no more than heuristic. In fact, as a condition of sense for all genres, or a discourse indirectly articulating the silence from which any generic discourse needs to set itself off in order to be perceptible as such, apophasis is more like a genre of genres in general. Apophasis is not itself a traditional genre or mode or discipline. By its elusive nature it has remained hitherto marginal to all systematic rhetorics of the human sciences. Only the obsessions of our contemporary culture have produced the need—until quite recently mostly latent—to delineate apophasis as a distinct corpus of literature. Indeed, apophasis has become—and is still becoming—a major topic in all the disciplines of the humanities, with philosophy, religion, literature, and criticism of various arts in the lead. An impressive range of contemporary thinkers, authors, and artists distinguish themselves as drawing from and transforming traditional apophatic currents in remarkable new ways. This situation renders imperative the present attempt to assemble writings drawn from widely divergent cultural and historical contexts and from different disciplines, but all bearing fundamentally upon, and originating in, the experience of the unsayable, of what resists every effort of speech to articulate it. This project, with its assemblage of seminal texts, aims to sketch some historical parameters, and so to give a certain contour to a topic that all too easily can become nebulous and diffuse for lack of any general map of the field such as the present volume attempts to provide. Of course, such a map cannot but



Preface

be porous and provisional. It is nonetheless necessary, given the overwhelming perennial interest of this topic and the paucity of previous attempts to try and survey it as a whole. Until recently we have had only the vaguest idea of how various discourses of apophasis fit together and little conception of the historical parabola of this problematic (even in the West alone). We are now in the throes of an explosive proliferation of studies in all areas based on variously apophatic paradigms of the production and interpretation of texts. Although we may fail to realize it, due to the widely disparate provenance of discussions of what cannot be said, the most evasive of all topics, its ineluctable and ubiquitous presence at the heart of our creative and critical endeavors across disciplines is breaking ever more conspicuously into view. Just as language is fundamental to all possibilities of experience, the limits of language, where the unsayable is encountered, are implicit in and impinge upon every utterance in its very possibility of being uttered. I have selected discourses that concentrate on the unsayable and generate discourse deliberately out of this experience rather than simply those discourses (really all discourses) that are in effect touched or structured by what they cannot say. There is in each of the readings presented here some more or less explicit meditation on impasses to articulation as the generative source of the discourse itself. There have been many different kinds of positionings vis-à-vis the unsayable, and I want to give a sense of the range of responses that have developed. The anthology attempts to illustrate the principal modes that have characterized apophatic discourse by selecting from among its most historically influential and intellectually challenging instantiations. An enormous spectrum of authors are candidates for inclusion, since apophasis in the sense defined here is clearly a fundamental feature of their work. Perhaps few, if any, great writers or artists, in whatever genre or discipline or form, do not at some point reach the limits of the possibilities of their linguistic or expressive means. An apophatic border or lining can be discerned, even if it is not rendered explicit, in perhaps any significant discourse and in any expressive medium whatsoever. If, indeed, all discourses, at least covertly, pivot on what they cannot say, in the end no author could be absolutely excluded from candidacy. Consequently, I have attempted to determine which discourses most directly and provocatively avow, or illuminate, this inescapable predicament of speech and script. Of course, one can always find an unexpressed negation, a recursive self-questioning, lurking in every expressed affirmation. So whether any given discourse is adjudged apophatic or not depends on how it is read. The authors selected here are ones for whom I believe the unsayable demonstrably becomes an indispensable originating source of their writing or creative expression.

Preface



I have, furthermore, chosen not only from among those writers for whom the unsayable is programmatically implicated in everything they say, but also from those who have an emblematic value as writers who most bend our attention in this direction. Representing its many avatars, from Greek to Latin, from Hebrew to Arabic, from German and Spanish to French and American (to selectively indicate just a few major regions corresponding to pivotal phases of this history), these authors have opened up for consideration the field of apophasis—which is generally overlooked, neglected, and even suppressed—as fundamental to the discourses of Western culture. Of course, apophatic modes of discourse are also present and pertinent in Eastern cultural traditions. Thus a companion volume of selections beginning with Hindu, Buddhist, and Tao sources and following the history of their inspiration and effects through modern literatures would be an auspicious complement to the present effort.1 One outstanding problem is to situate apophasis with relation to mysticism. Saints and mystics describe their ultimate experience consistently in terms of its ineffability. Mystic writers press language to the limits and expose its utter inadequacy in order to direct readers’ gazes beyond language toward some “deeper,” “greater,” “other” “reality” or “experience” of the “divine” (all, naturally, inadequate expressions). Mystic discourse, in cancelling itself out as discourse by “double propositions,” each unsaying the one before it in a “linguistic regress” (Michael Sells) or in oxymorons and “cleft units” (Michel de Certeau), is meant to suggest this “beyond” of language.2 Examples are to be found everywhere in mystical literature.3 Many mystics, nevertheless, keep apophasis more at the outer limit than at the source and center of their experience—so far as what they say is concerned. And we cannot definitively judge what they do not say, though this admittedly is all-important. Mysticism presents one of the avenues followed by apophasis, though to say by not saying, or not to say by saying, are not necessarily mystical operations and can even be given an anti-mystical turn, especially by modern writers like Samuel Beckett and Georges Bataille. . Among recent studies taking a cross-cultural approach to apophatic traditions are J. P. Williams, Denying Divinity: Apophasis in the Patristic Christian and Soto Zen Buddhist Traditions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ), and Ben-Ami Scharfstein, Ineffability: The Failure of Words in Philosophy and Religion (Albany: SUNY Press, ). . Michael A. Sells, Mystical Languages of Unsaying (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ); Michel de Certeau, La fable mystique : XVIe et XVIIe siècle (Paris: Gallimard, ). . I particularly regret the omission of Bernard of Clairvaux, De consideratione, Book V, as well as the rapsodies on ineffability in Bernard’s Sermons on the Song of Songs (for example, In cantica ).



Preface

To return once more now to our central problematic, “what cannot be said” tends by its nature to remain imperceptible, and apophasis, perhaps because it subtends all genres, has rarely been identified as a distinct genre of discourse. This modified form of anthology interprets classic and contemporary texts in order to construct apophasis as a quasi-genre (or genre of genres) and theorize its modes. It is an anthology-cum-history-and-theory that proposes an original outlook on what cannot be said through reflecting on a selection of ground-breaking texts in the apophatic vein. The texts are often recognized classics in various fields, though their cohering together as a genre or mode of discourse has not generally been evident. Placed in the interpretive framework of this book, these texts—and along with them large areas of discourse—may for the first time be fully disclosed as concerned essentially with what cannot be said. The preface has attempted to discern and define theoretically such a field of discourse. A historical introduction outlines its evolution, and interpretive essays introducing each selection trace ways in which the selected texts and authors are linked by common concerns and conceptions, rhetorical strategies, speculative insights, and spiritual or characterological affinities. These characteristics, however, are prone to flip over into their opposites, since diametrically opposed significances in this domain are only alternative expedients for gesturing beyond the range of significant discourse altogether. Accordingly, no systematic typology of apophatic discourses has been ventured. Instead, I have invented groupings of selections that highlight patterns of connection. I do not propose them as anything more than heuristic constructs. Nevertheless, it seems historiographically as well as pedagogically helpful to recognize new paradigms that emerge into clarity and prominence with certain authors, who are then followed in their basic assumptions by various constellations of consolidators, developers, revisers, and rebels. I do not mean to suggest that there are any neat divisions into discrete epochs, but I prefer not to completely erase all sense of historical succession—or regression—of apophatic modes and models. This project has required me to learn the art of making a mosaic. I have had to play with the pieces until they somehow fit together, selecting them from a pile of often incongruent possibilities. Some fit on some sides, at certain angles, and others on other sides, in particular positions. In the end, some kind of image was framed of this most imageless of visions. It could then reflect light upon the whole composition and beyond it onto the stratified landscape of the traditions from which these pieces were crazily cut. A problem as pervasive as that of “what cannot be said” in Western tradition can best be treated at the intersection between disciplines, in particular,

Preface



between philosophy, theology, literature, and the arts. Furthermore, this problem is not the property of any one national tradition, nor is it peculiar to any historical period; it demands the wide-ranging comparative treatment that this project undertakes. Bringing together these different disciplinary and cultural backgrounds is part of a design to catalyze open dialogue on “what cannot be said” lurking as an ineluctable provocation perhaps in all discourses.

A The idea for this anthology and critical-theoretical project emerged from a number of graduate seminars in comparative literature at Vanderbilt University beginning in the late s. Seminars on “The Unnameable and the Sublime” (team-taught with Marc Froment-Meurice), “On What Cannot Be Said,” “Hegel and the French Connection,” “Rhetorics of Silence: Mystical Literature from Plotinus to John of the Cross,” and “The Writing of Silence in the Post-Holocaust Poetry of Paul Celan and Edmond Jabès” provided the threshing-floor on which many of these texts were tested and winnowed. Their potential for answering to the problematic of the unsayable was sounded out in dialogue with the participants in these seminars, comprising two or three generations of graduate students in comparative literature, philosophy, religious studies, French, German, Spanish, and occasionally other disciplines as well. This is the anonymous work out of which this project developed and to which it remains indebted. I proposed the seminars because my research interests had led me in this direction. After publishing Dante’s Interpretive Journey in , it was clear to me that I needed to write a sequel on the Ineffable in the Paradiso. The culminating segment of Dante’s poetic odyssey pushes the possibilities of interpretation in poetic language to, and even beyond, their limit: it opens up the question of the beyond of interpretation and the beyond of language, precisely l’ineffabile. In short, I have come to this topic out of a prolonged, concentrated grappling with the problem of apophasis at the heart of my own scholarly specialization—and at the price of a temporary suspension of my project on ineffability in the Paradiso. To a greater extent than can be said, I picked up innumerable suggestions from many others along the way. Leonardo Distaso and Azucena García-Marcos participated in the process of thinking through the project with me at different stages of its formation and development. I am also mindful of specific contributions or assistance from a number of friends and



Preface

colleagues, including Pasquale Arfé, Andrea Arguti, Graziano Ripanti, Mauro Bozzetti, Denis Guénon, Ibon Zubiaur, Uwe Bernhardt, Klaus Koch, Antje Kapust, David Wood, Steve Hammontree, Margaret Doody, Kalliopi Nikolopoulou, Simona Sawhney, Lenn Goodman, Mark Taylor, and Kevin Hart. I am grateful to Rebecca DeBoer for her painstaking and perceptive editing. I was assisted in indispensable material ways by Jane Anderson, without whose administrative ingenuity the project would have been stymied by bureaucratic barriers, and in moral and emotional ways by Xinyi Wang. I benefited from a fellowship at the Camargo Foundation in Cassis, France, in fall  as I began to work in earnest on framing the project, and later from a grant from the Vanderbilt University Research Council. My inexpressible thanks to all mentioned, as well as to others, the nameless many, more than I can say.

N     T           In quoting foreign language texts, I generally prefer to translate quotations directly from the originals, even where English translations exist; unless specific English language editions are cited, the translations are my own. The original language editions cited in my introductions are ones that I have used in the preparation of each volume, not necessarily those from which the translators have worked.

INTRODUCTION Historical Lineaments of Apophasis

I Apophatic discourse, that is, language which negates and unsays itself, is ubiquitous. Particularly our contemporary culture has become saturated and more and more obsessed with it. “Apophasis,” the Greek word for “negation,” may be viewed as inherent in the phenomenon of discourse per se. In fact, a word is not what it names or signifies—indeed, to function significantly as word, it cannot simply be what it means—and this tacit negation, accordingly, may be found lurking covertly in every word that is uttered. There is increasingly a tendency today to recognize an implicit presence of the unuttered and even the unutterable as a necessary presupposition underlying every utterance. This secret, silent matrix of the unmanifest and inexpressible has, to an extent, eluded explicit theorization throughout the history of Western culture, for this culture has been, by and large, subject to the domination of the Logos— the word, which manifests and speaks beings. This unspoken, unmanifest secretly, almost imperceptibly, escapes the Logos, which tends consequently to deny and exclude it even as a possibility. Nevertheless, it is possible to discern currents of thought in every age that adhere to a wordless abyss or recess of speech that logical discourse cannot reach. Indeed, it is possible to identify a series of classic texts that constitute touchstones for what, after all, forms a loosely coherent tradition of discourse in the apophatic vein—discourse that is more or less explicitly and deliberately about what cannot be said. The first systematic developments of apophatic thought are found within the ambit of Neoplatonic philosophy. Specifically, the doctrine of the so-called via negativa emerges as a way to render possible a discourse about transcendent realities, especially “the One,” for which all positive expressions are found to be inadequate. It is possible to say only what the One is not, hence to talk about it only by negations. The seminal text for this universe of discourse and speculation is Plato’s Parmenides and in particular its first two hypotheses, namely, “If the One is One . . .” and “If the One is . . . .” The problem is that if the One is, it cannot be one, for being adds something to it, and as a result it is





Introduction

no longer perfectly and simply one. If, conversely, the One is strictly One, then it cannot be, since, again, to be would add something to the One pure and simple. In fact, even just to say “One” is to go wrong, since this is already to make the One into two—itself and its name. By such reasoning, we are landed in a situation of utter unutterability. This logical unsayability of the One is interpreted in an ontological sense and developed into a full-fledged metaphysics by Plotinus. Plotinus’s metaphysical transmogrification of Plato’s aporetic logic of the One becomes the search for a mystical experience of the One, that is, of oneness and of union with the supreme principle in silence. This unity can be achieved only by negating all finite determinations and stripping away (aphairesis) everything that is articulable and sayable. This line of Greek negative theology, pursued following Plotinus by the Neoplatonic school, reaches a certain culmination in Proclus. Proclus elaborates the negative way into a full-scale mystagogy of the One, turning it into an object of cultic worship. He seems to have practiced incantatory evocations of the One, using the formulas of Plato’s Parmenides as if it were a divinely inspired text. The whole Neoplatonic outlook, with its ardent devotion to the One as ineffable and unique “principle” of all, is exquisitely and lyrically expressed in a hymn very possibly authored by Proclus himself—who produced metaphysical poetry and hymns on a daily, or rather nightly, basis most of his life, according to Marinus, his biographer and immediate successor as head of the Academy at Athens.1 It appears in the guise of an overture at the beginning of this volume.2 Regardless of whether Proclus actually penned it, the hymn admirably embodies his conception of and sentiment toward “the one,” which is equally “not one.” In his Commentarium in Parmenidem, Proclus speaks pre. Marinus’s “Life of Proclus” can be read in a translation by the eminent English Platonist Thomas Taylor (–), chief transmitter of Platonism to Romantics from Shelley to Emerson, in Essays and Fragments of Proclus the Platonic Successor (Somerset, UK: Prometheus Trust, ), pp. –. . The attribution to Proclus goes back to Albert Jahn, Eclogae e Proclo de philosophia chaldaica sive de doctrina oraculorum chaldaicorum. Nunc primum ed. et commentatus est A. J. Accedit hymnus in deum platonicus uulgo S. Gregorio Nazianzeno adscriptus, nunc Proclo Platonico uindicatus (Halle a.S.: Pfeffer, ), pp. –. Werner Beierwaltes, Platonismus im Christentum (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, ), pp. –, accepts this attribution, since the hymn’s citation by non-Christian authors such as Ammonios Hermieu (ca. –) and Olympiodoros (second half of the sixth century) argues for a pagan provenance, whereas Saffrey, in Proclus, Hymnes et prières, finds its poetry not up to Proclus’s standard and considers it more likely the work of PseudoDionysius the Areopagite.

Introduction



cisely of “raising up to the One a single theological hymn by means of all these negations” (VII, ). In his commentary on the first hypothesis of Plato’s Parmenides, Proclus concludes that the One is beyond all definition and description, and therewith exposes the utter inefficacy of the Logos to articulate the ultimate principle of reality. This conclusion sums up Neoplatonic and ancient Greek thought generally. It was to be embraced programmatically by Damascius, Proclus’s student, who was the head of the Academy at Athens when it was definitively closed by Emperor Justinian in .. . Thus the era opened at the dawn of Greek philosophy by Parmenides’s enthusiasm for the Logos as capable of articulating and revealing all things—expressed emblematically in the exhortation of fragment , “Judge by reason (løgoq)”—concludes in silence. This completes a first cycle of Western rational thought, which leads from the confident cultivation of the word to the ultimate apophasis of silence.3 Plotinus’s—and consequently the Neoplatonists’—metaphysical interpretation of the Parmenides has been said to be a “complete misunderstanding.”4 Indeed, some such judgment has enjoyed wide consensus among scholars of the dialogue. For example, W. C. K. Guthrie writes, “But that the dry antithetical arguments of the Parmenides about the One . . . should have been seen as an exposition of the sublimest truths of theology, is surely one of the oddest turns in the history of thought. Yet the Neoplatonists claimed to see in the One their own highest, ineffable and unknowable God, and as such it passed into medieval and later Christianity.”5 The Plotinian interpretation is probably best viewed as a “misprision” that opens Plato’s text toward a new horizon of thought. In any case, Plotinus’s reading of the dialogue spawned a tradition of commentaries on the hypotheses of the second part of the Parmenides that came to form a flourishing genre of philosophical thinking in its own right. Interpretation of the Parmenides became a channel for original speculation on the One and its ineffable transcendence in the Neoplatonic school throughout the entire course of development.6 . This arc of development of Greek thought is lucidly traced by Raoul Mortley, From Word to Silence, vol. , The Rise and Fall of Logos (Bonn: Hanstein, ). . E. R. Dodds, “The Parmenides of Plato and the Origin of the Neoplatonic One,” Classical Quarterly  (): –; citation, p. . . W. C. K. Guthrie, A History of Greek Philosophy, vol.  (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), pp. –. . For readings of Neoplatonism as originating in and revolving entirely around the interpretation of the hypotheses of the second part of the Parmenides, see Jean Trouillard, “Le‘Parmenide’ de Platon et son Interprétation Néoplatonicienne,” in Études



Introduction

This speculation is of the greatest significance, for it not only effects a metaphysical transmogrification of the Platonic source text but also reframes metaphysics, exposing its ground, or rather groundlessness, in a way that is generally hidden by the drive of thought and language to thematize and objectify, which means also to hypostatize and reify. What is really at stake in metaphysical discourse is something that eludes all modes of representation. Speculation concerning the ineffability of the One brings this out in an exemplary fashion whenever such speculation expressly recognizes that it is about something that cannot be said. An apophatic reversal thereby takes place within metaphysics that turns it completely upside down and inside out. For all that metaphysics says in so many words is taken back and exposed as having been said for the sake of what it does not and cannot say. This rereading of metaphysical discourse as implicitly based on an ineffable principle that cannot come to explicit articulation and theorization, a principle that by its intrinsic nature cannot be made directly the object of argument and analysis, radically shifts our perspective for understanding the entire metaphysical tradition from antiquity to medieval and even modern thought. Recognizing the ineffability of a supreme principle that is beyond being, yet gives and sustains being, has in fact been key to the viability of metaphysical and monotheistic traditions of thought all through their history in the West, with its many vicissitudes. Neglect of this apophatic element or aspect has led to taking statements at face value and, consequently, to merely superficial understanding of metaphysical teachings that infirms them, rendering them indefensible and eventually even unintelligible. Metaphysical statements inevitably mean something different from what they are able to say; only by recovering the apophatic sense, or rather nonsense or more-than-sense, behind these statements will we be able to see what made such traditions so compelling for so long. An indirect indication that this has perhaps always been sensed to be the case might be found in the widespread belief in antiquity, especially among the Neoplatonists, that Plato had a secret doctrine that he imparted only orally. There are indeed many hints and allusions to this unwritten tradition in the dialogues themselves, as well as in Aristotle and in the Middle Platonic and Neoplatonic sources. This popular notion expresses an awareness that the publicly stateable propositions of metaphysics might systematically distort Néoplatoniciennes (Neuchâtel: À la Baconnière, ), pp. –, and H. D. Saffrey, “La théologie platonicienne de Proclus, fruit de l’exégèse du ‘Parménide,’” Revue de théologie et de philosophie  (): –.

Introduction



and lead away from the doctrines’ true meaning. According to this view, which has recently been vigorously revived and taken as the fulcrum for reinterpreting the dialogues as pivoting on what the do not say, Plato’s deepest thinking on the questions discussed in the dialogues would be far more subtle and elusive than any fixed formulas and can only be surmised from the words he sportingly committed to text.7 Of course, even if there was oral communication directly in the presence of the master, it is irretrievably lost forever afterwards: its later significance is, to this extent, fundamentally to be missing. The emphasis thus falls upon what must be understood without being put into words, simply by “seeing.” So much is indeed axiomatic to the very cast of Plato’s thought, which thereby preserves a space for what cannot be adequately or definitively expressed in words. It is out of this mysterious space that Neoplatonism and its philosophy of the ineffable issues.

II A new configuration, marrying the ancient Neoplatonic heritage of the negative way with biblical revelation and theology, takes what will become canonical shape for the whole of the Christian Middle Ages at about the turn from the fifth to the sixth century .., with the Corpus Dionisiacum. In these writings of the author known today as Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, the same logic of negating all predications is applied, just as in the Neoplatonic via negativa, but it is no longer simply the One that is unsayable so much as the Creator God of the Christian Scriptures, the Trinity. This new negative approach to theology had been prepared for well in advance by Christian predecessors, such as Clement of Alexandria, Gregory of Nyssa, and John Chrysostom (ca. –).8 All of these Church fathers worked within the context of the encounter of biblical revelation with Greek religious and gnoseological culture. And even . See Hans Joachim Krämer and his Tübingen school of philologically oriented interpreters, especially Krämer’s Plato and the Foundations of Metaphysics: A Work on the Theory of the Principles and Unwritten Doctrines of Plato with a Collection of the Fundamental Documents, trans. John R. Catan (Albany: SUNY Press, ) and Konrad Gaiser, Platons ungeschriebene Lehre: Studien zur systematischen und geschichtlichen Begründung der Wissenschaften in der Platonischen Schule (Stuttgart: Klett, ). . For the latter, see John Chrysostom, Perº Ωkatal¸ptoy, ed. Jean Daniélou, Sur l’incompréhensibilité de Dieu (Paris: Cerf, ). Greek text of De incomprensibili Dei natura from Patrologia Graeca, ed. Migne, vol. .



Introduction

before the Christians, Philo Judaeus of Alexandria had already fused the teaching of the Jewish Scriptures with Middle Platonic philosophy and underscored their agreement on just this point of the unutterability and unnameability of the ultimate principle of either system. On such bases, the divine ineffability had been routinely acknowledged ever since the earliest stages of Christian theology. There is, moreover, a voluminous Christian Gnostic literature, beginning in the second century .., that likewise multiplies all manner of negative formulas in relation to an utterly (and unutterably) transcendent God. Each of these various forms of negative theology was shaped by Neoplatonic philosophy and Judeo-Christian Scriptures alike, and in each the limits of finite human intellect are experienced as leading up to revelation—but equally occultation—of the supreme deity as that which cannot be said. The reinterpretation of the ineffable Neoplatonic One in terms of the transcendent God of monotheistic religion continued its ferment, acting as intellectual leaven throughout the Middle Ages. Although the three monotheistic, Abrahamic religions present very different understandings of revelation, they each recognize a God who remains essentially inaccessible to thought and speech, even while revealing himself in and by his Creation. The creationist framework of these monotheisms, however, radically transforms the problematic of unsayability, since it concerns no longer an impassively remote One approached intellectually by abstraction (aphairesis ) but a living, caring, engaged, personal Creator, who is present everywhere in existence, yet in an ungraspable, unsayable way that infinitely transcends every creature and every creaturely apprehension and expression. This channel of thought pullulated with fecund inventions in the Jewish Kabbalah, with its esoteric interpretations and elaborations of the Torah, as well as in the mystic effusions of Islamic tradition known as Sufism. Both the Kabbalah and Sufism invent rich symbolic systems for interpreting the inner life of the Godhead that is in principle beyond all possible perception and representation. Only a mystical link can exist between the manifest world and this inner, secret “region” or divine “reality.” Paradoxically, however, total transcendence turns out to be tantamount to total immanence. These discourses declare the unmanifest to be, in itself and as such, absolutely beyond any sort of manifestation in experience. But, at the same time, they interpret the whole manifest universe as mysteriously about, and as incessantly evincing and betraying, by not saying and not showing it, this inaccessible realm of pure Existence or higher Truth. The connection is no longer logical, and so it can be made only in silence rather than in speech. Therefore, typically, these discourses programmatically annul or retract themselves as dis-

Introduction



course by talking in contradictions. God reveals himself, but what he reveals is not himself. He is revealed in everything everywhere, but nowhere as Himself. Christian mystical theology and apophatic philosophy likewise developed the vision of a Creation directly dependent on a supreme God transcending all that can be known or said but nevertheless active and immanently present in all that is. On the strength of God’s apparent self-definition in terms of his own being in Exodus :—Ego sum qui sum (“I am who I am”)—the Christian fathers identified God and Being. Already the Greek-speaking fathers of the first four centuries—albeit somewhat in tension with the Latin-speaking fathers, from Tertullian to Jerome—had prepared the ground for Augustine’s apprehension that God, as eternally immutable, is being itself: ipsum esse.9 The idea that God is one with Being and is Being itself becomes a reigning paradigm of philosophical thought across monotheistic faiths in the Middle Ages, and this idea is inextricably linked with the ineffability of the divine essence as it is understood in these traditions. Here, again, a divergence arises with respect to most Neoplatonic sources, for which God, the One, was emphatically not Being and was transcendent precisely because “beyond Being” (®p™keina t∂q o«sºaq), as Plato had written of the Good in the famous formulation of the Republic b. Indeed, this might be taken to be a major line of demarcation between the Neoplatonic and the Christian worldviews—except that it does not hold in an apophatic perspective, in which all such logical, conceptual dichotomies collapse. In a startlingly Christian-like formulation, Porphyry, contradicting his teacher Plotinus, identifies the One with the pure act of being (aªto tø ®nergein kauarøn) and with Being in its infinity (as expressed by the infinitive form: eµnai). The divide must rather be apprehended more subtly as a matter of sensibility and outlook and ultimately of modes of relationship. Inevitably, verbalization eventually renders the explicit differences between these historically differentiated traditions merely general and conceptual. Whereas Plotinus’s highest One, his “first hypostasis,” based on the “first hypothesis” of the Parmenides, is absolutely relationless, the God of Abrahamic monotheistic religions is intimately in relation with all things: he . See Émile Zum Brunn, “L’exégèse augustinienne de ‘Ego sum qui sum,’ et la ‘métaphysique de l’Exode,’” in Dieu et l’Être: Exégèse d’Exode . et de Coran .–, ed. Paul Vignau (Paris: Études Augustiniennes, ), pp. –. Further essays in this volume I also draw on include Marguerite Harl, “Citations et commentaires d’Exode . chez les Pères grecs des quatre premiers siècles,” pp. –; Pierre Nautin, “‘Je suis celui qui est’ (Exode , ) dans la théologie d’Origène,” pp. –; and Goulven Madec, “‘Ego sum qui sum,’ de Tertullien à Jerome,” pp. –.



Introduction

creates and providentially sustains them in being. Relationality is essential to the Being of this God. This is most patent and pronounced in the Christian Trinity, internally constituted by relations among the divine persons in which it consists. On the Plotinian, Neoplatonic model, in contrast, relationality is relegated to lower ontological levels beneath the One—to Intellect and Mind (Enneads V.i.). Even Porphyry’s supreme God, the One that is, has no concern for any of the things that are, the beings that come after him. This is emphatically not the case for the Christian divinity, who is a God of love. He is wholly given over to relationality: his most intimate being consists in a relation between the Father and Son in Love, or the Holy Spirit. And even the internal relations of the Trinity can be articulated only in relation to the economies of creation and salvation, while in themselves they remain strictly unsayable and opaque. This strict unsayability of God according to his essence, versus the prolix languages about him in relation to the created universe, was worked out near the beginning of the Christian Middle Ages by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite in terms that have remained normative for negative theologies ever since. For Dionysius (or Denys), God is, in an absolute sense, above being and nameless and without analogy, so far as his essence is concerned. No name touches the unsayable God. There is a lower ontological level of primordial beings—divine ideas or angels, named “Being in itself,” “Life in itself,” and so on—that are properly named and participated in by lower beings, but these and all other names are indifferently improper as names for God. Any such positive attributions are in Dionysius’s view merely propadeutic to the rigorously negative way, in which God is admitted to be absolutely unknowable and utterly unutterable. Thus Dionysius accords priority to the negative way, which proceeds upward from lower beings to higher, negating more and more attributes at each step of the way, and ultimately negating being itself in the movement beyond being altogether into the darkness of the unknowable God. As he writes in the Celestial Hierarchy, chapter ., “the way of negation appears to be more suitable to the realm of the divine,” since “positive affirmations are always unfitting to the hiddenness of the inexpressible” (A).10 In the Mystical Theology, chapter , the specifically apophatic character of this negative way is made even more explicit: “The fact is that the more we take . Dionysius’s works are cited from Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid (New York: Paulist Press, ). Greek texts are from Corpus Dionysiacum,  vols., Patristische Texte und Studien, ed. K. Aland and E. Mühlenberg (Berlin–New York: Walter de Gruyter, –).

Introduction



flight upward, the more our words are confined to the ideas we are capable of forming; so that now as we plunge into that darkness which is beyond intellect, we shall find ourselves not simply running short [syst™llein] of words but actually speechless [Ωuegtoq] and unknowing” (B–C). This means that the actual encounter with God, the end of theology, can transpire only in silence beyond words. The failure of language is necessary to the success of precisely the theological purposes it serves: “But my argument now rises from what is below up to the transcendent, and the more it climbs, the more language falters, and when it has passed up and beyond the ascent, it will turn silent completely, since it will finally be at one with him who is indescribable” (C). From near the other end of the arc of development of Christian medieval thought, Thomas Aquinas agrees with this in substance.11 According to Thomas, we can know God only indirectly from the lower things of which he is the Cause, and he is clearly recognized as a cause that transcends what it causes rather than standing in a continuous series with it. God can meaningfully be said to be Being only to the extent that he is the cause of being in the sensible things that we must experience in order to form a conception of being. The difference is that for Thomas, God’s causality consists in his being participated in by beings, whereas all participation in the substance of the transcendent God seems to be excluded by Dionysius. The ontological gap between Creator and creature remains for Dionysius, apparently, without mediation or likeness of analogy. For Thomas, the preexistence of all things in God is grounds for actual kinship with him. God has transcendence but not total alterity in relation to the things of Creation. Thus for Thomas, certain divine names—those for intellectual perfections, like “one,” “good,” “true,” and of course “being”—can and do name the being itself of God. There is a language, an analogical language, for talking about God. Dionysius, on the other hand, negates all possibility of such a language affording a scientific knowledge of God. Granted, God is source and supreme Cause of all that is, so a certain basis for kinship between God and creatures may exist even in Dionysius’s universe. Nevertheless, it is beyond the pale of any possible knowledge.12 . A crucial intermediary between the Greek patristic and medieval Latin traditions is John Damascene (ca. –). His Expositio fidei (De fide orth.) formulates “the impossibility of saying God according to his essence” in terms taken up by Thomas: Œmvq ®pÁ ueo†, tº ®stºn, e˝pe¡n Ωd¥naton kat| oªsºan (Patrologia Graeca, ed. Migne, vol. , p. ). . Such lines of distinction are drawn, for example, by Gislain Lafont, “Le ‘Parménide’ de Platon et Saint Thomas d’Aquin: L’analogie des noms divins et son arrière-



Introduction

And yet, subjectively, analogy does play a role in Dionysius’s affirmative theology—with which his negative theology is always inextricably intertwined. God is rightly praised “according the analogy of all the things of which he is the cause” (katå tÓn påntvn Ωnalogºan ˘n ®stºn a¬tioq, Divine Names A). To this extent, Dionysius shares Proclus’s vision of a positive use of the via negativa. He combines it with a way of analogy based on faith in language and its techniques taken to their limits, especially in prayer, in order to achieve a kind of indirect access to the Transcendent. This is bound up with a view of language as possessed of ontological density and intrinsic truth that can be traced back ultimately to Plato’s Cratylus. Such is the basis for the positive, “kataphatic” theology that is actually inseparable from the negative, “apophatic” theology for which Pseudo-Dionysius has become known and with which his name has become associated by antonomasia. Raoul Mortley goes so far as to say, “The Areopagite has, in the end, a profound confidence in the use of language which resembles that of Proclus. His assertion of the existence of divine names, and their implied ontic basis, suggests a strong degree of commitment to language. Linguistic manoeuvres, whether they involve negation or contradiction, are part and parcel of the route to the ultimate essence.”13 In Dionysius’s vision, the meaning of names derives ontologically from a transcendent source. Although language is never adequate to that source, it is derived from it and, in fact, causally connected to it, just as all being is causally dependent on Being. A relation of ontological dependence makes language not an adequate concept circumscribing its object with the sure revelatory capacity of the Logos, but rather a fragment or reflection. It can testify to what it does not comprehend yet nevertheless contacts uncomprehendingly, in unknowing.14 We enter here a dimension of experience that is no longer purely intellectual, or at least no longer purely an activity and a knowing, but is also a plan néoplatonicien,” in Analogie et dialectique: Essais de théologie fondamentale, ed. P. Gisel and P. Secretan (Geneva: Labor et Fides, ). The relation of Thomas and his views on analogy to the tradition of Dionysius and John Damascene are probed in detail by Gregory P. Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God: Thomas Aquinas on the Interplay of Positive and Negative Theology (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, ). . Raoul Mortley, From Word to Silence, vol. , The Way of Negation, Christian and Greek (Bonn: Hanstein, ), pp. –. . On the multifarious manifestations in images that do not represent, but nevertheless mediate a relation to God for Dionysius and his tradition, see Werner Beierwaltes, “Realisierung des Bildes,” in Denken des Einen: Studien zur Neuplatonischen Philosophie und ihrer Wirkungsgeschichte (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, ), pp. –.

Introduction



passivity and a suffering—pathein rather than mathein, “not only learning but also experiencing the divine things” (oª mønon mau◊n ΩllÅ kaÁ pau◊n tÅ ue¡a, Divine Names B; see also Epistle ). Dionysius thus describes a “theopathic state” in which one is in immediate contact with God.15 And in expressing this, language does seem to have an analogical capacity for intimating God—albeit only in his operations upon us, not in his own essence or nature. The key distinction made by Dionysius, as by Cappadocian fathers such as Gregory of Nyssa before him, between God in himself, or the divine essence, and his manifestation in the world by his energeia has remained the supporting arch of Orthodox theology ever since.16 The question is how this radically transcendent God can be talked about at all. Granted, all things are gathered into transcendent unity in God, through whom and by whom and in whom alone they “preexist,” and in this sense “all things are rightly ascribed to God” (Divine Names B). However, no qualities or characteristics can be attributed to God according to his essence. It is even the case that the words for things that are most unlike God (“worm,” “mud”) make the best names for him, since they cause less danger of idolatrous identification: “the sheer crassness of signs is a goad” forcing us to look above that which is literally and concretely named to its transcendent cause (Celestial Hierarchy B). This is the fundamental paradox on which the Dionysian doctrine of the nameless God of many names pivots. God is absolutely unknowable in himself (“we cannot know God in his nature, since this is unknowable and beyond the reach of mind or of reason”), yet all that we do know about anything is in some way a knowledge of God, inasmuch as he is the source and sustainer of all things and their order: “But we know him from the arrangement of everything, because everything is, in a sense, projected out from him, and this order possesses certain images and semblances of his divine paradigms” (Divine Names D). Accordingly, “the being of all things is the divinity who is above being” (tØ gÅr eµnai påntvn ®stºn Ô Êp‚r tØ eµnai ueøthq, Celestial Hierarchy D). As becomes even more evident and programmatic in Dionysius’s brilliant follower Eriugena, the ineffable God beyond Being is present as Being per se in everything that is. Although Being is made thereby neither knowable nor sayable, it is indistinct from all things’ being as such—even while remaining . Andrew Louth, Denys the Areopagite (Wilton, Conn.: Morehouse-Barlow, ), p. . . A passionate re-actualization is proposed by Christos Yannaròs, Heidegger e Dionigi Areopagita (Rome: Città nuova, ).



Introduction

absolutely distinct from any thing’s being definably this or that. This, then, is being that is completely unqualified; it therefore can be neither known nor said. This unqualified, pure being as such is also indistinguishable from the absolutely transcendent principle, “the One.” Thus in Dionysius’s God the first two hypostases of the Parmenides have been collapsed back together: the Onebeyond-being (Êpero¥sion ’n) and the One-that-is (tØ ]n ’n) have become indistinct—but now each has become equally indefinable and unsayable. The purely transcendent One and the existing One are actually a unity in Dionysius—like the negative and affirmative methods of theology, which necessarily work together. The two, the One-beyond-Being and the One-that-is, are only different aspects—the dark side and the face, so to speak—of one and the same God. It is precisely the unthinkable, unsayable aspect of this unity that is made conspicuous by the blatant contradiction of a One that is at once beyond Being and is also pure Being itself (the same must be said of the doctrine of the Trinity: three, yet one). Dionysius’s teaching points toward the unsayable not because God is simply One—this, too, is inadequate since “He transcends the unity which is in beings” (Divine Names C; cf. C–D). Indeed, all designations whatsoever are inadequate because any qualification belies God’s absolute transcendence as infinite and therefore indefinable. Apophatic discourse about God cannot designate anything that positively is, but in negating every such designation it can nevertheless project an infinite transcendence of being and oneness, as well as of goodness, truth, and other “perfections,” as they are commonly known and said. Projected to infinity, any of these “attributes” of God becomes inconceivable and therefore also unsayable. Apophatic theology, even in its contemporary revivals, for example, by Levinas, enfolds a philosophy of the infinite. This idea of the infinite is key to thinking past the aporias of the One and Being thought according to the Logos in the Parmenides and to attaining the perspective of apophatic thought, where all definitions converge upon the infinite and indefinable. The idea of an infinity that cannot be conceptually comprehended is a fundamental principle of negative theology that can be traced back to Plotinus, who first ventures to base thought and being programmatically on a principle, the One, that is infinite. In this, too, Plotinus stands at the historical threshold where logic melts into metaphysics and even mysticism. Plotinus has been widely recognized as the first Greek to conceive of the One and Good as infinite (“peiron), as divine infinity that is not merely vagueness and indeterminateness, vapid formlessness, or an abhorrent nothing. (We should not forget, however, that Plotinus is, in effect, reviving certain aspects of Anaximander’s teaching on the apeiron, the non-limited, as the pri-

Introduction



mal principle or original matter of all things.) According to Hilary Armstrong, “Plotinus is the first Greek philosopher to try to work out with any sort of precision the senses in which infinity can be predicated of the Godhead, and to distinguish them from the evil infinity of formlessness and indefinite multiplicity.”17 For Plotinus, formlessness, being beyond form and therefore beyond all determination, is precisely what enables the One to be the transcendent ground of all that is. Plotinus’s exegesis of Parmenides d–a, where the One itself is said to be infinite (apeiron), envisages an infinite that cannot be conceptualized except negatively, where to speak negatively of the One means “to speak of it from the things that come after it.” John Heiser underlines the properly negative theological import of Plotinus’s expressions, their “transcending negative sense,” as he terms it: “This, I submit is a negative, not a positive sense of the infinite, it is ‘knowing the One from the things that come after it,’ by denying their limits.”18 Plotinus explains this speaking of ineffable infinity in terms of the things after it as a negative theological approach that provides no positive conception of infinity: “The expression ‘beyond being’ does not call it a ‘this,’ for it is not an affirmation, nor does it give it a name. It conveys nothing but the negation of such talk.” There is thus no attempt to “encompass” the One in its infinity.19 For Plotinus, this infinity cannot be conceived except negatively, that is, by thought’s opening itself infinitely in self-negation. Infinity is experienced only in the insatiable desire for what transcends comprehension. Plotinus held that experience of the supreme principle must necessarily be a suffering, not a knowing in the sovereign sense of classical Greek intellectualism. In Plotinus, we see Greek thought discovering, from within, the intrinsic negativity of thought and language. The attempt to think the infinite, or rather to open thought to the infinite as what it cannot think, can thus be recognized as an inheritance of Neoplatonic philosophy. Neoplatonists, beginning with Plotinus, found the ultimate ground and goal of thinking and being in an infinite principle that could not as such be thought, or even be. This was audacious and revolutionary—an apophatic revolution. The transmission of this insight from Neoplatonism to Christianity was assured by the direct influ. Cf. A. Hilary Armstrong, “Plotinus’s Doctrine of the Infinite and its Significance for Christian Thought,” in Plotinian and Christian Studies (London: Varorium Reprints, ), V.. . John H. Heiser, “Plotinus and the Apeiron of Plato’s Parmenides,” Thomist  (): . . Enneads V.v.. Embedded quotations from Enneads V.iii and V.vi in Heiser, “Plotinus and the Apeiron,” pp. , –.



Introduction

ence of Proclus on Dionysius. What the Neoplatonists did not generally conceive, however, and what is found in the Dionysian paradigm, is precisely Being as this infinite, incomprehensible principle. For the Neoplatonists, the infinite and unsayable principle is generally “beyond being.” Yet even this insight into the equivalence of the infinite and unsayable with Being and even, in some sense, with God was not fundamentally out of reach for Neoplatonism. In fact, immediately after Plotinus, Being is accorded the same sort of infinity as the One, not as being anything, any this, but as indeterminate and unknowable. Plotinus’s most outstanding pupil, Porphyry, develops the idea that as infinite the One is also Being—infinite Being which cannot be defined or said. This conception of Being as infinite made it possible to revive the Aristotelian idea of the supreme divinity as the pure act of being (or equivalently, pure act of intellect) within negative theology. Aristotle had conceived of God as pure act and therefore also as finite in being: to be actual is to have perfectly definite form without any potency. But the Neoplatonists’ idea of infinity as only negatively definable, and as not having in itself any positively knowable sense or essence, made it possible to conceive of an act that is infinite. The idea of infinity was generally repugnant to classical Greek thinkers: for Aristotle, anything actual, including God, is necessarily finite. The revolution of Neoplatonic thinking that made it so congenial to monotheistic theologians is most clearly signalled by Plotinus’s daring to think of the One, the supreme principle of reality, as infinite. Combined with Aristotle’s thought of God as pure act, this leads eventually to thinking of God as pure being, the infinite act of being, “being itself ”—ipsum esse, in Thomas Aquinas and Meister Eckhart.20 Being in its infinity is unsayable and indistinct from the ineffable One. This identity of the One itself and Being itself—beyond every qualified, concrete mode of being—was to be pursued all through later Christian Neoplatonism down to the Renaissance, signally by Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, and beyond. In De ente et uno, Pico aimed to unite in Being itself Platonic and Aristotelian conceptions of God as the One beyond being and as the Supreme Being.21

. The key role of Plotinus in this development, which passes also through Augustine, is emphasized by Patrick Madigan, S.J., Christian Revelation and the Completion of the Aristotelian Revolution (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, ). . Cf. Werner Beierwaltes, “Das seiende Eine: Neuplatonische Interpretationen der zweiten Hypothesis des platonischen ‘Parmenides’ und deren Fortbestimmung in der christlichen Theologie und in Hegels Logik,” in Denken des Einen, pp. –.

Introduction



The idea, first found in Porphyry’s commentary on the Parmenides, that being itself, as an act rather than an object or concept, is what infinitely transcends all knowledge and saying has great importance in the history of negative theology. In terms of the Parmenides commentary tradition, this means that the second hypothesis—“if the One is”—acquires priority in indicating the limits of any conceptualization of divinity and, consequently, of everything else. Not only Porphyry, but Proclus, too, taking cues from his teacher Syrianus, begins to accord a certain primacy to the second hypothesis of the Parmenides concerning the One-that-is. The emphasis is no longer exclusively on the transcendence of the One-beyond-being, but is also on the immanence of the One-that-is—in fact, on the complete dialectical mediation of the two.22 In both directions, immanence and transcendence, the One proves to be inconceivably infinite and to exceed saying. Accordingly, not even the radical transcendence of the One and its incompatibility with Being is what finally distinguishes pagan Neoplatonic from revealed monotheistic thought. Indeed, this very polarity of transcendence and immanence collapses in an apophatic perspective that is common to both worldviews. The One transcends being not by being something definitely, definably other than Being. That would make the two—the One and Being— external to each other and therefore also comparable, side by side, each limiting the other, and therefore neither of them would be strictly infinite. Instead, the One transcends Being by being infinite and therefore indistinct from being—that is, from Being without qualification, “Being” which cannot be said. Total transcendence and complete immanence are both ways of exceeding the boundaries of identity in terms of which things are defined and said. These different ways consist in total lack of relatedness, versus total relatedness—either of which equally exceeds saying. Saying cannot but divide in order to arti-culate, and so necessarily misses such inarticulably pure conditions as in-finite and in-definable being and oneness. Neoplatonist negative theologies, Porphyry’s excepted, generally negated Being as a positive determination that the One had to transcend. This is be. This compenetration is an overarching theme of Beierwaltes’s Platonismus im Christentum. Neoplatonists’ attention to the second hypothesis is also highlighted by Beierwaltes in “Das Seiende Eine. Zur neuplatonischen Interpretation der zweiten Hypothesis des platonischen Parmenides: Das Beispiel Cusanus,” in Proclus et son influence, ed. G. Boss and G. Seel (Zurich: Grand Midi, ). For an exegesis of the second hypothesis of the Parmenides by Proclus and Syrianus as leading to the theory of divine henades that bridge transcendence and immanence, see Proclus, Théologie platonicienne, vol. , ed. H. D. Saffrey and L. G. Westerink (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, ), pp. xl–li.



Introduction

cause they typically interpreted all being as this or that being, as determinate rather than as infinite and indefinable being. A genuine monotheism becomes thinkable only when being itself is conceived as essentially infinite and its supreme, unifying principle as transcendent to anything that is something. Neoplatonic thinking opened the way for a strictly monotheistic conceptuality by thinking the infinite transcendence of the One, but it did not at the same time generally think the unity of this One with Being. It did not think Being as infinitely transcendent of everything that is something. While reaching the thought of the infinite, Neoplatonism was not doctrinally obliged or motivated to segregate this thought from anterior, pantheistic modes of thinking. It did not need to rigorously separate the oneness of being, or the One that it recognized as the supreme principle of being, from the diffuse presence of divinity in the multiplicity of beings. Indeed, in an apophatic perspective even these opposites coincide. However, as infinite, the One cannot be distinct from Being, not when the One is thought concretely and no longer only in the intellectualized manner characteristic of the classical Greeks. The unity of the One with Being is entailed by its infinity, since if there were something else besides it, the One would not be infinite. It is crucial to realize that this One which is infinite is not only an idea. Infinity is taken to be the reality, or ultra-reality, that precedes and encompasses every thought, including the thought of infinity itself. The infinity of the One, if it is the principle of reality, entails unity with Being and even the unity of Being.23 Of course, this unity of being, which turns up as an infinite principle (the One) in all beings, is likewise apophatic. It cannot be scientifically understood or expressed, though it can be observed over and over in experience in ways that evade all rational account and grounding. The unity of being is based on a principle that withdraws from all attempts to know and express it. The miracle of all things hanging together and cohering as somehow one world, a universe, must be observed ever again with wonder and be acknowledged to be incomprehensible: the reason and necessity for it cannot be demonstrated or even be properly expressed. This contingency of the togetherness and connection of all things, inexplicable to us and to any finite intelli-

. Jean-Luc Nancy lucidly defines monotheism as entailing not just that there is one God but that all being is one, inasmuch as all beings are dependent for their very being on a unique ontological principle, “the excellency of being.” “Des lieux divins,” in Qu’est-ce que Dieu? Hommage à l’abbé Daniel Coppieters de Gibson (–) (Bruxelles: Facultés Universitaires Saint-Louis, ).

Introduction



gence, is perennially rediscovered in philosophy. It becomes paramount, for example, in Enlightenment philosophy with David Hume. As with the One itself, all accounts and grounding for such unity fall into contradiction. Any principle which is alleged to ground unity will never turn out to be identical with a principle that can be known and defined and said. Still, the unity of the One and Being is presupposed by every thought, since thought itself is inherently a synthesis. It is just that this unity that operates in every thought is graspable and expressible by no thought—it is itself the apophatic aporia par excellence. The unity of being cannot be proved or understood or even be adequately said, but we can nevertheless experience this very impossibility. In experiencing purely the connectedness of things and the unaccountability of this connectedness, we experience what fails to be adequately conceptualized as the metaphysical unity of being. The fundamentally negative status of our knowledge of all things and their ground—thus negative theology—was discovered by Neoplatonists in a predominantly intellectual register. This primordial negativity infiltrates a broader spectrum of faculties and relational modes that are exercised in revealed, monotheistic, and especially biblical, historical religion, which becomes more reflective about the negative status of all its knowledge through this interactive contact with the ineffable God. A negatively theological monotheism was, in effect, already thought by the Neoplatonists. Their supreme principle is totally transcendent and also totally immanent, in the sense of being presupposed by all beings in their very being. This Neoplatonic God, however, is not active, not consciously and willingly engaged in relating to beings. That engagement could only be revealed—by history and through experience; it does not belong as such simply to the thought of the unity of being and its necessary transcendence of every finite being. These are the essential pagan precedents that render philosophically conceivable a God who is essentially what cannot be said, that is, the God of monotheism. From these premises develop, especially in revealed traditions, ever more complex and historically differentiated experiences of the abyss of existence, which philosophy first identified as a theme that could be reflectively contemplated. The One and Being are no longer incompatible and no longer intellectual forms or determinations. They are mutually interpenetrating aspects of an unsayable infinity beyond any determination as reality or even as divinity, if this is taken to be some essential, specific kind of being. The mutual exclusiveness of the One and Being inherited from the Parmenides falls away and, in effect, is dissolved in the course of the Parmenides commentary tradition. Both principles are redefined as inadequate determinations not of



Introduction

the Indeterminate but of a living, pro-active, always relating divinity that cannot be humanly or temporally or linguistically determined or comprehended. This . . . inexpressible “divinity” is not any object accessible to the approach of knowledge, but rather can be encountered only to the extent that it comes to meet us and disembarrasses us of all our antecedent conceptual structures and language. This collapsing together of the Neoplatonic hypostases of the One and Being in monotheism opens the field of experience in time in the direction of an absolute which can become real as event and revelation in history. But still the supreme principle of all historical reality and experience—the One or Being in their indifferentiation—cannot be conceptually circumscribed or said without being immediately belied in its absoluteness. The consequence is that all that can be said and perceived and positively experienced turns out to be dependent on what cannot be known or said. “Reality” and “truth” as such are relinquished to the zone of the ineffable. Human knowledge and language are reassessed as fundamentally negative in nature due to their difference and distance from absolute reality, which is more positive than “positivity” or any other expression can signify. The supposedly stable, stateable structures of “this world” are undermined and have, in some sense, become a lie. The view of apophasis here espoused makes it both metaphysical and anti-metaphysical at the same time—indeed, the coincidence of these opposites. The One must be discovered as radically beyond being but also as identical with being, once being, too, has been identified with (or rather dissolved into) infinity. The contemporary philosophical polemic that targets metaphysics, as if getting rid of this type of thinking would cure Western culture of its pluri-millenary sickness, is itself another symptom of the tendency to reify and isolate elements by their objective manifestations and to abstract from and forget their deeper roots that reach into the unsayable and unknowable. This oblivion comes from wishing to adhere to the surface of what can be said and be verbally persuasive and reassure us that we know the grounds of our knowing and doing—when actually these things lie submerged in unknowing that reaches into the fathomless.

III On the basis of these developments in thinking the One and Being as infinite and unsayable, especially in the Parmenides commentary tradition, the late medieval Christian problem of speaking about God, that is, the problem of his

Introduction



“names” or predicates, and of which if any of them can be attributed to him properly, reaches tremendous levels of subtlety. However, there is another crucial wellspring for negative theology that still needs to be taken into account. It is thanks also to an impulse from Jewish thought that the most deeply negative theology of Being was incorporated into the culminating medieval speculations on the divine transcendence of whatever can be said. Moses Maimonides insisted that all statements concerning God were to be interpreted as having a purely negative meaning: to say God is one means that he is not many, to say he is good means that he is not evil, and so forth. No positive meaning can be attibuted to any of the divine Names. Maimonides’s thinking, in effect, renders vain any discourse of being with the realization that God has no definable essence apart from his existence, which cannot be conceived or uttered. Building on this insight, Thomas Aquinas, contrary to certain oversimplifying interpretations of his position, recognizes indescribability and even radical anonymity as necessary to God. Thomas’s analogical language for talking about God is not one that in the end yields knowledge in any scientific sense. What words like “good,” “wise,” and “true” mean as applied to the perfections of God is completely beyond our comprehension. We know only what finite goodness, wisdom, and truth are, and that they are derivative from an infinite, self-sustaining goodness, wisdom, and truth. In Summa theologiae Ia, q. , arts.  and , Thomas admits that from the point of view of the object named, the unsayable four-letter Tetragrammaton (YHWH) signifying God’s incommunicably singular substance is even more proper a name for God than “Being” or Qui est. This admission recognizes the priority of the unknowable and unsayable in God’s own nature. Even Being, esse, as it exists in creatures, must be denied of God, with the result that “the Being of God is unknown” (“Esse dei est ignotum”).24 This realization already verges on the deeply apophatic outlook that will be developed by Meister Eckhart. Eckhart, who brings to its full maturity the apophatic theological speculation of the Christian Middle Ages, makes peculiarly palpable the fundamental transformation of apophasis in a direction that has sometimes been conceptualized as a species of Christian existentialism. This outlook decisively relocates God as the unsayable in the midst of existence rather than beyond and

. Quaestiones disputate: De potentia, q. , art. , ad um, in Opera omnia, ed. S. E. Fretté and P. Maré (Paris: Bibliopolam, ). That Thomas fully assimilated the radical negative theology of Dionysius is shown by É. Jeauneau, “Denys L’aréopagite promoteur du Néoplatonisme en Occident,” in Néoplatonisme et philosophie médiévale, ed. Linos G. Benakis (Belgium: Brepols, ), pp. –.



Introduction

outside being. God is inexpressible not because he is “beyond being,” as the Neoplatonic tradition insisted in unceasing echoes of the Republic b, and as Eckhart himself repeats in Sermons , , , and , and in other works; God is inexpressible precisely because he is identified with being as such.25 It is no longer an intellectual abstraction, such as the One at some level cannot help being, or even a hypostatized, personified God, but existence or being in its infinity—and in the infinitive, esse—that confounds comprehension and exceeds the furthest possibilities of discourse. Being itself, even in the most negligible of creatures, like the fly, becomes incomprehensible and unsayable. Eckhart synthesized the Aristotelian and Neoplatonic tradition of Being as Intellect with the new discovery of being in its infinite actuality in the Gothic age, especially as articulated in the theology of Thomas Aquinas. Eckhart was also educated, however, by the affective piety of great female mystics, and especially by the Beguines writing in the vernacular in the thirteenth century—notably, Hadewijch of Brabant, Mechthild of Magdeburg (–), who authored Das fließende Licht der Gottheit in Middle Low German, and Marguerite Porete.26 Reflecting also these approaches, Eckhart made his intellectual revolution fully experiential in all the dimensions of human existence. Negative theology is not just metaphysical speculation but is lived out in the diverse spheres of intellection, connation, emotion, and sensation. On the basis of this new valorization of the existential world as inhabited by and answering to an unspeakable absolute, one that had become no longer a detached principle or indifferent origin but was infinitely active and present in conscious life, the later Middle Ages and Renaissance were to develop a broader understanding of spirit as the element in which what cannot be said or grasped or mastered by any human faculty is nevertheless encountered and experienced, so as to become effectual in every human act and apprehension. Eckhart’s philosophy flourished in the Rhineland, influencing Johannes Tauler and Heinrich Susa, as well as Jan van Ruusbroec in Flanders. Their . Vladimir Lossky, in Théologie négative et connaissance de Dieu chez Maître Eckhart (Paris: Vrin, ), p. , points out that Dionysius maintained that God is unnameable because he transcends every being and even being itself, whereas for Eckhart, God is unnameable because he is Being itself. . See contributions to Meister Eckhart and Beguine Mystics: Hadewich of Brabant, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and Marguerite Porete, ed. Bernard McGinn (New York: Continuum, ). A “Hadewijch II” is sometimes posited as the authoress in Medieval Dutch of the powerfully apophatic Mengeldichten –. See the contribution by Paul A. Dietrich, “The Wilderness of God in Hadewijch II and Meister Eckhart and his Circle,” pp. ff.

Introduction



writings served as channels through which the posthumously condemned teaching of the master surreptitiously survived and was transmitted. Thanks to them, the spirit of Eckhart was fostered in subsequent centuries, coming to expression most originally in Nicholas of Cues (Cusanus) among the Renaissance humanists, in Jakob Böhme and Silesius Angelus in the Baroque period, and again in German idealist philosophy during the ages of Classicism and Romanticism. It is still at work in Heidegger, as well as in apophatic revivals today. We go on struggling in various ways to inherit and assimilate this legacy of the medieval apophatic tradition. This history forges some of the indispensable links leading from medieval metaphysics to modern, transcendental phenomenologies of experience. The possibilities for apophatic insight throughout this history very often hang together with the fate of analogical thinking—with interpretations of its legitimacy and limits. From Augustine and Dionysius on, medieval Christianity sought to account for knowledge and naming of God in terms that do justice to divine transcendence and at the same time acknowledge God’s self-revelation. His self-revelation occurs not only in Scripture and in Christ but also in every creature, as part of the general revelation whereby “the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead” (Romans :). The analogical relation of creature to Creator affirmed in these terms had also, at the same time, to be denied or qualified by the absolute disproportion between the infinite and the finite. Analogy, in fact, for Dionysius, gives no knowledge of God’s essence but rather illuminates his operations in and around us. This also holds for Eckhart, with his wisdom of luminous unknowing, and is thought through rigorously by Cusanus, building directly on Eckhart, in his doctrine of “learned ignorance.” Cusanus polemically rejects any analogical knowledge of God by proportionate analogy, such as Thomas Aquinas at least formally postulated. He argues that God alone is infinite: there cannot be two or more infinities, for they would limit each other. But there can be no proportion between the finite and the infinite. Consequently, finite creation can offer no objective means of conceptualizing an infinite God. Nevertheless, this infinite disproportion between God and everything else can itself be instructive, for it can teach us our ignorance. The wisdom of learned ignorance entails a bursting and opening of all finite knowledge toward its ground—or groundlessness—in an ungraspable infinite. This state of unknowing, moreover, can coincide with a theopathic state of being affected by, and to that extent being one with, God. Such a state is the ultimate instance of Cusanus’s coincidence of opposites, of the finite with the infinite.



Introduction

There can be, then, some knowledge of the right ways of relating to and even of speaking about God, though they can give us no objective information about him. Analogy gives no scientific knowledge of God as an object. And yet our ways of experiencing our own limits vis-à-vis the infinity of God are revealing of the God we do not know but relate to—precisely in encountering these limits and, simultaneously, in abandoning our pretensions to knowledge. While there can be no knowledge of God, our knowledge of creatures as inadequate analogies for him can lead to unknowing, that is, to Eckhart’s unwizzen and Cusanus’s docta ignorantia, which is greater than any knowing of an object could be, for it is a mode of oneness with the unknown and uncircumscribed and infinite. The analogies operate, then, really as disanalogies: it is not their content, but rather the spilling over of all bounds of content, their uncontainment, that conveys something, some inkling, of God. This experience of excess and inadequacy is instructive about God, about his infinite and therefore incomprehensible and ineffable nature in relation to our finitude. Even Thomas Aquinas’s theory of analogy—understood as pivoting in the last analysis on disanalogy—falls essentially within the bounds of this project.27 Although Thomas gives the impression of trying to preserve a way of knowing and talking about God scientifically by analogy, in the end only God is capable of making sense of the infinite term of the analogy. As Thomas admits, theology or sacra doctrina is ultimately God’s own selfknowledge; its principles are not themselves known to us but are known to God and to those enjoying beatific vision in God. Ultimate human wisdom concerning God (“ultimum cognitionis humanae de Deo”) is to know that we ignore him (“quod sciat se Deum nescire”), inasmuch as we know that what he is exceeds all we can understand of him (“inquantum cognoscit, illud quod Deus est, omne ipsum quod de eo intelligimus, excedere”).28 A distinct approach to mediating between God’s absolute transcendence and the claims of revealed human knowledge of him and not just of his creations can be traced through Orthodox tradition to a high point in Gregory Palamas. On the basis of an Eastern monastic spirituality, with its origins in the fourth-century desert fathers of Palestine and Egypt, and in continuity with Gregory of Nyssa and Dionysius, Palamas witnesses to an experience of . David B. Burrell, Aquinas: God and Action (London: Routledge, ) denies that Thomas has a theory of analogy at all, and indeed it is rather Thomas’s practice of analogical reasoning and use of analogical expressions that counts for showing God’s ultimate unknowability. Burrell further maintains, provocatively, that Thomas has no doctrine of God, thereby confirming God’s unknowability. See pp. –. . Questiones disputate: De potentia, q. , art. , ad .

Introduction



God that is superior to negation. It is beyond knowing, but also beyond unknowing. This vision of God (though not of the divine essence) relies on neither the senses nor the intellect. It transpires in the Spirit, transcending the natural conditions of human cognition. It is, nonetheless, embodied. This type of contemplation transfigures human beings, mind and body, transforming them by the divine energies communicated in the light of the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor. Gregory’s more experiential, less dialectical approach to divine transcendence brings to the fore the positive aspect of the apophatic that is, in effect, crucial to its motivation throughout the whole course of its development as a family of discourses. As in Augustine, Neoplatonic ascent by abstraction joins hands with its opposite: the uncreated is experienced as incarnate. Apophasis is not simply a negative way, though of course the surplus of this more-than-positive experience remains quintessentially unsayable, sealed in silence.

IV We have now attained a vantage point from which it is possible to individuate a number of historical matrices that take the lead in shaping the problematic of apophasis, that is, of what cannot be said, in intellectual history: initially, Plato and Platonism, as leading up to the crises of the Hellenistic period and the collapse of philosophy based on Logos, with the ensuing proliferation of Gnostic religions and theosophies that typically fostered cults of silence and secrecy; then, with heavy indebtedness to the Neoplatonic school, medieval Christianity from Dionysius to Eckhart, paralleled by Sufism in the Islamic Middle Ages and Jewish Kabbalist speculation. In each case, apophatic reflection belongs particularly to periods of crisis, when confidence in established discourses crumbles, when the authoritative voice of orthodoxies and their official affirmations—and even affirmative, assertive discourse per se— begin to ring hollow. Toward the end of the Hellenistic Age, when Gnosticism, Hermeticism, and Christianity arose, and again with the impending collapse and aftermath of the Roman Empire during the lifetimes of Damascius and Dionysius, new expressive modes had to be sought out or invented to supplant a Logos that was infirm and foundering. Something similar happened again in the Late Middle Ages of Porete, Eckhart, and Dante, with the cracking of the Scholastic synthesis. The words of traditional discourses could no longer be believed in as such. The passion of belief that had previously been invested in them looked beyond to what they did not and could not say.



Introduction

It is such moments of critical reflection that produce the straining beyond all constraints of rational discourse and discipline into mystic and other logically, as well as oftentimes socially, trangressive modes. The Baroque mysticism of Jakob Böhme and Silesius Angelus, together with their Spanish Carmelite counterparts, Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross, emerge under circumstances that fit this same pattern. There are strong homologies, furthermore, with the Romantic revolt of the late Schelling and Kierkegaard against the Hegelian System. All these movements produced certain characteristic forms of apophatic discourse. But with German idealism we have arrived at the threshold of the last two hundred years of this history. This period is taken up in the ensuing volume, where this historical outline of apophasis is pursued further and completed. One issue that will become more sharply focused in the second volume is that of the divergence between Jewish approaches to apophasis, which insist on an insuperable gap of absolute difference, and the Plotinian ideal of a unity transcending all dualities of language and signification. Indeed, from Plotinus on, the elimination of differences, reductio ad unum, had been prescribed for generating union with the undelimited and inarticulable principle of all. This great Neoplatonic current collides, at least to all appearences, with the Hebraic exaltation of difference as the royal road of apophasis. The idea of apophatic union with God, as it develops through the Middle Ages, comes to a certain culmination in the mysticism of the Spanish Carmelites, which parallels and to some extent depends on the German mystical tradition. However, this introverted experience of oneness can also be turned inside out, so as to coincide with its opposite: God is experienced equally as absolutely Other. This view is not peculiarly Jewish, yet it has been the constant emphasis of Jewish views about God (whose influence can be documented in the backgrounds of both Teresa of Àvila and John of the Cross), and it has become so more intensively and insistently than ever in contemporary Jewish thought. Already in Maimonides, God is other than all positive conceptualizations. I have noted that Maimonides’s negative theology, as it was absorbed and modified by Thomas and Eckhart, revolutionized medieval philosophy. In Eckhart, particularly, the negation of all language as applied to God led to a conception of God as absolute negation. Yet ultimately this entails that God is also the negation of negation, the non-other (non aliud, as Cusanus was to put it), and at this level absolute difference turns out to be indistinguishable from identity or oneness—though it is unity as negated in any of its verbal expressions, such as, infinite, undefined, and unsayable. In the end, identity and difference alike are not definable or sayable. It is only the different approaches to this in-difference that resolve into clear distinctness.

Introduction



The claims of difference have been pressed by modern and contemporary apophatic thinkers and writers, and especially energetically by those working within or in relation to Jewish currents of tradition. This strain can be followed through the Renaissance to modern Jewish authors such as Franz Kafka, Walter Benjamin, Franz Rosenzweig, Emmanuel Levinas, Paul Celan, and Edmond Jabès. Difference has been exalted to the status of a shibboleth by Derrida and company, just as unity was so often the watchword of Platonizing metaphysics and negative theologies. The originally Hellenic and Hebraic approaches to the unsayable seem to be going in exactly opposite directions. Yet are they, after all—after all dichotomizing conceptions fall away—only different as ways of approaching what resists all our constructions of unity and difference equally? If the two approaches are reconcilable, it cannot be in words, but only beyond the reach of Logos in a striving in tension that joins them in adversarial unity. Exactly this may be the vocation of the apophatic (even if we cannot positively say so). Positive claims about reconciliation and unity, of course, would be inconsistent and foolish, but to deny them would be equally fallacious; denial assumes that these relations are decidable in terms of sense, whereas they are realized only in exceeding sense—which requires difference, but also its erasure. For difference registers and is articulated only as it is also being erased by the very making of the difference. Inevitably this making is a constructing of difference out of the indifference of the inarticulable. The peculiar, dialectical, necessarily self-contradictory character of the apophatic demands that apophasis be ambiguous as to whether it entails an experience of total union in the indistinctness of the One or rather the shock of absolute alterity. Indeed, both forms of configuring the apophatic moment organize vast currents of discourse that follow in their train. Unity and difference each furnish the motive and the motto for apparently divergent strains of apophatic experience and reflection: they can even be ranged into opposing camps of a seemingly intractable ideological divide. However, precisely as supposedly characterizing the apophatic, these cleavages can no longer be positively articulated and asserted. History demonstrates repeatedly that the conflict sharpens to a breaking-point—and then self-destructs and disappears. In apophasis, which empties language of all positive content, absolute difference cannot be positively distinguished from absolute unity, even though the respective discourses of difference and unity nominally stand at the antipodes. Both configurations, unity and difference, are exposed as relatively arbitrary and, in the end, equally inadequate schemas for articulating what cannot be said.

T HE IN E FFABLE ONE

. P (‒ ..) Parmenides b–e. Trans. Francis Macdonald Cornford () in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ), pp. –. Greek text in Platonis Opera, ed.Ioannes Burnet (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), vol. .

If Plato can be said to be the father of negative theology, it is not without having been fathered himself by a number of far more ancient traditions. He may well have been initiated into Pythagoreanism, with its five-year vow of silence, and he was certainly well-versed in Orphism and mystery religions. In particular, the Eleusinian mysteries placed a premium on secrecy and silence. They transcended verbalization by mute gestures of pantomime in the performance of religious rites. Such currents deserve to be taken into account as forming the immemorial prehistory of thought and discourse in the apophatic vein. Once this prehistory has been acknowledged, however, the fact remains that a number of Platonic texts early on became the obligatory points of departure for virtually all subsequent speculation in negative theology. Most influential of all is Republic b, which declares that “the Good itself is not being but is beyond being in dignity and surpassing power.”1 This idea of a Good beyond being, and therefore equally beyond speech and reason (Logos), echoes all through apophatic tradition, continuing to fascinate even contemporary philosophers such as Levinas and Derrida. This formula and its influence betray an awareness from the inception of Western metaphysics of a missing link, thanks to which the whole system of ontology is interrupted and is acknowledged to be dependent on a principle beyond itself that it cannot comprehend. In thus placing the source and principle of beings beyond Being, metaphysics recognizes its incompleteness and its incapacity to ground itself, at least as a supposedly seamless, totalized, foundational system of knowledge. Likewise resonating all through the subsequent history of apophasis is Timaeus c: “But the father and maker of all this universe is past finding out, . Citations of Plato are from The Collected Dialogues of Plato.





             

and even if we found him, to tell of him to all men would be impossible.” This passage was routinely quoted by Christian proponents of negative theologies, claiming Plato as their unwitting precursor.2 The same can also be said of a passage in the Seventh Letter, where Plato refers to a subject intractable to discourse, one which he does not name but which seems to have a theological aura about it. He berates other authors for having attempted to write about it, and takes that as proof that they have no real acquaintance with the subject in question. As for himself, he explains, I certainly have composed no work in regard to it, nor shall I ever do so in future, for there is no way of putting it in words like other studies. Acquaintance with it must come rather after a long period of attendance on instruction in the subject itself and of close companionship, when, suddenly, like a blaze kindled by a leaping spark, it is generated in the soul and at once becomes self-sustaining. (c) Deploring the powerlessness and inadequacy of language, he concludes: “Hence no intelligent man will ever be so bold as to put into language those things which his reason has contemplated” (a). In these terms, at the heart of his teaching, Plato recognized something that cannot be communicated in words, but only by direct vision or even inspiration, in-spiriting, as in the image of a spark of fire. Plato taught that everything pertaining to the gods lies beyond the range of human articulation, except perhaps by means of the fictions of myth. In the Cratylus d–a, he demonstrates that we can know nothing about the gods as such, but only about our all-too-human ways of naming them: [O]f the gods we know nothing, either of their natures or of the names which they give themselves, but we are sure that the names by which they call themselves, whatever they may be, are true. . . . Let us, then, if you please, in the first place announce to them that we are not inquiring about them—we do not presume that we are able to do so. But we are inquiring about the meaning of men in giving them these names—in this there can be small blame.

. See A. D. Nock, “The Exegesis of Timaeus c,” Vigilae Christianae  (): –, for its influence especially on Lactantius.

Plato



Beyond all these suggestive texts,3 a different, more systematic influence on apophatic tradition was exerted by Plato’s Parmenides. In the Parmenides, Plato uses the occasion of an encounter with the eponymous Eleatic master to stage his paradoxical logic of the One that cannot be and still be one. In the excerpted portion of the dialogue, the first two theses (“That the One is One . . .” and “That the One is . . .”) are laid out. Starting from the assumptions that the One is one and that the One is, Plato deduces a series of aporias playing off the incompatibility between being one and being. Whatever exists can no longer be simply one, and whatever is simply one cannot have existence added to it. It proves impossible, moreover, to say, without falling into contradiction, that the One is or even that it is one: being said is already more than just being one in itself. Indeed, nothing can be said of the One in relation to itself, whereas everything can be said of it in relation to others. Both members of every pair of opposites, such as whole and part, finite and infinite, similar and dissimilar, changeless and changing, can equally well be said of the One in relation to others, since all things must participate in oneness in order to be anything at all, that is, any one thing; and anything that they are (anything that may be predicated of them) must also be one in order to be a predicable attribute. To this extent, all things are said in relation to the One, even though nothing can be affirmed of the One per se.4 This paradox can well be considered the theoretical core of the entire dialogue. Certainly it preoccupied thinkers in the Platonic tradition and became the embryo of Neoplatonic thinking as a whole, which springs from and revolves around these hypotheses concerning the One and its aporetic relation with Being.5 The Parmenides is almost universally regarded as Plato’s most difficult and obscure dialogue, yet that did not discourage interpretation and indeed serious interpretation, notwithstanding the dialogue’s descriptions of itself as consisting in mental gymnastics (gymnasºa) and play-things, toys (paideºa). . Carabine, The Unknown God, pp. –, gives careful consideration to these and other Platonic texts important for the subsequent traditions of negative theology. . Among numerous recent commentators, the most helpful for this way of framing the hypotheses is Franz von Kutschera, Platons “Parmenides” (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, ). . See H. D. Saffrey and L. G. Westerink, “Essai sur l’histoire de l’exégèse des hypothèses du Parménide dans le néoplatonisme jusqu’à Proclus,” in the introduction to their edition of Proclus’s Théologie platonicienne, vol.  (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, ), pp. lxxv–lxxix. Mitchel H. Miller, Jr., Plato’s Parmenides: The Conversion of the Soul (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ), revives the ancient suggestion that the hypotheses of the latter part of the dialogue reconstitute, in less crudely imagistic terms, the theory of Ideas that is critiqued in the first part.



             

Constant reference to this text is made throughout subsequent literature in negative theology across a broad spectrum of philosophical and theological schools. Already in the ancient world it enjoyed canonical authority of the highest order. Through its interpretation by the Neoplatonists, this Platonic dialogue became the obligatory point of departure dictating the framework for myriad treatments of the Divine Names as intellectual perfections—being, oneness, equality, sameness, difference, changelessness, and so on, in the terms it bequeaths to this tradition.6 . Aspects of this heritage are traced by Raymond Klibansky, Plato’s Parmenides in the Middle Ages: A Chapter in the History of Platonic Studies (London: Warburg Institute, ), reprinted with The Continuity of the Platonic Tradition during the Middle Ages (Millwood, N.Y.: Kraus International Reprints, ).

Parmenides b–e

Where shall we begin, then? What supposition shall we start with? Would you like me, since we are committed to play out this laborious game, to begin with myself and my own original supposition? Shall I take the one itself and consider the consequences of assuming that there is, or is not, a one? By all means, said Zeno. Then who will answer the questions I shall put? Shall it be the youngest? He will be likely to give the least trouble and to be the most ready to say what he thinks, and I shall get a moment’s rest while he is answering. The youngest means me, Parmenides, said Aristoteles, and I am ready. Put your questions and I will answer them.

First Hypothesis: If the One Is One Well then, said Parmenides, if there is a one, of course the one will not be many. Consequently it cannot have any parts or be a whole.

Plato



For a part is a part of a whole, and a whole means that from which no part is missing; so, whether you speak of it as ‘a whole’ or as ‘having parts,’ in either case the one would consist of parts and in that way be many and not one. But it is to be one and not many. Therefore, if the one is to be one, it will not be a whole nor have parts. And, if it has no parts, it cannot have a beginning or an end or a middle, for such things would be parts of it. Further, the beginning and end of a thing are its limits. Therefore, if the one has neither beginning nor end, it is without limits. Consequently the one has no shape; it is not either round or straight. Round is that whose extremity is everywhere equidistant from its center, and straight is that of which the middle is in front of both extremities. So if the one had either straight or round shape, it would have parts and so be many. Therefore, since it has no parts, it is neither straight nor round. Further, being such as we have described, it cannot be anywhere, for it cannot be either (a) in another, or (b) in itself. (a) If it were in another, it would be encompassed all round by that in which it was contained, and would have many contacts with it at many points, but there cannot be contact at many points all round with a thing which is one and has no parts and is not round. (b) On the other hand, if it were in itself, it would have, to encompass it, none other than itself, since it would actually be within itself, and nothing can be within something without being encompassed by that thing. Thus the encompassing thing would be one thing, the encompassed another, for the same thing cannot as a whole both encompass and be encompassed at the same time, and so, in that case, the one would no longer be one, but two. Therefore, the one is not anywhere, being neither in itself nor in another. Next consider whether, such being its condition, it can be (a) in motion or (b) at rest. (a) If it were in motion, it would have to be either moving in place or undergoing alteration, for there are no other kinds of motion. Now, if the one alters, so as to become different from itself, it surely cannot still be one. Therefore, it does not move in the sense of suffering alteration.



             

Does it, then, move in place? If it does, then it must either turn round in the same place or shift from one place to another. If it turns round, it must rest on a center and have those parts which revolve round the center as different parts of itself. But a thing which cannot have a center or parts cannot possibly be carried round on its center. If it moves at all, then, it must move by changing its place and coming to be in different places at different times. Now we saw that it could not be anywhere in anything. It is still more impossible that it should come to be in anything. If a thing is coming to be in something, it cannot be in that thing so long as it is still coming to be in it, nor yet can it be altogether outside it, since it is already coming to be in it. Accordingly this can happen only to a thing which has parts, for part of it will be already in the other thing and part of it outside at the same time, and a thing which has no parts surely cannot possibly be, at the same time, neither wholly inside nor wholly outside something. It is still more impossible that a thing which has no parts and is not a whole should come to be in anything, since it cannot do so either part by part or as a whole. Hence it does not change its place either by traveling anywhere and coming to be in something, or by revolving in the same place, or by changing. Therefore the one is immovable in respect of every kind of motion. (b) On the other hand, we also assert that it cannot actually be in anything. Consequently it can never be in the same [place or condition], because then it would be in that selfsame [place or condition], and we saw that it could not be either in itself or in anything else. The one, then, is never in the same [place or condition]. But what is never in the same [place or condition] is not at rest or stationary. It appears, then, that the one is neither at rest nor in motion. Further the one cannot be either the same as another or the same as itself, nor yet other than itself or other than another. (a) Were it other than itself, it would be other than one and so would not be one. (b) And if it were the same as another, it would be that other and not be itself, so that, in this case again, it would not be just what it is, one, but other than one. Therefore the one will not be the same as another or other than itself. (c) Nor can it be other than another, so long as it is one. To be other than something properly belongs, not to ‘one,’ but only to an

Plato



‘other-than-another.’ Consequently it will not be other in virtue of its being one, and so not in virtue of being itself, and so not as itself, and if as itself it is not in any sense other, it cannot be other than anything. (d) Nor yet can it be the same as itself. For the character (f¥siq) of unity is one thing, the character of sameness another. This is evident because when a thing becomes ‘the same’ as something, it does not become ‘one.’ For instance, if it becomes the same as the many, it must become many, not one, whereas if there were no difference whatever between unity and sameness, whenever a thing became ‘the same,’ it would always become one, and whenever one, the same. So if the one is to be the same as itself, it will not be one with itself, and thus will be one and not one, and that is impossible. Consequently it is equally impossible for the one to be either other than another or the same as itself. Thus the one cannot be other than, or the same as, either itself or another. Nor can the one be (a) like or (b) unlike anything, whether itself or another. (a) A like thing is a thing which has an identical character. But we have seen that the character ‘same’ is distinct from the character ‘one.’ Now if the one has any character distinct from being one, it must have the character of being more things than one, and that is impossible. So it is quite impossible that the one should be a thing ‘having the same character’ as either another or itself. Therefore the one cannot be like another or like itself. (b) But neither is it true of the one that it is different, for, in that case again, it would be true of it that it was more things than one. But if ‘like’ means that of which the same thing is true, a thing that is unlike itself or another will be that which can be truly said to be different from itself or another. And the one, it appears, cannot be said to be different in any way. Consequently, the one is in no way unlike either itself or anything else. Therefore the one cannot be like or unlike either another or itself. Further, the one, being such as we have described, will not be either (a) equal or (b) unequal either to itself or to another. If it is equal, it will have the same number of measures as anything to which it is equal. If greater or less, it will have more or fewer



             

measures than things, less or greater than itself, which are commensurable with it. Or, if they are incommensurable with it, it will have smaller measures in the one case, greater in the other. (a) Now a thing which has no sameness cannot have the same number of measures or of anything else. Therefore the one, not having the same number of measures, cannot be equal to itself or to another. (b) On the other hand, if it had more or fewer measures, it would have as many parts as measures, and thus, once more, it would be no longer one, but as many as its measures. And if it were of one measure, it would be equal to that measure, whereas we saw that it could not be equal to anything. Therefore, since it has neither one measure, nor many, nor few, and has no sameness at all, it appears that it can never be equal to itself or to another, nor yet greater or less than itself or another. Again, can it be held that the one can be older or younger than anything or of the same age with anything? If it is of the same age with itself or another, it will have equality of duration and likeness, and we have said that the one has neither likeness nor equality. We also said that it has no unlikeness or inequality. Such a thing cannot, then, be either older or younger than, or of the same age with, anything. Therefore the one cannot be younger or older than, or of the same age with, either itself or another. We may infer that the one, if it is such as we have described, cannot even occupy time at all. Whatever occupies time must always be becoming older than itself, and ‘older’ always means older than something younger. Consequently, whatever is becoming older than itself, if it is to have something than which it is becoming older, must also be at the same time becoming younger than itself. What I mean is this. If one thing is already different from another, there is no question of its becoming different; either they both are now, or they both have been, or they both will be, different. But if one is in process of becoming different, you cannot say that the other has been, or will be, or as yet is, different; it can only be in process of becoming different. Now the difference signified by ‘older’ is always a difference from something younger. Consequently, what is becoming older than itself must also at the same time be becoming younger than itself. Now, in the process of becoming it cannot take a longer or shorter time than

Plato

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itself; it must take the same time with itself, whether it is becoming, or is, or has been, or will be. So, it seems, any one of the things that occupy time and have a temporal character must be of the same age as itself and also be becoming at once both older and younger than itself. But we saw that none of these characters can attach to the one. Therefore the one has nothing to do with time and does not occupy any stretch of time. Again, the words ‘was,’ ‘has become,’ ‘was becoming’ are understood to mean connection with past time; ‘will be,’‘will be becoming,’ ‘will become,’ with future time; ‘is’ and ‘is becoming,’ with time now present. Consequently, if the one has nothing to do with any time, it never has become or was becoming or was, nor can you say it has become now or is becoming or is, or that it will be becoming or will become or will be in the future. Now a thing can have being only in one of these ways. There is, accordingly, no way in which the one has being. Therefore the one in no sense is. It cannot, then, ‘be’ even to the extent of ‘being’ one, for then it would be a thing that is and has being. Rather, if we can trust such an argument as this, it appears that the one neither is one nor is at all. And if a thing is not, you cannot say that it ‘has’ anything or that there is anything ‘of ’ it. Consequently, it cannot have a name or be spoken of, nor can there be any knowledge or perception or opinion of it. It is not named or spoken of, not an object of opinion or of knowledge, not perceived by any creature. Now can this possibly be the case with the one? I do not think so, said Aristoteles.

Second Hypothesis: If the One Is Shall we, then, go back to our hypothesis and reconsider it from the beginning, in the hope of bringing to light some different result? ‘If a one is,’ we say, we have to agree what sort of consequences follow concerning it. Start afresh, then, and consider. If a one is, it cannot be, and yet not have being. So there will also be the being which the one has, and this is not the same thing as the one; otherwise that being would not be its being, nor would it, the one, have that being, but to say ‘a one is ’ would be tantamount to saying ‘a one

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[is] one.’ But in fact the supposition whose consequences we are to consider is not ‘if a one [is] one,’ but ‘if a one is.’ This implies that ‘is’ and ‘one’ stand for different things. Thus the short statement ‘a one is’ simply means that the one has being. Let us, then, once more state what will follow, if a one is. Consider whether this supposition does not necessarily imply that the one is such as to have parts. That follows in this way. Since ‘is’ is asserted to belong to this one which is, and ‘one’ is asserted to belong to this being which is one, and since ‘being’ and ‘one’ are not the same thing, but both belong to the same thing, namely that ‘one which is’ that we are supposing, it follows that it is ‘one being’ as a whole, and ‘one’ and ‘being’ will be its parts. So we must speak of each of these parts, not merely as a part, but as part of a whole. Therefore, any ‘one that is’ is a whole and also has parts. Again, take each of these two parts of the one being—its unity and its being. Unity can never be lacking to the part ‘being,’ nor being to the part ‘unity.’ Thus each of the two parts, in its turn, will possess both unity and being; any part proves to consist of at least two parts, and so on forever by the same reasoning. Whatever part we arrive at always possesses these two parts, for a ‘one’ always has being and a ‘being’ always has unity. Hence any part always proves to be two and can never be one. In this way, then, what is ‘one being’ must be unlimited in multitude. We may also proceed in another way, as follows. We are saying that the one has being. That is why it is, and it was for that reason that a ‘one which is’ was seen to be a plurality. Now take just this ‘one’ which we are saying has being and conceive it just by itself alone apart from the being which we say it has. Will this ‘one’ itself be found to be merely one or also a plurality? Consider. The ‘one’ itself and its being must be different things since the one is not being, but, as one, has being. If, then, the one and its being are each different from the other, it is not in virtue of being one that the one is different from the being, nor is it in virtue of being ‘being’ that the being is other than the one; they differ from one another in virtueof being different or other. Thus [the term] ‘different’ is not identical with either ‘one’ or ‘being.’ Now suppose we take a selection of these terms, [say] ‘being’ and ‘different,’ or ‘being’ and ‘one,’ or ‘one’ and ‘different.’ In each case we

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are selecting a pair which may be spoken of as ‘both.’ I mean, we can speak of ‘being,’ and again of ‘one.’ We have thus named each member of a pair. And when I say ‘being and one’ or ‘being and different,’ or ‘different and one,’ and so on in every possible combination, I am in each case speaking of ‘both.’ And a pair that can properly be called ‘both’ must be two. And if a pair of things are two, each of them must be one. This applies to our terms. Since each set forms a couple, each term must be one. And if so, then, when any one is added to any pair, the sum will be three. And three is odd, two even. Now if there are two, there must also be twice times, if three, three times, since two is twice times one and three is three times one. And if there are two and twice times, three and three times, there must be twice times two and three times three. And, if there are three which occur twice and two which occur three times, there must be twice times three and three times two. Thus there will be even multiples of even sets, odd multiples of odd sets, odd multiples of even sets, and even multiples of odd sets. That being so, there is no number left, which must not necessarily be. Therefore, if a one is, there must also be number. Now, if number is, there must be many things, and indeed an unlimited plurality of things, that are, for we must admit that number, unlimited in plurality, also proves to have being. And if all number has being, each part of number must have being also. Thus being is distributed throughout all the members of a plurality of beings, and is lacking to none of these beings from the smallest to the greatest; indeed it is nonsense to suggest that anything that is should lack being. Thus being is parceled out among beings of every possible order from smallest to greatest; it is subdivided to the furthest possible point and has an illimitable number of parts. So its parts form the greatest of multitudes. Again, among all these parts there cannot be any which is part of being and yet not a [one] part. If it is, then, so long as it is, it must always be some one part; it cannot be no [not one] part. Consequently, unity must belong to every part of being, and be lacking to none, smaller or greater. And unity, being one, cannot be in many places at once as a whole. And if not as a whole, it must be as divided into parts; only so can it be present to all the parts of being at the same time. Further, that which is divided into parts must be as many as its parts. So we were wrong to say just now that being was distributed

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into the ‘greatest’ multitude of parts. Its parts are not more numerous than those into which unity is distributed, but equal in number, for nothing that is lacks unity, and nothing that is one lacks being; the two maintain their equality all through. It appears, then, that unity itself is parceled out by being, and is not only many but indefinitely numerous. Thus not only is a ‘one which is’ a plurality, but unity itself is distributed by being and is necessarily many.

. P (.. –) The Enneads V.v.; VI.ix.–, , ; V.iii., . Trans. Stephen MacKenna, ed.John Dillon (London: Penguin, ), pp. –; –, , ; –. Greek text in Plotinus: In Seven Volumes with an English Translation by A. H. Armstrong (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, ), vol. , pp. –; vol. , pp. –.

Plotinus, an Egyptian, studied for eleven years in Alexandria with Ammonius Saccas (.. –). Ammonius was perhaps himself a Christian, and he numbered among his students the Alexandrian church father Origen, though probably not Longinus, the author of On the Sublime, as was traditionally believed. In , Plotinus joined the expedition of Emperor Gordian III to Persia, presumably in quest of the wisdom of the East, but when Gordian was assassinated by his own troops, he traveled instead to Rome. There, for the last twenty-six years of his life, he lectured and composed the fifty-four treatises arranged by his pupil Porphyry into six books of nine treatises each, hence the “Enneads.” Together with his master, who left no writings, Plotinus may be considered the founder of Neoplatonic philosophy, which perennially thrives as one of the most persistent and vigorous currents of thinking throughout all subsequent ages of Western culture.1 Neoplatonism reinterprets Plato, incorporating teachings of Aristotle, within a new framework of the quest for salvation via a rational, metaphysical mysticism directed toward a theosophical experience of union and illumination. The goal of philosophy and of human life becomes not just a knowing, in the sense of intellection of objective forms, but a comprehensive unity with the ultimate principle of reality. This current of thought emerges from the milieu of Middle Platonism, which in the first century .. started to rediscover the theological Plato, after several intervening centuries of ethical and anthropological focus in the Academy at Athens.2 . R. T. Wallis, Neoplatonism, nd ed. (London: Bristol Classical Press,  []), provides a concise introduction. . See Philip Merlan, From Platonism to Neoplatonism (The Hague: Martinus Nijoff, ), and R. Baine Harris, “A Brief Description of Neoplatonism,” in The Significance

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Plotinus derives the first three “hypostases” of his system from the first three “hypotheses” of Plato’s Parmenides. In Ennead V.i., he reads these hypotheses as positing, respectively, the pure One (’n), the One-Many (’n-pollå), and the One-and-Many (’n-kaÁ-pollå), which in his system coincide precisely with the One (’n), Intellect (no†q), and Soul (cyx¸). This constitutes a trinity of divine realities or transcendent hypostases from which all beings derive. It also effectively subsumes into a unitary system the principles of three philosophies: the One or Good beyond being of Platonic philosophy, Aristotle’s God defined as Intellect or thought thinking itself, and the WorldSoul of the Stoics.3 This scheme effects a harmonization of Plato’s with Aristotle’s philosophy by recourse to a higher, indefinable, ineffable principle, the One (tØ ’n). Plotinus’s One is perfect and self-sufficient and yet irradiates being throughout the universe. It thus opens the way toward a reconciliation between Greek metaphysics, in which divine perfection meant indifference to the world or the sovereign self-enclosure of “thought thinking itself,” and biblical Creationism, based on the conception of a dynamically relational God who creates and cares for the world. This innovation enabled Neoplatonism to become the common heritage of Christian theologians from the third century onward. Its ontology of a transcendent, divine unity immanently present in all being was promptly appropriated and built into Christian doctrines of God. However, the One of Plotinus generally appears as a depersonalized God, if it can be admitted to be “God” at all. In fact, all purely intellectual beings are divine, so the One earns the title “god” by association, not distinction. Moreover, the One is figured as Center, Source, Root, and Beginning, but is not to be understood as engaging in any creative activity. Being in the universe accrues by a process of irradiation wholly without will or consciousness on the part of the One. The One is immobile and utterly devoid of any activity or attribute. It is the task of the sage to approach this state of utter simplicity. To do so, he must completely abandon words (pånta løgon ΩfeÁq); he is wholly unable to speak about it (oªd| “n Œlvq fu™gjasuai d¥natai), and must go his way in silence (sivp¸santaq de¡ apelue¡n, Ennead VI.viii. and ). As also stated in the Treatise on Contemplation (Ennead III.viii), the sage must of Neoplatonism, ed. R. Baine Harris (Norfolk, Va.: Old Dominion University, ), pp. –. . Cf. Paul Henry, S.J., “The Place of Plotinus in the History of Thought,” in Plotinus, The Enneads, trans. Stephen MacKenna, p. lv. Lloyd P. Gerson, Plotinus (London: Routledge, ) questions whether the threehypostases model accurately represents Plotinus’s thought. In any case, it certainly did for the Neoplatonists following him.

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simply understand in silence (ΩllÅ syni™nai kaÁ aªtØn sivpÎ, III.viii.). Since the absolute principle is indefinable and unsayable, there is more truth in silence than in any name for it, even the name “the One,” if anything at all is thought thereby. Still, the struggle to speak this unspeakable can itself become highly significant: “We find ourselves in an aporia, in pangs at trying to speak. We speak of the unspeakable; wishing to signify it as best we can, we name it” (V.v.). Characterizing such experience as “apophatic,” Plotinus actually bequeaths this term to the tradition. The fifth Ennead offers some of Plotinus’s most elaborate descriptions of an ascent by the negative way to silent contemplation of the One. Paraphrased by Porphyry and translated into Arabic, it circulated in the Middle Ages, together with parts of the fourth and sixth Enneads, under the title “Aristotle’s Theology.” The treatment of unity and vision in V.iii in particular is embedded in a densely argued dialectical analysis of the question of whether or not the One thinks and knows. Responding to Aristotle’s doctrine of God as Thought thinking itself, Plotinus takes the position that the One cannot possess thought or exercise any activity such as knowing without compromising its status as one. Thinking involves inherently a multiplicity: what is thought, the thinker, and the process of thinking. In its multiplicity, thought belongs to Intellect at an ontological level inferior to that of the One. The difference between thought and thinking cannot be introduced into the One, though these things, like all things, flow from the One and depend upon it for their oneness and for their very existence. The One as such, however, beyond Intellect and beyond Being, remains unknowable (V.iii.) and therefore truly ineffable (“rrhton tÎ ΩlhueºQ, V.iii.). Although experience of the One is inconceivable and exceeds all possibility of being rendered into speech, nevertheless it is possible to have an experience of contact or of oneness with the One in apophasis or silence, and afterwards much can be said about this experience, although not about the One per se. Speech then begins after the experience of the One, on the basis of faith in what has been “seen.” Indeed, drawing on Plato’s theories in the Ion and the Phaedrus, Plotinus envisages a poetic speaking inspired by this ecstatic encounter with the One (V.iii.). He describes an experience reached by a transformation of oneself into the light that is seen within by taking away all that is one’s own and therefore other than this utter simplicity. Hence the motto with which the tractate ends: “Take everything away” (“fele pånta).4 . See Werner Beierwaltes, Selbsterkenntnis und Erfahrung der Einheit: Plotins Enneade V . Text, Übersetzung, Interpretation, Erläuterungen (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, ), and more generally on Plotinus (including his influence in Schelling),

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The concluding treatise (VI.ix) of Plotinus’s work as arranged by Porphyry describes the soul’s striving toward unity with the Good above and beyond all that is, through seeking unity within itself, that is, in the soul’s own center regarded as beyond itself in any definable form. This practice of “henosis” is a uniting with the One, not so much as an object as by the erasure of all difference within oneself, so that one becomes indistinct from the One. Against the natural tendency to grasp after determinate objects, and against “the sheer dread of holding to nothingness,” the soul must be induced to relinquish its hold upon itself and thus flow into the indeterminate and indefinable. Numerous allusions to the Parmenides help explain how names and language are let go of in this releasement wrought by the love-passion (®rvtikØn pauhma) of “vision,” which is actually an ecstasy of desire without knowledge. Plotinus’s text, in its panting rhythms, convinces the reader of the reality of the experience it describes. It embodies an intuitive approach, passing through thought to non-thought and beyond every concept to the highest reality. This has made it a model for apophatic discourse across a wide range of Western mysticisms throughout subsequent age.s Beierwaltes’s Das wahre Selbst: Studien zu Plotins Begriff des Geistes und des Einen (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, ). For a more analytical approach that opposes representation, which “measures perspective from the sensible world,” to a paradigm of reflection, in which language is projected from the perspective of the intelligible world, see Frederic M. Schroeder, “Plotinus and Language,” in The Cambridge Companion to Plotinus, ed. Lloyd P. Gerson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), pp. –.

The Enneads V.v.6

. . . [It] follows that The First must be without form, and, if without form, then it is no Being; Being must have some definition and therefore be limited; but the First cannot be thought of as having definition and limit, for thus it would be not the Source but the particular item indicated by the definition assigned to it. If all things belong to the produced, which of them can be thought of as the Supreme? Not included among them, this can be described only as transcending

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them: but they are Being and the Beings; it therefore transcends Being.1 Note that the phrase ‘transcending Being’ assigns no character, makes no assertion, allots no name, carries only the denial of particular being; and in this there is no attempt to circumscribe it: to seek to throw a line about that illimitable Nature would be folly, and anyone thinking to do so cuts himself off from any slightest and most momentary approach to its least vestige. As one wishing to contemplate the Intellectual Nature will lay aside all the representations of sense and so may see what transcends the sense-realm, in the same way one wishing to contemplate what transcends the Intellectual attains by putting away all that is of the intellect, taught by the intellect, no doubt, that the Transcendent exists but never seeking to define it. Its definition, in fact, could be only ‘the indefinable’: what is not a thing is not some definite thing. We are in agony for a true expression; we are talking of the untellable; we name, only to indicate for our own use as best we may. And this name, The One, contains really no more than the negation of plurality: under the same pressure the Pythagoreans found their indication in the symbol ‘Apollo’ (a = not; poll©n = of many) with its repudiation of the multiple.2 If we are led to think positively of The One, name and thing, there would be more truth in silence: the designation, a mere aid to inquiry, was never intended for more than a preliminary affirmation of absolute simplicity to be followed by the rejection of even that statement: it was the best that offered, but remains inadequate to express the nature indicated. For this is a principle not to be conveyed by any sound; it cannot be known on any hearing but, if at all, by vision; and to hope in that vision to see a form is to fail of even that.

. Rep. VI B. . For this Pythagorean etymology of Apollo, cf. Plut. Isis and Osiris F, De E apud Delphos C.

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The Enneads VI.ix.3–5, 7, 10 . What then must The Unity be, what nature is left for it? No wonder that to state it is not easy; even Being and Form are not easy, though we have a way, an approach through the Ideas. The soul or mind reaching towards the formless finds itself incompetent to grasp where nothing bounds it or to take impression where the impinging reality is diffuse; in sheer dread of holding to nothingness, it slips away. The state is painful; often it seeks relief by retreating from all this vagueness to the region of sense, there to rest as on solid ground,1 just as the sight distressed by the minute rests with pleasure on the bold. Soul must see in its own way; this is by coalescence, unification; but in seeking thus to know the Unity it is prevented by that very unification from recognizing that it has found; it cannot distinguish itself from the object of this intuition. None the less, this is our one resource if our philosophy is to give us knowledge of The Unity. We are in search of unity; we are to come to know the principle of all, the Good and First; therefore we may not stand away from the realm of Firsts and lie prostrate among the lasts: we must strike for those Firsts, rising from things of sense which are the lasts. Cleared of all evil in our intention towards The Good, we must ascend to the Principle within ourselves; from many, we must become one; only so do we attain to knowledge of that which is Principle and Unity. We shape ourselves into Intellectual-Principle; we make over our soul in trust to Intellectual-Principle and set it firmly in That; thus what That sees the soul will waken to see: it is through the IntellectualPrinciple that we have this vision of The Unity; it must be our care to bring over nothing whatever from sense, to allow nothing from that source to enter into Intellectual-Principle: with Intellect pure, and with the summit of Intellect, we are to see the All-Pure. If the quester has the impression of extension or shape or mass attaching to That Nature he has not been led by Intellectual-Principle which is not of the order to see such things; the activity has been of

. A glancing reference here to Phaedr. c.

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sense and of the judgement following upon sense: only IntellectualPrinciple can inform us of the things of its scope; its competence is upon its priors, its content, and its issue: but even its content is outside of sense; and still purer, still less touched by multiplicity, are its priors, or rather its Prior. The Unity, then, is not Intellectual-Principle but something higher still: Intellectual-Principle is still a being but that First is no being but precedent to all Being: it cannot be a being, for a being has what we may call the shape of its reality but The Unity is without shape, even shape Intellectual. Generative of all, The Unity is none of all; neither thing nor quantity nor quality nor intellect nor soul; not in motion,2 not at rest, not in place, not in time: it is the self-defined, unique in form or, better, formless, existing before Form was, or Movement or Rest, all of which are attachments of Being and make Being the manifold it is. But how, if not in the movement, can it be otherwise than at rest? The answer is that movement and rest are states pertaining to Being, which necessarily has one or the other or both. Besides, anything at rest must be so in virtue of Rest as something distinct: Unity at rest becomes the ground of an attribute and at once ceases to be a simplex. Note, similarly, that when we speak of this First as Cause we are affirming something happening not to it but to us, the fact that we take from this Self-Enclosed: strictly we should put neither a This nor a That to it; we hover, as it were, about it, seeking the statement of an experience of our own, sometimes nearing this Reality, sometimes baffled by the enigma in which it dwells. . The main source of the difficulty is that awareness of this Principle comes neither by knowing3 nor by the Intellection that discovers the Intellectual Beings but by a presence overpassing all knowledge. In knowing, soul or mind abandons its unity; it cannot remain a simplex: knowing is taking account of things; that accounting is multiple; the mind thus plunging into number and multiplicity departs from unity. . These negations are taken from the first hypothesis of the Parmenides (b–, motion and rest; b, place; a, time), rounded off with a phrase from the Symposium (b). . Cf. Parm. a–, the end of the first hypothesis.

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Our way then takes us beyond knowing; there may be no wandering from unity; knowing and knowable must all be left aside; every object of thought, even the highest, we must pass by, for all that is good is later than This and derives from This as from the sun all the light of the day. ‘Not to be told; not to be written’:4 in our writing and telling we are but urging towards it: out of discussion we call to vision: to those desiring to see, we point the path; our teaching is of the road and the travelling; the seeing must be the very act of one that has made this choice. There are those that have not attained to see. The soul has not come to know the splendour There; it has not felt and clutched to itself that love-passion of vision known to the lover come to rest where he loves. Or struck perhaps by that authentic light, all the soul lit by the nearness gained, we have gone weighted from beneath;5 the vision is frustrate; we should go without burden and we go carrying that which can but keep us back; we are not yet made over into unity. From none is that Principle absent and yet from all: present, it remains absent save to those fit to receive, disciplined into some accordance, able to touch it closely by their likeness and by that kindred power within themselves through which, remaining as it was when it came to them from the Supreme, they are enabled to see in so far as God may at all be seen. Failure to attain may be due to such impediment or to lack of the guiding thought that establishes trust; impediment we must charge against ourselves and strive by entire renunciation to become emancipate; where there is distrust for lack of convincing reason, further considerations may be applied: . Those to whom existence comes about by chance and automatic action and is held together by material forces have drifted far from God and from the concept of unity;6 we are not here addressing them but only such as accept another nature than body and have some conception of soul. Soul must be sounded to the depths, understood as an emanation from Intellectual-Principle and as holding its value by a Reason. A reference to Ep. VII [Plato’s Seventh Letter] c. . Opisthobarês, a remarkable word, of ‘Chaldaean’ provenance (cf. Chaldean Oracles Fragment ). . A reference to Epicureans and Stoics.

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Principle thence infused. Next, this Intellect must be apprehended, an Intellect other than the reasoning faculty known as the rational principle; with reasoning we are already in the region of separation and movement: our sciences are Reason-Principles lodged in soul or mind, having manifestly acquired their character by the presence in the soul of Intellectual-Principle, source of all knowing. Thus we come to see Intellectual-Principle almost as an object of sense: it is perceptible as standing above soul, father to soul, and it is one with the Intellectual Cosmos; we must think of it as a quiet, unwavering motion; containing all things and being all things, it is a multiple but at once indivisible and comporting difference. It is not discriminate as are the Reason-Principles, which can in fact be known one by one: yet its content is not a confusion; every item stands forth distinctly, just as in a science the entire content holds as an indivisible and yet each item is a self-standing verity. Now a plurality thus concentrated like the Intellectual Cosmos is close upon The First—and reason certifies its existence as surely as that of soul—yet, though of higher sovranty than soul, it is not The First since it is not a unity, not simplex as unity, principle over all multiplicity, must be. Before it there is That which must transcend the noblest of the things of Being: there must be a prior to this Principle which aiming towards unity is yet not unity but a thing in unity’s likeness. From this highest it is not sundered; it too is self-present: so close to the unity, it cannot be articulated: and yet it is a principle which in some measure has dared secession. That awesome Prior, The Unity, is not a being, for so its unity would be vested in something else: strictly no name is apt to it, but since name it we must there is a certain rough fitness in designating it as unity with the understanding that it is not the unity of some other thing. Thus it eludes our knowledge, so that the nearer approach to it is through its offspring, Being: we know it as cause of existence to Intellectual-Principle, as fount of all that is best, as the efficacy which, selfperduring and undiminishing, generates all beings and is not to be counted among these its derivatives, to all of which it must be prior. This we can but name The Unity, indicating it to each other by a designation that points to the concept of its partlessness while we are in reality striving to bring our own minds to unity. We are not to think of such unity and partlessness as belong to point or monad; the



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veritable unity is the source of all such quantity which could not exist unless first there existed Being and Being’s Prior: we are not, then, to think in the order of point and monad but to use these—in their simplicity and their rejection of magnitude and partition—as symbols for the higher concept. . If the mind reels before something thus alien to all we know, we must take our stand on the things of this realm and strive thence to see. But in the looking beware of throwing outward; this Principle does not lie away somewhere leaving the rest void; to those of power to reach, it is present; to the inapt, absent. In our daily affairs we cannot hold an object in mind if we have given ourselves elsewhere, occupied upon some other matter; that very thing, and nothing else, must be before us to be truly the object of observation. So here also; preoccupied by the impress of something else, we are withheld under that pressure from becoming aware of The Unity; a mind gripped and fastened by some definite thing cannot take the print of the very contrary. As Matter, it is agreed,7 must be void of quality in order to accept the types of the universe, so and much more must the soul be kept formless if there is to be no infixed impediment to prevent it being brimmed and lit by the Primal Principle. In sum, we must withdraw from all the extern, pointed wholly inwards; no leaning to the outer; the total of things ignored, first in their relation to us and later in the very idea; the self put out of mind in the contemplation of the Supreme; all the commerce so closely There that, if report were possible, one might become to others reporter of that communion. Such converse, we may suppose, was that of Minos,8 thence known as the Familiar of Zeus; and in that memory he established the laws which report it, enlarged to that task by his vision There. Some, on the other hand, there will be to disdain such citizen service,9 choosing to remain in the higher: these will be those that have seen much. God—we read10—is outside of none, present unperceived to all; we break away from Him, or rather from ourselves; what we turn . Cf. Tim. DE. Also Stoic doctrine, cf. Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta I . . f. Homer, Odyssey XIX –, and Plato, Minos Bff. . A reference to Rep. VII D. . Possibly a reference to Parm. c.

Plotinus



from we cannot reach; astray ourselves, we cannot go in search of another; a child distraught will not recognize its father; to find ourselves is to know our source. . But how comes the soul not to keep that ground? Because it has not yet escaped wholly: but there will be the time of vision unbroken, the self hindered no longer by any hindrance of body. Not that those hindrances beset that in us which has veritably seen; it is the other phase of the soul that suffers, and that only when we withdraw from vision and take to knowing by proof, by evidence, by the reasoning processes of the mental habit. Such logic is not to be confounded with that act of ours in the vision; it is not our reason that has seen; it is something greater than reason, reason’s Prior, as far above reason as the very object of that thought must be. In our self-seeing There, the self is seen as belonging to that order, or rather we are merged into that self in us which has the quality of that order. It is a knowing of the self restored to its purity. No doubt we should not speak of seeing; but we cannot help talking in dualities, seen and seer, instead of, boldly, the achievement of unity. In this seeing, we neither hold an object nor trace distinction; there is no two. The man is changed, no longer himself nor self-belonging; he is merged with the Supreme, sunken into it, one with it: centre coincides with centre, for centres of circles, even here below, are one when they unite, and two when they separate; and it is in this sense that we now (after the vision) speak of the Supreme as separate. This is why the vision baffles telling; we cannot detach the Supreme to state it; if we have seen something thus detached we have failed of the Supreme which is to be known only as one with ourselves.

The Enneads V.iii., 

. Thus The One is in truth beyond all statement: any affirmation is of a thing; but ‘all-transcending, resting above even the most



             

august divine Mind’1—this is the only true description, since it does not make it a thing among things, nor name it where no name could identify it: we can but try to indicate, in our own feeble way, something concerning it. When in our perplexity we object, ‘Then it is without self-perception, without self-consciousness, ignorant of itself ’, we must remember that we have been considering it only in its opposites. If we assume within it the distinction of knowing and known, we make it a manifold; and if we allow intellection in it, we make it at that point indigent: supposing that in fact intellection accompanies it, intellection by it must be superfluous. Self-intellection—which is the truest—implies the entire perception of a total self formed from a variety converging into an integral; every single unit in this variety is self-subsistent and has no need to look outside itself: if its intellectual act is, on the other hand, directed upon something outside, then the agent is deficient and the intellection faulty. The wholly simplex and veritable self-sufficing can be lacking at no point: self-intellection begins in that principle which, secondarily self-sufficing, yet needs itself and therefore needs to know itself; this principle, by its self-presence, achieves its sufficiency in virtue of its entire content (it is the all): it becomes thus competent from the total of its being, in the act of living towards itself and looking upon itself. Consciousness, as the very word indicates, is a conperception,2 an act exercised upon a manifold: and even intellection, earlier (nearer to the divine) though it is, implies that the agent turns back upon itself, upon a manifold, then. If that agent says no more than ‘I am a being’, it speaks (by the implied dualism) as a discoverer of the extern; and rightly so, for being is a manifold; when it faces towards the unmanifold and says, ‘I am that being’, it misses both itself and the being (since the simplex cannot be thus divided into knower and known): if it is to utter truth it cannot indicate by ‘being’ something (single like a stone; in the one phrase multiplicity is asserted; for the being thus affirmed—the veritable, as distinguished from such a mere

. An elaborated reference to Rep. VI B. . Etymologizing the syn—in synaisthesis.

Plotinus



container of some trace of being as ought not to be called a being since it stands merely as image to archetype—this must possess multiplicity. But will not each item in that multiplicity be an object of intellection to us? Taken bare and single, no: but Being itself is manifold within itself, and whatever else you may name has Being. This accepted, it follows that anything that is to be thought of as the most utterly simplex of all, cannot have self-intellection; to have that would mean being multiple. The Transcendent, thus, neither knows itself nor is known in itself. . How, then, do we ourselves come to be speaking of it? No doubt we deal with it, but we do not state it; we have neither knowledge nor intellection of it.3 But in what sense do we even deal with it when we have no hold upon it? We do not, it is true, grasp it by knowledge, but that does not mean that we are utterly void of it; we hold it not so as to state it, but so as to be able to speak about it. And we can and do state what it is not, while we are silent as to what it is: we are, in fact, speaking of it in the light of its sequels; unable to state it, we may still possess it. Those divinely possessed and inspired have at least the knowledge that they hold some greater thing within them though they cannot tell what it is; from the movements that stir them and the utterances that come from them they perceive the power, not themselves, that moves them: in the same way, it must be, we stand towards the Supreme when we hold the Intellectual-Principle pure; we know the divine Mind within, that which gives Being and all else of that order: but we know, too, that other, know that it is none of these, but a nobler principle than anything we know as Being; fuller and greater; above reason, mind, and feeling; conferring these powers, not to be confounded with them.

. A reference to Parm. A.

. P? (. ‒) The Anonymous Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, Fragments I–VI. Trans. Gerald Bechtle (Bern: Verlag P. Haupt, ), pp. , –, –. (The translated text only, without notes and summaries, is reproduced here.) Greek text in Pierre Hadot, ed., Porphyre et Victorinus (Paris: Études Augustiniennes, ), vol. , pp. –, –.

This Neoplatonic commentary on Plato’s Parmenides was preserved in very substantial fragments in palimpsests discovered shortly before  in a missal at the monastery of San Columbano in Bobbio above Piacenza in northern Italy. The originals perished in  in a fire in the Turin library. The work has been attributed to Porphyry by Pierre Hadot, and this ascription is endorsed by authoritative scholars such as Henri Saffrey and Werner Beierwaltes.1 It must be acknowledged, however, that the question of authorship has not yet been resolved to the satisfaction of all.2 Porphyry “of Tyre” (as he designates himself in his Life of Plotinus, chapter ), having been a disciple of the philosopher-rhetorician Cassius Longinus (.. –) in Athens, migrated to Rome, where he studied under Ploti. Pierre Hadot initially makes this case in Porphyre et Victorinus. He confirms this attribution and cites scholarly consensus for his thesis in “Dieu comme acte d’être dans le néoplatonisme: À propos des théories d’É. Gilson sur la metaphysique de l’Exode,” in Dieu et l’Être: Exégèse d’Exode . et de Coran .–, ed. Vignau, pp. –. H. D. Saffrey, “Connaissance et inconnaissance de Dieu: Porphyre et la Théosophie de Tübingen,” in Recherches sur le Néoplatomisme après Plotin (Paris: Vrin, ), p. , gives what he considers conclusive external evidence for Porphyry’s authorship as attested by the anonymous Theosophia in the Universitätsbibliotek in Tübingen, corroborating other ancient sources. See, further, Werner Beierwaltes, “Das seiende Eine: Neuplatonische Interpretationen der zweiten Hypothesis des platonischen ‘Parmenides’ und deren Fortbestimmung in der christlichen Theologie und in Hegels Logik,” in Denken des Einen, p. . . Gerald Bechtle, in introducing his English translation of the work as The Anonymous Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, advances complicated reasons for doubting Hadot’s thesis, and Carabine, “The Anonymous Commentary on the Parmenides,” in The Unknown God, pp. –, prefers to leave the question open, as does John Dillon in his introduction to Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, p. xxx (see the next selection in this volume).



Porphyry?



nus for six years. However, his teaching is still dependent on a secondcentury, highly Stoicized work of Middle Platonism, the Chaldean Oracles.3 This work posits a supreme God possessed of Intellect and Power—postulates which Plotinus rejected in conceiving of the One as absolutely without selfknowledge or action or thought. The Commentary departs from Plotinus, then, in allowing that God can have knowledge—even though this is a knowledge that is proper to him alone and is above both knowledge and ignorance as mutually exclusive and anterior to things that are only either known or unknown. The most crucial point on which the Commentary is atypical of Neoplatonic thought and in direct contrast with Plotinus is that it stresses the transcendence of the One but does not deny it the predicate “being.” The One is rather “the only being above all things” (Fragment V). The “One-that-is” of the second hypothesis of the Parmenides must participate in being itself in order to be, and for Porphyry this could only mean that the One beyond being of the first hypothesis is, nevertheless, according to a “secret teaching” of Plato, actually identical with the infinite act of being. It is still unlimited and unqualified, but it is this as the pure act of being (aªto tø ®nergein kauarøn).4 Damascius, in Dubitationes et solutiones , later corroborates this evidence that Porphyry diverged from Plotinus’s teaching that the One is beyond being and identified the One (tØ ’n) with Existence (‹parjiq), or more precisely with the infinitive of being (eµnai), prior to any thing-which-is. Nevertheless, in most respects the Commentary remains very close to Plotinus and echoes the Enneads constantly. This is one clear indication for Henri Saffrey that Porphyry is its author and not Plutarch of Athens, a city where Plotinus had no such currency and canonical authority. Saffrey points out that it is by adapting a phrase of Plotinus’s from the end of Ennead VI.viii. that Porphyry actually manages to coin the formula that becomes the leitmotif of negative theology: we know not what God is (tº [sti), but only what he is not (tº oªk [sti). This formula is then relayed via Pseudo-Dionysius to John Damascene and Eriugena, and eventually to Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas. This highly fragmented text is in some places scarcely intelligible (it is extensively explained and edited with alternatives and conjectures by its translator). Nonetheless, it manages to communicate with particular clarity and poignancy some of the most characteristic and deep-seated convictions of . Cf. Marco Zambon, Porphyre et le moyen-platonisme (Paris: Vrin, ). . In Parm. XII, , in Porphyre et Victorinus, ed. Hadot, vol. , p. .



             

Greek theological thinking in general. The indifference of the supreme principle or divinity to all that comes after it, including humans (“we are nothing in relation to him”), along with the typically negative theological ideas of God’s inconceivable transcendence, and consequently of our being an image of unlikeness to him, as well as of the “weakness of language in these matters,” all receive lapidary formulation. Much of the discussion revolves around the conclusion of the first hypothesis of the Parmenides (a–), which avers the unsayability of the One: “we do not say it, nor is there thought or knowledge of it.” Porphyry shapes this denial into an apophatic act of unknowing: “The soul has no criterion for the knowledge of God, but must be sufficed by the representation of its unknowing of God (tØ t∂q Ωgnvsºaq aªto† e˝kønisma), who refuses every idea (eµdoq) that usually accompanies the act of knowing something” (Fragment IV). Porphyry thereby defines the only valid knowledge of the first cause as an unknowing. The terms of this proposition echo those of the teaching attributed to Porphyry expressly and independently in the Tübingen Theosophia : “but its knowledge is unknowing” (Ωll| [stin aªto† gn©siq Ô Ωgnvsºa). This appears to be a quotation from Porphyry’s Commentary before it became “anonymous.”5 According to Hadot, this work has great significance in demonstrating that the definition of God (this text, unlike Plotinus, does call the supreme principle, the One “God”) as Being itself is not an originally Christian conception developed on the basis of Aristotelian metaphysics, as Gilson maintained, but has a Neoplatonic precedent. For the Commentary envisages a pure act of being—the infinitive of being, eµnai—that has neither subject nor predicate, but is before every thing-that-is. The infinitive is without the duality of subject and predicate; it is simple and indeterminate, truly One. This is a oneness that is not distinct from being or from any other “perfection” in its infinity. Such is the kernel of thinking that will be developed by later Christian metaphysics and result eventually in the edifice of Thomism. This text thus shows a propensity within pagan metaphysical thought to reach the same conclusion as was reached by the Christian metaphysical reflection that found in the Bible a revelation of God as Qui est or Being itself. This convergence points up a certain historical irony. Unlike other pagan, Neoplatonist masters who were oftentimes revered and emulated by Christians, Porphyry was abominated as the enemy of Christianity, for example, by Eusebius of Caesarea in his Evangelical Propadeutics. Yet Porphyry is the . Saffrey, “Connaissance et inconnaissance de Dieu,” p. .

Porphyry?



one who astonishingly anticipates the orthodox Christian thinking of God as Being itself. Indeed, in the fourth century Marcus Victorinus relied on Porphyry’s philosophy of a transcendent One which is also Being in order to prove the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father against the herisiarch Arius, who denied that the Son was of one Being with the Father.6 Porphyry thus indicates the path from Plotinus’s Neoplatonism toward the identity of God with Being (esse) that lies at the heart of Christian ontologies at least since Augustine. . Victorinus’s Latin translation of the Commentary on the Parmenides, contained mostly in his Ad Candidum, is included in Pierre Hadot’s Porphyre et Victorinus.

Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, Fragments I –VI

Fragment I: God, One and Ecstasis (circa Parmenides a–c) . . . For, if the God who is above all things is, for many reasons, unspeakable and nameless, nevertheless it does not attain this in virtue of a deficiency of nature, as [it is] like the notion of the One; for it completely removes from itself all multiplicity and composition and variety and it allows one to think that somehow the One is simple and [that] nothing is before it and [that] it is the origin of the other things. . . . So it is necessary to remove everything and to add nothing; but to remove everything not by falling into that which does not exist in any way at all, but [rather] by maintaining in thought everything that is from him and due to him, holding the opinion that he himself is the cause of both the multitude and the being of them, but himself [is] neither one nor multitude, but “being” beyond all the things



             

which are due to him; therefore he is not above the multitude alone, but also above the notion of the One; for both the One and the monad are because of him. And so it will neither be possible to fall into a vacuum, nor to venture to attach something to him, but to stay in non-apprehensive apprehension and in a conception which conceives nothing; from this exercise it will at some point happen to you, when you turn away also from the concept of the things which exist because of him, that you have come to rest at the unspeakable implicit notion of him, which represents him through silence and which does not even become aware that it is silent, nor pay attention to the fact that it represents him, nor indeed know anything at all, but being merely an image of the unspeakable, being the unspeakable unspeakably, but not as though it were aware of that, if you can imaginatively follow me insofar as I am capable of expressing it. But may we be propitious to ourselves through him, so that we, turned towards the ecstatic apprehension of the Lovable, that we do not know, but will become aware of some time, become worthy of somehow grasping the unknowable itself. But Plato, having completed these things, returns to the modes of the exercise which he has set out; for we remember that he has recommended, having hypothesized that what has been put forward exists, to consider . . .

Fragment II: God Beyond All Else (circa Parmenides 139b–140b) Therefore, is God dissimilar to and other than the mind? And if not by participation in otherness, yet by the fact itself that he is not mind? Or must we say that the One has no experience of similarity or dissimilarity, because, whether the things which are from him and subsist because of him exist or do not exist, [he], always as the same, having incomparable superiority in regard to all things whatsoever— “all things” just as if, [being] of (= belonging to) the things that are subsequent to him, they were nothing—; otherness does not divide / distance him from them (the things after him), because he is incomparable with the things subsequent to him and uncircumscribed;— for how can that which is not circumscribed be different from another thing?

Porphyry?



Similarly, if we inquired into sunsets and someone said that there is not any sunset, because the setting is a darkening of the light and a bringing on of the night and the sun never darkened and does not see the night, but those on earth do, when they fall into the shadow, he would rightly call the setting a condition of those on earth; likewise one should not say sunrise either; for the sunrise is an illumination of the air around the one earth; but for him who is always light, the fact that the air around the earth is sometimes illuminated is nothing, as he himself is unaffected by those things and unacquainted with setting and rising, inasmuch as he is neither illuminated nor darkened; but each is a condition of those on earth and they transfer their own circumstances to him, not knowing what occurs. And as people sailing along the land think the land moves when they are themselves moving, so, in regard to God, all otherness, sameness, similarity and dissimilarity is cast away, he being always without relationship to the things subsequent to him, whereas the things which subsist themselves and are unlike (him) and seek to attach themselves to him think that their relationships are reciprocal also to him. For God acquired nothing additional—for otherwise he would have been defective beforehand, and damaging his own perfection by the additional acquisition—, but, as though he had, as [something] inseparable from himself, [the prospect of ] being the pure being and above all things, being himself his own pleroma, he possesses, in virtue of his unity and solitariness, the further [property] of remaining without relation to the things subsequent to him and subsisting because of him. For it is not necessary to understand the things subsequent to him, as if on the one hand tbey existed either in the same place or in the same hypostasis of their substance, [and as if ] on the other hand he had the things which fill up and the others only the ones which are second; but the notion of the things subsequent to him was as if they had been thrown away from him and were nothing in relation to him. For he himself [is] not that which is not, and [is not] incomprehensible to those who want to know it, but we and all the things which are, are nothing in relation to him. For this reason it was not possible to know him, since all the other things are nothing in relation to him, and the knowledges grasp the like through the like. So we [are] nothing in relation to him, but he himself [is] the only thing



             

that really is {if you understand in the way I mean}, in relation to all the things that are subsequent to him, having no comparison with or relation to them, and not having turned away from his own solitariness to an experience of relation and multiplicity; only that he does not stay in ignorance of the future at any time, but he, who is never in ignorance, recognizes the things as they happen. But we seem to refer our own conditions to him because of our being really nothing, if we can not lay hold of his saving simplicity, by the being of which, in whatsoever way we say being about him, all the other things have salvation as things on earth have in the sunlight. Thus does God know all things? And who does know as he does? And yet how, having knowledge, is he not multiple? Because, I say, there is a knowledge outside knowledge and ignorance, from which knowledge comes. And how, knowing, does he not know, or how, knowing, is he not in ignorance? Because he does not know, not in the sense that he has been in ignorance, but in the sense that he transcends all knowledge; for it is not that having been ignorant at some point, he came to know, but . . . by identity and . . . but as . . . by otherness. This is the knowledge of God: not displaying any otherness and any dyad, or any notion of knowledge and that which is known, but as if it were inseparable from itself, even if not ignorant, he does not know; he is, of course, not ignorant, if he does not know . . . true [that] in a way, and [if ] one takes ignorance, in him, not as that which is based on opposition and privation, i.e. that from which he knows if he is not ignorant, he knows and because of that he is found to be greater than knowledge and ignorance and he knows everything . . . like the other knowing things . . . knows. . . . [This] knowledge is not like [something] of someone who knows the things known, but that itself being knowledge. For as there is illuminated light like the light of the air, which comes from the sun, and unilluminated light, which is really existent light that is not darkened, but being merely that, light itself, like that of the sun which is in itself, so there is also knowledge possessed by a knowing subject which goes from ignorance to knowledge of the known, and there is yet another knowledge, detached, not being of (implying) a knowing subject nor a known object, but the One being that knowledge before anything known and unknown and anything proceeding to knowledge. But I realize that I am slipping away from his knowledge which is in simplicity and without relation to the things both known and un-

Porphyry?



known and that I am uttering unclear things because of the weakness of language in these matters. That is why it is better to move away (to abstain) than to create divisions in the indivisible. It is necessary, however, to know that the things which exist due to him are nothing in relation to him because of the incomparability of his own hypostasis, with which neither the things which have become existent after him nor the ones which are in him are totally in the same [place or hypostasis of their substance]; and therefore it is not possible that one who advances towards the notion of him, clinging to things which are alien to him, should lay hold of the notion of him; but if (sc. one wants to lay hold of the notion of him), [then] it is necessary, after having moved away from everything and from oneself, to approach him, thinking therefore of nothing except to what extent it is removed from the others, but removed not in the sense in which one might remove anything else into impassibility and set it aside. And he has nothing in common with the things that come into being, but those things are nothing in relation to him, while he fills himself with his own unity . . . peculiarly and that he himself knows above everything so that of everything that is, too, there is nothing in him . . .

Fragment III: Time Relations Concerning the One in this way: So the One could not even be in time at all, could it, if it were like that? Or is it not necessary, if something is in time, that it always becomes older than itself ?—It is necessary.—Then the older one is always older than a younger one, is it not?—Well, of course! — That which has thus become older than itself, also becomes younger than itself at the same time, if indeed it is to have something than which it becomes older.—What do you mean?—Thus: one thing does by no means have to become different from another, which is already different, but it already has to be [different] from what is [different] and it has to have become [different] from what will become [different]; but from what it becomes [different], it neither has to have become nor will become nor has to be somehow different, but it has to become [different] and be in no other way.—Yes, it is necessary.—But so is the older one a difference from a younger and from nothing else.—Yes it is.—Thus that which becomes older than itself, necessarily also becomes younger than itself at the same time.—It seems so. —But so [it is necessary], too . . .



             

Fragment IV: Preferability of Negative Theology . . . brings them forth in himself, though they are not. But those who have said that he has snatched himself away from all the things that are his, grant him that both power and mind have been unified in his simplicity, and also another mind, and, although they have not taken him out of the triad, they think that he does away with number, so that they entirely refuse to say that he is the One. In a way, this is correctly and truly said, if gods, as those say who have passed on this tradition, really have proclaimed these things; but they (these things) outstrip every human apprehension and it is as if one spoke to people who are blind from birth about difference of colours, introducing ideas expressed in speech of the very things which are above all speech for their presentation, so that those who hear have on the one hand true words concerning colours, but on the other hand do not know what on earth colour is, since they do not have that by which colour is naturally apprehensible. We therefore lack the power for an act of direct apprehension of God {even if those who in whatever way represent him explain to us through reasoning that it is possible to understand about him} since he stays above any reasoning and any conception in our ignorance of him. If this is so, [then] those who, in knowledge of him, give priority to what he is not are better than those who [give priority to] what he is, even if they speak the truth, because we are incapable of understanding as it is said; for, even if we understand something about him, of the things which they say are his attributes, and ascend to him by means of examples, sharing in those (examples) which they take from this world to achieve a notion of him, and receiving them (the examples) in other senses, still they themselves, too, having again turned back, think that they should not give heed to things that have been spoken straight out, but they should stay away both from those [things] and from an understanding of God according to the concept of these [things]; and so the teaching of these things which were formerly traditionally said to be his attributes comes to an end. There would, I think, be something odd, from the point of view of the purification of the concept (of God ), after hearing of his supposed attributes, in abandoning these also, because the abandonment would be of the greatest things and of those which would have been conceived immediately after himself.

Porphyry?



Now the Stoics do not give up the notion that apprehension of the things might come into existence from some reasoning, but that it is impossible to apprehend God, who is above all things, not only not (sc. is it possible to apprehend him) by means of reasoning, but not even through conception; for it is without purpose, he says, when the soul does not seek to know of what kind something is (i.e. the quality), but what it is, and [when it seeks] to gain knowledge of the essential nature of its being and of its substance; all the cognitive powers, which report on what kind something is (the quality), do not report on that which we look for according to [our] desire, but on that which we do not look for; but God is not a quality, but his being prior to being has [even] removed him both from being and from the it is; it (the soul) does not have a criterion for the knowledge of him, but sufficient for it (the soul ) [is] the image of the ignorance of him, which refuses any form which is present in a knowing subject. So one can know neither him nor the mode of the procession of the things which are second from him and due to him or by him. But those who have ventured to disclose how the things about him are, endeavour to set forth that [mode], too, and they endeavour, clinging to the things around him . . .

Fragment V: The First and the Second One (circa Parmenides 142b) . . . though he has passed to that which is and which does not participate in substance, he (Plato) makes another reasoning as regards the second (One), as though it participated in substance. So if, having hypothesized that which is, he had said it participated in substance, the reasoning would have been paradoxical; but, as he says, having established the (second ) One, that it participates in substance, it is necessary to know that, because it is not the pure One, the property “being” has changed with it (the One); it is for this reason that he says that it participates in substance; as if, in a definition of the human being, one said, having taken animal, that it participated in reasonable, although the human being is the only reasonable animal and animal has changed with reasonable and reasonable with animal. For so also in this case; both the One has changed with substance and substance with One, and there is not a juxtaposition of One



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and of that which is; nor is the One an underlying and the being an accidental [thing]; but there is some property of the hypostasis, imitating on the one hand the simplicity of the One, not resting on the other hand with the purity of it, but bringing it around to being. For since it was not the first One, but the second (One as One-being) [was] not due to another but due to the first, it is neither the same as the first, since it would neither be different nor [derived] from that (i.e. the first One), nor has it gone out of and away from that, that is to say that it has the cause of its procession from another. But since it is from that, it is certainly One, too; but because it is not that, this whole thing is a One that is, whereas that is One alone; for how could One change One, unless the one were pure One, and the other not pure? So it (the second One as One-being) both is and is not that (the first One) at the same time, because that which is after and [derived] from something is in a way that, from which and after which it is, and also something else, which is not only not that from which it is, but is also perceived in the contrary attributes. For example: that is One alone, but this is One-all; and that is One without substance, but this is One with substance; Plato has said that participates in substance [means] being with substance and having substance; not having established that which is and said that that which is participates in substance, but having established the (second) One, One that has substance, he says that it participates in substance. But perhaps because the second is [derived] from the first, because of this the second is said to be One by participation in the first—the whole of the One-being having come into being by community/participation in the (first) One; and because it (this Onebeing which is the second One) has not become existent first, and then participated in the (first) One, but has become existent from the (first) One, having let itself down from it, it was not said to participate in the (first) One, but the One [was said] to participate in that which is, not because the first was that which is, but because [some] difference [coming] from the One has brought it around to this whole, the One-being; for in a sense because of its having, as One, become existent secondarily, it has additionally taken on One-being. But consider whether Plato does not seem to be talking in riddles, since the One that is beyond substance and beyond that which is, is on the one hand not that which is nor substance nor act, but on the other hand rather acts; the acting also is itself pure, so that the

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being itself, which is before that which is, is also [pure]. Participating in this, the other One has from it an extracted being, which means to participate in that which is. Therefore being is double: one “being” exists before that which is, the other is that which is induced by the One which is beyond that which is and which is absolute “being” and is as it were the form of that which is, participating in which (i.e. the first “being” ) some other One has become existent, with which the being which is produced by it (again: the first “being” ) is yoked; as though you thought about a “white being” . . .

Fragment VI: The Two States of the Mind (circa Parmenides 143a) . . . not being able to enter itself. For with what does it see itself, that cannot enter [itself ], except by means of the One? And with what [does it see] itself [as that] in which it cannot enter itself ? What is this which on the same level lays hold of either in a state of distinction? What is this which says that that which thinks and that which is thought are different? Which sees when that which thinks unites itself with that which is thought and when it cannot? Thus it is clear that this is the act beyond those [acts], transcending all and using them all like instruments, laying hold of all and being on the same level and not in anything. Each of the others is fixed in relation to something and assigned to it totally both according to its form and its name, but this [act] is [the act] of nothing; therefore it has neither form nor name nor substance; for it is not controlled in any respect, but it is not even formed by anything, being in essence unaffected and in essence inseparable from itself, not being intelligence, not intelligible, not substance, but beyond everything and unyoked cause of everything. So just as sight does not lay hold of the audible or hearing of the visible or either of the tasteable, and as each does not know that it is different from the other one and that the audible is different from the visible, but there is another power transcending these, which distinguishes them and knows the identity and the difference and the substance and the condition of them, and can lay hold of all, and use them as instruments because of its being superior and transcending them, so the power, too, according to which the mind sees, being



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unable to enter itself, must be another [power], differing from the [common] notion of the intelligence and of the intelligible, and being beyond those in seniority and power. And so, being One and simple, this itself nevertheless differs from itself in act and existence, and it is thus One and simple according to one [standpoint], but differs from itself according to another; for that which differs from the One, is not One and that which is different from the simple is not simple. Thus it is One and simple according to its first form and according to the form of this itself in relation to this itself, power or whatever it is proper to call it in order to indicate it, unspeakable and inapprehensible as it is, but not One and not simple on the level of existence and life and intelligence. Both that which thinks and that which is thought [are] in existence, but that which thinks, if the mind passes from existence to that which thinks, in order to return to the intelligible and to see itself, is in life; that is why on the level of life [mind] is undertermined. All being acts, an act on the level of existence is an act at rest, on the level of intelligence an act turning to itself, on the level of life an act passing out of existence. And on this level [the mind] is at rest and is in motion at the same time, is in itself and in another, is a whole and has parts, and is the same and is different, but on the level of that [part] of it which is purely the One and insofar as it is first and really the One, it is neither at rest nor in motion, neither the same nor different, neither in itself nor in another. But because it is neither thought nor acting, neither towards itself nor towards another . . .

. P (. –) Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, Book VII, K–K. Trans. Glenn R. Morrow and John Dillon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ), pp. –. Greek text in Commentarium in Parmenidem, ed. Victor Cousin, nd ed., Paris . Reprinted in Procli Philosophi Platonici, Opera inedita, pars Tertia, Continens Procli Commentarium in Platoni Parmenidem (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlagsbuchandlung, ). The excerpt here is from the concluding portion of work, for which no Greek original is extant but only the Latin translation of William of Moerbeke discovered by Raymond Klabinsky in the s. For a complete edition of the Latin text see Carlos G. Steel, Commentaire sur le Parménide de Platon: Traduction de Guillaume de Moerbeke (Leiden: Presses Universitaires de Louvain, –),  vols.

Proclus was born in Constantinople but studied philosophy at Athens and became head (diadochos) of the Academy there. Although for the most part he merely systematized Neoplatonic tradition as it had evolved from Plotinus, Proclus is generally taken to represent the acme of Neoplatonic thought.1 He is indeed a brilliant expositor of the ideas of the Neoplatonic school. His Elements of Theology can be said to be “the one genuinely systematic exposition of Neoplatonic metaphysic which has come down to us.” 2 With Proclus, Neoplatonism achieves a systematic form that remains paradigmatic for subsequent Western intellectual history. Much of this influence was exercised . This view follows Hegel’s judgment—“Proklos ist die Spitze der neuplatonischen Philosophie”—in Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie, ed. G. J. P. J. Bolland (Leiden: Adriani, ), p. . A comprehensive introduction to Proclus in English is provided by Lucas Siorvanes, Proclus: Neoplatonic Philosophy and Science (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, ). . Proclus, The Elements of Theology, ed. E. R. Dodds, nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), p. ix. On the “systematic” character of Proclus’s philosophy, as not just rearranging acquired knowledge but speculatively rethinking it as a whole from its grounds, see Werner Beierwaltes, “Proklos: Ein ‘Systematischer’ Philosoph?” in Proclus: Lecteur et interprète des anciens, ed. Jean Pépin and H. D. Saffrey (Paris: CNRS, ), pp. –.





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pseudonymously through the Liber de causis, traditionally attributed to Aristotle, but actually a Latin translation of an Arab manual based on Proclus’s Elements of Theology (Stoixeºvsiq ueologik¸). It was routinely the object of commentaries by famous doctors of theology. Proclus ecclectically cultivated all manner of religious mysteries, magic, and theurgy. He combed through sources such as the Chaldean Oracles, the writings of Hermes Trismegistus, the Pythagorean Golden Verses, and hymns attributed to Orpheus. But for Proclus, Plato’s Parmenides was the peak of all philosophical speculation; even more than this, it was a summa of theological revelation. He considered this book to be divinely inspired and made it the object of quasi-religious rites. He read Plato’s Parmenides not only for its conceptual content, but also for the incantatory power of its syllogistic formulas. His seven-volume commentary on the Parmenides manages to cover only the first hypothesis and breaks off just before moving on to the second. The conclusion reached is that the One has neither being nor unity nor name nor definition nor any relation whatever. Proclus indicates the negative way as the only way of approach to the One. In Elements of Theology, Proposition , Proclus explains that all divinities are unspeakable and unknowable in themselves, as imitating the One beyond being; nevertheless, as participated in by beings, they can be known: “For all the gods are named from the principles which are attached to them, because their diverse natures, otherwise unknowable, may be known from these dependent principles: all deity is in itself unspeakable and unknowable, being of like nature with the unspeakable One; yet from the diversities of the participants may be inferred the peculiar attributes of the participated.”3 The Commentarium in Parmenidem registers the preference for negative propositions that Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite made axiomatic. Yet even negations ultimately fail vis-à-vis the One beyond Being, and must be removed. They, too, are not purely simple. Consequently, they misrepresent the One and in fact can express nothing of it. Proclus confronts the temptation to conclude that the One is nothing other than a mere name. He suggests that Aristotle concluded exactly this, since for him nothing violating the principle of non-contradiction could exist. This is presumably why Aristotle recognized no further ultimate cause than Intellect, for Intellect (= Being) still adheres to a logic of oppositions. Such a dialectic, with its negations, although good training and preparation for the sage, must be entirely set aside in the end, in order that the soul may attain simplicity and so become capable of

. Elements of Theology, ed. Dodds, pp. –.

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pure vision and union with the divine. This quest is consummated in silence. In fact, it is clear to Proclus that in talking about the One we can only be talking about a unity, or desire for unity, in ourselves: “So the One itself is not nameable, but the One in ourselves. . . . So silent understanding is before that which is put into language, and desire is before any understanding, before that which is inexpressible as well as before that which is analysable” (–K).4 Thanks primarily to Proclus’s monumental work, both in his Commentary on the Parmenides and in his Platonic Theology, exegesis of the hypotheses of the Parmenides grows into the classical treatise on the divine names or attributes, which becomes a canonical genre with Pseudo-Dionysius’s De divinis nominibus. Through Dionysius’s work in particular, which depends directly on Proclus,5 this generic form was communicated beyond its originally pagan matrix to the Christian Middle Ages at large: it can be discerned in Eriugena’s De divisione naturae and receives magisterial reformulations by Albert the Great in his commentary Super Dionysium de Divinis Nominibus and by Thomas Aquinas in Quaestio  of the Summa theologiae, part Ia. Proclus’s Commentarium in Parmenidem thus had enormous influence, not only on Greek theology from Dionysius onward, but also on Latin theology through Scholasticism and on the Renaissance Platonism of Marsilio Ficino and Pico della Mirandola. It was said to be the “most valuable of books” by Nicholas of Cusa and was still much used by German idealists such as Hegel and Schelling. . Proclus’s apophatic method of reaching ecstatic union with the first principle is described by Werner Beierwaltes, Proclus: Grundzüge seiner Metaphysik (Frankfurt: Klostermann, ), pp. –. . The structural derivation of Dionysius’s treatise from the Proclean model is demonstrated in detail by Eugenio Corsini, Il trattato De Divinis Nominibus dello PseudoDionigi e i commenti neoplatonici al Parmenide (Turin: Giappichelli, ). See, further, H. D. Saffrey, “Nouveaux liens objectifs entre le Pseudo-Denys et Proclus,” in Recherches sur le Néoplatomisme après Plotin, and Werner Beierwaltes, “Dionysius Areopagites—ein christlicher Proklos?” in Platonismus im Christentum.

Commentarium in Parmenidem, Book VII, K–K

Clearly we must first enquire how it is that no name of the One is really spoken. We shall learn that if names are natural, the first principle has no name, not even the name “one,” understanding that

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everything that is by nature a name of something has meaning as being congruous to its object, either by analysis into simple names or by reduction to its letters. If this is so, then “one” has to be reduced to its letters, since it cannot be analysed into any simpler name. So the letters of which it is composed will have to represent something of its nature. But each of them will represent something different, and so the first principle will not be one. So if it had a name, the One would not be one. This is proved from the rules about names which are plainly stated in the Cratylus (d). The question arises, however, how it is that we call it “one” when the thing itself is altogether unnameable? We should rather say that it is not the One that we call “one” when we use this name, but the understanding of unity which is in ourselves. For everything that exists—beings with intellect, with soul, with life, and inanimate objects and the very matter that goes with these—all long for the first cause and have a natural striving towards it. And this fact shows us that the predilection for the One does not come from knowledge, since if it did, what has no share in knowledge could not seek it; but everything has a natural striving after the One, as also has the soul. What else is the One in ourselves except the operation and energy of this striving? It is therefore this interior understanding of unity, which is a projection and as it were an expression of the One in ourselves, that we call “the One.” So the One itself is not nameable, but the One in ourselves. By means of this, as what is most appropriate to it, we first speak of it and make it known to our own peers. Since there are two activities in us, the one appetitive and the other reflective (the former existing also in those beings that are inferior to ourselves, but the latter only in those that are conscious of their appetites), that abiding activity that is common to all may not be absent from our own souls, but these must be responsive to the energies that concern the first principle, and so the love of the One must be inextinguishable. This is indeed why this love is real, even though the One is incomprehensible and unknowable. But consciousness labours and falls short when it encounters the unknown. So silent understanding is before that which is put into language, and desire is before any understanding, before that which is inexpressible as well as before that which is analysable. Why, then, do we call the understanding of unity within ourselves “one” and not something else? Because, I should say, unity is

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the most venerable of all the things we know. For everything is preserved and perfected by being unified,1 but perishes and becomes less perfect when it lacks the virtue of cleaving together and when it gets further away from being one. So disintegrated bodies perish, and souls which multiply their powers die their own death. But they revive when they re-collect themselves and flee back to unity from the division and dispersal of their powers. Unity, then, is the most venerable thing, which perfects and preserves everything, and that is why we give this name to the concept that we have of the first principle. Besides, we noticed that not everything participates in other predicates, not even in existence, for there are things which in themselves are not existents and do not have being. And much less does everything participate in life or intellect or rest or movement. But in unity, everything. Even if you mention “many,” this cannot exist without having a share in some sort of unity. For no multitude can be infinite, so if a multitude occurs, it will be finite. But a finite multitude is a number, and a number is some one thing. For “three” or “four” (and so for any of the numbers) is a sort of unity. It is indeed not a monad, but at any rate it is a unity, for it is a kind, and a kind always participates in unity, for it unites its members. Or how could we say that “three” is one number and “four” another, if they were not distinguished from one another as distinct unities? So everything participates in some unity, and that is why “one” seems to be the most important of predicates. It was therefore correct to give the name “one” to the conception which we have of the first principle. And as we know that unity is common to everything and preserves everything, this will guide us in naming that which is the cause and the desire of all things. For it had to be named either after all things or after those that come next after it; so it can be named “one” after all things.2 Why do we not say that the other names also are names of the concepts that we have, and not of the things themselves—e.g. “intellect,”“the intelligible,” and so on? I would say because the concepts of other things give knowledge of the things of which they are concepts, and they arise in us cognitively; and for this reason they are some. Cf. Plotinus Enn. VI, .. . Cf. Platonic Theology III,  [Safri-Westerlink edition].

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times (though not always) projected into language. But our concept and apprehension of the One, i.e. our travail, is in our nature per se, and not in the manner of a perception3 or cognition. The other concepts, being cognitions, coexist with their objects and are capable of naming them, for their objects can somehow be grasped by them. This concept, however, is not cognitive and does not grasp the One, but is essentially an operation of nature and a natural desire of unity. This is proved by the fact that the desire of everything is desire of the One, but if our concept were of something known, then its object would only be the object of desire to the cognitive powers and not to things without knowledge. From this it is clear that the One and the Good are the same. For each is the object of desire to all things, just as nothingness and evil are what all things shun. And if the One and the Good are different, then either there are two principles or, if the One is before the Good, how can the desire of the One but be higher than the desire of the Good? But how can it be better, if it is not good? Or if the Good is before the One, since it will not be one it will be both good and not good. If, then, the One is the same as the Good, then it is right that it should be an object of desire before any cognition and that the apprehension of it should not be of the same kind as of knowable things. This is why our concepts of these really name their objects, for they know them; but this other apprehension desires something unknown and, impotent to comprehend it, it applies the name “one,” not to the unknown—for how could it?—but to itself, as somehow divining the reality of what transcends itself and everything else. But it is unable to reflect on the One itself; for, as we have said, the desire of the One, the incessant movement of striving, is in all things by nature and not by representation. Even the divine Intellect, as I have said before, does not know the One by direct vision4 (i.e. intuitively) or intellectually, but is united with it, “drunk with its nectar” (Symp. b), for its nature, and what is in it, is better than all knowledge . . .

. kat| ®pibol¸n (secundum adiectionem). Originally an Epicurean term, ®pibol¸ is taken up by later Platonists, beginning with Iamblichus (e.g. Protrepticus .), with the general meaning of an act of “attention” or “apprehension.” . ®piblhtik©q, transliterated by Moerbeke (“intuitively”—iniective—is his translation) a rare word, used by Proclus elsewhere only at De philosophia Chaldaica Ecl. .. Adj. first used in this sense by Iamblichus, Protrepticus ..

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(Lacuna) Thus the One is the desire of all, and all are preserved by it and are what they are through it, and in comparison with it, as with the Good, nothing else has value for anything. So Socrates says at the beginning that it is knowable, but immediately adds a qualification, saying how it is knowable, namely, “to him who inclines his own light towards it” (Rep. VII, a). What does he mean by “light,” except the one that is in the soul? For he said that the Good can be compared with the sun, and that this light is like a seed from the Good planted in souls. Besides, before speaking of the light, he too made it quite clear that the way to it is by negations: “As if in battle one has to rob it of everything and separate it from everything” (Rep. VII, b). So it is right that it should not be possible to apply a name to it, as if one could be made to fit what is beyond all things. But to it “one” only can be applied if one desires to express what not only Plato but the gods, too, have called inexpressible. For they themselves have given oracles to this effect.5 “For all things, as they come from one and revert to one, are divided, intellectually, into many bodies.” They counsel us to get rid of multiplicity of soul, to conduct our mind upwards and bring it to unity, saying, “Do not retain in your intellect anything which is multiple,” but “direct the thought of the soul towards the One.” The gods, knowing what concerns them, tend upwards towards the One by means of the One in themselves. And this precisely is their theological teaching; through the voice of the true theologians they have handed down to us this hint regarding the first principle. They call it in their own language, Ad, which is their word for “one”; so it is translated by people who know their language.6 And they duplicate it in order to name the demiurgic intellect of the world, which they call “Adad, worthy of all praise.” They do not say that it comes immediately next to the One, but only that it is comparable to the One by way of proportion; for as the former is to the intelligible, so the latter is to the whole visible world, and for that rea. What follow are quotations from the Chaldaean Oracles, but they do not survive in Greek. . This must still refer to the Chaldaeans, but in this case we have a piece of real Chaldaean lore, not attested as such in the surviving fragments of the Oracles (though the terms ”paj ®p™keina and dÁq ®p™keina, for the supreme god and demiurge respectively, may well allude to Ad and Adad). On Adad cf. Macrobius, Saturnalia I, ., where he gives “unus unus” as a translation of Adad.

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son the former is called simply Ad, but the other which duplicates it is called Adad. Orpheus has also pronounced which god was first named, saying: “The gods called Phanes by name first on great Olympus” (fr.  Kern). He himself speaks of things that existed before Phanes and symbolically applies names taken from the lowest levels of reality—“Time” and “Ether” and “Chaos” (fr.  Kern), and, if you will, “the Egg,” but he never says that the gods used these names. For these were not their names but he transferred to them names that belong to other things. If, then, one must give a name to the first principle, “one” and “good” seem to belong to it; for these characters can be seen to pervade the whole of existence. Yet it is beyond every name. This feature of the One is reproduced, but in a different way, by the last of all things, which also cannot be represented by a name of its own; how could it, since it has no determinate nature? But it is named dexamene µ, i.e. “receptacle,” and tithe µne µ, i.e. “nurse,” and “matter” and “the underlying,” after the things that come before it, just as the first is named after the things that come after it. “Therefore it is not named or spoken or judged or known, and nothing perceives it.” “Apparently not.” (a) It is stated clearly in the Letters (VII, a–a) that no name can with certainty comprehend an intelligible object, nor can a visible picture, nor a definition, nor any rational knowledge of it. The intellect alone is capable of grasping an intelligible essence certainly and perfectly. Plato works out the argument for one example, the circle. For when does this mere name “circle” grasp the whole essence of the intelligible circle? When we hear the name, what do we know but the name? Nor does an impression drawn in the dust by a geometrician comprehend it. For this is merely one of the copies multiplying it, not first known by reasoning but by sense and imagination. Nor yet the definition, which does indeed circle round its essential nature; but it is complex and composite and so cannot seize upon the simplicity of that essence. Nor does the theory of it grasp it, even if it meditates a thousand times things that themselves belong accidentally to the circle, and one might as well call it knowledge of these other things.

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All these are about it but are not itself. But the intellect and intellectual knowledge knows the essence itself and comprehends the Form itself even by simple intuition. So it alone is capable of knowing the circle. And similarly for “the equal” and “the unequal” and the other characters severally. If, then, we have shown that names and definitions and rational knowledge are worthless for grasping intelligible objects, what should we say about them with regard to the One? Surely that all names and all discourse and all rational knowledge fall short of it? So the One is not nameable or expressible or knowable or perceptible by anything that exists. This is why it is beyond the grasp of all sensation, all judgement, all science, all reasoning, all names. But, you will say, what is the difference between this and what he has already said? For he said before that there is no apprehension of the One. But there he said that the One by others . . . He is showing by this very insistence that it is not unknowable because of the weakness of other things, but by its own nature. By what he said before, he indicated the inferiority of other things in relation to the One, but here its super-excellence with regard to itself. But we must attend to the fact that when he says that the One is not known, by “knowledge” he means “rational knowledge.” Before, he mentioned three things—rational knowledge, opinion, and sensation—and as in this sentence he takes up two that are the same as in the previous one, namely sensation and opinion, it is obvious that by the third, “knowledge,” he means only rational knowledge, so that if there is a divinely inspired knowledge that is better than rational knowledge and which leads the One in ourselves towards that One, obviously the argument did not eliminate this, and learning it is the “final discipline,” as Socrates rightly says (Rep. VI, a), because it is discipline in the final knowledge. But this final knowledge is not science, but is higher than science. “Is it possible that all this holds true of the One?” “I should say not.” (a) To all his negative propositions he now appends this very unexpected conclusion, which raises a grave doubt. In what sense is it impossible that these things should hold true of the One? Are not all the foregoing arguments dismissed by this single remark?



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Some people7 have therefore been persuaded by this passage to say that the First Hypothesis reaches impossible conclusions, and so that the One is not a real subject. For they associate all the negations into one hypothetical syllogism: “If the One exists, it is not a whole, it has not a beginning, middle, or end, it has no shape,” and so on, and after all the rest, “It has no existence, is not existence, is not expressible, is not nameable, is not knowable.” Since these are impossibilities, they concluded that Plato himself is saying that the One is an impossibility. But this was really because they themselves held that there is no One that is imparticipable by existence and, therefore, that the One is not different from Being nor from the One-Being, and that “one” has as many modes as being, and that the One that is beyond Being is a mere name. In reply to this interpretation, it must be stated that impossibility must lie either in the premise or in the reasoning. But the deduction was a necessary one, as every consequent statement was always proved by what went before, and the premise was true. For there must be a One that is simply one, as we have shown both from what is said in the Sophist and also from objective necessity. So the hypothesis does not lead to a conclusion that is impossible or that conflicts with Platonic doctrine. What more need we say to these people, who are already refuted by what is said about dialectic in the Republic (VII, bff.), namely, that it treats of the cause of all the intelligibles, which approach differs in no way from the negative method? If this view is true, where does Plato discuss the One negatively? Not in the Second Hypothesis, where he discusses “all” affirmatively, nor in the third, where he discusses “all” negatively. The alternative remains, that the discussion of the One is either in this hypothesis, or nowhere. But the latter is unlikely, as Socrates said in that passage that it was the main subject of dialectic. But others admit 8 the validity of the hypothesis, because the Republic also says about the first principle that it is what is beyond intellect, and the intelligible and beyond existence (VI, b), and these are what Plato here denies of the One, while in the Second Hypothe. Origen the Platonist. . Once more we are in a sequence of three authorities, culminating in Syrianus, so one may conjecture that this is Porphyry.

Proclus



sis he begins by affirming existence. So if the first does not deal with the One that is beyond Being, what other hypothesis is there besides it that does so? And so their reply to this doubt is that Parmenides believes all the foregoing conclusions to be true, but that this statement is not the close of the discussion of the First Hypothesis, but is put down as the starting-point of the Second; in order to show the way to the Second Hypothesis, he says that someone may find these conclusions impossible as concerning the One. He had to bring in what was needed to pass over to the Second Hypothesis so that we should not find anything superfluous. For these things only seem impossible because of the inexpressibleness of the One, since it is obvious to any one that, as far as truth goes, they are not impossible. For possible premises do not lead to impossible conclusions, but the premise is possible, unless the really-One is incapable of being real. The Stranger in the Sophist reminds us of this (a–b) where he refutes those who say that the first is the whole, by showing that the really-One is not a whole. If the premise is granted that there is the absolutely-One, then everything follows necessarily from this by necessary hypothetical syllogisms. So this statement, “These things are impossible,” is made as a constructive introduction, in order to show the way to the Second Hypothesis, because they are impossible on account of the super-excellence of the One. For what is to follow is more commensurate with our understanding and easier to communicate to us than what has gone before, as it has more affinity with our minds. Plato himself in the Letters (II, e) replies to someone who asks what the first principle is, that such a question is unsuitable. For nothing that has any affinity with us should be attributed to the first principle, and one should absolutely not ask “what is it like?” That is dealt with in the Second Hypothesis, which asks what the One Being is like and shows that it is a whole, that it is a finite and infinite manifold, that it is in motion and at rest, and that it is everything, in due order, that agrees with these characters. But the First Hypothesis which takes the absolutely-One for its subject does not tell us what it is like, but removes everything from it and assigns nothing to it because nothing that has any affinity with us ought to be said of it. From this it is obvious that what has been said will seem impossible (though, as has been shown, it is all possible), because it is so far from our own nature and so totally foreign to Plato’s own rule for speaking about the first principle.



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This, then, is the argument of these people. But others,9 later than these, think that this conclusion is a generalisation which contains all the previous negations. For just as there are conclusions rounding off every theorem, so this conclusion is appended to the rest, “that all these things are impossible of the One,” namely, “many,” “whole,” “shape,” “being in itself or another,” the various genera of Being, “like” and “unlike,” “equal” and “unequal,” the property of being older than, younger than, and the same age as itself, the threeand nine-foldness of the parts of time, and after all these, also participation in substance, being existence itself, being participable by existence, expressibleness, knowableness. All of these, as has been shown, are impossible of the One. This is why he asks if it is possible to say these things which he has asked about of the One, and Aristoteles denies it. For whatever you add to “one,” any kind of existent whatever, is something other than one. If “one” has something else added to it besides what it itself is, it becomes “something that is one” instead of being simply “one,” just as, if “animal” has something else added to it besides what it itself is, it becomes “a particular animal.” And so with everything considered in itself: “good,” or “equal” or “like,” or “whole,” if they have anything else added to them they are no longer just those characters themselves but have become “something good,” “something equal,” “something that is like”—in general one should say the same about all these characters considered in themselves as about “one.” This is, then, a single negation summing all the rest and added to them. The One, not being one among all things, is the cause of all.10 So the general negation represents at the same time the whole progression of all from the One and the manifestation of individual beings taken together and separately in the order that appears fitting. And this interpretation, too, is correct. Of these solutions, the former aims at literary consistency, while the latter does not depart from the consideration of reality, However, following our Master, we must also say that negative propositions in the sphere of the existent have different meanings according to their subject matter. Sometimes they have only a privative, sometimes also

. Perhaps Iamblichus. . Cf. Plotinus Enn. VI, .: “That which is cause of all is none of those things (of which it is cause).”

Proclus

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specific11 significance. E.g. we say “is not” in speaking of rest because it is not movement or identity or difference, and similarly we say “is not” in speaking of movement because it is not any of the other things; and in general each thing is in a single way, inasmuch as it is itself, but in many ways it is not, inasmuch as it is distinguished from other things. But though we deny other things of it, these negative propositions are in a particular way tied up with positive propositions. For it does also participate in each of the other things, yet it keeps its own integrity and is what it is. In this case, then, the negative propositions are specific, for not being that, it will be the other; now this is intellectual form. For it has been shown that it is the character of difference as distributed 12 in this sphere that makes “not being” true in it; this is what constitutes negation here. On the other hand, in speaking of sensible objects we say that Socrates is not a horse and not a lion, and is not any of the other things, for he lacks all the other characters. For, being one particular thing, he is not an infinite number of others, and in him there are lacks, which are nothing but lacks, of all of those characters. For he does not in a particular way participate in the other things, as we said was true of intelligibles. And this non-participation is not due to the purity of the idea “Socrates,” but to the weakness of a material and corporeal subject, which is incapable of a simultaneous participation in everything. For this reason negative propositions in the intelligible sphere really express something about the predicates. The same holds true also of negative propositions about objects of sense; but in the former case they are specific, while in the latter they are merely privative. But negative propositions about the One do not really express anything about the One. For nothing at all applies to it, either specifically or privatively, but, as we have said, the name “one” names our conception of it, not the One itself, and so we say that the negation also is about our conception, and none of the negative conclusions that have been stated is about the One, but because of its simplicity, it

. Specionaliter, presumably translating e˝dhtik©q. Cf. K. and K. below. . Cf. Plato, Soph. e: “And we shall say that (the character of difference) pervades all (the forms) . . .”; and e: “The character of difference seems to me to have been parcelled out.”



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is exalted above all contrast and all negation. So he rightly added at the end that these negative propositions do not express anything about the One. It is not the same thing to refer to the One and to express something about the One. The argument does not express anything about the One, for it is indefinable. So the negative propositions that have been stated do not express anything about the One, but do refer to the One. This is why they resemble neither those which occur in the intelligible sphere nor those which are about the objects of sense. For the former are about the same things of which the negations also are predicated, while the latter do not in any way express anything about the One. This, then, is the solution of our first doubt. But from another point of view one must say that he first denies everything of the One, thinking that negations are more suited to it than assertions, and keeping the hypothesis which says “is”of the One. But since, as he advances, he has taken away from it not only everything else but also participation in substance and Being, which itself is of high value, and has shown that it is neither expressible nor knowable, now at the end he rightly removes from it even the negations themselves. For if the One is not expressible and if it has no definition, then how will the negations be true for it? For every proposition says that “this” belongs to “that.” , it is totally unnameable. But there has to be some name as the subject of a negative proposition, and so even the negations are not true of the One, but negations are truer than assertions; yet even they fall short of the simplicity of the One. Indeed all truth is in it, but it is itself better than all truth. So how would it be possible to say anything true about it? He is therefore right in ending with the removal even of the negatives, saying that it is impossible that they should express anything about the One, which is inexpressible and unknowable. And one should not wonder that Plato, who always respects the principles of contradiction, says here that both the assertions and the denials are false of the One at the same time. For with regard to what can be said, assertion and denial make the distinction between true and false: but where no proposition is possible, what kind of assertion would be possible? It is clear to me that he too, who after Plato refused to admit a One above Intelligence for the reason that he was convinced of the validity of the principle of contradiction, and saw that the One was inexpressible and unspeakable, stopped short at the intellectual cause

Proclus



and the Intellect, the cause superior to all things,13 however, by asserting that the Intellect is the cause, he eliminates providence; for it is providence that is characteristic of the One that is beyond Intellect, not mere thought such as is proper to Intellect. And by abolishing providence he does away with creation, for what can provide for nothing is sterile. And by rejecting creation he is rejecting the hypothesis of the Ideas according to which the Demiurge fashions his work, and consequently—not to enumerate everything—he does away with the whole of dialectics . . . introducing new doctrines into his inherited philosophy. In order to escape this, we say that, for the inexpressible, contradictory propositions are both false, that they make the distinction between true and false only in the sphere of the expressible, and that in no sphere are they ever both true. To give, as they say, the third cup to Zeus the Preserver,14 we take the negative propositions about the One as generating positive propositions, as has often been said; but do not think that the One has the power of generating all things, both productivity and existence having been removed from it. For power is a middle term between these . . . the last negation referring to the One removes also such negations from it.15 And “these things are not possible of the One” means that even the power of generating all things, which we said was a characteristic of negation, does not belong to the One, and therefore, even if it is said to generate and to produce, these expressions are transferred to it from the sphere of the existent, since they are the most distinguished names of powers. But it is better than all these names, just as it is better than the things that are named by us. Indeed, if I am to state my opinion, positive propositions apply rather to the monads of kinds of being, for the power of generating things is in these. The first principle is before every power and before assertions. Next, then, let us take up the fourth way of solving the problem. The soul ascending to the level of Intellect . . . ascends with her multitude of faculties, but sheds everything that dissipates her activities. Now going further and having arrived there she comes to rest in

. It is Aristotle, of course, who is being referred to. . A proverbial expression, but used by Plato at Philebus d, Rep. IX, b, Ep. VII, a. . Sc. essence and activity. But there is plainly some corruption in the text here.



             

the One Being, and she approaches the One itself and becomes single, not becoming inquisitive or asking what it is not and what it is, but everywhere closing her eyes, and contracting all her activity and being content with unity alone. Parmenides, then, is imitating this and ends by doing away both with the negations and with the whole argument, because he wants to conclude the discourse about the One with the inexpressible. For the term of the progress towards it has to be a halt; of the upward movement, rest; of the arguments that it is inexpressible and of all knowledge, a unification. For all these reasons it seems to me that he ends by removing the negations also from the One. For this whole dialectical method, which works by negations, conducts us to what lies before the threshold of the One, removing all inferior things and by this removal dissolving the impediments to the contemplation of the One, if it is possible to speak of such a thing. But after going through all the negations, one ought to set aside this dialectical method also, as being troublesome and introducing the notion of the things denied with which the One can have no neighborhood. For the intellect cannot have a pure vision when it is obstructed intelligising the things that come after it, nor the soul distracted by deliberation, of the things that are lower than the soul, nor in general is it possible to have perfect vision with deliberation. Deliberation is the mark of thought’s encounter with difficulties: this is why Nature produces and knowledge says what it says without deliberation. It deliberates only when it is doubtful and falls short of being knowledge. Just as there deliberation ought to be eliminated from our activity, although it is brought to perfection by deliberation, so here all dialectical activity ought to be eliminated. These dialectical operations are the preparation for the strain towards the One, but are not themselves the strain. Or rather, not only must it be eliminated, but the strain as well. Finally, when it has completed its course, the soul may rightly abide with the One. Having become single and alone in itself, it will choose only the simply One. This seems to be the point of the last question that Parmenides asks when he concludes this long development of the argument about the One. And so it is right that Aristoteles also, following him, the nature of Being to the inexpressible itself; for by means of a negation he too removes all the negations. It is with silence, then, that he brings to completion the study of the One.

. D (. –?) Damascius, Doubts and Solutions Concerning First Principles, Part I, chapters –. In APORIAI KAI LYSEIS (Dubitationes et solutiones), comprising PERI TON PRVTVN ARXVN (De primis principis) and EIS TON PLATVNOS PARMENIDHN (In Platonis Parmenidem), ed. C. E. Ruelle,  vols. (Paris, –; rpt., Bruxelles: Culture and Civilization, ), vol. , pp. -. My original English translation from Greek text newly established in Traité des premiers principes, vol. , De l’Ineffable et de l’Un, ed. Leendert Gerrit Westerink, trans. Joseph Combès (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, ), pp. –. I adopt this edition’s section headings and follow its interpretation in the translation of difficult passages.

Presumably of Syrian origin, Damascius is thought to have taught rhetoric in Alexandria before transferring to Athens two or three years before Proclus’s death in . Around – his doubts concerning rhetoric, due to his declining faith in the truth of words, issued in a “conversion” to philosophy in the hope of concentrating “not on words but on the essence of things.”1 He seems to have become the head of the Academy in Athens, the “successor” (diådoxoq) of Plato, before going into exile in Persia following the interdiction placed upon the teaching of pagan philosophy by Justinian in . His reception, together with other Greek philosophers, in the court of king Chosroes, newly come to the throne, may have sown seeds that eventually transmitted something of Neoplatonic thought to Iranian Sufism. Damascius’s work drives discourse to the limits of its intelligibility in order to show where it breaks down and yields to the ineffable that defies rationalization. This effect is fortified by a style that is highly recursive and elliptical. Damascius’s method is to employ rigorous rational critique in order to generate aporias that force the mind beyond the parameters of reasoning and of discourse altogether. Aporetic logic thus becomes also a spiritual . Cited in Joseph Combès’s introduction to his French translation, Traité des premiers principes, vol. , p. xiii.





             

method, earning Damascius the reputation of being a mystic as well as a philosopher.2 Whereas Proclus developed a way of negations to be used in some positive manner to express, or at least point to, the transcendent, Damascius rejects even the via negativa. It is still based on language and as such is worthless. For him, only the unknown is left after language has failed and been negated, and the only appropriate behavior then is silence.3 Of course, in Proclus, too, negative discourse in the end negates even itself (“negatio negationis”) and issues in silence. But Damascius uses the more skeptical-sounding vocabulary of “reversal” or “turning around against itself ” (peritrep™suai, peritrop¸) to describe discourse that refutes and annuls itself. Some scholars therefore hypothesize an indirect influence of skeptics, such as Sextus Empiricus (second century ..), upon Neoplatonic philosophy.4 Damascius is indeed radically skeptical concerning all language as applied to the transcendent principle, and yet this language negatively registers a vertiginous experience of radical transcendence. To this extent, he is comparable to his contemporary, Dionysius the Areopagite. However, Dionysius is the progenitor of a long line of Christian apophatic theologians, whereas Damascius concludes the genealogy of ancient pagan Neoplatonist philosophers. For most Neoplatonists, the first principle was the One, and it was usually considered to be identical with Plato’s Good. Proclus expressly denies that there can be any principle beyond this: “there is none other beyond the one, for the one and the good are the same thing, and therefore it is the principle of all things.”5 But Damascius seems to have worried that the One, as principle of all, was involved in relations that contradicted its absolute transcendence. He therefore posited a “wholly ineffable” (pantel©q “rrhtoq) principle be. Cf. Combès, pp. xxv–xxvi. See, further, H. D. Saffrey, “Neoplatonist Spirituality. II: From Iamblichus to Proclus and Damascius,” in Classical Mediterranean Spirituality: Egyptian, Greek, Roman, ed. A. H. Armstrong (London: Routledge and Keegan Paul, ), pp. –. . Cf. Mortley, From Word to Silence, vol. , The Way of Negation, Christian and Greek, p. . . Alessandro Linguiti, L’ultimo platonismo greco. Principi e conoscenza (Florence: Olschki, ), pp. – and . See also R. T. Wallis, “Scepticism and Neoplatonism,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, ed. W. Haase (Berlin: De Gruyter, ), pp. –, and Sara Rappe, “Damascius’ Skeptical Affiliations,” The Ancient World / (): –, and “Skepticism in the Sixth Century? Damascius’s Doubts and Solutions Concerning First Principles,” in Journal of the History of Philosophy / (): –. . Proclus, Elements of Theology, ed. Dodds, prop. : kaÁ oªk™ti to† „nØq “llo ®p™keina. taªtØn gÅr ⁄n kaÁ tΩgauøn? ΩrxÓ “ra påntvn.

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yond even the One, thus criticizing the main current of Neoplatonic thought that placed as absolutely first the One, which is a One-All, ground and principle of all that is. On Damascius’s own authority (De princ., II , –), we know that Iamblichus (ca. –) was actually the first to sustain the necessity of an ineffable principle anterior to the Neoplatonic One.6 Following Iamblichus, Damascius, more than any of his Neoplatonic predecessors, presses the contradiction between the absolute transcendence of the first principle and its being a “principle,” that is, its being coordinated with what comes after it. Even its being said to be “transcendent” is problematic because “the transcendent always transcends something and thus is not absolutely transcendent, since it has a relation to that which it transcends” (De princ. I , –). For Damascius, any principle that could still be placed in relation with the All would be compromised in its transcendence. In the interest of securing its absolute transcendence, he posits a first principle anterior to the One that is not coordinated with any whole and that refuses every relation. Some scholars question what such a “principle” could possibly explain. But it is rather by throwing the very mode of our questioning into doubt that such a “vague,” that is, totally inexpressible principle impinges on our experience of reality and even exposes the ultimacy of this experience. The utter lack of any specifiable ground beyond itself for experience emerges as itself the most fundamental aspect of experience. Among his many philosophical works, especially commentaries on dialogues of Plato that are known indirectly or only in small fragments, Damascius’s main philosophical testament consists in his Doubts and Solutions Concerning First Principles and his Commentary on the last seven (for him, eight) hypotheses of the second part of the Parmenides. These have often been considered parts of a single work, since in fact the Parmenides commentary leaves out the first hypothesis and comments only on the succeeding seven (for Neoplatonists, eight). Evidently, Damascius felt he had dealt with the questions raised by the first hypothesis in his work on first principles, even though this work is structured as a treatise of speculative philosophy rather than as a commentary. Nevertheless, the issues concerning the unsayability of the One, of how it could be known even to be unsayable, or rather be unsayable as absolutely unknown, are exactly those raised by the first hypothesis of the Parmenides in the tradition of commentary stemming from Proclus, Iamblichus, and Porphyry. In fact, Damascius recurs expressly at frequent intervals to “what Plato says” in this first hypothesis concerning the unknowable, unsayable One. . Cf. Linguiti, L’ultimo platonismo greco, pp. –.

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He reads the first hypothesis as about an unknowability and ineffability beyond even the One: this instance can in no way itself be thematized—and yet the failure of our efforts to do so itself opens a whole new field for inquiry into the contents of our ignorance, even while uncovering at the same time a unique motive for silent veneration. From behind the One as metaphysical ground of thought and of being opens the abyss of the absolutely ineffable. Damascius has often been somewhat forgotten in the course of history. Aporias generated by purely logical principles, for example, that the principle of all can be neither in the whole nor outside it (De princ., chapter , omitted in the following excerpt), have seemed sterile exercises in abstraction. However, read for its import as apophatic writing, Damascius’s work poignantly expresses the crisis into which logical thinking had fallen at the close of a millennium of the most extraordinary development of philosophical thought in Greece. In its acute articulation of an aporetic and even apophatic logic, it is a powerful sign of the times—of the check to the powers of Logos that issues in an opening to the beyond of Logos. Damascius’s peculiar relevance to our present cultural predicament has been signaled by Giorgio Agamben. Agamben begins a recent work turning on quintessentially apophatic modes of thought with reminiscences of this generally neglected philosopher who conceived the supreme principle of all as so ineffably transcendent that it cannot even be affirmed to be transcendent and ineffable.7 This transcendent that must be posited as “not even transcendent” (sec. ) prefigures the “step/not beyond” (“pas au-delà”) over which Maurice Blanchot’s thought hovers and hesitates. Blanchot’s “relationless relation” seems an apt description, moreover, of the negation of relatedness attributed to a first principle not coordinated with what comes after it. Such connections with contemporary apophatic thought have begun to be explored by, among others, Sara Rappe, who undertakes to bring Damascius into dialogue with recent continental philosophy. She emphasizes as common to both an intensive orientation to textuality and exegesis and a radical questioning of conceptual and discursive thinking.8 Damascius’s rigorously aporetic method of philosophizing—together with his profoundly apophatic vision of reality—have again become an inspiration and a challenge to philosophers attempting to cope with the ruptures of postmodern thought.

. Giorgio Agamben, Idea della prosa (Macerata: Quodlibet, ), pp. –. . Sara Rappe, Reading Neoplatonism: Non-Discursive Thinking in the Texts of Plotinus, Proclus, and Damascius (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ).

Damascius

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Doubts and Solutions Concerning First Principles, Part I, chapters –

Of the Ineffable: Aporetics of the Notion of the Absolute Principle [Necessity and Ineffability of the Principle] . Our soul therefore divines that of all things, conceived in whatever way, there is a principle beyond all and without relation to all. Therefore it should be called neither principle, nor first, nor before all, nor beyond all, much less be proclaimed all; it must not be proclaimed, nor conceived, nor conjectured at all. For that which we think about or ponder is either some thing among all things, and this is the most common case, or else, if we completely purify that which we think, it is the whole, even if we ascend to the simplest of things, by undoing things and being ourselves undone, towards the simplest, which is of all things the most all-encompassing, as the last periphery not only of beings but also of non-beings. For beings have as their last limit the unified and wholly undifferentiated (for every whole consists of a mix of elements), while the many have for their last limit the purely one; for we can conceive nothing simpler than the One, the wholly one and only one. And even if we say it is principle, and cause, and first, and the most simple, “up there,” these designations will all be one and according to the One; but we, incapable of understanding, divide ourselves about it, predicating of it the categories that are divided up among us, unless we esteem them also as unworthy, since in their multiplicity they are unfitting for the One. It is therefore not knowable, it is not nameable; since it would by this be made many. But still these predicates are in it according to the One, because the nature of the One includes all, or rather produces all, and there is nothing that the One is not. Therefore all things flow, in a sense, from it; and that which is the cause, properly speaking, and the first, is also the end itself and itself the last, the wall, so to speak, around all things; and it is the one nature of many, not the nature which in them procedes from it, but that which, anterior to them, is the generator of

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the nature that is in them; it is the most indivisible head of all, in whatever way this all be said, and the greatest envelopment of the whole, whatever way we speak of it. But if the One is the cause of all and encompasses all, what will enable us to mount up beyond it? For perhaps we advance in emptiness straining towards the nothing itself; for what is not even one is nothing at all by rights. For how can we know that there is something beyond the One? For the others need nothing else besides the One; that is why the One alone is cause of the many. Therefore, the One is necessarily cause, because it is necessary that the cause of the many be only the One; for this can be neither the nothing (since the nothing is cause of nothing), nor the many themselves, since they are uncoordinated; and how, then, should the many form one cause? And even if there are many causes, they will not be cause of one another, because they are uncoordinated and because it would be circular; each would, accordingly, be cause of itself; therefore none would be the cause of the many. Necessarily, therefore, the One is cause of the many, and it is the cause of the connection among them; for it is a certain common spirit that is the connection and the unity of them with one another. . If then someone caught up in these aporias should come saying that the principle of the One is for him sufficient, and should as a codicil add: since we can neither know nor ponder anything more simple than the One, how then can we conjecture something beyond this last conjecture and notion?—if someone should come speaking these things, we would, of course, forgive him for the aporia (since such a thought seems inaccessible and unmanageable), but nevertheless starting from the things that are more known to us, to be stimulated are the unsayable travailings in us towards the unsayable (I do not know how to say) awareness of the sublime shining of that truth. Since, in the things down here, that which is unbound by all is nobler than that which is bound, and that which is unconditioned nobler than the conditioned, as the theoretical is nobler than the political, and Chronos, it must be said, than the demiurge, and being than the forms, and the One than the many of which it is the principle, even so more worthy than the simple causes and their effects, more than ultimate principles and what they ground, is that which transcends all such things and which enters into no coordination or relation, as is evident to reason. Since by nature the One is placed before the

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many, and the more simple before that which is in whatever way more composed, and that which contains before that which is contained within; the beyond, if you wish to call it that, is beyond every such binary opposition, not only beyond terms of the same rank, but also beyond those characterized as the first and what comes after it. . Furthermore, the one and the unified, and the many that come after them and separate themselves, constitute the whole; for as many as separate themselves are that unified unity [also] from which they separate themselves, and all that are many are also the One from which they devolve; one it is, nonetheless, when not even moreso, because the many come after it and are not in it, and likewise for the unified, given that it is before the distinctions, the sum (synaºrema, totality a priori) of the beings that distinguish themselves. Whether according to its connection or according to its own nature, each of the two is all; but the all cannot be first, nor principle; not according to coordination because even the last beings coexist with it, and not according to the One because it is one and all at the same time according to the One (that which is completely beyond all we have not yet found), and because the One is the crown of the many as the cause of those that are from it. What is more, we know the one in the thoroughgoing purification of thinking towards the simplest and most all-encompassing. But that which is most venerable must be ungraspable to every knowing and every conjecturing, since, even in things down here, that which always escapes upwards is more worthy in our conceptions than that which is more accessible, so that most worthy is that which completely evades our conjectures. If, then, this is nothing, the nothing must be of two kinds, that which is better than the One and that which is inferior to it. If we walk in the dark speaking this way, there are then two ways of walking in the dark, the one falling upon the unsayable, the other upon that which is in no way nor in any relation. For the latter is unsayable, as even Plato says, but according to the worse [way], while the former is such according to the better [way]. If, now, we investigate whether there is some need of this latter, this is the most necessary of all needs, the fact that all proceeds, as if from an inaccessible sanctuary, from the ineffable and in an ineffable mode; for it is not as the One that it produces the many, nor as the unified that it produces the beings in process of distinguishing themselves, but as the ineffable that it produces ineffably all things alike.

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Now if saying these very things about it, that it is ineffable, that it is the inaccessible sanctuary of all, that it is incomprehensible, we undergo the reversal of the logos and are turned over (peritropømeua) in our discourse, it is necessary to know that these are names and concepts belonging to our minds’ travailings, which, however numerous they are in daring to seek for it recklessly, find themselves stopped on the threshold of the sanctuary not to be entered, and nothing announces what belongs properly to it, but rather their aporias and failures disclose our own proper passions with respect to it, not manifestly but through indications, and this to those who are capable of understanding these things.

[Of the one that is sayable and unsayable] . Nevertheless, we see that in these travailings even in relation to the One our thought suffers the same difficulties, is dismayed in the same way, upset and turned upside down. For the One, says Plato, if it is, is not even One [Parm. e–]; and if it is not, no discourse will suit it, so that not even negation (Ωpøfasiq) will suit it; nor any name, for the name is not simple; nor any belief, nor any knowledge, for these are not simple; even intellect is not simple, so that the One is completely unknowlabe and unsayable (“rrhton). Why then should we search for anything else beyond the unsayable? Perhaps Plato by the mediation of the One led us up ineffably to the ineffable now set before us, beyond the One, precisely by suppression of the One, just as by suppression of the others he led us to the One; since Plato in the Sophist knows the One by a certain positing, and shows it to be according to itself preexistent to being. And if after having been lifted up to the One Plato became silent, even that seemed to Plato fitting about that which is wholly secret—to keep absolutely silent in the ancient mode; for in fact this discourse is very temerarious when it falls upon ingenuous ears; of course, having raised the problem of that which is not at all nor in any respect, the discourse was reversed and risked being precipitated into a sea of dissimilitude, or rather into a void without substantiality. And if demonstrations are no longer fitting even to the One, that is not surprising; for they are human and divided up and composite more than is fitting. In fact, these demonstrations are not suited even to being, for

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they are specific, or rather not even for ideas, being rational; and is it not Plato himself who in his Letters declared how nothing that is ours can signify the forms, neither image, nor name, nor definition, nor belief, nor knowledge? For the forms can be sought only by intellect, which we do not yet have, as long as we are content with dialectical argument. And even if we manage to effect intellection, at least of a specific nature, we will not be able to apply it to the unified and to being; and should we happen to achieve intellection of a general nature, still this would not be susceptible of being woven together and united with the One; finally, even should we effect unitary intellection, and this should gather itself completely to the One, nevertheless this last simplifies itself in mounting towards the One, if indeed there is still any knowledge of the one; but we let this point wait. Since there are many modes of the ineffable and unknowable, so also the One must be in the same way. Nevertheless, with the resources that we have at present, we make an attempt at discernment of things so great through indications and conjectures, and purifying our thinking in order to know such unusual things and elevating it through analogies and through negations, scorning the things near us in this world, and being thereby conducted away from these less worthy things towards the more worthy. This then is what we have been doing up to now. And perhaps the ineffable is so completely ineffable that it is not possible to posit of it even that it is ineffable; while as concerns the One, evading all composition of definition and of name and every distinction such as that of known from knower, by another way it is known as the simplest and the most encompassing, and not only one, as if that were the property of the One, but as a One that is all and one before all, not of course like a specific one belonging to the all. These, then, are the travailings and how we purify them towards the simply one and one true cause of all. It is completely certain that the One in us conjectured thus, as nearer to us and as more closely akin to us and as entirely more lacking in obscurity than that other One, lends itself more readily to such a conjecture; for on the basis of such a One, posited in whatever way, the passage to the simply one is easy; and even if we in no way arrive at that One, being borne upon the simple one that is in us we can make conjectures concerning the One that is before all. The One is thus, in one sense, sayable (W htøn) and, in another, unsayable. But the ineffable One is to be honored by

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total silence, and first by a total ignorance, which holds all knowledge in contempt.

[On the Unknowability of the Ineffable] . So let us then examine precisely this second matter, how the ineffable can be said to be completely unknowable; for if this is true, how can we write all these things, dilating upon it? For we certainly do not want to generate fictions, speaking many delirious things about it. But if the One is in reality without connection to all and without relation to all, and is itself nothing of the all and not even itself, this itself is its nature, which we are in a position to know and to strive to dispose others to know. Moreover, even its being unknowable is an unknowability that we either know or ignore. But if we ignore it, how do we say that it is wholly unknowable? And if we know it, it is to that extent already knowable, inasmuch as, being unknowable, it is recognized as unknowable. After all, there is no denying something of something else if one has no idea of what it is being denied; nor can this be said to be not that, if there is no hold whatever on that; for what one knows cannot be said to be or not to be what one knows not, as Socrates says in the Theaetetus. How then shall we deny that which we in some manner know of that which we wholly ignore? For that is like someone blind from birth asserting that heat does not consist in color. And perhaps this man will rightly say that color is not heat; for heat can be felt, and he knows it through the sense of touch, but color he wholly ignores, unless it should be tactile; for he knows that he does not know, and such knowledge is not of it but simply of his own ignorance. And, of course, even in saying that this principle is unknowable, we do not report anything about it, but rather we confess our own feeling about it; for the insensibility of the blind man is not in color any more than in blindness but in him; and likewise the ignorance of this principle that we ignore is in us, for even knowledge of the knowable is in the knower, not in the known. But if the knowable were in the known, as being like a shining of it, so one would say the unknowable is in the unknown like a dark cloud belonging to it, or an obscurity on account of which it is ignored by and invisible to all. Saying this, one ig-

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nores how blindness is a privation, as is every ignorance, and that as it is with the invisible, so also with the ignorable and unknowable. Of course, in the other cases privation of a certain quality leaves still another; for the incorporeal, even if it is invisible, yet it is intelligible, and the unintelligible can be something else, such as one of the properties that is ungraspable by intellection. But if we remove every notion and every conjecture, and if we say that this privation is unknowable to all our knowing, we declare unknowable that upon which we have no view and remain completely without vision; not that we should say something of it, like its inaptitude to be seen by vision, as in the case for the intelligible, or its inaptitude to be known by the common, substance-knowing intellect, as is the case with the One, but we should say that it in no way allows any grasp upon itself, not even a hint or suspicion. For we say not only that it is unknowable, so that being something else it would have the nature of the unknowable, and we do not say it is being, nor one, nor all, nor cause of all, nor beyond all; we deem absolutely nothing at all to be predicable of it. Not even the nothing and the beyond all and the supra-cause and the disconnected from all are the nature of it as such, but only eliminations (Ωnaºresiq) from the things after it. How, then, do we say anything about it? Or is it not the case that, knowing what comes after it, we somehow know it in that we deem these things unworthy to be affirmed, so to say, of the totally ineffable? For just as that which is beyond any knowledge is better than that which is grasped by knowledge, even so that which is beyond all conjecture must be more venerable—not that this greater venerability is knowable; or rather, having this greater venerability is as if in us and in our passions/impressions, and we declare it wonderful on account of its being completely ungraspable by our thoughts. For, through analogy, if that which is unknowable by perfection is superior to that which is wholly knowable, it is necessary to say correspondingly that the wholly unknowable by perfection is superior to all, even if it does not possess the highest, nor the best, nor the most venerable; for these things are our conventions concerning itself, which flees our thought and conjectures completely. We recognize it to be the most wonderful by not even conjecturing about it. For if we conjecture something, we are seeking something else prior to this conjecture; and either we seek infinitely or it is necessary to stop at the absolutely ineffable.

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[The Ineffable is not an Object of Opinion] . Can we then demonstrate anything about it, and is it itself demonstrable, this [ineffable] that we deem not to be conjecturable? Or rather, speaking these things we give a demonstration concerning it, but do not demonstrate it, nor is the demonstrable in it; for neither anything else nor the demonstrable is in it, not even itself, but we demonstrate our ignorance and speechlessness (Ωfasºan) in regard to it, and that is what is demonstrable. What then? Do we not hold an opinion about it in these things we say? But if there is an opinion about it, it is also a matter of opinion. Yet, we opine that it is not, and this opinion is true, as Aristotle says. Therefore if this opinion is true there is some fact by conforming to which the opinion is made true, for the opinion is true because the fact exists; nevertheless, how should it [the ineffable] be and how be true, that which is wholly unknowable? We could say that the nonbeing of it and its being unknowable are true, in the sense that the truly false is true; for it is true that the false is false. Of course, these things must be united as privations and as not in being in any way, where that which founders can imitate the form of substance, as the absence of light, which we call shadow, can take something from and can counterfeit the light; for if there is no light, there is no shadow either. But nothing of that which in any way is can be attributed to that which in no way or respect is, as Plato says, therefore not even nonbeing nor any privation whatever. But even “that which in no way or respect is” is improper as used to signify it; for this [expression] is, and its meaning is something among things and that which is an object of opinion is; and even if one opines that it in no way is, at the same time this object of opinion itself is among beings. Therefore Plato more accurately says that which is nothing and in no respect is ineffable and inopinable according to the worst, just as we say it is according to the best. However that may be, we are of the opinion that it is not an object of opinion. Discourse reverses itself (peritr™petai), Plato says, and in reality we no longer have even opinion. What then? Do we not think and believe that it [the ineffable] is so and so? In fact, these are our affections concerning it, as has been said often. Yet we have this notion in us. But then it is empty, as the belief in the empty and unbounded. So just as about things which are not we accept opinions

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that are imaginings and fictions (as we represent the sun as a foot in diameter, though it is not of this size), so if we form an opinion concerning that which in no way or respect is, or concerning that [the ineffable] about which we now write these things, this belief is ours and it procedes in us in emptiness; in saying this we think we are seizing it, but it is nothing for us—by so far it exceeds our thought.

[On our Ignorance with regard to the Ineffable] How, then, is as much ignorance as arises within us concerning it [the ineffable] demonstrable? In fact, how do we say that it is unknowable? According to a first ground already invoked, because we always find more worthy that which is above knowledge; so that if that which is above all knowledge were findable, it would be found to be also the most worthy, but its not being able to be found suffices for the demonstration. According to another ground, because it is above all; and if it was in whatever way knowable, it would itself also be in the all (for that which we know we call all), and then it would have something in common with all, namely, being knowable; now the things which have something in common are all in one order, so that again it would be with the all; therefore it follows that it must be unknowable. According to a third ground, specifically, because the unknowable is in beings, just as the knowable is there, albeit in a relative manner. So just as we call the same thing in some respect big and in another little, so also we call it knowable and unknowable in different respects; as the same thing by participating in the two forms of the big and the little is simultaneously big and little, likewise the same thing, having participated in the knowable and the unknowable is both; and just as the knowable preexists, it is necessary that the unknowable preexist, and especially if it is superior to the knowable, as the intelligible unknowable is to the the sensible unknowable that is knowable to the intellect. For the superior cannot be privation of the inferior if this is a form, especially if the superior belongs to the intelligible. For all absence and all privation of form is in matter or in soul; but how could it find itself in the intellect, in which all things are present? Unless we invoke a privation according to superiority, as the formless, which is the supra-formal, and non-being, which is the beyond being, and the nothing, which is the truly unknowable in its

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transcendence over everything. If now the One is the last knowable among the things which we somehow know or conjecture, then the beyond-the-One is the first totally unknowable, that which is so unknowable as not even to have unknowability for its nature, nor do we attain it as unknowable, not knowing finally even if it is unknowable. For our ignorance of it is complete, and we know it neither as knowable nor as unknowable. Therefore, we are turned all about as completely lacking any point of contact with it, since it is nothing, or rather is not even that, the nothing. Therefore, it is in no way or respect, or rather is beyond this, if this is the negation of being, while it is the negation even of the One, that is, the nothing (of one). But [one could object] the nothing is empty and the collapse of all, but this is not what we think concerning the ineffable. In fact, the nothing [of one] is of two kinds: that which is beyond and that which is short of; for the One, too, is of two sorts, the last, that is, the One of matter, and the first, that is, the One that is older than being; thus also the nothing [of one] is double: that nothing which is not even the last One, and that which is not even the first One. Therefore, double is also the unknowable and unsayable: that which cannot be conjectured, not even as the last One, and that which cannot be conjectured, not even as the first One. Is it then in relation to ourselves that we posit the unknowable? All that is not paradoxical, but (if saying so be permitted) it [the ineffable] must be unknowable even to the most honored intellect; for all intellect looks to the intelligible, and the intelligible is either form or being. But perhaps divine knowledge knows this and is known by it, by this unitary and supra-substantial knowledge. But this applies to the One, whereas the ineffable is beyond the One. Speaking generally, if it were known with the others, it too would be of them; for it would have being knowable in common with the others, and it would be ordered together with the others according to this common measure. Moreover, if knowable, it would itself be grasped, at least by divine knowledge; this would consequently determine it; and every determination in the end ascends to the One; but it is above the One. Consequently, it is completely undetermined and unlimited, so that it is such even for every knowing; consequently, it is unknowable even to divine knowing. Besides, knowledge attains the known, either as beings or as existents or as participants in the One, while the ineffable is beyond all these; the knowable is relative to knowledge and the

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knower; consequently, it too would have a certain coordination and relation with such things. In addition, even the One is in danger of being unknowable, if indeed the known and the knower must be different, even when both should be in the same thing, such that the One would not be able to know itself as the really one; for there is no duality in the One, there will therefore be in it no knower and known. Consequently, even the god who remains only in the One and is united with this One which is simple, will not be united with it in duality; for how could the double be united with the simple? And if the god knew the One through unity, there would be the One known, on the one hand, and the One that knows, on the other, and the nature of the One would be shown by each, whereas it is unique and one, so that it is not united as something different united with another, for instance, as something knowing with a known, but is itself only one; thus it is not one according to knowledge. But on how this is so concerning the One, more later.

[The Total Reversal of Discourse] Thus that which is not even one is so much the more unknowable, for Plato says well that it is impossible to affirm either that it is known or that it is not known. But if the last knowable is the One, we do not know anything beyond the One, so that the things we say are vain rhapsodies. Therefore knowing the things we know, we know also this about them, that they are unworthy (if saying so be permitted) of that which is posited as first; since not even knowing yet the intelligible forms we judge their images which are established in us as unworthy of the undivided and eternal nature of these forms, while the images produced in us are divisible and much changing. So much the more, being ignorant of the totality (synaºremå) of the forms and types, but having of them the image, which is the totality of the separated types and forms, we conjecture that being is such as this, although it is not this but something better and that which is most unified. On this basis, we conceive the One also, not by taking up together but by simplifying all things into it; for in us this simplicity itself establishes itself in relation to the all in us, for it is right and necessary that it achieve this perfect simplicity. For that which is one

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and simple in us is not at all that which these words say, except that they are an index of that illustrious nature. Thus, having in whatever way grasped with our mind all that is knowable and conjecturable, [arriving] even as far as the One, we judge it right (if it is necessary to express the inexpressible and conceive the inconceivable), we judge it nevertheless right to posit that which is irreconcilable and which cannot be coordinated with the whole and which is so transcendent that in truth it has not even the property of being transcendent. For the transcendent always transcends something, and thus is not absolutely transcendent, since it has a relation to that which it transcends, and, in sum, a certain coordination even if with preeminence; if therefore it must be posited as being really transcendent, let it be posited as not even transcendent. For taken exactly, the name does not prove true with regard to what is proper to the transcendent, for the transcendent is at the same time already coordinated, so that it is necessary to deny it even this name. But even negation is still a certain discourse, and the deniable is a reality, while it is nothing, thus not even deniable, not expressible at all, nor knowable in whatever way, so that it is not even possible to negate the negation; but this complete reversal of discourses and thoughts is still the demonstration imagined by us of what we say. And what will be the limit of discourse, except impotent silence and the avowal of unknowing with regard to those things into the knowledge of which it is not permitted to enter, since they are inaccessible? . Could one not make the following demand, provoking to jealousy with such discourses? If on the basis of these things here we wish to seize something concerning it, [we would say that,] since everywhere in these things the monad is at the head of a certain proper number (for there is one soul and many souls, one intellect and many intellects, one being and many beings, and one henad or unity and many henads), then presumably the argument requires that there be one ineffable and many ineffables, and the ineffable would have to be said to be ineffably productive. In fact, it would engender a kindred plurality. But these and similar discourses are oblivious of the aporiae which have been previously discussed; for nothing is common to it [the ineffable] and the things here, and nothing belongs to it of the things which are said or thought or conjectured; therefore not even the One, nor the many, nor productivity or engendering or being a cause in whatever way, nor whatever analogy, nor

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resemblance. It is not like things here, either “that” or “those”; rather, neither “that” should be said nor “those,” neither that it is one nor that it is many; but rather it is necessary to keep silence, remaining within the ineffable sanctuary of the soul, without going forth. And if it is necessary to indicate something, most useful are the negations of these predicates—that it is neither one nor many, neither productive nor infecund, neither cause nor deprived of causality—and such negations, I know not how, overturning themselves absolutely into infinity.

TH E NA M E LESS GOD

. B Authorized King James Version,  (New York: American Bible Society, n.d.)

André Neher, in his  book L’exil de la parole: Du silence biblique au silence d’Auschwitz (The Exile of the Word: From Silence in the Bible to the Silence of Auschwitz), presents the Bible as less a word of revelation than an inscrutable enigma. In his reading, informed especially by the Jewish experience of the Holocaust, the book of the Word becomes the book of silence. A negative, apophatic dimension emerges as fundamental to Jewish thought and tradition from its biblical sources, now appearing in the apocalyptic light of the Shoah. The Hebrew Bible is shown to be built around images connoting divine absence and silence, from night and death in the first chapters of Genesis to the cry of abandon in Psalm : “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Neher’s reading gives new emphases to what are actually age-old traditions of interpretation of the Bible keyed to the apophasis, the silence and negativity, of the Word. God’s self-manifestion only as shrouded in mystery, in fact, has been normative throughout the history of the Hebrew religion. The theophany at Sinai in Exodus –, which enjoys unique standing as a foundational text for Hebrew cult and religion, dramatically highlights the sublime transcendence of the divine that makes seeing God fatal and representation of him illicit, if not impossible. This is the epitome of Jewish faith, expressed at the core of the Torah in the Decalogue with its proscription of “graven images.” Against practices rife in ancient Near Eastern nature religions, God’s chosen people is commanded to restrict, if not to completely eliminate, representation of the divine. Even God’s disembodied presence in word and name, in the Word of Scripture and in the Divine Name, was potentially compromising for the divine transcendence and likewise had to be subjected to prohibitions: “thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain” (Exodus :). Thus the second and third commandments forbid visual and verbal respresentations of God respectively. Numerous passages in the Bible evince reluctance, even on the part of God, to disclose the divine Name. They become loci classici in a repertoire of passages routinely rehearsed by proponents of negative theologies. First, there is the coyness of “I am that I am” (“Ego sum qui sum”) in Exodus :, at least

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  

in one sense a refusal to divulge the divine Name and rather closely guarding the mystery and majesty of an “I” that is nothing and no one but itself. In a similar spirit, Genesis : suggests that man is not supposed to ask God his name: Jacob, after wrestling with God in the form of the angel, says, “Tell me, I pray thee, thy name. And he said, Wherefore is it that thou dost ask after my name? And he blessed him there.” Again, in Judges :, Manoah, visited by the angel, asks him his name, “And the angel of the Lord said unto him, Why askest thou thus after my name, seeing it is secret” (or wonderful: mirabile in the Vulgate). Psalm : echoes this exaltation of the divine name: “quam admirabile est nomen tuum” (“how wonderful is thy name”), as does Isaiah :: “vocabitur admirabilis . . .” (“and his name shall be called Wonderful . . .”). Typically, human silence in the face of this divine presence is enjoined, for example, by Habakkuk :: “But the Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him.” For only silence can witness to the manifestation of God’s transcendence. Hence also Job’s faltering into speechlessness before the Voice out of the Whirlwind (Job ) and Jeremiah’s speechless stupor before the Lord: “Then said I, Ah, Lord God! behold, I cannot speak [“Nescio loqui”]: for I am a child” (:). Somewhat differently apophatic in thrust is Isaiah :–, which takes up the side of God’s transcendence of all possible manifestations to humans rather than of arrested human response and expression: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” This is the other side of the incommensurability that issues in apophatic impasse and before which even Isaiah’s eloquence demurs: “To whom then will ye liken God? or what likeness will ye compare unto him?” (:). And hence the pregnant designation Deus absconditus or “hidden God” in “verily thou art a God that hidest thyself ” (:). Along similar lines, in Exodus :– (cf. .–) God is unwilling to show his glory to Moses and grants him only a fugitive glance at the almighty “hind parts.” The themes of the hiddeness of God and the transcendence of the divine Name continue to assert and accentuate themselves in the New Testament. Ephesians : declares that God the Father has placed Christ “far above . . . every name that is named, not only in this world, but also in that which is to come,” just as, according to Philippians :, God has “given him a name which is above every name.”1 But perhaps the New Testament passages that have . A good review of Bible passages on God’s unsayable Name that have been vital to traditions of negative theology can be found in Maurice de Gandillac, “Omninominabile Innominabile,” in Qu’est-ce que Dieu?, pp. –.

Bible



played the most important role historically in Christian negative theology are those declaring that man cannot see God: John :, :;  John :;  Timothy :;  Corinthians :; and the half-hour’s silence in heaven at the opening of the seventh seal in Revelation :.2 Numerous other biblical passages have proved apt to anchor theological disquisitions on God’s ineffability and particularly on silence as the only appropriate mode for expressing divinity. But among them, two have exerted disproportionate influence. In  Kings :–, Elijah, fleeing the anger of Jezebel, repairs to Mount Sinai, where God once appeared to Moses but did not show his face (Exodus :–). Here God is manifest to him not in the tempest nor in the earthquake nor in the great fire but only in the murmur of a light breeze, the “small voice” of silence. In certain ways most significant of all for subsequent apophatic reflection is  Corinthians :–, in which Paul is rapt to the “third heaven,” interpreted traditionally as the transcendent sphere of purely intellectual, wordless “vision” (see Augustine, De Genesi ad litteram, Book XII). By grace, Paul experiences what is not naturally possible in this life in the body and not expressible (or not permissible to express) in words. . Eberhard Jüngel, Gott als Geheimnis der Welt (Tübingen: Mohr, ), from the standpoint of evangelical Christianity, sheds light on the inevitable shadows of biblical revelation that are left to faith and love to illuminate. He interprets the Gospel as analogical speech about God, drawing insight from Erich Przywara’s theories of analogy, particularly of the analogia entis, in Religionsphilosophische Schriften, vol.  (Einsiedeln: Johannes Verlag, ), pp. –.

From The Holy Bible, Authorized King James Version ()

 Kings :– And he [Elijah] came thither unto a cave and lodged there; and, behold, the word of the Lord came to him. . . . And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And behold, the Lord



  

passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.

 Corinthians :– I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) such a one caught up to the third heaven. And I knew such a man, (whether in the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter.

. P (/ ..–. .. ) De posteritate Caini –; De mutatione nominum –; De Legum Allegoria III, –; De somnis I, –, –. Trans. C. D. Yonge, The Works of Philo: Complete and Unabridged, new updated edition (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson Publishers, ), pp. –, , , , . Greek text in Philo, Loeb Classical Library, ed. F. H. Colson and G. H. Whitaker (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, –),  vols.

As a devout and cultivated diaspora Jew living in Egyptian Alexandria during the first century, Philo Judaeus could hardly avoid applying current concepts of Greek philosophy in his attempt to reinterpret the Hebrew Law in such a way as would save it from becoming utterly anachronistic in his cosmopolitan world. In so doing, he prepared the ground for the synthesis of biblical revelation and Greek philosophy in the Hellenistic culture that became the seedbed for early Christian theology. The ontological doctrine of God as Being, which becomes normative for Christian, especially Scholastic, theology, has been viewed, in particular by Harry Wolfson, as basically an elaborate footnote to Philo. This thesis, though perhaps somewhat exaggerated, is indicative of the importance of Philo at the intersection between Hellenism and Hebraism that produced Christian, as well as Islamic, thought.1 Philo’s synthesis of Greek philosophical and biblical traditions is based on his recognition of an ineffable divinity at the source of all that is—all being and all of creation—in both outlooks. In De somnis he refers to “the God who may not be named nor spoken of, and who is in every way incomprehensible” (I, ). In Legum Allegoria he argues that no positive assertion whatever can be made regarding God (III, ). Emphatically renouncing any type of direct discourse on God, Philo admits that God is unknowable in himself.

. Harry A. Wolfson, Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam,  vols. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, ). See the critique of Wolfson by D. T. Runia, Philo and the Church Fathers (Leiden: Brill, ).





  

Accordingly, he has often been nominated for the title “Father of negative theology.”2 Nevertheless, Philo’s discourse, rather than simply dwelling upon the negation of language as the only possible mode of comportment vis-à-vis the Transcendent, retains considerable descriptive value. Language for him signifies the Transcendent in the mode of allegory. This may be seen as a limit to Philo’s consistency and coherence as an apophatic thinker and theologian.3 As Raoul Mortley points out, Philo’s importance is due partly to his conceiving of Logos as a hypostasis, a substance.4 This quasi-personification is typical of interpretive methods that lend life and color to philosophical abstractions. Such a boon can be claimed generally for the allegorical method, which Philo worked up to some of its most lavish applications.5 Allegorical transmogrification is key to the reappropriation of Greek rational philosophy for the religious outlook that characterizes the Hellenistic age and opens the way for so much in medieval and even in modern thought. The Neoplatonic hypostatization or reification of the hypotheses of Plato’s Parmenides as One, Mind, and Soul was, in parallel fashion, crucial to opening the way for new theological versions and applications of Platonic thought. As in Plato himself, the inexpressible lives together with—as well as in contradiction of— theological myth. Myth enables it to be indirectly expressed, but also thereby betrays it. Rather than solidifying into stable signifiers, myths must erase themselves, so as to become indicators of what ultimately resists mythologization. . Andrew Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), p. , lends highly qualified support to the claim. . J. P. Williams, Denying Divinity, regards Philo, together with Middle Platonism generally, as falling short of the radical apophasis that negates even negation. . Mortley, From Word to Silence, vol. , The Rise and Fall of Logos, pp. –. . Philo is treated from this angle by Gerald Bruns, Hermeneutics: Ancient and Modern (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), chap. .

On Cain’s Posterity (De posteritate Caini) –

() When, therefore, the soul that loves God seeks to know what the one living God is according to his essence, it is entertaining upon an

Philo



obscure and dark subject of investigation, from which the greatest benefit that arises to it is to comprehend that God, as to his essence, is utterly incomprehensible to any being, and also to be aware that he is invisible. () And it appears to me that the great hierophant had attained to the comprehension of the most important point in this investigation before he commenced it, when he entreated God to become the exhibitor and expounder of his own nature to him, for he says, “Show me thyself;” showing very plainly by this expression that no created being is competent by himself to learn the nature of God in his essence. VI. () On this account too, Abraham, when he had come unto the place which God had told him of, “On the third day, looking up, saw the place afar off.” What kind of place? Was it the place to which he came? And how was it still afar off, if he had already come to it? () But perhaps the meaning which is intended under this expression may be something like this:—The wise man, being always desirous to comprehend the nature of the Ruler of the universe, when he is proceeding along the road which leads by knowledge and wisdom, previously meets with words of God, among which he rests for a while; and though he had previously determined to proceed by some other road, he now stops and hesitates; for the eyes of his mind being opened, he sees more clearly that he had entered upon a chase after a thing which was difficult to overtake, which constantly retreated before him, and was always at a distance, and which outstripped its pursuers by placing an immeasurable distance between them. () You think, therefore, rightly that all the speediest things which are under heaven would appear to be standing still if compared with the rapidity of the sun, and moon, and other stars. And yet the whole heaven was made by God; and the maker always goes before that which is made. So that, of necessity, not only the other things which exist among us, but also that which has the most rapid motion of all, namely, the mind, may fall short of a proper comprehension of the great cause of all things by an undescribable distance. But the stars, as they are themselves in motion, pass by all things that move; but, though it seems incredible, God, while standing still, outstrips everything. () And it is said that he, at the same moment, is close to us and at a great distance, touching us with his creative or his punishing powers, which are close to each individual, and yet at the same time driving away the creature to an excessive distance from



  

his nature as existing according to its essence, so that it cannot touch him without even the unalloyed and incorporeal efforts of the intellect. () Therefore we sympathise in joy with those who love God and seek to understand the nature of the living do, even if they fail to discover it; for the vague investigation of what is good is sufficient by itself to cheer the heart, even if it fail to attain the end that it desires. But we participate in indignation against that lover of himself, Cain; because he has left his soul without any conception whatever of the living God, having of deliberate purpose mutilated himself of that faculty by which alone he might have been able to see him.

On Change of Names (De mutatione nominum) –

() It was, therefore, quite consistent with reason that no proper name could with propriety be assigned to him who is in truth the living God. Do you not see that to the prophet who is really desirous of making an honest inquiry after the truth, and who asks what answer he is to give to those who question him as to the name of him who has sent him, he says, “I am that I am,”1 which is equivalent to saying. “It is my nature to be, not to be described by name:” () but in order that the human race may not be wholly destitute of any appellation which they may give to the most excellent of beings, I allow you to use the word Lord as a name; the Lord God of three natures—of instruction, and of holiness, and of the practice of virtue; of which Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob are recorded as the symbols. For this, says he, is the everlasting name, as if it has been investigated and discerned in time as it exists in reference to us, and not in that time which was before all time; and it is also a memorial not placed be-

. Exod. :.

Philo



yond recollection or intelligence, and again it is addressed to persons who have been born, not to uncreated natures. () For these men have need of the complete use of the divine name who come to a created or mortal generation, in order that, if they cannot attain to the best thing, they may at least arrive at the best possible name, and arrange themselves in accordance with that; and the sacred oracle which is delivered as from the mouth of the Ruler of the universe, speaks of the proper name of God never having been revealed to any one, when God is represented as saying, “For I have not shown them my name;”2 for by a slight change in the figure of speech here used, the meaning of what is said would be something of this kind: “My proper name I have not revealed to them,” but only that which is commonly used, though with some mis-application, because of the reasons above-mentioned. () And, indeed, the living God is so completely indescribable, that even those powers which minister unto him do not announce his proper name to us. At all events, after the wrestling match in which the practicer of virtue wrestled for the sake of the acquisition of virtue, he says to the invisible Master, “Tell me thy name;”3 but he said, “Why askest thou me my name?” And he does not tell him his peculiar and proper name, for says he, it is sufficient for thee to be taught my ordinary explanations. But as for names which are the symbols of created things, do not seek to find them among immortal natures. III. () Therefore do not doubt either whether that which is more ancient than any existing thing is indescribable, when his very word is not to be mentioned by us according to its proper name. So that we must understand that the expression. “The Lord was seen by Abraham,”4 means not as if the Cause of all things had shone forth and becomes visible, (for what human mind is able to contain the greatness of his appearance?) but as if some one of the powers which surround him, that is to say, his kingly power, had presented itself to the sight, for the appellation Lord belongs to authority and sovereignty.

. Exod. :. . Gen. :. . Gen. :.



  

On the Law of Allegory (De Legum Allegoria) III, ‒

() Besides, if we only receive the expression, “By myself have I sworn,” in the manner in which we ought, we shall be in no danger from sophistry. May we not, then, say, that the truth is something of this sort? None of those beings which are capable of entertaining belief, can entertain a firm belief respecting God. For he has not displayed his nature to any one; but keeps it invisible to every kind of creature. Who can venture to affirm of him who is the cause of all things either that he is a body, or that he is incorporeal, or that he has such and such distinctive qualities, or that he has no such qualities? or who, in short, can venture to affirm any thing positively about his essence, or his character, or his constitution, or his movements? But He alone can utter a positive assertion respecting himself, since he alone has an accurate knowledge of his own nature, without the possibility of mistake. () His positive assertion, therefore, is one which may be thoroughly trusted in the first place, since he alone has any knowledge respecting his actions; so that he very appropriately swore by himself, adding himself confirmation to his assertion, which it was not possible for any one else to do. On which account men who say that they swear by God may well be considered impious. For no man can rightly swear by himself, because he is not able to have any certain knowledge respecting his own nature, but we must be content if we are able to understand even his name, that is to say, his word, which is the interpreter of his will. For that must be God to us imperfect beings, but the first mentioned, or true God, is so only to wise and perfect men. () And Moses, too, admiring the exceeding excellency of the great uncreated God, says, “And thou shalt swear by his name,”1 not by himself. For it is sufficient for the creature to receive confirmation and testimony from the word of God. But God is his own confirmation and most unerring testimony.

. Deut. :.

Philo



On Dreams (De somnis) I, –, –

() . . . And there is an evidence in support of my view of the matter in the following sacred oracle delivered with respect to Abraham: “He came unto the place of which the Lord God had told him: and having looked up with his eyes, he saw the place afar off.”1 () Tell me, now, did he who had come to the place see it afar off? Or perhaps it is but an identical expression for two different things, one of which is the divine world, and the other, God, who existed before the world. () But he who was conducted by wisdom comes to the former place, having found that the main part and end of propitiation is the divine word, in which he who is fixed does not as yet attain to such a height as to penetrate to the essence of God, but sees him afar off; or, rather, I should say, he is not able even to behold him afar off, but he only discerns this fact, that God is at a distance from every creature, and that any comprehension of him is removed to a great distance from all human intellect. () Perhaps, however, the historian, by this allegorical form of expression, does not here mean by his expression, “place,” the Cause of all things; but the idea which he intends to convey may be something of this sort;—he came to the place, and looking up with his eyes he saw the very place to which he had come, which was a very long way from the God who may not be named nor spoken of, and who is in every way incomprehensible. () What then ought we to say? There is one true God only: but they who are called Gods, by an abuse of language, are numerous; on which account the holy scripture on the present occasion indicates that it is the true God that is meant by the use of the article, the expression being, “I am the God (ho Theos);” but when the word is used incorrectly, it is put without the article, the expression being, “He who was seen by thee in the place,” not of the God (tou Theou), but simply “of God” (Theou); () and what he here calls God is his most ancient word, not having any superstitious regard to the

. Gen. :.



  

position of the names, but only proposing one end to himself, namely, to give a true account of the matter; for in other passages the sacred historian, when he considered whether there really was any name belonging to the living God, showed that he knew that there was none properly belonging to him; but that whatever appellation any one may give him, will be an abuse of terms; for the living God is not of a nature to be described, but only to be.

. C H (    ..) Corpus Hermeticum V., –; Asclepius . Trans. Brian Copenhaver, Hermetica: The Greek Corpus Hermeticum and the Latin Asclepius in a New English Translation with Notes and Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), pp. , , –. Original texts in A. D. Nock and A. J. Festugière, Corpus Hermeticum,  vols., rd ed. (Paris: Belles Lettres, ; st ed. –).

Identification of the Egyptian god Thoth with the Greek god Hermes, to which Herodotus attests around the middle of the fifth century .. (Historiae II, , ), produced, among other figures, that of “Hermes Trismegistus,” “thricegreat Hermes,” an adaptation of the Egyptian form of salutation of the god. To this personage was attributed a group of treatises making up the Corpus Hermeticum, which appear between the first and the third centuries .. in Ptolomaic, Roman, early Christian Egypt. They are the source of a distinct strand of negative theology that weaves ancient Egyptian elements into the Western apophatic tradition.1 The first treatise, known as Poimandres, exalts a transcendent God as “You whom we address in silence, the unspeakable, the unsayable . . .” (I.). Similar statements are scattered throughout the Corpus, for example, in X.: “In the moment when you have nothing to say about it, you will see it, for the knowledge of it is divine silence and suppression of all the senses.” Such negative formulas are particularly concentrated in treatise V, climaxing in section , with the confession of “the god who is greater than any name” (πnømatoq . Until the s, with Jean-Pierre Mahé, Hermès en haute-Egypte (Québec: Presses de l’Université Laval, –), and Garth Fowden, The Egyptian Hermes: A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), the Corpus was considered as almost exclusively of Greek and specifically Platonic provenance, as maintained by Walter Scott, Hermetica: The Ancient Greek and Latin Writings Which Contain Religious or Philosophic Teachings Ascribed to Hermes Trismegistus, I–IV (Oxford: Clarendon Press, –), and especially by André Jean Festugière, O.P., La Révélation d’Hermes Trismégiste IV, Le Dieu Inconnu et la Gnose (Paris: J. Gabalda, ).





  

kreºttvn): in fact, he has all names (he is omninominabile) and therefore has no name. God is unnameable by virtue of being all things, even those that are not (“He is himself the things that are and those that are not”), inasmuch as he is the maker of all things (V.), rather than because of being beyond being. This thesis belongs to the worldview of Middle Platonism in times before Plotinus and various Neoplatonic thinkers in his wake introduced the even more radical transcendence of the One beyond being. These texts expressing the namelessness of God in such striking ways were recognized enthusiastically by early Christian writers, especially Lactantius (ca. –ca. ) in Divinae Institutiones –, as speaking true things concerning the eternal, ineffable God. They were sometimes even treated as prophetic of Christ in a manner parallel to the Hebrew scriptures. In particular, a phrase referring to the created world as a “second god, visible and sensible”(de¥teroq ueØq, ∏ratØq kaÁ a˝suhtøq) was read by Lactantius as a prophecy of the Incarnation. Lactantius preserves this together with other fragments from the Hermetic treatise Løgoq T™leioq, commonly known as the Asclepius, which alone among the treatises of the Corpus was translated into Latin. This work continued to influence Christian theology, in spite of Augustine’s vehement condemnation of its teaching in the City of God VIII. (cf. XVIII.). Later, during the Renaissance, starting from , all seventeen treatises of the Corpus Hermeticum were translated by Marsilio Ficino from Greek to Latin and became the object of intensive study in Florence at the Platonic Academy of Cosimo il Vecchio de’ Medici. Only in  was it discovered by Isaac Casaubon that, far from being a work of the thirteenth century .., and thus contemporary with Moses, as was generally believed, the Corpus Hermeticum had been produced in the second and third centuries ..

Corpus Hermeticum V.1, – A discourse of Hermes to Tat, his son: That god is invisible and entirely visible

[] This discourse I shall also deliver to you in full, O Tat, lest you go uninitiated in the mysteries of the god who is greater than any

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name. You must understand how something that seems invisible to the multitude will become entirely visible to you. Actually, if it were invisible, it would not be. Everything seen has been begotten because at some point it came to be seen. But the invisible always is, and, because it always is, it does not need to come to be seen. Also, while remaining invisible because it always is, it makes all other things visible. The very entity that makes visibility does not make itself visible; what is not itself begotten; what presents images of everything present to the imagination. For there is imagination only of things begotten. Coming to be is nothing but imagination. [] Clearly, the one who alone is unbegotten is also unimagined and invisible, but in presenting images of all things he is seen through all of them and in all of them; he is seen especially by those whom he wished to see him. [] If you force me to say something still more daring, it is his essence to be pregnant with all things and to make them. As it is impossible for anything to be produced without a maker, so also is it impossible for this maker [not] to exist always unless he is always making everything in heaven, in the air, on earth, in the deep, in every part of the cosmos, in every part of the universe, in what is and in what is not. For there is nothing in all the cosmos that he is not. He is himself the things that are and those that are not. Those that are he has made visible; those that are not he holds within him. [] This is the god who is greater than any name; this is the god invisible and entirely visible. This god who is evident to the eyes may be seen in the mind. He is bodiless and many-bodied; or, rather, he is all-bodied. There is nothing that he is not, for he also is all that is, and this is why he has all names, because they are of one father, and this is why he has no name, because he is father of them all. Who may praise you, then, acting on your behalf or according to your purpose? And where shall I look to praise you—above, below, within, without? For there is no direction about you nor place nor any other being. All is within you; all comes from you. You give everything and take nothing. For you have it all, and there is nothing that you do not have. [] When shall I sing a hymn to you? One cannot detect in you time or season. For what shall I sing the hymn—for what you have made or what you have not made, for what you have made visible or

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what you have kept hidden? And wherefore shall I sing the hymn to you—for being something that is part of me, or has a special property, or is something apart? For you are whatever I am; you are whatever I make; you are whatever I say. You are everything, and there is nothing else; what is not, you are as well. You are all that has come to be; you are what has not come to be; you are the mind who understands, the father who makes his craftwork, the god who acts, and the good who makes all things.

Asclepius  A discourse of Hermes to Asclepius: That God is nameless and all-named

[] “Once more, Trismegistus, what does this explanation say?” “This, Asclepius: God, father, master of all, whatever name people use to call him something holier or more reverent, a name that should be sacred among us because of the understanding we have (given the greatness of this divinity, none of these titles will name him precisely; if a word is this—the sound of spirit striking the air and declaring a person’s whole wish or meaning as his mind happens to grasp it from the senses, a name, its whole content defined and circumscribed, composed of a few syllables, providing the necessary exchange between human voice and ears—then the whole of god’s name also includes meaning and spirit and air and everything at once that is in them or through them or from them; no, I cannot hope to name the maker of all majesty, the father and master of everything, with a single name, even a name composed of many names; he is nameless or rather he is all-named since he is one and all, so that one must call all things by his name or call him by the names of everything), god, the only and the all, completely full of the

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fertility of both sexes and ever pregnant with his own will, always begets whatever he wishes to procreate. His will is all goodness. From his divinity the same goodness that is in all things came to be naturally so that all might be as they are and were, so that to all things to come hereafter they might provide the power to come to be of themselves. This is the explanation given to you, Asclepius, why and how all things are made.”

. T T (. .. ) Tripartite Tractate I, –. Trans. Harold W. Attridge and Dieter Mueller, in The Nag Hammadi Library in English, ed. Richard Smith, rd ed. (San Francisco: Harper&Row, ), pp. –.

Gnosticism is characterized by a withdrawal in despair from the created world, which is considered evil, and a consequent turning to the pursuit of inward purity. It flourished in the Hellenistic age, which in a broad sense extends into the first three centuries of the Christian era under the Roman Empire, still dominated culturally by Hellenism. Gnostic currents were encouraged by a growing sense in this period of the limits of rational, logical thinking. They register in a wide range of mystagogic tendencies, including those of Jewish sects like the Essenes, as documented by the Dead Sea Scrolls excavated at Qumran. In such currents, reason is forced to acknowledge its incompetence to disclose the ultimate principle of the universe. Hence the “unknown God” that becomes a common denominator of Hellenistic philosophies and religion, from Plotinus to Origen to Valentinus. In fact, these three figures, embracing some of the most intense conflicts of the time—between Neoplatonism, Christianity, and Gnosticism—are grouped together by Hans Jonas in his book The Gnostic Religion. All strain after a supra-rational “gnosis,” a knowing trained upon a rationally ungraspable God. Gnosticism for Jonas is born of the crisis of rationalism after the classical era and the consequent return to myth as having an interior, esoteric significance beyond all that objective thought can comprehend.1 Gnosis, a knowledge secretly revealed only to the initiated, compensates for disillusion with the general truths of universal reason, which had proved incapable of guaranteeing the personal salvation for which the age witnessed a resurgent yearning.

. Hans Jonas, The Gnostic Religion: The Message of the Alien God and the Beginnings of Christianity (Boston: Beacon, ). A brief presentation of some of the most relevant aspects of this monumental work can be found in Jonas’s “Myth and Mysticism: A Study of Objectification and Interiorization in Religious Thought,” Journal of Religion / (October ): –.

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Our knowledge of Gnosticism depends largely on the library discovered in  at Nag Hammadi in Egypt. The twelve codices, containing fiftytwo tractates, comprise a collection of Christian Gnostic texts translated from Greek to Coptic and buried around .. . The Tripartite Tractate is the fourth and final document from the Jung Codex, which also contains The Gospel of Truth and the Epistula Jacobi Apocrypha. Together with The Gospel of Philip and two Apocalypses of James also found at Nag Hammadi, it represents Valentinian gnosis and is a work of either the master, Valentinius, who was active in Rome from about ..  to , or of his disciples, perhaps one “Heracleon.” However, precisely in its emphasis on the unity of the first, exclusively paternal principle, the Tripartite Tractate departs from the more wellknown versions of Valentinianism, which envisage the supreme Godhead as a male-female dyad. This revision may have been designed to render the doctrine more compatible with the teaching on God the Father in the Christian churches at large. The Tripartite Tractate, with its magniloquent celebrations of the unknown God who is beyond all possibilities of saying in reasoned discourse, is taken here as exemplary of an apophatic tendency that can be documented much more broadly throughout the corpus of Gnostic texts. Perhaps most significantly, Valentinus’s subtle sermon, The Gospel of Truth, which is the most intact text of his to survive, opens with a mention of God (the Father), source of all, as “ungraspable and incomprehensible, he who is above any thought whatsoever” (.), in a formula that is often thereafter repeated. Another document discovered at Nag Hammadi, the Apocryphon of John, written about .. , similarly describes an agnostos theos who cannot be conceived except as the “non-ground-of-being”: “He is ineffable since no one was able to comprehend him to speak about him. He is unnameable since there is no one prior to him to give him a name.”2 And the Gospel of the Egyptians invokes “the Father whose name cannot be uttered,”“the unproclaimable Father” and the “ineffable Mother,” the “Son of the silent silence,” and the “silence of the silent silence.”3 Beyond this colorful array of writings, Gnosticism comprises many other texts and figures with special pertinence for negative theology.4 A key origina-

. Extracts are available in The Nag Hammadi Library in English, pp. –. Quotation from the Apocryphon, p. . . The Nag Hammadi Library in English, pp. –. . Provocative introductions to a wide range of Gnosticisms, mostly gathered from articles that appeared originally in the journal Gnosis, can be found in The Inner West: An

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tor of Gnostic thought was Basilides, who lived in Alexandria in the first half of the second century. A dry and dialectical writer, unlike the lavishly mythopoetic Valentinus, he seems nevertheless to have aimed to surpass all previous formulations of negative theology by declaring that the “nothing” from which all began is “not even ineffable” (oªde “rrhton).5 A legendary precursor of Gnosticism, Simon Magus (see Acts of the Apostles :–), took his concubine Helen to be divine Wisdom descended upon earth, while his Christian adversaries branded her a prostitute. Indeed, Gnosticism swings between the alternatives of free love and strict asceticism across nearly two thousand years of history in its metamorphoses into movements and sects, such as the Albigensians or Cathars of twelfth-century southern France, and various types of cults (occultist, alchemical, anthroposophical, and others). Apart from such ambiguities, the basic premises of Gnosticism are perennial—particularly its offer of a secret, salvific gnosis to the initiated and its rejection of the world as created not by the true God but by a demonic simulator, with the consequent imperative that humans must escape the world in order to rejoin the world-transcendent source of the divine spark in their soul. These ideas are still very present on the contemporary cultural scene.6

Introduction to the Hidden Wisdom of the West, ed. Jay Kinney (New York: Penguin, ). One of the most penetrating contemporary treatments of Gnostic philosophy, ancient and modern, is Peter Koslowski, Philosophien der Offenbarung: Antiker Gnostizismus, Franz von Baader, Schelling (Paderborn: Schöningh, ). . Although Basilides’s own writings have been lost, we have the reports of Ireneaus in Adversus haereses and Hippolytus, Refutatio omnium haeresium, VII, .. Translations by R. McL. Wilson can be found in W. Foerster, Gnosis: A Selection of Gnostic Texts (Oxford: Clarendon, ), vol. , p. . See also John Whittaker, “Basilides on the Ineffability of God,” Harvard Theological Review  (): –. Rpt. in Whittaker, Studies in Platonism and Patristic Thought (London: Variorum, ). . The universe of Gnosticism has become more accessible through the work of Jacques Lacarrière, Les Gnostiques (Paris: Gallimard, ), trans. Nina Rootes, The Gnostics (New York: Dutton, ). Harold Bloom’s writings likewise have done much to underscore the contemporary relevance of Gnosticism, with its vision of the hypertranscendence of the Godhead. See, for example, Bloom, Omens of Millennium: The Gnosis of Angels, Dreams, and Resurrection (New York: Riverhead Books, ).

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Tripartite Tractate I, –

. Introduction As for what we can say about the things which are exalted, what is fitting is that we begin with the Father, who is the root of the Totality, the one from whom we have received grace to speak about him.

. The Father He existed before anything other than himself came into being. The Father is a single one, like a number, for he is the first one and the one who is only himself. Yet he is not like a solitary individual. Otherwise, how could he be a father? For whenever there is a “father,” the name “son” follows. But the single one, who alone is the Father, is like a root with tree, branches and fruit. It is said of him that he is a father in the proper sense, since he is inimitable and immutable. Because of this he is single in the proper sense and is a god, because no one is a god for him nor is anyone a father to him. For he is unbegotten and there is no other who begot him, nor another who created him. For whoever is someone’s father or his creator, he, too, has a father and creator. It is certainly possible for him to be father and creator of the one who came into being from him and the one whom he created, for he is not a father in the proper sense, nor a god, because he has someone who begot [him and] who created him. It is, then, only the Father and God in the proper sense that no one else begot. As for [the] Totalities, he is the one who begot them and created them. He is without beginning and without end. Not only is he without end—He is immortal for this reason, that he is unbegotten—but he is also invariable in his eternal existence, in his identity, in that by which he is established and in that by which he is great. Neither will he remove himself from that by which he is, nor will anyone else force him to produce an end which he has not ever desired. He has not had anyone who initiated his own existence. Thus, he is himself unchanged and no one else can remove him from

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his existence and his identity, that in which he is, and his greatness, so that he cannot be grasped; nor is it possible for anyone else to change him into a different form or to reduce him, or alter him or diminish him,—since this is so in the fullest sense of the truth—who is the unalterable, immutable one, with immutability clothing him. Not only is he the one called “without a beginning” and “without an end,” because he is unbegotten and immortal; but just as he has no beginning and no end as he is, he is unattainable in his greatness, inscrutable in his wisdom, incomprehensible in his power, and unfathomable in his sweetness. In the proper sense he alone, the good, the unbegotten Father and the complete perfect one, is the one filled with all his offspring and with every virtue and with everything of value. And he has more, that is, lack of any malice, in order that it may be discovered that whoever has [anything] is indebted to him, because he gives it, being himself unreachable and unwearied by that which he gives, since he is wealthy in the gifts which he bestows and at rest in the favors which he grants. He is of such a kind and form and great magnitude that no one else has been with him form the beginning; nor is there a place in which he is, or from which he has come forth, or into which he will go; nor is there a primordial form, which he uses as a model as he works; nor is there any difficulty which accompanies him in what he does; nor is there any material which is at his disposal, from which creates what he creates; nor any substance within him from which he begets what he begets; nor a co-worker with him, working with him on the things at which he works. To say anything of this sort is ignorant. Rather, (one should speak of him) as good, faultless, perfect, complete, being himself the Totality. Not one of the names which are conceived, or spoken, seen or grasped, not one of them applies to him, even though they are exceedingly glorious, magnifying and honored. However, it is possible to utter these names for his glory and honor, in accordance with the capacity of each of those who give him glory. Yet as for him, in his own existence, being and form, it is impossible for mind to conceive him, nor can any speech convey him, nor can any eye see him, nor can any body grasp him, because of his inscrutable greatness and his incomprehensible depth, and his immeasurable height, and his illimitable will. This is the nature of the unbegotten one, which does

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not touch anything else; nor is it joined (to anything) in the manner of something which is limited. Rather, he possesses this constitution, without having a face or a form, things which are understood through perception, whence also comes (the epithet) “the incomprehensible.” If he is incomprehensible, then it follows that he is unknowable, that he is the one who is inconceivable by any thought, invisible by any thing, ineffable by any word, untouchable by any hand. He alone is the one who knows himself as he is, along with his form and his greatness and his magnitude, and since he has the ability to conceive of himself, to see himself, to name himself, to comprehend himself, he alone is the one who is his own mind, his own eye, his own mouth, his own form, and he is what he thinks, what he sees, what he speaks, what he grasps, himself, the one who is inconceivable, ineffable, incomprehensible, immutable, while sustaining, joyous, true, delightful, and restful is that which he conceives, that which he sees, that about which he speaks, that which he has as thought. He transcends all wisdom, and is above all intellect, and is above all glory, and is above all beauty, and all sweetness, and all greatness, and any depth and any height. If this one, who is unknowable in his nature, to whom pertain all the greatnesses which I already mentioned, if out of the abundance of his sweetness he wishes to grant knowledge so that he might be known, he has the ability to do so. He has his power, which is his will. Now, however, in silence he himself holds back, he who is the great one, who is the cause of bringing the Totalities into their eternal being. It is in the proper sense that he begets himself as ineffable, since he alone is self-begotten, since he conceives of himself, and since he knows himself as he is. What is worthy of his admiration and glory and honor and praise, he produces because of the boundlessness of his greatness, and the unsearchability of his wisdom, and the immeasurability of his power and his untasteable sweetness. He is the one who projects himself thus, as generation, having glory and honor marvelous and lovely; the one who glorifies himself, who marvels, honors, who also loves; the one who has a Son, who subsists in him, who is silent concerning him, who is the ineffable one in the ineffable one, the invisible one, the incomprehensible one, the inconceivable one in the inconceivable one. Thus, he exists in him forever. The Father, in the way we mentioned earlier, in an unbegotten

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way, is the one in whom he knows himself, who begot him having a thought, which is the thought of him, that is, the perception of him, which is the [. . .] of his constitution forever. That is, however, in the proper sense, [the] silence and the wisdom and the grace, if it is designated properly in this way.

. C  A (. –. ) Stromate V, chapter XII, .–.. Trans. William Wilson, The Writings of Clement of Alexandria, vol.  (London: Hamilton, ), pp. –. Greek text in Sources Chrétiennes , ed. Alain Le Boulluec (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, ), pp. –.

Clement follows in Egyptian Alexandria’s lineage of great scriptural exegetes descending from Philo and leading to Origen. He is a key link between the earliest Christian theologians who applied negative predicates to God, notably Justin Martyr (d. ca. ), and the Cappadocian fathers, eminently Gregory of Nyssa, who arrive at a doctrine of God’s radical unknowability. Clement, however, does not yet place God beyond being (o«sia) and intellect (no†q), for his theology is still pre-Plotinian. It is closely related rather to Middle Platonism, which was strongly tinged with an Aristotelian sense of the identity of God with thought and of thought with being.1 Nevertheless, Clement’s negative theology is not just a matter of adapting the philosophical language of Middle Platonism to the Christian God. By placing negative language for the divine transcendence squarely within a scriptural framework, Clement establishes the negative way as an integral part of Christian theology. In fact, Clement even envisages a derivation of the themes of negative theology from biblical to Greek philosophical sources: he claims that Plato, like Pythagoras and Orpheus before him, ransacked Moses’s teachings. That is why they were able to speak so accurately about the ineffable sublimity of the Godhead.2 The general argument of the fifth treatise of the Stromate

. Alcinous (second century ..) best exemplifies Middle Platonic negative theology, particularly his Didaskalikos  on the ineffability of God. It is translated by John Dillon in Alcinous, The Handbook of Platonism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ). See, further, Dillon’s The Middle Platonists (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, ). . Similar theories were current even before Clement. Justin Martyr had maintained that whatever was good in the teaching of Plato and the Stoics had been inspired by the divine Word (Apologia II, , ), and the second-century Pythagorean Platonist,

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develops this very interesting theory of a theft of the knowledge of divine things to account for the uncanny concordance that Clement discovers between the teaching of the Greek masters and the Hebrew Scriptures, particularly with regard to God’s transcendence of all possible names and descriptions. Numenius, famously quipped: “What is Plato but Moses speaking Greek?” (Tº går ®sti Plåtvn ˚ MvsÎq Ωttikºzvn;). Numénius, Fragments , ed. Edouard des Places, S.J. (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, ), p. .

Stromate V, chapter XII, .–. [God Cannot Be Embraced in Words or by the Mind]

“For both is it a difficult task to discover the Father and Maker of this universe; and having found Him, it is impossible to declare Him to all. For this is by no means capable of expression, like the other subjects of instruction,” says the truth-loving Plato. For he had heard right well that the all-wise Moses, ascending the mount for holy contemplation, to the summit of intellectual objects, necessarily commands that the whole people do not accompany him. And when the Scripture says, “Moses entered into the thick darkness where God was,” this shows to those capable of understanding, that God is invisible and beyond expression by words. And “the darkness”—which, is in truth, the unbelief and ignorance of the multitude—obstructs the gleam of the truth. And again Orpheus, the theologian, aided from this quarter, says: “One is perfect in himself, and all things are made the progeny of one,” or, “are born;” for so also is it written. He adds:

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“Him No one of mortals has seen, but He sees all.” And he adds more clearly: “Him see I not, for round about, a cloud Has settled; for in mortal eyes are small, And mortal pupils—only flesh and bones grow there.” To these statements the apostle will testify: “I know a man in Christ, caught up into the third heaven, and thence into Paradise, who heard unutterable words which it is not lawful for a man to speak,”— intimating thus the impossibility of expressing God, and indicating that what is divine is unutterable by human power; if, indeed, he begins to speak above the third heaven, as it is lawful to initiate the elect souls in the mysteries there. For I know what is in Plato (for the examples from the barbarian philosophy, which are many, are suggested now by the composition which, in accordance with promises previously given, waits the suitable time). For doubting, in Timœus, whether we ought to regard several worlds as to be understood by many heavens, or this one, he makes no distinction in the names, calling the world and heaven by the same name. But the words of the statement are as follows: “Whether, then, have we rightly spoken of one heaven, or of many and infinite? It were more correct to say one, if indeed it was created according to the model.” Further, in the Epistle of the Romans to the Corinthians it is written, “An ocean illimitable by men and the worlds after it.” Consequently, therefore, the noble apostle exclaims, “Oh the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and the knowledge of God!”1 And was it not this which the prophet meant, when he ordered unleavened cakes 2 to be made, intimating that the truly sacred mystic word, respecting the unbegotten and His powers, ought to be concealed? In confirmation of these things, in the Epistle to the Corinthians the apostle plainly says: “Howbeit we speak wisdom among those who are perfect, but not the wisdom of this world, or of the princes of this world, that come to nought. But we speak the wisdom of God . Rom. :. . Alluding to Gen. :.

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hidden in a mystery.”3 And again in another place he says: “To the acknowledgment of the mystery of God in Christ, in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”4 These things the Saviour Himself seals when He says: “To you it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven.”5 And again the Gospel says that the Saviour spake to the apostles the word in a mystery. For prophecy says of Him: “He will open His mouth in parables, and will utter things kept secret from the foundation of the world.”6 And now, by the parable of the leaven, the Lord shows concealment; for He says, “The kingdom of heaven is like leaven, which a woman took and hid in three measures of meal, till the whole was leavened.”7 For the tripartite soul is saved by obedience, through the spiritual power hidden in it by faith; or because the power of the word which is given to us, being strong and powerful, draws to itself secretly and invisibly every one who receives it, and keeps it within himself, and brings his whole system into unity. Accordingly Solon has written most wisely respecting God, thus: “It is most difficult to apprehend the mind’s invisible measure Which alone holds the boundaries of all things.” For “the divine,” says the poet of Agrigentum,8 “Is not capable of being approached with our eyes, Or grasped with our hands; but the highway Of persuasion, highest of all, leads to men’s minds.” And John the apostle says: “No man hath seen God at any time. The only-begotten God, who is in the bosom of the Father, He hath declared Him,”9—calling invisibility and ineffableness the bosom of God. Hence some have called it the Depth, as containing and embosoming all things, inaccessible and boundless.

. . . . . . .

 Cor. :, . Col. :, . Matt. :; Mark :; Luke :. Ps. :. Matt. :. Empedocles. John :.

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This discourse respecting God is most difficult to handle. For since the first principle of everything is difficult to find out, the absolutely first and oldest principle, which is the cause of all other things being and having been, is difficult to exhibit. For how can that be expressed which is neither genus, nor difference, nor species, nor individual, nor number; nay more, is neither an event, nor that to which an event happens? No one can rightly express Him wholly. For on account of His greatness He is ranked as the All, and is the Father of the universe. Nor are any parts to be predicated of Him. For the One is indivisible; wherefore also it is infinite, not considered with reference to inscrutability, but with reference to its being without dimensions, and not having a limit. And therefore it is without form and name. And if we name it, we do not do so properly, terming it either the One, or the Good, or Mind, or Absolute Being, or Father, or God, or Creator, or Lord. We speak not as supplying His name; but for want, we use good names, in order that the mind may have these as points of support, so as not to err in other respects. For each one by itself does not express God; but all together are indicative of the power of the Omnipotent. For predicates are expressed either from what belongs to things themselves, or from their mutual relation. But none of these are admissible in reference to God. Nor any more is He apprehended by the science of demonstration. For it depends on primary and better known principles. But there is nothing antecedent to the Unbegotten. It remains that we understand, then, the Unknown, by divine grace, and by the word alone that proceeds from Him; as Luke in the Acts of the Apostles relates that Paul said, “Men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious. For in walking about, and beholding the objects of your worship, I found an altar on which was inscribed, To the Unknown God. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, Him declare I unto you.”

. G  N (. –) The Life of Moses or Concerning Perfection in Virtue, Book II, paragraphs –. Trans. Abraham J. Malherbe and Everett Ferguson (New York: Paulist Press, ), pp. –. Greek text of De vita Moysis in Gregorii Nysseni Opera, W. Jaeger, gen. ed. vol. , pt. , ed. Herbertus Musurillo (Leiden: J. Brill, ). On Virginity .– and Commentary on Ecclesiastes, Sermon , .–, in From Glory to Glory: Texts From Gregory of Nyssa’s Mystical Writings, ed. J. Daniélou, S.J., trans. Herbert Musurillo, S.J. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, ), pp. – and –. Greek text of De virginitate in Gregorii Nysseni Opera, vol. , pt. , ed. J. P. Cavarnos (Leiden: J. Brill, ); of In ecclesiasten in Gregorii Nysseni Opera, vol. , ed. J. McDonough and P. Alexander (Leiden: J. Brill, ).

Gregory became bishop of Nyssa in  and took a leading role at the second ecumenical council of Constantinople in . Along with the other Cappadocian fathers, his brother Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus, he insists especially on the unknowability of God’s essence. God can be known only by his operations (®n™rgeia) in the world, not in himself, “for being by nature invisible, he becomes visible only in his operations, and only when he is contemplated in the things that are external to him.”1 “Thus in speaking of God, where there is a question of his essence, then is the time to keep silence (kairØq to† sig˙n). When, however, it is a question of his operation, a knowledge of which can come down even to us, that is the time to speak of his omnipotence by telling of his works and explaining his deeds, and to use words in this respect” (In ecclesiasten , , emphasis in the translation). This idea of never being able to see God in his own essence is incorporated later into PseudoDionysius’s mystical theology and becomes normative especially for Eastern Christianity. But Nyssa’s characteristic accent falls upon the unresolved ten. De beatitudinibus  A, in From Glory to Glory, p. . Greek text in Gregorii Nysseni Opera, vol. , pt. , ed. Johannes Callahari.



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sion (®p™ktasiq) created by our never satisfied effort to be united with God’s incomprehensible essence. This very effort, in its continuous progression to ever higher levels without limit, itself becomes the imitation of the divine infinity.2 It is especially in controverting the Arian heresy that Gregory develops a very radical negative theology. He follows Philo and Plotinus in the teaching that we can know that God is but not what he is. He insists on the unknowability of God’s essence, specifically against the affirmations of Eunomius, a disciple of Arius, who claimed a positive knowledge of the divine essence as agennetos, “ungenerate.”3 For the Arians, God’s very being or ousia was purportedly known in its own nature (kata f¥sin) by the fundamental characteristic of being ungenerated or unbegotten—agennesia. Clinging to this apparently sure and clear definition of the divine essence, the deductions of the Arians logically excluded the only-begotten Son of God from true divinity. This sort of error illustrates how the orthodox doctrine of the Incarnation can prove too subtle for categorical logic and can be grasped only apophatically. Athanasius and the Nicene fathers showed a keen apophatic sensibility in bearing witness to a religious faith that appears logically contradictory. Gregory of Nyssa, a generation or two later, continued to defend and develop this difficult insight, which only religious experience beyond conceptual thinking can validate. Nevertheless, the Greek fathers are like Greek philosophers in being visually oriented. In this, they are followers of Plato, for whom knowledge is, above all, contemplation of the Forms. Gregory of Nyssa, too, illustrates the fact that Greek Christian thought remains bound to vision as the paradigm of knowledge. Yet for him, the ultimate knowledge in apophasis coincides with a seeing whose object is only a luminous darkness. The unsayable translated thus into a visual register becomes vision invisible. It is the check to all possibility of visual perception that forces the understanding into the abyss of unknowing— that is, into seeing nothing. The Life of Moses concentrates on the imagery of moving through the cloud to the darkness of union with God, which is made canonical by Pseudo-Dionysius. The desired union is never finally achieved but remains an insatiable desire for God’s infinity. Such is the meaning of . See E. Mühlenberg, Die Unendlichkeit Gottes bei Gregor von Nyssa: Gregors Kritik am Gottesbegriff der klassischen Metaphysik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, ), as well as Jean Daniélou’s entry on epektasis in Dictionnaire de spiritualité ascétique et mystique (Paris: Beauchesne, ), vol. , cols. –. . See Contra Eunomius,  books, in Patrologia Graeca, vol. , pp. –. Cf. Carabine, The Unknown God, pp. –.



  

God’s denial of Moses’s request that he be allowed to see the divine visage. Moses is filled with what he desires by having his desire remain unfulfilled (O‹tvq o«n plhro†tai tˆ Mv‰se¡ tØ pouo¥menon, di| ˘n Ωpl¸rvtoq Ô ®piuymºa m™nei, II, ). In the passage from De virginitate, Gregory is commenting on verse  of Psalm : “Every man is a liar.” He describes David’s, that is, the psalmist’s, incapacity to relate the beauty of the Lord whom he beholds because its nature is too sublime and ineffable (Êchlˆ te kaÁ Ωrr¸tv). He thus confronts a limit where no language can be truthful. The gap between language and vision parallels the gap between the visible and the invisible. The Platonic Form or paradigma which transcends what participates in it is the underlying structure of this thinking of transcendence.

The Life of Moses or Concerning Perfection in Virtue, Book II, – [The Darkness]

. What does it mean that Moses entered the darkness and then saw God in it? What is now recounted seems somehow to be contradictory to the first theophany, for then the Divine was beheld in light but now he is seen in darkness. Let us not think that this is at variance with the sequence of things we have contemplated spiritually. Scripture teaches by this that religious knowledge comes at first to those who received it as light. Therefore what is perceived to be contrary to religion is darkness, and the escape from darkness comes about when one participates in light. But as the mind progresses and through an ever greater and more perfect diligence, comes to apprehend reality, as it approaches more nearly to contemplation, it sees more clearly what of the divine nature is uncontemplated. . For leaving behind everything that is observed, not only what sense comprehends but also what the intelligence thinks it sees,

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it keeps on penetrating deeper until by the intelligence’s yearning for understanding it gains access to the invisible and the incomprehensible, and there it sees God. This is the true knowledge of what is sought; this is the seeing that consists in not seeing, because that which is sought transcends all knowledge, being separated on all sides by incomprehensibility as by a kind of darkness. Wherefore John the sublime, who penetrated into the luminous darkness, says, No one has ever seen God,1 thus asserting that knowledge of the divine essence is unattainable not only by men but also by every intelligent creature. . When, therefore, Moses grew in knowledge, he declared that he had seen God in the darkness, that is, that he had then come to know that what is divine is beyond all knowledge and comprehension, for the text says, Moses approached the dark cloud where God was.2 What God? He who made darkness his hiding place,3 as David says, who also was initiated into the mysteries in the same inner sanctuary. . When Moses arrived there, he was taught by word what he had formerly learned from darkness, so that, I think, the doctrine on this matter might be made firmer for us for being testified to by the divine voice. The divine word at the beginning forbids that the Divine be likened to any of the things known by men, since every concept which comes from some comprehensible image by an approximate understanding and by guessing at the divine nature constitutes an idol of God and does not proclaim God. . Religious virtue is divided into two parts, into that which pertains to the Divine and that which pertains to right conduct (for purity of life is a part of religion). Moses learns at first the things which must be known about God (namely, that none of those things known by human comprehension is to be ascribed to him). Then he is taught the other side of virtue, learning by what pursuits the virtuous life is perfected. . After this he comes to the tabernacle not made with hands. Who will follow someone who makes his way through such places and elevates his mind to such heights, who, as though he were passing from one peak to another, comes ever higher than he was through . John :. . Exod. :. . Ps. :.



  

his ascent to the heights? First, he leaves behind the base of the mountain and is separated from all those too weak for the ascent. Then as he rises higher in his ascent he hears the sounds of the trumpets. Thereupon, he slips into the inner sanctuary of divine knowledge. And he does not remain there, but he passes on to the tabernacle not made with hands.4 For truly this is the limit that someone reaches who is elevated through such ascents. . For it seems to me that in another sense the heavenly trumpet becomes a teacher to the one ascending as he makes his way to what is not made with hands. For the wonderful harmony of the heavens proclaims the wisdom which shines forth in the creation and sets forth the great glory of God through the things which are seen, in keeping with the statement, the heavens declare the glory of God.5 It becomes the loud sounding trumpet of clear and melodious teaching, as one of the Prophets says, The heavens trumpeted from above.6 . When he who has been purified and is sharp of hearing in his heart hears this sound (I am speaking of the knowledge of the divine power which comes from the contemplation of reality), he is led by it to the place where his intelligence lets him slip in where God is. This is called darkness by the Scripture,7 which signifies, as I said, the unknown and unseen. When he arrives there, he sees that tabernacle not made with hands, which he shows to those below by means of a material likeness.8 . . . . .

Heb. :. Ps. :. Ecclus. :. Exod. :. Exod. –.

On Virginity .– [The True Beauty]

How could anyone possibly express the great catastrophe involved in losing the possession of the true Good? What extraordinary powers of soul one would have to have! How could anyone express even in

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outline that which is inexpressible and incomprehensible to the human mind? Once a man has purified his heart, so that he may perchance see the Lord’s beatitude fulfilled, he will then despise all human utterance as absolutely incapable of expressing what he has experienced. Again, if a man is immersed in carnal passions, so that these inclinations, like a rheum, put a glaze over the window of the soul, anything you might say, no matter how strong, would be wasted on him. When speaking of miracles it does not matter whether you understate or exaggerate to those who have no sensibility whatever. It is the same thing with the sunshine. If a man has not seen it from his earliest days, any effort to translate the experience into words is useless and meaningless. You cannot make the brilliance of the sunlight shine through his ears. And so it is with the true light of the spirit. Each man needs his own eyes to see its beauty. And the soul that does see it by some divine gift and inspiration, retains his ecstasy unexpressed in the secret of his consciousness. But the man who has not seen it cannot even be made to realize his loss. For how can you represent to him the supreme Good if it totally escapes him? How can anyone make him see what is indescribable? For we have not learnt the proper words to express this beauty. Nor is there any example of what we are looking for in the created world; even to try to explain it by a comparison would be impossible. Who, for example, would compare the sun with a little spark, the endless expanse of the sea with a tiny drop? And that tiny drop, that little spark, bear the same relationship to the ocean and the sun as any beautiful thing which men admire bears to the beauty that we contemplate in that supreme Good which surpasses all things. Hence when a man suffers the loss of that Good, how are we to represent the magnitude of that catastrophe? The great David rightly shows us how impossible this is. Lifted out of himself by the Spirit, he glimpsed in that blessed ecstasy God’s infinite and incomprehensible beauty. He saw as much as a mere mortal can see, leaving the covering of the flesh, and by thought alone entering into contemplation of that immaterial and spiritual realm. And though yearning to say something which would do justice to his vision, he can only cry out (in words that all can echo after him): Every man is a liar (Ps. .). And this I take to mean that anyone who attempts to portray that ineffable Light in language is truly a liar —not because of



  

any abhorrence of the truth, but merely because of the infirmity of his explanation. Now that external beauty which we meet during our life on earth may appear in inanimate matter or in living bodies through a certain fine coloring. Here our senses are quite adequate in admiring and absorbing this beauty, and in communicating it to others by expressing it in language, using the descriptive power of words as a kind of picture. And yet the archetype of this beauty escapes our comprehension. For how can words possibly find any mode of description which could make it visible? One may not appeal to color or shape or size, or the proportions of form, or any other trivial detail of that sort. Since this beauty is without form or shape, and is alien to any material quality or to anything that we observe in connection with bodies by sense perception, how could anyone come to know it by any of those qualities which can be perceived by the senses? At the same time we must not therefore despair of attaining what we desire because it appears to transcend our comprehension. Rather, the more our reason shows us the magnitude of what we seek, the higher we must elevate our understanding and stimulate it with the grandeur of our objective, lest perhaps we should completely fall short of any participation in the Good. For seeing that we cannot base our comprehension of God on any attribute, there is no small danger that we might perhaps slip away from any knowledge of Him whatsoever on the plea that He is too lofty and ineffable. Because of that weakness, therefore, it is imperative that we take hold of our understanding and, as it were, lead it by the hand towards the invisible with the help of that which we can perceive by the senses.

Commentary on Ecclesiastes, Sermon , .‒ [The Abyss of Knowledge] The text which follows leads the soul to a more profound philosophy of the things of the spirit. For he teaches us here that the universe is entirely consistent with itself, that there is an indestructible harmony

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among all intelligible things and a kind of cooperation which exists among all beings. The universe is not separated from that with which it is connected, but all things continue in existence governed by the power of being; and that which is truly being is the divine Goodness in itself—or call it by any other name you may find to express its indestructible nature. And yet, how can we find a name for that which the divine voice of the Apostle tells us is beyond every name (Phil. .)? The only name you could find to express that ineffable nature and power is that of the Good. It is this Good, beyond all good, that truly is, and by itself it has given and continues to give all things the power to come into existence and to remain in being. What is outside of it is non-existence; for what is outside of being does not exist. Now love is the antithesis of evil; and God is all goodness. Hence it follows that evil is outside of God, and that its essence must be conceived of not as something existent but rather as the absence of good. We therefore call evil that which is outside of the concept of good. And thus evil is conceived as the opposite of good as non-being is the opposite of being. Thus it is that we fall short of the good by the deliberate choice of our appetite. It is just like people who are deprived of light and are said to see the darkness, whereas they do not see the darkness but rather do not see anything. So too the nature of evil, which is really non-existent, becomes real in those men who have fallen short of the good. And evil remains in existence so long as we remain outside of the good. But we can by a free movement of the will tear ourselves away from this attachment to the non-existent and attach ourselves to real being; then it ceases to have that existence in me any longer, and never will have it again completely. For evil in itself is nothing apart from our deliberate choice. When I attach myself and cleave to what is truly being, I abide in that which always was, is now and ever shall be. This I think is the meaning of the saying: there is a time to rend, and a time to sew (Eccles. .), that is, that we should break away from all that we have been evilly attached to and cleave to that which it is good to adhere to. It is good for me, says the text, to adhere to my God, to put my hope in the Lord (Ps. .). One might quote many other texts which offer useful counsel in this matter, as, for example: Lift the evil from yourselves. And this is the command which the divine Apostle also gives us when he orders the man who has been condemned for illicit wedlock to separate himself from the common body of the Church, lest the little leaven, as he tells us ( Cor. .), corrupt the



  

whole mass of the prayer of the Church. On the other hand, he tries to restore by repentance the man who has been separated by sin where he says: lest perhaps such a one be swallowed up with overmuch sorrow ( Cor. .). Thus Paul knows how to tear away the soiled portion of the Church’s robe in good time, and in good time to sew it on again when it has been cleansed of all dirt by penance. Many similar instances can be observed in the accounts of our more primitive documents as well as in the events of our own day, which are being accomplished in our churches in a providential way. We know of those from whom we have been torn away, and those to whom we still adhere: we are separated from those in heresy, and constantly attached to true piety; for the robe of the Church, as we observe, is still whole, even when it has broken off any communion with heretics. But whether the sacred text is (according to my interpretation) expounding a philosophy of being, or is merely teaching some such lesson by way of counsel, the divine word does in all things aim at the practical and the useful, opportunely breaking off evil attachments and duly applying us to those things wherein attachment is desirable. Let us now proceed with the rest of the text. Here I think it will be clear how much better the actual words of the passage fit the context when they are interpreted according to a deeper level of meaning. Ecclesiastes first mentions the time to keep silence, and after that he allows a time to speak (Eccles. .). When, and on what matters, is it better to keep silence? Those who are concerned with morals might say that most often silence is more becoming than speech; and similarly Paul distinguishes the proper times for speech and for silence, sometimes prescribing silence, at other times commanding speech. Let no evil speech proceed from your mouth (Eph. .) is his law of silence. But if speech is good, to the edification of the faith, that it may administer grace to the hearers (Eph. .), then it is the time to speak. Let women keep silence in the churches ( Cor. .), once again, gives us the time to keep silence. But if they would learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home ( Cor. .), again shows us the proper time for speech. Lie not one to another (Col. .) suggests the proper time for silence, and speak ye the truth every man with his neighbor (Eph. .) is, once again, permission to speak. Many similar quotations can be cited from the Old Testament. When the sinner stood against me, I was dumb, and was humbled, and

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kept silence (Ps. .–), and: I, as a deaf man, heard not: and as a dumb man not opening his mouth. The man who cannot be moved to requite evil is dumb; and when he should use his voice, he opens his mouth in parables and utters things hidden (Ps. .), he fills his mouth with praise, and makes his tongue the pen (Ps. .). But since there are innumerable examples of this in Scripture, I need not go into detail where there is such agreement. But what I did want to take up again briefly was the point that occurred to my mind earlier: that there is a connection between this doctrine of speech and silence and the meaning we gave to the text on rending and sewing (Eccles. .). In that text it was a question of the reason tearing the soul away from its contrary, to which it was adhering, and uniting it to that true reality which is beyond all reason. This was what I said earlier. But in the present text I think that silence is mentioned first because human speech finds it impossible to express that reality which transcends all thought and every concept, which the soul that has been torn from evil constantly seeks, and to which it yearns to be united once it has been found. And he who obstinately tries to express it in words, unconsciously offends God. For He Who is believed to transcend the universe must surely transcend speech. He who tries to circumscribe the infinite in speech no longer admits that He is transcendent by the very fact that he equates God with his speech, under the impression that the proper description of God is only such as his discourse is capable of expressing. He is unaware that the proper notion of the supreme Being is preserved precisely in our belief that God transcends knowledge. The reason for this is that all created reality must look only to that to which it is naturally akin. Indeed nothing can remain in existence if it goes outside of its own nature. Thus fire does not abide in water, nor water in fire. Earth does not abide in water, nor water on earth; air cannot exist in earth nor earth in air. But each element must remain within the confines of its own nature, and exists only so long as it does so. If it moves outside of its nature, it passes from existence. The same is true of our sense faculties. Each faculty must remain within its natural operation, and cannot shift to that of a neighboring sense. The eye, for example, cannot operate on the data of audition; hearing cannot taste; touch cannot speak; and the tongue cannot function on what is visible or audible. Each sense remains within the bounds of its own faculty, within the operation prescribed by nature.



  

So too no created being can go out of itself by rational contemplation. Whatever it sees, it must see itself; and even if it thinks it is seeing beyond itself, it does not in fact possess a nature which can achieve this. And thus in its contemplation of Being it tries to force itself to transcend a spatial representation, but it never achieves it. For in every possible thought, the mind is surely aware of the spatial element which it perceives in addition to the thought content; and the spatial element is, of course, created. Yet the Good that we have learned to seek and to cherish is beyond all creation, and hence beyond all comprehension. Thus how can our mind, which always operates on a dimensional image, comprehend a nature that has no dimension, especially as our minds are constantly penetrating, by analysis, into things which are more and more profound. And though the mind in its restlessness ranges through all that is knowable, it has never yet discovered a way of comprehending eternity in such wise that it might place itself outside of it, and go beyond the idea of eternity itself and that Being which is above all being. It is like someone who finds himself on a mountain ridge. Imagine a sheer, steep crag, of reddish appearance below, extending into eternity; on top there is this ridge which looks down over a projecting rim into a bottomless chasm. Now imagine what a person would probably experience if he put his foot on the edge of this ridge which overlooks the chasm and found no solid footing nor anything to hold on to. This is what I think the soul experiences when it goes beyond its footing in material things, in its quest for that which has no dimension and which exists from all eternity. For here there is nothing it can take hold of, neither place nor time, neither measure nor anything else; it does not allow our minds to approach. And thus the soul, slipping at every point from what cannot be grasped, becomes dizzy and perplexed and returns once again to what is connatural to it, content now to know merely this about the Transcendent, that it is completely different from the nature of the things that the soul knows. Thus it is, then, that when reason touches on those things which are beyond it, that is the time to keep silence (Eccles. .); rather it keeps the wonder of that ineffable power within the secret of our conscience, fully aware that great men have spoken not of God but rather of his works, saying: Who shall declare the powers of the Lord? (Ps. .) and I will relate all thy wonders (Ps. .), and Generation and generation shall praise thy works (Ps. .). This is what they discuss and this is what they have to say in their attempt to translate

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reality into words. But when their discourse touches on that which transcends all knowledge, it is rather silence that they prescribe in what they tell us. For they tell us that of the magnificence of the glory of His holiness there is no end.1 Ah, the wonder of it! Why does the sacred text fear to approach the glory of the divine mystery, so that it has not even expressed any of those effects which are outside His nature? It does not say that God’s essence is without limit, judging it rash even to express this in a concept; rather it merely marvels at the vision of the magnificence of His glory. But once again he is unable to see the substance of this glory; he is merely in amazement at the glory of His holiness. He is far from being concerned with the exact nature of God’s essence; he has not the power to show admiration for the least of God’s manifestations; for he does not admire God’s holiness, nor even the glory of His holiness, but merely attempts to admire the magnificence of the glory of His holiness, and even here his powers fail. His mind, then, did not comprehend the ultimate limit of what he admired; and hence he says: Of the magnificence of the glory of His holiness there is no end. Thus in speaking of God, when there is question of His essence, then is the time to keep silence. When, however, it is a question of His operation, a knowledge of which can come down even to us, that is the time to speak of His omnipotence by telling of His works and explaining His deeds, and to use words to this extent. In things, however, which go beyond this, the creature must not exceed the bounds of its nature, but must be content to know itself. For indeed, in my view, if the creature never comes to know itself, never understands the essence of the soul or the nature of the body, the cause of being, how beings arise from one another by generation, how being comes from non-being and is resolved into non-being, how the universe is harmoniously constructed out of contraries—if the creature does not know itself, how can it ever explain things that are beyond it? Of such things it is time to keep silence; here silence is surely better. There is, however, a time to speak of those things by which we can in our lives make progress in virtue.

. Gregory supports his doctrine of “silence” by using Psalm , one of the so-called Laudate hymns added at the end of the fifth book of the Psalter. Here and through the rest of the passage he has fused two verses, Ps. :: And of his greatness there is no end, and Ps. :: They shall speak of the magnificence of the glory of thy holiness: and shall tell thy wondrous works.

. A (–) Confessions, Book IX.x.xxiii–xxv. Trans. F. J. Sheed (Indianapolis: Hackett, ), pp. –. Latin text in Le confessioni, in Opere (Rome: Città nuova, ), vol. .

Saint Augustine was frequently characterized in the Middle Ages as offering the positive theology that counterbalances Dionysius’s negative theology.1 Yet Augustine, too, provides some of the loci classici of apophatic mysticism. Although he is not primarily a proponent of negative theology, he nevertheless coins some of its key formulations, such as “God is known better by unknowing” or “If you comprehend, it is not God.” 2 His Epistle  speaks of “docta ignorantia” (“learned ignorance”), thereby pointing the way to Eriugena and Cusanus. His commentary on Psalm  declares, “God is ineffable; it is easier to say what he is not than what he is” (“Deus ineffabilis est; facilius dicimus quid non sit, quod quid sit”). His meditation in Book XII of De Genesi ad litteram on the visio Paulis, Paul’s being rapt to the third heaven, where he heard “unspeakable things” (arrheta), is fundamental for medieval meditations on the ineffable. But perhaps most influential of all is a passage in De doctrina christiana, Book I, chapter , where Augustine formulates the contradictoriness of talking about God as the ineffable—together with the theological and devotional necessity of doing so: Have I spoken of God, or uttered His praise, in any worthy way? Nay, I feel that I have done nothing more than desire to speak; and if I have said

. Bonaventure, for example, describes two ways of considering divine secrets: “either by positing or by taking away. Augustine offers the first, Dionysius the second” (“vel per positionem, vel per ablationem. primum ponit Augustinus, secundum Dionysius,” De triplici via III, ). Cited by Kurt Ruh, Die mystische Gotteslehre des Dionysius Areopagita (Munich: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaft, ), p. . . “Summo illo Deo qui scitur melius nesciendo.” De ordine II, , , in Patrologia Latina, vol. , col. , ed. J.-P. Migne (Turnholti: Brepols, ); “De deo loquimur, quid mirum, si non comprehendis? Si enim comprehendis, non est Deus.” Sermones de Scripturis CXVII, , , in Patrologia Latina, vol. , cols. f. Cf. De Trinitate XIV, vii, .

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anything, it is not what I desired to say. How do I know this, except from the fact that God is unspeakable? But what I have said, if it had been unspeakable, could not have been spoken. And so God is not even to be called ‘unspeakable,’ because to say even this is to speak of Him. Thus there arises a curious contradiction of words, because if the unspeakable is what cannot be spoken of, it is not unspeakable if it can be called unspeakable. And this opposition of words is rather to be avoided by silence than to be explained away by speech. And yet God, although nothing worthy of His greatness can be said of Him, has condescended to accept the worship of men’s mouths, and has desired us through the medium of our own words to rejoice in His praise.3 If Augustine usually counts as a kataphatic theologian, this is mainly because, as a man of the Church with a mission of teaching and preaching, he concentrates on what can be said about God, on what has been revealed and must be proclaimed. As a theoretician, however, Augustine is fully aware of the limits of language and of the deeply apophatic predicament of theology. All of his positive statements are implicitly qualified by the lessons of negative theology that he powerfully apprehends and acknowledges. The unknowability and ineffability of the Trinity is acknowledged at every step of his treatise on this subject (for example, in V, i, ). While ostensibly exploring the analogies between the trinitarian structure of the human psyche and its divine model, De Trinitate actually points up the unbridgeable abyss that yawns between them, just as it yawns between the representable and the unrepresentable. Hence the final prayer, in which Augustine asks to be delivered of the abundance of words (multiloquium) and vain thoughts that plague him (XV, xxviii, ). He has plied all the resources of rhetoric only to expose its vanity and make the hollowness of his own words resound. In this way, he points to the Reality that no representations can reveal—except indirectly by their own dissolution, through which alone the silent Word outside language might become audible.4

. On Christian Doctrine, trans. J. F. Shaw in Great Books of the Western World, nd ed. (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, ). . A reading along these lines, discerning in Augustine “a writing whose gesture of effacement aims to highlight, by default, the divine Ineffable” (“une écriture dont le geste d’effacement vise à pointer, par défaut, l’Ineffable divin”) is developed by Roger Dragonetti, “L’image et l’irreprésentable dans l’écriture de Saint Augustin,” in Qu’est-ce que Dieu?, pp. –, citation, p. .



  

Deirdre Carabine has argued persuasively against Raoul Mortley’s reduction of negative theology in Augustine to mere “traces” of predecessors. While Augustine does not systematically develop a via negativa, his whole theology is based on the premise that God cannot be known as he is in himself. He proposes in effect a via amoris. The God we cannot know must be approached rather by way of love. This entails, as for other proponents of negative theologies, apprehending God indirectly in and through his creations, which likewise can only be imperfectly known, since the essence of their being is hidden in God. Nevertheless, the world “bears a kind of silent testimony to the fact of its creation, and proclaims that its maker could have been none other than God, the ineffably and invisibly great, the ineffably and invisibly beautiful.”5 This silent testimony of the visible to the Invisible also gives the Incarnation a central importance in Augustine’s special version of apophatic theology. The vision at Ostia at the end of Book IX of the Confessions forms the climax of the autobiographical portion of the work. Augustine describes an ascent from verbal conversation to mute intuition of a silent, eternal Word or Wisdom, which he experienced together with his mother just before her death in the Roman port town from which they were to have sailed back to Africa. Many expressions in this account are borrowed from Plotinus’s descriptions of the soul’s ascent to the One, including toto ictu cordis: registering a sense of shock in the contact with the Transcendent.6 As usual in Augustine, the relation between time and eternity is articulated in analogy to that between language and silence. The implications of the analogy adumbrated in this brief narration are drawn out further in the analyses of memory in Book X and of time in Book XI of the Confessions.7 For Augustine, meaning and truth are realized only after speech and beyond it in the silence that follows the final syllable of any utterance. The full sense of an utterance can be gathered at no point during its articulation but only in the silence afterwards—that is, after words. The whole sense of a . De civitate Dei XI, ; trans. H. Bettenson, City of God, p. , cited in Carabine, The Unknown God, p. . See, further, Vladimir Lossky, “Les eléments de ‘théologie négative’ dans la pensée de saint Augustin,” in Augustinus Magister: Congrès international augustinien Paris (Paris: L’année théologique augustinienne, ), pp. –. . Plotinus, Enneads VI.vii..; cf. also V.i..–; V.i..–; I.vi. These and other important borrowings are evidenced by Paul Henry, La Vision d’Ostie: Sa place dans la vie et l’oeuvre de saint Augustin (Paris: Vrin, ). . Cf. Jean Guitton, Le temps et l’éternité chez Plotin et Saint Augustin (Paris: Boivin, ). See, further, Victorio Capánaga, “El silencio interior en la visión agustiniana de Ostia,” Augustinus  (): –, on the history of effects of this passage in subsequent Christian mysticism.

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statement is immanent in the whole thought that precedes and gives rise to speech.8 This holds for the whole of language and indeed for the universe as a whole, which is nothing but the utterance of the divine Word. Only the eternal Word heard in silence can give coherent sense to the syllables of time, the events of history. Augustine’s analysis of language thus shows the dependence of language on silence, just as his analysis of time shows the virtual disappearance of time in an eternity that can never itself appear as present. The fact that anything at all does appear, either in time or in language, points to what does not appear at all. In fact, the discrete parts of time and language are apprehended only as vanishing, as transpiring, and thus as pointing toward a whole that they emerge from but never can make manifest as a whole.9 Silence, the Invisible, the Eternal are the meaning of all that visibly and articulately comes to pass— and pass away. . Augustine develops this idea in his theory of the interior word (verbum interioris) in De trinitate, particularly in Book XV. . Karmen MacKendrick’s chapter on Augustine in Immemorial Silence (New York: SUNY Press, ) links him with modern thinkers for whom language is the disappearance of presence, especially Blanchot. A more Derridean approach is offered by Margaret W. Ferguson, “Saint Augustine’s Region of Unlikeness: The Crossing of Exile and Language,” The Georgia Review (Winter ): –.

Confessions, Book IX.x.xxiii–xxv [The Vision at Ostia]

When the day was approaching on which she was to depart this life— a day that You knew though we did not—it came about, as I believe by Your secret arrangement, that she and I stood alone leaning in a window, which looked inwards to the garden within the house where we were staying, at Ostia on the Tiber; for there we were away from everybody, resting for the sea-voyage from the weariness of our long journey by land. There we talked together, she and I alone, in deep joy; and forgetting the things that were behind and looking forward to those that were before, we were discussing in the presence of Truth,



  

which You are, what the eternal life of the saints could be like, which eye has not seen nor ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man. But with the mouth of our heart we panted for the high waters of Your fountain, the fountain of the life which is with You: that being sprinkled from that fountain according to our capacity, we might in some sense meditate upon so great a matter. And our conversation had brought us to this point, that any pleasure whatsoever of the bodily senses, in any brightness whatsoever of corporeal light, seemed to us not worthy of comparison with the pleasure of that eternal Light, not worthy even of mention. Rising as our love flamed upward towards that Selfsame, we passed in review the various levels of bodily things, up to the heavens themselves, whence sun and moon and stars shine upon this earth. And higher still we soared, thinking in our minds and speaking and marvelling at Your works: and so we came to our own souls, and went beyond them to come at last to that region of richness unending, where You feed Israel forever with the food of truth: and there life is that Wisdom by which all things are made, both the things that have been and the things that are yet to be. But this Wisdom itself is not made: it is as it has ever been, and so it shall be forever: indeed “has ever been” and “shall be forever” have no place in it, but it simply is, for it is eternal: whereas “to have been” and “to be going to be” are not eternal. And while we were thus talking of His Wisdom and panting for it, with all the effort of our heart we did for one instant attain to touch it; then sighing, and leaving the first fruits of our spirit bound to it, we returned to the sound of our own tongue, in which a word has both beginning and ending. For what is like to your Word, Our Lord, who abides in Himself forever, yet grows not old and makes all things new! So we said: If to any man the tumult of the flesh grew silent, silent the images of earth and sea and air: and if the heavens grew silent, and the very soul grew silent to herself and by not thinking of self mounted beyond self: if all dreams and imagined visions grew silent, and every tongue and every sign and whatsoever is transient— for indeed if any man could hear them, he should hear them saying with one voice: We did not make ourselves, but He made us who abides forever: but if, having uttered this and so set us to listening to Him who made them, they all grew silent, and in their silence He alone spoke to us, not by them but by Himself: so that we should hear

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His word, not by any tongue of flesh nor the voice of an angel nor the sound of thunder nor in the darkness of a parable, but that we should hear Himself whom in all these things we love, should hear Himself and not them: just as we two had but now reached forth and in a flash of the mind attained to touch the eternal Wisdom which abides over all: and if this could continue, and all other visions so different be quite taken away, and this one should so ravish and absorb and wrap the beholder in inward joys that his life should eternally be such as that one moment of understanding for which we had been sighing— would not this be: Enter Thou into the joy of Thy Lord?

. D  A (. ) Divine Names, chapters I and VII, ; Mystical Theology. Trans. John D. Jones in Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, The Divine Names and Mystical Theology (Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, ), pp.  –, –, –. Greek text in Corpus Dionysiacum,  vols., Patristische Texte und Studien, ed. K. Aland and E. Mühlenberg (Berlin–New York: Walter de Gruyter, –).

Until the Renaissance, the author of the Corpus Dionysiacum was erroneously identified with the Dionysius converted by Saint Paul on the Acropolis at Athens according to the Acts of the Apostles :. Considered thus to have been directly instructed by the apostle, he was the primary source and authority on apophatic theology for both Eastern and Western churches for a millennium. Hints that his supposed sub-apostolic status had not always been believed register in the early decades of the sixth century in the arguments of John of Scythopolis and other Orthodox theologians against appeals made to the Corpus by Monophysite theologians, who maintained that there was but one nature in the incarnate Logos and not two, a human and a divine, as stipulated by the Council of Chalcedon in . Suspicions were murmured again later, for example, by Peter Abelard and Nicholas of Cusa. Nevertheless, the Corpus’s authority was almost universally accepted before, and even to a large extent after, Lorenzo Valla’s “Annotationes in Novum Testamentum” () proved the attribution false by showing that the work was a much later production, apparently a forgery. The author has become generally known as “Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite” only after the philological work by J. Stiglmayr and H. Koch, whose papers, published independently in , demonstrated the thoroughgoing dependence of the Corpus upon Proclus, the fifth-century Neoplatonic writer. This dependence is especially conspicuous in the theory of evil in Divine Names, chapter IV, which evinces striking verbal resemblances to Proclus’s De malorum subsistentia. “Pseudo-Dionysius” is now widely supposed to have been a Syrian monk writing around the turn of the fifth to the sixth century ..

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Dionysius the Areopagite

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The author of the Dionysian Corpus does not actually claim to have been converted by Saint Paul in Athens. He may have intended simply to place his theology under the sign of the “Unknown God” evoked by Paul’s preaching to the Greeks. In fact, he names as his father in the faith “my illustrious teacher,” one “most holy Hierotheus” (Divine Names IV, –). The “forgery” may thus have been more a historical malentendu than a deliberate deception. So at this historical distance it seems appropriate to call him simply “Dionysius” or “Denys.”1 In any case, the stature of these treatises in theology and in philosophy has hardly been damaged by the exposé concerning its authorship: the problem of the nameless God of many names and the plunge into the mystical cloud of unknowing still find indisputably canonical treatments in the Divine Names and the Mystical Theology. The very concept of a negative or “apophatic” theology is first formulated by Dionysius, though Proclus had already used the terms “kataphatic” (affirmative) and “apophatic” (negative) to describe different kinds of theological propositions.2 Dionysius drives the negative way harder and farther than any of his predecessors, who are, most importantly, the Neoplatonists and the Cappadocian fathers, especially Gregory of Nyssa. All divine names, even that of “Trinity” at the highest echelon of affirmative theology, are inadequate to the unknowable God. Affirmation of the divine Names proceeds from those revealed in Scripture (such as “Lord,” “King of Kings,”“Holy of Holies,” “Peace”), as well as from those for the intelligible perfections most suitable to God (such as “Good,” “One,” “Beautiful,” “Light,” “Wisdom”), and descends to names for the sensible order of things such as stars, fire, water, wind, dew that only distantly resemble God. This last step consists in sensible affirmations and comprises what Dionysius calls “symbolic” theology. It was evidently dealt with in a separate treatise, now lost, that followed the Divine Names, which treats the intellectual perfections, together with the most appropriate scriptural Names. But all affirmative procedures for naming God

. Dionysius does speak, for example, of being present with the apostles James and Peter at “a vision of that mortal body, that source of life, which bore God” ( c-d), but we should be cautious about interpreting “presence” and “vision” in mystical writings in narrowly literal and historical terms. Cf. Jean-Luc Marion, “Au Nom: Comment ne pas parler de ‘théologie négative,’” Laval Théologique et Philosophique / (October ):  n. . . G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon, –), p. . Josef Hochstaffl, Negative Theologie: Ein Versuch zur Vermittlung des patristischen Begriffs (Munich: Kösel, ), passes in review all the implicit forms of negative theology in patristic thought up to its explicit theorization by Dionysius.



  

are bound up with and inextricable from negative theology, in which all such attributions are denied. Reversing the direction of affirmative theology, negative theology ascends from denial of names for things most unlike God (for example, “worm,” “clod”) to those names like “Good” and “One” and other names for intellectual perfections that are more accurate and hence less easy to deny, yet are still completely inadequate to name the divine transcendence. This is the path followed by the treatises On the Celestial Hierarchy and On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy. Even this purely negative knowledge by means of denials cedes finally to mystical theology, which renounces the quest for knowledge altogether in order to encounter God in the mystical cloud of unknowing: “the unknowing of what is beyond being is something above and beyond speech, mind, or being itself. . . .” This union “in a manner surpassing speech and knowledge,” promised from the outset of the Divine Names, becomes the main focus of the Mystical Theology.3 Dionysius thus articulates a two-step process for approaching God consisting in () the interpretation of intelligible concepts and even perceptible symbols by analogy, and () the venture beyond all speech and knowledge into the darkness of an encounter in unknowing with the unknowable. This constitutes the comprehensive, coordinated procedure of affirmative and negative theology as they issue in mystical theology or apophasis. As the first chapter of the Divine Names explains, “We leave behind us all our own notions of the divine. We call a halt to the activities of our minds and, to the extent that is proper, we approach the ray which transcends being. Here, in a manner no words can describe, preexisted all the goals of all knowledge and it is of a kind that neither intelligence nor speech can lay hold of it . . .” (–). Dionysius’s treatise on the Divine Names, like numerous Neoplatonic works, beginning with the Enneads V.i., is in effect a commentary on the Parmenides of Plato. A great innovation of Dionysius’s treatment, however, is to unite the One and Being, the hypostases of the first two hypotheses respectively, in one God. This God is One above and beyond being, One alone (’n mønoq) or “only One,” but also a One-who-is (’n ]n) as the Being of all beings. Dionysius thereby “brusquely effects the reunification of the two hypotheses, of the One that is above being and of the One that is participated in by being, in a unitary subject. This position allows him to lead both negative and positive theology back to one and the same One, the only God, unlike Proclus, who is forced to apply only the first hypothesis (thus apophatic the-

. Citations are from Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Luibheid.

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ology) to the One and to apply the second hypothesis (and so positive theology) to divinities inferior to the One.”4 For a long time it was hotly debated whether Dionysius’s thinking should be classified as a Neoplatonist system forced to conform to Christian doctrine, or as a patristic theology strongly colored by Neoplatonic philosophy, like the work of many other Christian fathers of the first several centuries.5 One purported explanation for the ambiguity is that the author deliberately submerged his knowledge of Christian writings after the New Testament in order to safeguard his claim to sub-apostolic status.6 It seems more likely that the writer simply understood himself as inspired spiritually and speculatively, rather than as undertaking any sort of scholarly enterprise requiring documentation and footnotes. In any case, the writing itself is extremely provocative in its oxymorons, paradoxes, and neologisms, and it thereby becomes a generally acknowledged model for apophatic rhetoric.

. Corsini, Il trattato De Divinis Nominibus dello Pseudo-Dionigi e i commenti neoplatonici al Parmenide, p. : “. . . opera bruscamente la riunificazione in un unico soggetto delle due prime ipotesi, dell’Uno che è sopra l’essere e dell’Uno che è partecipato dall’essere. Questo atteggiamento gli permette di ricondurre e ricollegare allo stesso e identico Uno, all’unico Dio, tanto la teologia negativa quanto quella positiva, a differenza di Proclo che è costretto a riservare all’Uno soltanto la prima ipotesi (cioè la teologia apofatica) e ad applicare la seconda ipotesi (= teologia positiva) alle divinità inferiori all’Uno.” . Against those who read Dionysius as non-Christian except for superficial adaptations, recent treatments have stressed how integral the Neoplatonism is to Dionysius’s thoroughly Christian inspiration expressed in terms well within the patristic tradition. See especially É. Jeauneau, “Denys L’aréopagite promoteur du Néoplatonisme en Occident,” Néoplatonisme et philosophie médiévale, ed. Linos G. Benakis (Belgium: Brepols, ), pp. –, and Louth, Denys the Areopagite. . See Carabine, The Unknown God, p. .



  

The Divine Names, chapter I

Concerning the Intention of Our Discourse and the Tradition Regarding The Divine Names  And now, O blessed one, after having considered the Outlines of Theology,1 I shall proceed as far as I am able to the unfolding of the divine names. Let the divine law of the writings now determine us from the beginning of our inquiry: we are to make known the truth of what is said about God “not by trusting the persuasive logoi of human wisdom but by bringing forth the power 2 of the Spirit which moves the theologians. Hereby, will you be ineffably and unknowingly joined to what is ineffable and unknowable in a far greater union than we can attain through our rational and intellectual powers and activities. In general, then, one must neither dare to say—nor clearly, to conceive—anything about the hidden divinity beyond being contrary to what has been divinely manifested to us in the sacred writings. For one must attribute to the unknowing of the beyond beingness itself—beyond logos, intellect, and being—a knowledge beyond being. Once we refuse such [logos, intellect and being] in our ascent, to the extent that the ray of the godhead freely gives of itself, we are drawn inward toward greater splendors by a temperance and piety for what is divine. For if it is necessary to have trust in the all-wise and most true theology, then what is divine uncovers itself and is inspected according to the analogy of each intellect.” For, in a saving justice the thearchic goodness appropriately separates its nonmeasuredness, as uncontained, from what is measured. In the same way as what is intelligible is incomprehensible and unseen to the senses, and just as what is simple and formless is incomprehensible and unseen to what has shape and form, and just as the invisible and unstructured formlessness of what is bodiless is in. This work is not extant and is probably a literary fiction. .  Cor. :.

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comprehensible and unstructured to those who attend to what has been formed according to the structure of bodies, then according to the same logos of truth: The indefiniteness beyond being lies beyond beings. The unity beyond intellect lies beyond intellect. The one beyond thought is unintelligible to all thinking. The good beyond logos: ineffable to all logos unity unifying every unity being beyond being non-intelligible intellect ineffable logos non-rationality non-intelligibility non-nameability be-ing according to no being cause of being to all; but itself: non-be-ing, as it is beyond every being, and So that it would properly and knowingly manifest itself about itself.  Thus, as has been said, we must neither dare to say—nor, clearly, to conceive—anything about the hidden divinity that is contrary to what has been divinely manifested to us in the sacred writings. For, as it has fittingly communicated about itself in the writing, the knowledge and contemplation of it, whatever it is, is inaccessible to all; for, it is apart from all beyond every manner of being. You shall find that many theologians have celebrated it, not only as invisible and unencompassed, but also as at once unsearchable and untrackable; for, there is no path for those who penetrate into its infinite hiddenness. Clearly, the good is not wholly unshared by any being. But, of itself, the founding ray beyond being is abidingly and fittingly revealed to the analogical illumination of each being. The good stretches forth



  

the sacred intellects toward their desired contemplations of it, toward communion and likeness with it; they are sacredly thrown upon it as far as the divine law permits. Thus, they neither powerlessly vaunt themselves boldly against that which is more excellent than its harmoniously given theophanies, nor do they slip away in a descent from their inferiority to something worse. Rather, they are stretched forth steadfastly and unswervingly toward the ray which illumines them by the commensurate love for the illuminations which are permitted them. They are wisely and piously raised up with a sacred reverence as though on new wings.  When we follow these thearchic bonds which govern the splendid ordering of the super-celestial orders, and both when we honor the thearchic hiddenness beyond intellect and being by non-searching, sacred, and reverent intellects and when we honor what is ineffable by a temperate silence, then we are lifted up to the bright light which wholly illumines us in the sacred writings. They guide us in their light toward the thearchic celebration; we are super-cosmically illuminated by them. Thus, we are formed toward the sacred logos of celebration and toward seeing the thearchic light which is commensurately given to us by them. Thus do we celebrate the good-giving source of every sacred manifestation of light as it has bestowed itself in the sacred writings: It alone is cause, source, being and life of all, A recalling and resurrecting of those who have fallen away from it, A renewal and re-formation of those who are slipping away toward a destruction of the divine form, A sacred foundation of those who are tossed about in an unholy tempest, A security against falling for those who stand upright, A guiding hand which is stretched out for those who are being led back to it,

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An illumination for those who are illumined, A source of completion for those who are completed, A god-source for those who are deified, A simplicity for those who are simplified, An unity for those who are unified, The source of every source beyond-beingly beyond every source, And the good gift of what is hidden according to the divine law. To speak simply: It is the life of all that lives and the being of all beings, The source and cause of every life and being, Through its goodness it brings forth and conserves beings in being.  We are initiated into these matters by the sacred writings. You shall find, as it were, that every sacred celebration of the theologians prepares, in a manifesting and celebrating way, the divine names with a view to the good-providing procession of the godhead. For this reason, in nearly all theological matters, we shall see the godhead celebrated as: –Monad and unity. This is on account of the simplicity and unity of its partlessness which is beyond nature. From this, as a power of unification, we are super-cosmically unified and brought together into a divinely formed monad and divinely imitating unity from the folding together of our divisibility and otherness. –Trinity. This is the three-person manifestation of the fecundity beyond being. From this all fatherness in heaven and earth both is and is named. –Cause of beings. For all have been brought forward into being through its being-producing goodness. –Wise and beautiful. For all beings are preserved in what is incorruptible of their own nature and indeed are filled with every divine harmony and sacred good form.



  

The love of man of the godhead is also excellent. For, in harmony with truth, it has been wholly communicated to us in one of its three persons so that it recalls and raises human purposes to itself. From this the simple Jesus was ineffably composed; the everlasting received a temporal dimension and came to be equal in our nature with its unchanging and steady founding of those things which are fitting to it. Nevertheless, according to every nature, it exceeds every nature beyond every manner of being. The hidden traditions of our divinely inspired leaders have given us many other theurgic lights which we have learned in harmony with the writings. Now [in our present life] we analagously learn through the sacred veils of the human love of the writings and of the hierarchic traditious. These hide both what is intelligible in what is sensible and what is beyond being in beings. These bestow form and shape to the formless and shapeless and multiply and break up the unstructured simplicity by a diversity of divisible symbols. Hereafter, when we have come to be indestructible and immortal and have attained a most blessed and Christ-like lot, “we shall” as the writings way, “be always with the Lord”3 and shall be filled with his visible theophany in the holy contemplations which shall illumine us with the most brilliant splendors as the disciples were in that most divine transfiguration. We shall share in his intellectual gifts of light with a passionless and pure intellect. We shall share in the unity beyond intellect in the unknown and blessed radiations of the rays that are beyond every light. Thus shall we be a more divine imitation of the super-celestial intellects. For, as the truth of writings say “we shall be equal to the angels and will be sons of God, by being sons of the resurrection.”4 But now, as far as is attainable by us, we employ the fitting symbols for what is divine; from these we are analogically lifted up to the simple and unified truth of the intellectual visions of God which are beyond our intellection of the divine ideas. Once we cease our intellectual activities, we are thrust upon the ray beyond being as far as the divine law permits. In this ray the limits of all knowledge have pre subsisted in a more than ineffable way. It is not possible to conceive, to speak, or in any way to contemplate this ray; for, it is apart from all, .  Thess. :. . Luke :. Also, see St. Thomas, S.T. I..c.

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beyond unknowing, and at once the completing ends of all essential knowledge and powers. It has anticipated, beyond every manner of being, all in itself and is founded beyond all the super-celestial intellects by its unencompassed powers. For if all knowledge is of beings and has its limits in beings, then that beyond every being is apart from every knowledge.  Yet, clearly, if it is superior to every logos and every knowledge of it, if it is wholly established beyond intellect and being—be-ing a comprehending, a gathering, and a unifying of all, and before the gathering of all—and if it is wholly incomprehensible to all, such that there is neither sensation, imagination, opinion, name, logos, touch, or knowledge of it, how is the logos about the divine names to be examined by us? For we have shown that the divinity beyond being is incomprehensible and beyond all names. But this is just what we said when we set forth our Outlines of Theology: it is not possible to conceive the one, the unknown, the good itself beyond being which is itself, as I affirm, the triadic unity, the god-like and the good-like. Indeed, even the angelically appropriate unions of the holy power, which we speak of as emissions or receptions of the goodness beyond all unknowing and light, are ineffable and unknowable; they come to be only in those angels who are beyond angelic knowledge and are deemed to have need of them. The divinely formed intellects–which are unified by way of imitating angels as far as possible (for it is in ceasing all intellectual activities that such a union emerges among such consecrated intellects as come to be engaged in the light unity beyond god)—celebrate it most fittingly through the denial of all beings. As a result of their most blessed union they truly and brilliantly illuminate this: It is cause of all; but itself: nothing as beyond-beingly apart from all. To none of those who are lovers of the truth beyond every truth is it permissible to celebrate the thearchic-beyond-beingness, whatever is the beyond-source beyond goodness, as logos, power, intellect, life, or being. For it is preeminently removed from everything



  

whatsoever that is be-ing: from every habit, motion, life, imagination, opinion, name, logos, thinking, intellection, being, rest, foundation, unity, limit, and non-limit. Yet since it is cause of all by its being (as source of goodness), it is necessary to celebrate the good-source-providence of the godhead in relation to the totality of what is caused: All are about it and for the sake of it, It is before all, All have been brought together in it, It is the bringing forth of all and what stands under all, All desire it: the intellectual and rational in a knowing way, what is inferior to these in a sensible way, and all others, according to their habituated capacity for a living or merely existing motion.  Seeing this, the theologians celebrate it as nameless and in accordance with all names. Thus, they call it nameless when the godhead itself, in one of the mystical sights of the symbolic manifestation of God, rebukes him who says “What is thy name?” by saying “To what end do you ask my name, for it is the most wondrous of all?”5 and leads him away from a knowledge of the divine names. For is not this truly the most wondrous name: the nameless beyond all names, which is placed beyond “every name which is named either in this age or in the future?”6 Yet they do give it many names and introduce it as: “I am who am,”7 “life,” “light,” “God,” and “truth.” Those who are wise of God . Judg. :–. . Eph. :. . Exod. :. (Note that the apprehension of God as “I am who am” belongs to affirmative and not negative (mystical) theology.) Many of the following names have reference to Scripture.

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themselves celebrate the cause of all beings in terms of the totality of what is caused and with many names: “good,” “beautiful,” “wise,” “beloved,”“God of gods,”“Lord of lords.”“Holy of holies,”“age,”“being,”“cause of every age,”“leader of life,”“wisdom,”“intellect,”“logos,” “knower,”“beyond having the treasure of every knowledge,”“power,” “empowered,” “King of those who are ruled,” “Ancient of days,” “not aging and unchanging,” “savior,” “justice,” “sanctification,” “redemption,”“surpassing all in greatness,”“in the still small breeze.” And, further, they say that it is in intellects, in souls, in bodies, in the heaven and in the earth and at one and the same time in itself, in the cosmos, around the cosmos, beyond the cosmos, beyond the heaven, and beyond being. It is named “sun,” “air,” “fire,” “water,” “spirit,” “dew,” “cloud,” “a stone itself,” and “a rock”: all beings, yet nothing among beings.  Thus, both nameless and all the names of beings befit the cause of all, be-ing beyond all, precisely so that it would be king of all and all would be about it—being raised to it as cause, source , and limit— and so that it would be “all in all”8 as the writings say. Thus, we truly celebrate it to be the support, source of guidance, connection, completion, protection and hearth of all, and as reverting [all] to itself [It accomplishes] these in a unified, immeasurable, and excellent way. For it is not only the cause of connection, of life, or of completion such that the goodness beyond name would be named from one or another of its providences. Rather, it has anticipated the all simply and infinitely in itself: the all complete goodness of its one?and all causing providence. Thus, it is to be harmoniously celebrated and named in terms of all beings.  Indeed, not only do the theologians worship those divine names which are drawn from either its complete or particular providences or from those for which it has provided, but these names are also drawn from certain divine visions which have in some way illuminated the

.  Cor. :.



  

initiates and the prophets in the sacred places or elsewhere. Hence, they name the beyond brilliant and beyond named goodness according to one cause and power after another. Thus, too, they bestow upon it human, fiery, or amber forms and shapes; they celebrate its ears, hair, faces, hands, wings, feathers, arms, backparts, and feet. They form around it a crown, throne, cup and mixing bowl and certain other mystical things. We have discussed all of these according to our powers in our work entitled Symbolic Theology.9 But now, collecting those parts of the holy writings which are important for the present inquiry, and employing what has been so far said as a canon—thus we make our inquiry with respect to them—let us proceed to the unfolding of the intelligible divine names as the hierarchic law demands of every theology. By a thinking which seeks the divine, we shall become initiated. With sacred ears, we shall take up the unfolding of the sacred divine names. We shall establish what is holy in those who are holy in accordance with the divine tradition. We shall remove them from the laughter and mockery of the uninitiated and, if there are such persons as these uninitiated ones, we shall purify them from their war against God. You then, dear Timothy, observe these according to the hierarchic guidance and do not speak of them [the divine names] nor make them known to the uninitiated. Let God grant that I may celebrate in a fitting way the manynamed good works of the incomprehensible and nameless divinity. May he not remove the logos of truth from my mouth.

. This work is not extant and as such is probably a literary fiction. However, Ps.-Dionysius’ Ninth Letter contains much that is relevant to the subject matter of the work.

The Divine Names, chapter VII, 

After this it is necessary for us to investigate how we know God, which is neither intelligible, sensible, nor in general some being

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among beings. It is never true to say that we know God in terms of its nature, for this is unknown, and exceeds all logos and intellect. We know God in terms of the order of all beings which are projected out of it and which have some similarity and likeness to its divine paradigms. According to our power, we attain to that beyond all by a path and order in the denial and preeminence of all, and in the cause of all. God is known in all, and apart from all. God is known through knowledge, and through unknowing. Of God there is intellect, reason, knowledge, contact, sensation, opinion, imagination, name, and everything else. God is not known, not spoken, not named, not something among beings, and not known in something among beings. God is all in all, nothing in none, known to all in reference to all, known to no one in reference to nothing. For we say all of this correctly about God who is celebrated according to the analogy of all, of which it is the cause.



  

The most divine knowledge of God is one which knows through unknowing in the unity beyond intellect when the intellect stands away from beings and then stands away from itself, it is united to the more than resplendent rays, and is then and there illumined by the inscrutable depths of wisdom. Nevertheless, as we have said, it is known from all; (for according to the writings) it is productive of all, always harmonizing the all, cause of the indissoluable concordance and harmony of all, always joining together the end of those which are prior to the beginnings of secondaries,1 and beautifying the agreement and harmony of all. . See Proclus, Elements of Theology .

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Mystical Theology

Chapter I. The Divine Dark

 O Trinity beyond being, beyond divinity, beyond goodness, and guide of Christians in divine wisdom, direct us to the mystical summits more than unknown and beyond light, There the simple, absolved, and unchanged mysteries of theology lie hidden in the darkness beyond light of the hidden mystical silence, there, in the greatest darkness, that beyond all that is most evident exceedingly illuminates the sightless intellects. there, in the wholly imperceptible and invisible, that beyond all that is most evident fills to overflowing the sightless intellects with the glories beyond all beauty. This is my prayer. And you, dear Timothy, in the earnest exercise of mystical contemplation, abandon all sensation and all intellectual activities. all that is sensed and intelligible, all non-beings and all beings; thus you will unknowingly be elevated, as far as possible, to the unity of that beyond being and knowledge.



  

By the irrepressible and absolving ecstasis of yourself and of all, absolved from all, and going away from all, you will be purely raised up to the rays of the divine darkness beyond being.  Disclose this not to the uninitiated: not to those, I say, who are entangled in beings, imagine nothing to be beyond-beingly beyond beings,1 and claim to know by the knowledge in them “Him who has made the dark his hiding place.” 2 If the divine mystical initiations are beyond these, what about those yet more profane, who characterize the cause which lies beyond all by the last among beings, and deny it to be preeminent to their ungodly phantasies and diverse formations of it. For while to it, as cause of all one must posit and affirm all the positions of beings, as beyond be-ing beyond all one must more properly deny all of these. Think not that affirmations and denials are opposed but rather that, long before, is . kaº oªden y\per ta´ œnta y\peroysºvq eµnai fantazom™noyq. . Ps. :.

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that—which is itself beyond all position and denial— beyond privation.  Thus the blessed Barthalomew says the theology is great and small, the gospel is broad and long, and yet narrow; he more than naturally conceives this: the good cause of all is at once greatly spoken, briefly spoken, and without logos; for it has neither logos nor intellection. Because it beyond-beingly lies beyond all,3 it is truly and undisguisedly manifested only to those who step over all that is pure and impure, scale every ascent of the holy summits, relinquish every divine light celestial sounds and logoi, and enter into the divine darkness where really is—as the writings say— that beyond all. It is not to be taken lightly that the divine Moses was ordered first to purify himself, and again to be separated from those who were not pure; after every purification he hears the many sounded trumpets, he sees the many pure lights which flash forth and the greatly flowing rays. Then he is separated from the many and, with those who are sacred and select, he overtakes the summits of the divine ascents. . diÅ tØ påntvn aÊtÓn Êperoysºvq Êperkeim™nhn eµnai.



  

Yet with these he does not come to be with God himself; he does not see God —for God is unseen— but the place where God is. This signifies to me that the most divine and highest of what is seen and intelligible are hypothetical logoi of what is subordinate to that beyond-having all. through these is shown forth the presence of that which walks upon the intelligible summits of its most holy places. And then Moses abandons those who see and what is seen and enters into the really mystical darkness of unknowing; in this he shuts out every knowing apprehension and comes to be in the wholly imperceptible and invisible, be-ing entirely of that beyond all— of nothing, neither himself nor another,4 united most excellently by the completely unknowing inactivity of every knowledge, and knowing beyond intellect by knowing nothing.

Chapter II. How It Is Necessary to Dedicate Hymns and Be United to the Cause of All and Beyond All Into the dark beyond all light we pray to come, through not seeing and not knowing,

. p˙q v=n to† påntvn ®p™keina, kaÁ oªdenoq o«te „ayto† o«te „t™roy.

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to see and to know that beyond sight and knowledge, itself: neither seeing nor knowing. For by the denial of all that is one sees, knows, and beyond-beingly hymns the beyond being. We proceed similarly to those who produce a natural statue by removing every obstacle which hinders or hides the pure spectacle of what is hidden, and by manifesting in a single denial and by itself the beauty itself which had been hidden. I believe that one must celebrate the positions and denials in an opposite way; for we position these by beginning from what is first and descend through those in the middle down to the last; we deny them all having made our search for the highest principles from the last to the very first. We do this to know undisguisedly the unknowing which is covered round about by every knowledge in beings; we do this that we may see the darkness beyond being which is hidden by all the light in beings.

Chapter III. The Affirmative and Negative Theologies In our Outlines of Theology we have treated what is of greatest importance in affirmative theology. That is, how the divine and good nature is called both one and three, what fatherhood and sonhood are in it, and what the theology of the spirit is. We have celebrated how the lights which remain in the heart of goodness have flowed forth from the immaterial and invisible good and, in so shooting up, have without wandering remained abiding and co-eternal in the good, in themselves, and in one another.



  

Further we have celebrated how Jesus, beyond being; took on being among human beings. We have celebrated whatever else is manifested in the writings in our Outlines of Theology. In the Divine Names we have celebrated how God is called good, be-ing, life, wisdom, power, and whatever else pertains to the intelligible divine names. In our Symbolic Theology we have discussed the names which are transferred from sensibles to what is divine. Thus we have determined what are the divine forms, figures, parts, organs, places, worlds, curses, pains, sadnesses, indignations, drunks, hangovers, oaths, periods of sleep, periods of wakefulness, and whatever other sacredly molded forms which symbolize the divine form. You will have noticed how much more extensive are the last than the former. Necessarily the Outlines of Theology and the unfolding of the Divine Names are more briefly spoken than the Symbolic Theology; for the higher we ascend the more our language becomes restricted by the more synoptic view of what is intelligible. Now, however, that we are to enter the darkness beyond intellect, you will not find a brief discourse but a complete absence of discourse and intelligibility. In affirmative theology the logos descends from what is above down to the last, and increases according to the measure of the descent towards an analogical multitude. But here, as we ascend from the highest to what lies beyond, the logos is drawn inward according to the measure of the ascent. After all ascent it will be wholly without sound and wholly united to the unspeakable. But why, you will ask, do we begin the divine denial from the last of beings when we positioned the divine positions from the first beings? The reason is this: to position that beyond all position it is necessary to position the hypothetical affirmations from those which are more akin to it; in denying that beyond all denial, it is necessary to deny from those which are farthest away from it. For is it not life and goodness more than air and stones? And is it not drunkenness or not anger more than not spoken or not thought? Chapter IV. In Preeminence, the Cause of All That Is Sensible Is Not Anything Sensible We say this of the cause of all be-ing beyond all: It is not being-less,

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not lifeless, not without reason, not without intellect. Not body, not figure, not form, not what has quality, quantity, or mass, not in space, not visible, not what has sensible contact, not what has sensation or what is sensed, not what has disorder and confusion, not what is troubled by material passions, not powerless, not subjected to what happens to sensibles, not light in what lacks, not, and has not, alteration, destruction, privation, diminution, or anything else which pertains to what is sensed.

Chapter V. In Preeminence, the Cause of All That Is Intelligible Is Not Anything Intelligible Ascending higher we say: It is not soul, not intellect, not imagination, opinion, reason and not understanding, not logos, not intellection, not spoken, not thought, not number, not order, not greatness, not smallness, not equality, not inequality, not likeness, not unlikeness, not having stood, not moved, not at rest, not powerful, not power, not light, not living, not life, not being, not eternity, not time. not intellectual contact with it, not knowledge, not truth,



  

not king, not wisdom, not one, not unity, not divinity, not goodness, not spirit (as we know spirit), not sonhood, not fatherhood, not something other [than that] which is known by us or some other beings, not something among what is not, not something among what is, not known as it is by beings, not a knower of beings as they are: There is neither logos, name, or knowledge of it. It is not dark nor light, not error, and not truth. There is universally neither position nor denial of it. While there are produced positions and denials of those after it, we neither position nor deny it. Since, beyond all position is the all-complete and single cause of all; beyond all negation: the preeminence of that absolutely absolved from all and beyond the whole.

. J S E (. –. ) Periphyseon (The Division of Nature), Book I (d–d). Trans. I. P. Sheldon-Williams, revised by John J. O’Meara (Montréal: Bellarmin, ), pp. –. Latin text of Periphyseon (Turnholti: Brepols, ) in Corpus Christianorum, vol. , Book I, d–d.

As the name “Eriugena” indicates, this ninth-century mystic is presumed to have been engendered and educated in Ireland, where monastery schools were flourishing. At mid-century he turns up in France at the itinerant court of Charles the Bald, a grandson of Charlemagne, where he played a key role in a second Carolingian Renaissance. His knowledge of Greek proved of vital interest to the philo-Hellenic Charles, the so-called “philosopher king,” who commissioned from him a translation into Latin of the treatises of Dionysius the Areopagite. This work was instrumental to the integration of the principles of negative theology into the theological reflection of the Latin Middle Ages that eventually developed into Scholasticism. Eriugena, furthermore, contributed quite original negative-theological speculations of his own, based on the principle of the unity of all opposites in God. He synthesized a grand poetic and humanist vision of the cosmos as a divine theophany, in which he celebrated the human being and the liberal arts and rejected predestination and literal hellfire. He combined biblical and patristic traditions, especially the eastern, Neoplatonic theologies of Origen, Dionysius, Gregory of Nyssa, and Maximus the Confessor, with Augustine and Boethius—treating the latter’s Aristotelian logic very freely. His works were enormously influential in the Latin world even after they became forbidden reading in .1 . See the general introduction in chapter  of John J. O’Meara’s Eriugena (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), as well as Werner Beierwaltes, Eriugena: Grundzüge seines Denkens (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, ). Dermot Moran, The Philosophy of John Scottus Eriugena: A Study of Idealism in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ) traces the effects especially of Eriugena’s discovery of subjectivity as infinite freedom and formlessness through Eckhart, Cusanus, and Giordano Bruno to German Idealism.





  

The Periphysion (ca. ) or The Division of Nature, written as a dialogue between a Master or “Nutritor” and a Disciple or “Alumnus,” is Eriugena’s major work. The design of the Periphyseon as a whole conforms to the Neoplatonic pattern of procession from and return to the source. This paradigm was familiar to Eriugena from his Greek models and mentors, as well as from De nuptii Mercurius et Philologiae of Martianus Capella, a work that he taught as a textbook for the liberal arts in the palace school of Charles. His orientation is less to the struggle of the individual soul to enter blindly into the darkness of absolute light—as in Dionysius—and more to a process of cosmic purification whereby nature as a whole undergoes redemption and returns to a harmony and indeed a unity of all opposites. In this respect he resembles Maximus the Confessor (–), a key link in the Greek mystical tradition that Eriugena transposes from the Byzantine world in the East to the Latin West. His sense of the coincidence of opposites—so important in apophatic tradition, especially for Cusanus, an enthusiastic reader of Eriugena—includes the coinherence of silence and speech in the divine Word (“Dum silet, clamat, et dum clamat, silet”). All manifestation of God is at the same time a veiling of him as absolutely without determination. In the selection that follows, Eriugena develops a doctrine of superaffirmation, or what can be called “hyperphatic” theology (c–d).2 As for Pseudo-Dionysius, God is“superessentialis,” more-than-being, as well as morethan-good, and even “more-than-God” (“plus quam deus”). Whereas apophatic statements or denials do not say anything about what the divine essence is but only deny that it can be known as truth, goodness, or whatever else is denied of it, hyperphatic names apparently do succeed in signifying the divine essence in these quasi-positive modes. Hyperphatic statements, made from names prefixed by “super” or “more than,” comprehend affirmation and negation, apophatic and kataphatic theology, together, “so that in outward expression they possess the form of the affirmative, but in meaning the force of the negative” (c). They apparently make a predication concerning their subject, yet they say precisely nothing about it. They are “metaphorical modes of signification” based on transferring created being, goodness, truth, and other qualities to God. We know that God is the source of these created excellences, and therefore that (quia) he is and that the divine essence exists as cause of unity, goodness, beauty, and so on, but what (quid ) he is and what any of these terms actually means as applied to him is totally beyond our comprehension. Plus

. Cf. Carabine, The Unknown God, pp. ff.

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quam statements have a content that is negated as it is stretched beyond the created order to apply to the divine essence. Creation is a symbolic manifestation of the divine essence—a theophany—since divinity is its source and cause. It thus forms the basis for a metaphorical language for talking about God, but this tells us nothing properly about what the divine essence is. We can speak of God only by metaphor (“de deo nil proprie posse dici, sed solum modo traslative”). No language, with its parts and articulation, can properly convey the absolute simplicity of the divine nature, though that does not prevent us from having some experience of it as a “beautiful and ineffable harmony” (c).3 Not only God but all things are unknowable in their essences, since they have their being and essence only from God, who is unknowable. Eriugena is developing a lesson of Dionysius, namely, that the God beyond Being is paradoxically the Being of all that is. The Being of any being transcends it and can be neither known nor uttered. All that we say about a being is merely something, not its Being per se. Dionysius had written of “the transcendent Deity which is the existence of every being” (Celestial Hierarchy d). Of this transcendent Deity, which he calls the ineffable Nothing or Divine Goodness, Eriugena writes “it is understood to be in none of the things that exist because it surpasses all things, but when, by a certain ineffable descent into the things that are, it is beheld by the mind’s eye, it alone is found to be in all things, and it is and was and shall be” (a). This is to consider the essence of everything as transcendent and unsayable, indeed, as the Transcendent and Ineffable. Even more explicitly than Dionysius, Eriugena collapses the One and the Onethat-is into an unsayable One-Being. In fact, everything coincides in God. The being or essence of everything is one, and this is indistinguishable from the One, which is not anything but is the being and essence of everything. All we can say about it is, properly speaking, nothing—than which there can be no greater praise.

. The topic of metaphor in Eriugena is pursued from various angles by the essays in Werner Beierwaltes, ed., Begriff und metapher: Sprachform des Denkens bei Eriugena (Heidelberg: Universtitätsverlag, ).



  

Periphyseon, Book I (d–d) [Hyperpredication Concerning God]

A. But I should like to hear from you, clearly and succinctly, whether all the categories—for they are ten in number—[can truly and properly be predicated] of the supreme One Essence in Three Substances of the Divine Goodness, and of the Three Substances in the same One Essence. N. On this subject I know of no one who could speak succinctly and clearly. For in such a matter as this either one should keep wholly silent and resign oneself to the simplicity of the Orthodox Faith, for it surpasses every intellect, as it is written: “Thou Who alone hast immortality and dwellest in inaccessible light”; or, if one has begun to discuss it, one will have to show in many ways and by many arguments what is likely to be the truth, making use of the two branches of theology, the affirmative, which by the Greeks is called katafatik¸, and the negative, which is named Ωpofatik¸. The one, that is Ωpofatik¸, denies that the Divine Essence or Substance is any one of the things that are, that is, of the things which can be discussed or understood; but the other, katafatik¸, predicates of it all the things that are, and for that reason is called affirmative—not that it affirms that it is any of the things that are, but (because) it teaches that all things which take their being from it can be predicated of it. For that which is the cause can reasonably be expressed in terms of the things that are caused. For it says that it is Truth, Goodness, Essence, Light, Justice, Sun, Star, Spirit, Water, Lion, Bear, Worm, and innumerable other things; and not only does it draw its lessons about it from those things which accord with nature, but from the things which are contrary to nature, since it describes it as being drunken [and] foolish [and] mad. But of these things it is not our present purpose to speak; for enough is said about such things by St. Dionysius the Areopagite in his “Symbolic Theology”, and therefore we may return to the question you have asked. For you had inquired whether [all] the Categories are [properly] to be predicated of God or (only) some of them.

Johannes Scotus Eriugena

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A. Yes, let us return to that. But first I think we must ponder why the names you have mentioned, I mean Essence. Goodness, Truth, Justice, Wisdom, and others of that sort, which seem to be not merely divine but the divinest, and to signify nothing else but that Divine Substance or Essence, are said by the aforementioned holy father and theologian to be metaphorical, that is, to have been transferred from the creature to the Creator. For I think it must be considered that he had some mystical and hidden reason for saying so. N. You observe well. Here too is something which I see should not be passed over without consideration, and therefore I should like you to tell me whether you understand that anything opposed to God or conceived alongside of Him exists. By “opposed” I mean either deprived of Him or contrary to Him or related to Him or absent from Him; while by “conceived alongside of Him” I mean something that is understood to exist eternally with Him without being of the same essence with him. A. I see clearly what you mean. And therefore I should not dare to say that there is either anything that is opposed to Him or anything understood in association with Him which is „tero¥sion, that is, which is of another essence than what He is. For opposites by relation are always so opposed to one another that they both begin to be at the same time and cease to be at the same time, whether they are of the same nature, like single to double or  ⁄  to  ⁄ , or of different natures, like light and darkness, or in respect of privation, like death and life, sound and silence. For these are correctly thought to belong to the things which are subject to coming into being and passing away. For those things which are in discord with one another cannot be eternal. For if they were eternal they would not be in discord with one another, since eternity is always like what it is and ever eternally subsists in itself as a single and indivisible unity. For it is the one beginning of all things, and their one end, in no way at discord with itself. For the same reason I do not know of anyone who would be so bold as to affirm that anything is co-eternal with God which is not co-essential with Him. For if such a thing can be conceived or discovered it necessarily follows that there is not one Principle of all things, but two [or more], widely differing from each other—which right reason invariably rejects without any hesitation: for from the One all things take their being; from two [or more], nothing.



  

N. You judge correctly, as I think. If therefore the aforesaid Divine Names are confronted by other names directly opposed to them, the things which are properly signified by them must also of necessity be understood to have contraries opposite to them; and therefore they cannot properly be predicated of God, to Whom nothing is opposed, and with Whom nothing is found to be coeternal which differs from Him by nature. For right reason cannot find a single one of the names already mentioned or others like them to which another name, disagreeing with it, being opposed or differing from it within the same genus, is not found; and what we know to be the case with the names we must necessarily know to be so with the [things] which are signified by them. But since the expressions of divine significance which are predicated of God in Holy Scripture by transference from the creature to the Creator—if, indeed, it is right to say that anything can be predicated of Him, which must be considered in another place—are innumerable and cannot be found or gathered together within the small compass of our reasoning, only a few of the Divine Names can be set forth for the sake of example. Thus, [God] is called Essence, but strictly speaking He is not essence: for to being is opposed not-being. Therefore He is y\pero¥sioq, that is, superessential. Again, He is called Goodness, but strictly speaking He is not goodness: for to goodness wickedness is opposed. Therefore (He is) y\p™rågauoq, that is, more-than-good, and y\peragauøthq, that is, more-than-goodness. He is called God, but He is not strictly speaking God: for to vision is opposed blindness, and to him who sees he who does not see. Therefore He is y\p™rueoq, that is, more-than-God—for ueøq is interpreted “He Who sees”. But if you have recourse to the alternative origin of this name, so that you understand ueøq, that is, God, to be derived not from the verb uevr©, that is, “I see”, but from the verb u™v, that is, “I run”, the same reason confronts you. For to him who runs he who does not run is opposed, as slowness to speed. Therefore He will be y\p™rueoq, that is, more-than-running, as it is written: “His Word runneth swiftly”: for we understand this to refer to God the Word, Who in an ineffable way runs through all things that are, in order that they may be. We ought to think in the same way concerning Truth: for to truth is opposed falsehood, and therefore strictly speaking He is not truth. Therefore He is y\peral¸uhq and y\peral¸ueia, that is, more-than-true and (more-than-)truth. The same reason must be observed in all the Divine Names. For He is not

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called Eternity properly, since to eternity is opposed temporality. Therefore He is y\perai√nioq and y\peraivnºa, that is, more-thaneternal and (more-than-)eternity. Concerning Wisdom also no other reason applies, and therefore it must not be thought that it is predicated of God properly, since against wisdom and the wise are set the fool and folly. Hence rightly and truly He is called y\p™rsofoq, that is, more-than-wise, and y\p™rsofºa, that is, more-than-wisdom. Similarly, He is more-than-life because to life is opposed death. Concerning Light it must be understood in the same way: for against light is set darkness. For the present, as I think, enough has been said [concerning these (matters)]. A. It must indeed be admitted [that enough has been said]. For the subject of our present debate does not allow us to say all that is necessary concerning such matters because of what must be discussed with a view to the business in hand. Return, therefore, if you please, to the consideration of the decad of the categories. N. I am surprised at the keenness of your attention which has been vigilant enough up to now. A. On what grounds, pray, do you say that? N. Did we not say that, strictly speaking, the ineffable Nature can be signified by no verb, by no noun, and by no other audible sound, by no signified thing? And to this you agreed. For it is not properly but metaphorically that it is called Essence, Truth, Wisdom, and other names of this sort. Rather, it is called superessential, more-thantruth, more-than-wisdom. But do not even these (names) seem to be, in a way, proper names? For if it is not called Essence properly, yet it is properly called superessential; similarly, if it is not called Truth or Wisdom properly, yet it is properly called more-than-truth and more-than-wisdom. It does not, therefore, lack names referring properly to it. For although among the Latins these names are not usually pronounced under a single accent or by a unitary harmony of composition, except the name superessentialis, by the Greeks, on the other hand, each is expressed by a single compound. For never, or scarcely ever, will you find [such compounds used in speech as are] superbonus or superaeternus and others like (them).



  

A. I too wonder what I was thinking of when I let this important inquiry go ignored, and therefore I earnestly ask you to enter into it. For in whatever way the Divine Substance is spoken of, whether by simple parts of speech or by compounds, whether in Greek or in Latin, provided only it be a proper way, it will be seen that it is not ineffable. For that is not ineffable which can be spoken of in any way. N. Now you are on your guard, I see. A. Yes indeed. But so far this incidental question is anything but clear to me. N. Return, then, to the conclusion we reached a little earlier. For, unless I am mistaken, we said that there were two supreme branches of theology—and this we said not of ourselves but on the authority of St. Dionysius the Areopagite, who very clearly, as has been said, asserts that theology is divided into two parts, that is, into katafatik¸ and Ωpofatik¸, which Cicero translates into “intentio” and “repulsio”, but we prefer to render by Affirmation and Negation with a view to expressing the meaning of the terms more accurately. A. I see that I do remember something of the sort, as I think. But I do not yet see how it helps us in the matter we now wish to consider. N. Do you not see that these two, namely Affirmation and Negation, are the opposites of one another? A. I am sufficiently aware of that; and I think there can be no greater contrariety. N. Attend, then, more carefully. For when you have reached the point of view of perfect reasoning you will see clearly enough that these two which seem to be the contraries of one another are in no way mutually opposed when they are applied to the Divine Nature, but in every way and at every point are in harmony with each other. And that this may become more evident we shall employ a few examples. For instance: katafatik¸ says: “It is Truth”; Ωpofatik¸ contradicts: “It is not Truth”. Here there appears some kind of contradiction, but a closer investigation reveals that there is no conflict. For that which says: “It is Truth”, does not properly affirm that the Divine

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Substance is Truth, but that it can be called by such a name by a transference of meaning from the creature to the Creator; for, the Divine Essence being naked and stripped of every proper signification, it clothes it in such names as these. On the other hand, that which says: “It is not Truth”, clearly understanding, as is right, that the Divine Nature is incomprehensible and ineffable, does not deny that it is, but (denies) that it can properly be called Truth or properly be Truth. For all the significations with which katafatik¸ clothes the Divinity are without fail stripped off it by Ωpofatik¸. For the one, clothing it, says, for instance: “It is Wisdom”, while the other, unclothing it, says: “It is not Wisdom.” So the one says: “It can be called this”, but does not say: “It properly is this”; the other says: “It is not this although it can be called after this.” A. Unless I am mistaken, I fully understand this, and things which hitherto seemed to me to be mutually contradictory are now seen as clear as day to agree with one another and in no way [to dissent] when they are applied to God. But how this may lead to a solution of the present problem I confess I do not yet see. N. Pay closer attention, then, and tell me, as far as you are able, to which branch of theology belong those significations which we previously introduced, I mean superessential, more-than-truth, morethan-wisdom, and the others like them, that is to say, whether we should allocate them to the affirmative or to the negative theology. A. I am not so bold as to decide for myself. For when I see that the aforesaid significations lack the negative particle [which means “not”], I fear to include them in the negative branch of theology; yet if I include them in the affirmative branch I realize that I am not doing justice to their sense. For when it is said: “It is superessential”, this can be understood by me as nothing else but a negation of essence. For he who says: “It is superessential”, openly denies that it is essential, and therefore although the negative is not expressed in the words pronounced, yet the hidden meaning of it is not hidden from those who consider (them) well. Indeed, as I think, I am compelled to admit that these aforesaid significations which in appearance do not imply a negation belong, as far as they can be understood, rather to the negative than to the affirmative branch of theology.



  

N. I see that you have shown the greatest care and vigilance in your reply, and I strongly approve the way in which you have very subtly observed behind the outward expression of the affirmative branch the meaning of the negative. Let us then, if you agree, attempt a solution of the present problem as follows: that these names which are predicated of God by the addition of the particles super- or morethan-, such as superessential, more-than-truth, more-than-wisdom, and the like, comprehend within themselves in the fullest sense the two previously mentioned branches of theology, so that in outward expression they possess the form of the affirmative, but in meaning the force of the negative. And let us conclude with this brief example: it is Essence, affirmation: it is Non-essence, negation: it is superessential, affirmation and negation together—for superficially it lacks the negation, but is fully negative in meaning. For that which says: “It is superessential”, says not what it is but what it is not; for it says that it is not essence but more than essence, but what that is which is more than essence it does not reveal. For it says that God is not one of the things that are but that He is more than the things that are, but what that “is” is, it in no way defines.

. M M (–) Guide of the Perplexed I, chapters , , –. Trans. Lenn Evan Goodman, in RAMBAM: Readings in the Philosophy of Moses Maimonides (New York: Viking Press, ), pp. –, –.

Moses Maimonides was born in the south of Spain in Cordova, whence Averroes (d. ), a generation earlier, had stirred the entire Arab—and not only the Arab—world by teaching the superiority of philosophical knowledge based on Aristotelian science to mere faith, even while attempting to harmonize the two. Maimonides’s Jewish family was displaced in  by the Almohad Islamic fundamentalist conquest that was spreading across the Iberian peninsula. He eventually migrated to Egypt, where he became court physician to the grand vizier at Cairo. Maimonides’s principal philosophical project was to reconcile the revelation of the Jewish Bible with Greek and Arab philosophy. He argued by means of complex allegorical interpretations that the core of all philosophical truth was already contained in the Bible. He understood Genesis, for example, as symbolically embodying the essential wisdom of physics and cosmology. This undertaking required him to attempt to reconcile the Greek ontological notion of a changelessly eternal and indifferent God with the dynamically relational and passionately loving God of Jewish Scripture and rabbinical tradition. For those who found themselves torn between traditional faith and the scientific superiority of Arab-Greek philosophy, Maimonides wrote in Arabic and published around  his Moreh Nevukhim (Guide of the Perplexed). This work forms one of the majestic peaks of speculation in medieval negative theology. Chapters – afford a penetrating discussion of the impossibility of positively predicating attributes to God, demonstrating that “we have no way of describing Him unless it be through negations and not otherwise” (chap. ).1 Maimonides ascribes only causal meaning to apparently affirmative statements about God. For example, to say that God is good or wise means that he is the cause of goodness or wisdom. Thomas Aquinas felt that this was an . Citations of Maimonides are from Guide of the Perplexed, trans. Shlomo Pines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, ).





  

insufficient account of the meaning of statements about God: such statements plainly intend to say something about what God is and not just about the things he has caused. But for Maimonides there was only one exception: YHWH, unlike all other names for God, indicates God’s reality rather than merely his association with created things. It is on that account, however, the unpronounceable, the unnameable Name. Maimonides’s detailed discussions of the names of God in the Hebrew Bible lead up to the idea of the Tetragrammaton (YHWH) as the nomen proprium for God, which turns out to be a name for the unnameable in chapter . Human language is incapable of conveying God’s essence, so the best praise for Him is silence, as in Psalm :: “Silence is praise to Thee” (chap. ).2 Like the later Sufi mystic Ibn al-‘Arabi, Maimonides begins from the premise of God’s oneness, a oneness that is absolute and not attributable to God as if it were one property among others that he possesses. Hence the necessary identification of the divine essence and existence, which is formulated by Maimonides in terms that directly influenced Thomas Aquinas’s teaching on the essence-existence equivalence in God and in fact became a hallmark of Scholasticism: “His existence is identical with His essence and His true reality, and His essence is His existence” (chap. ). Étienne Gilson has pointed out that the doctrine that God is (exists) without essence, since only the finite can be defined, goes back at least to Avicenna (d. ). But Maimonides’s formulation is crucial in opening the way for Thomas’s most important metaphysical insight. For this reason, Gilson maintained that it is Judaism that shatters the world of Aristotelian essences by the pure act of existence—not the act of thought thinking itself but that of existence itself.3 Maimonides’s teaching on

. Maimonides’s doctrine of equivocation, and particularly his theory of equivocal attribution referred to God, is further developed in ways highly relevant to his negative theology in his Treatise on the Art of Logic, in Ethical Writings of Maimonides (New York: New York University Press, ). See, further, Arthur Hyman, “Maimonides on Religious Language,” in Perspectives on Maimonides: Philosophical and Historical Studies, ed. Joel L. Kraemer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, ),and Jean Robelin, Maimonide et le langage religieux (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, ). . See Étienne Gilson, “Maimonide et la philosophie de l’Exode,” in Studies in Maimonides and St. Thomas Aquinas, ed. Jacob I. Dienstag (New York: Ktav, ): “We relive here one of the most solemn moments in the history of Western thought, the moment when Judaism shatters the world of Aristotelian substances by subjecting the act of their forms to a Pure Act—no longer the act of thought thinking itself but that of existence itself ” (“. . . nous revivons ici l’un des moments les plus solennels de l’histoire de la pensée occidentale, lorsque le judaisme fit éclater le monde des substances aristotélici-

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the identity of God’s essence and existence and on God’s absolute simplicity is adopted also by Meister Eckhart, who acknowledges his deep indebtedness to “Rabbi Moses” with abundant quotations. To Maimonides himself, however, God’s oneness seemed to be compromised by the Christian doctrine of the Trinity. Maimonides’s Jewish philosophy placed Christian medieval theology before the challenge of a radical questioning of all language as applied to the divine transcendence. God’s complete separateness from all others renders any attribution even of oneness to him inadequate: “Similarly when we say one, the meaning is that He has no equal and not that the notion of oneness attaches to His essence” (chap. ). Indeed, excavation of Maimonides’s thought exposes the unmistakably Jewish roots of the thinking of difference that has blossomed into a spectacular Renaissance among contemporary Jewish writers like Celan and Jabès, in the wake of thinkers such as Rosenzweig, Levinas, and Derrida. ennes, en soumettant l’acte de leurs formes à un Acte Pur qui n’est plus celui d’une pensée qui se pense, mais celui de l’existence en soi,” p. ). For further refinement on the relationship between Maimonides and Aquinas, see Idit Dobbs-Weinstein, Aquinas and Maimonides (Albany: SUNY Press, ), and Avital Wohlman, Maïmonide et Thomas d’Aquin: Un dialogue impossible (Fribourg, Switzerland: Éditions Universitaires, ), the sequel to Thomas d’Aquin et Maïmonides: Un dialogue exemplaire (Paris: Cerf, ).

Guide of the Perplexed I, chapters , , ‒ [Human Language for Divine Attributes]

Moreh Nevukhim : The reader of my study must realize that belief is not what is said but rather what is thought when a thing is affirmed to be such as it is thought to be. If you are of the sort who are satisfied with mouthing true opinions, or opinions which seem to you to be true, without conviction, without any conception of the meaning of your words—let alone seeking certainty about them—you will find this very easy. For many who are dull maintain their creeds by rote, without attaching



  

any sort of idea to them. If, on the other hand, you are one of those whose ambition it is to rise to a higher level, at which things are thought out, if you wish to know with certainty that God is truly one, in the sense that there exists no multiplicity whatever in Him and no capability of division in any respect, then you must recognize that He has no essential attributes. Those who believe God to be one with many attributes have affirmed His oneness verbally while mentally believing Him to be many. This resembles the Christians’ formula that He is “one but three” and that “the three are one,” or the dictum of those who reject anthropomorphism and affirm His absolute simplicity by saying, “He is one but has many attributes, He and His attributes being one”—as though our object were simply to find out what to say rather than what to believe. We cannot believe unless we think, for belief is the affirmation that what is outside the mind is as it is thought to be within the mind. And if belief is accompanied by the realization that what is believed cannot be otherwise in any way and the mind allows no room for an alternative, no possibility of contradiction, then there is certainty. If you study dispassionately and without regard to prejudice or tradition the denial of attributes which I shall put forward in the following chapters, you will, if you are a person of understanding, inevitably become certain of it. You will then be among those who have a conception of divine unity rather than one of those who pay it lip service but have no conception of what it might mean. Of this latter sort it is said, “Thou art close to their mouths, but far from their kidneys”1 [Jeremiah :], whereas a man ought to be of the sort who think and understand the truth, even if they do not voice it—for that is what is demanded of the best, to whom it is said, “Speak to your hearts in your beds and be silent. Selah” [Psalm :].

Moreh Nevukhim : Mosheh Rabeynu (on whom be peace), the master of all who understand, made two behests, both of which were answered: he sought from God to know Him as He really is, and he sought (first) to know . The seat of the understanding, in Maimonides’ interpretation (cf. Moreh :).

Moses Maimonides



Him through His attributes. God acceded to the earlier request by promising Moses knowledge of all His attributes and by making him aware that His attributes are His works. He answered the other by teaching Moses that God as He really is cannot be comprehended, and awakening him to a certain theoretical consideration from which he might grasp all that any human being possibly can. What Moses comprehended has never been comprehended as well by anyone before or since. Moses prays to know God’s attributes when he says, “Cause me, pray, to know Thy ways that I may know Thee,” etc. [Exodus :]. Consider the wonderful implications. . . . The words indicate that God is known through His attributes . . . and the continuation, “that I might find favor in Thine eyes [ibid.], indicates that he who knows God—not he who merely fasts and prays—finds favor in His eyes. Everyone who knows Him pleases Him and is brought near to Him, while those who know Him not are the objects of wrath and are distanced from Him. Nearness and remoteness, favor and wrath are proportionate to knowledge and ignorance. But I digress from the point of this chapter, to which I now return. When Moses sought to know God’s attributes he sought forgiveness for the nation, and this was granted. He then sought to know God in Himself, saying, “Show me, pray, Thy glory” [:]. Whereupon his first request, “Cause me, pray, to know Thy ways,” was granted [see Moreh I:]: he was told, “I shall cause all My good to pass before thee” [:]. In answer to his second request he was told, “Thou canst not see My face,” etc. [:]. The words “all My good” allude to the arraying of all existing things before Him, of which it is said, “God saw all that He had made—it was very good” [Genesis :]. By the arraying of all existing things before him, I mean that he comprehended their nature and their interconnectedness, and thereby recognized the character of His governance of them, both general and particular. This is the idea referred to when it says, “He is firmly established in all My house” [Numbers :], which is to say, he has a true and well-grounded understanding of the being of My world in its entirety—for unsound opinions are not firm. It follows that to comprehend these works is to “know His attributes”—through which He is known. What shows us that what was promised was grasp of His acts is the fact that that through which He is indeed encountered is a set of purely active attributes, merciful, gracious, long-suffering. Thus it is clear that the “ways,”



  

knowledge of which Moses sought and which were consequently made known to him, are the acts which issue from Him. The Sages call them characteristics [Hebrew: midot] and speak of “thirteen characteristics,” the term current in their usage to designate ethical traits. . . . Here it does not imply that God has ethical traits but rather that He does acts analogous to those which express our ethical traits, i.e., those done on account of some psychological “set”—not that He has traits. Although Moses apprehended “all His good,” i.e., all His works, Scripture confines itself to the mention of thirteen “characteristics” because these are the acts which issue from Him by way of giving existence to humankind and governing them. This was the ultimate object of Moses’ request, for his words conclude, “and know Thee, that I may find favor in Thine eyes, and see that this nation is Thy people”—in order to govern whom I shall require ways of acting which I shall model upon Your actions in governing them. So you see that God’s ways and His “attributes” are the same; they are the acts which issue from Him in the world:2 Whenever one of His acts is apprehended, the attribute of which such action is the manifestation is predicated of Him, and He is named by a noun derived from that verb. For example, His tender care in directing the development of the embryos of living things is perceived, how He brings into being their faculties (and the faculties of those who raise them after birth) to protect them from destruction, preserve them from harm, and serve them in securing their needs. Such actions would not issue from us without our having been affected by pity. That is what “mercy” means. It is said that He is Merciful, “as a father is merciful toward his children” [Psalm :] . . . not that He is affected by pity but that He treats them as would a father whose acts express pure affection, tenderness, and compassion—not because He is changed or affected. And just as, when we give something to someone who has no claim upon us to receive it, this is called “grace” in our language . . . He gives being and direction to those who have no claim upon Him to do either, and for that reason He is called Gracious. . . . All His actions resemble those which in man proceed from psychological traits and affections, but in His case they issue from . It was upon this proposition that Spinoza founded his famous identification of thought and extension with the attributes of God.

Moses Maimonides



nothing other than His Identity itself. He who governs a state is obliged—if he be a prophet—to imitate these attributes: his actions must be appropriate to men’s deserts, not merely the outcome of affections; he must not lose his temper nor let any passion get the best of him. For the height of human virtue is to become like Him, to the extent that this is possible3—which means imitating His acts by our own, as the Sages made clear in commenting on “You shall be holy [for I the Lord your God am holy]” [Leviticus :]. They glossed: as He is gracious, so do you be gracious; as He is compassionate, so do you be compassionate.4 The whole point is that the attributes ascribed to Him are those associated with His acts. He does not have any qualities.

Moreh Nevukhim : Whenever two things are of the same kind, i.e., share the same essence although differing in magnitude, intensity, degree, or such, they are alike despite such differences. A grain of mustard and the sphere of the fixed stars are alike in having three dimensions. . . . Thus, those who believe that the Godhead has attributes—that God is “existing,”“living,”“powerful,”“knowing,”“willing”—ought to understand that these principles are not ascribed to Him and to us in the same sense. They ought not to believe, as they do, that the difference between these attributes and ours is simply one of magnitude, fullness, duration or stability, rendering His existence more stable, His life longer, His power greater, His knowledge fuller, His will more universal than ours, while keeping the same definitions in His case and in ours. The truth is nothing like this at all. For comparison may be applied only to things to which the same notion is applied in the same sense. It implies similarity. Those who believe that He has attributes proper to Him also believe that just as He does not resemble other beings, so His attributes, which they uphold, ought not resemble those of others or share the same definition. But their belief in attributes is not consistent with . Cf. Plato Theaetetus , Shemonah Perakim . . Sifre to Deuteronomy :; cf. Sota a and Midrash Va-Yikra Rabba .



  

this. Rather they presume a shared definition without a resemblance. Anyone who understands what “resemblance” means will recognize that He and all other things are said to exist in totally different senses. Thus knowledge, power, will, and life too are predicated of Him and of all those who have knowledge, power, will, and life in totally different senses, which bear no conceptual resemblance to one another. . . .

Moreh Nevukhim : On the attributes, more recondite than the preceding: it is known that existence is an accident of a being. Thus existence is a principle distinct from the essence of the being. This is obviously necessary for every being whose existence has a cause. In the case of a being whose existence has no cause, however (which is the case only with God, hallowed and revered be He—for this is what we mean when we say that He exists necessarily), His existence is His Inbeing and Reality; His essence is His existence, and He has not any accident by which He exists, which would render His existence distinct from Himself. For He exists necessarily, constantly. Existence is not something which He may or may not have. Thus He exists, but not through “existence.” In the same way He lives but not through life, is able but not through power, knows but not through understanding. Rather, all of these reduce to a single, undifferentiated principle, as will be made clear. You must understand as well that oneness and plurality are also accidents, in terms of which what is is one or many. . . . Just as number is not the same thing as what is numbered, so oneness is not the same thing as what is one. All these are accidents of the class of discrete quantity, which apply to beings susceptible to such accidents. In the case of the Necessarily Existent, however, who is in the truest sense simplex and to whom no multiplicity whatever attaches, it is as absurd to predicate oneness of Him as it is to predicate plurality: i.e., oneness is not a principle distinct from His essence; rather, He is one but not through oneness.5 These ideas, which are so subtle that they all but elude the mind, cannot be expressed in ordinary language (a mode of expression . A being who was “one through oneness” would not be one in an absolute sense. Relative oneness is possible in contingent beings such as ourselves, but not in a being who is absolutely simplex.

Moses Maimonides



which is one of the greatest causes of confusion), because our scope for expression in any language is so extremely narrow that we cannot conceive of such an idea without some looseness of expression. Thus when we wish to indicate the fact that the Deity is not many, there is nothing we can say but “one,” even though “one” and “many” are both varieties of quantity. For this reason we give concise direction to the mind toward the truth of the matter by saying “one, but not through oneness.” In the same way we say “eternal” to point at His being nontemporal. For in saying “eternal” we speak somewhat loosely, as is obvious, since “eternal” is said only of things to which time attaches. . . . Whatever the accident of time does not attach to can no more be said properly to have come to be eternal than sweetness can be said to be straight or crooked, or sound to be salty or bland. . . . All that you find in the Scriptures describing Him as “the first and the last” is comparable to His being depicted as having eyes and ears: the intention of such a description is that He is untouched by change, that in Him nothing whatever initiates. . . . All such expressions are “according to human language.” When we say “one,” likewise, we mean that He has no peer, not that a principle of oneness attaches to His being.

Moreh Nevukhim : Even more recondite than the preceding: you must understand that negative predications are the correct way of describing God, since they do not involve any imprecision and do not imply any deficiency on God’s part in general or in terms of specific conditions. Positive descriptions, on the other hand, bear with them connotations of polytheism and divine inadequacy, as I have made clear. What I must do now is first make clear to you () how negations are, in a way, predications, and in what it is that they differ from affirmations; after that I shall explain () how it is that we have no other way of describing Him except negatively. () A description, then, I would point out, does not uniquely distinguish that which is described. Rather, a description may belong to one object and be shared by another, so that it does not differentiate the one from the other. For example, if you see a man at a distance and ask, “What is that I see?” and are told, “An animal,” that is a



  

description, no doubt, of what you see, even though it does not differentiate it from all other things. It does distinguish it somewhat; it does tell you that what you see is not a vegetable or mineral body. In the same way, if there were a man in this house, and you knew that there was some body in the house but did not know what kind, assuming you asked, “What is in this house?” and received the answer “Neither a mineral nor a vegetable body,” then some differentiation would have occurred: you would know that there was an animal in the house, even if you did not know what kind. In this way negative descriptions complement the positive. They must distinguish things somewhat, even if only by excluding what they negate from the universe of what we assume not to be negated. The way negative predicates differ from positive ones is that positive predicates, even when they do not differentiate, designate some part of the object of which knowledge is sought, either a part of its substance or one of its accidents. Negative predicates acquaint us not at all with the thing in itself whose nature we wish to understand, except incidentally, as in our example.6 () Having prefaced the foregoing, I say that God, hallowed and revered be He, has been proved to be Necessarily Existent and uncompounded, as will be demonstrated. We know only His thatness, we do not know His whatness. Thus it is absurd that He be given any positive description, for He has no “that” apart from His “what” so that one or the other might be designated by a predicate. Still less is His nature compound, that a predicate might designate its two parts. Still less does He have accidents which a predicate might denote. Thus no affirmative predication whatever is possible in His regard. It is negative predication which must be used to guide the mind to what ought to be believed of Him—the reason being that such predicates, while implying no plurality of any sort, lead the mind to the highest conception of God possible for a human being. To illustrate: It has been demonstrated to us that something exists other than those things which we apprehend by sense perception and com-

. Of the man in the house. “Not mineral or vegetable” implies animal only on the assumption that we know all bodies to be animal, vegetable, or mineral. Negative predicates, as we should expect, tell us nothing about what a thing is but only what it is not. Where the universe of discourse is infinite or unknown, they tell us nothing positive whatever.

Moses Maimonides



prehend by reason. Of this being we say that it exists, meaning that it cannot not exist.7 We later apprehend that this being is unlike the elements, say, which are lifeless bodies, so we say of it that it is alive, meaning that it is not dead. We further learn that this being is not like the heavens, which are living bodies, in its mode of existence, so we say it is not a body; nor like the mind, which is deathless and immaterial, but still an object of causation, so we say that it is eternal, meaning that there is no cause of its existence. We apprehend further that its existence, which is identical with itself, suffices not only for itself but showers forth numerous beings out of itself, not as a flame sheds heat or as light flows necessarily from the sun but in a flood by which He, as we shall show, constantly sustains their existence and their order through an unswerving governance. On account of this we say that He is powerful, knowing, and willing, intending by these predicates that He is neither impotent, nor ignorant, nor oblivious, nor negligent. By “not powerless” we mean that His existence has in it sufficiency to bring into being things other than Himself. By “not ignorant” we mean that He apprehends, thus that He is alive, for all things which apprehend are alive.8 By “not oblivious or negligent” we mean that all those beings issue forth in a well-ordered and wellgoverned array, not in a chance or haphazard way but as do all things governed by the will and purpose of a voluntary being. Finally, we apprehend that this Being has none like Him, so we say that He is one, meaning the denial of plurality. It should be clear to you, then, that every predicate we assign to Him either designates His act or, if intended to apply to Him rather than His work, its significance is that it denies the privation of such a character. Even these negations are not applied to Him categorically but rather, as you know, in the manner in which what is not appropriate

. The demonstration referred to is Avicenna’s argument from contingency: if there exists any contingent being, there must be a necessary being to which the former owes its existence. Yet our familiar experience presents us with no instance of a necessary being. . We predicate consciousness of God in the same way that we predicate life of Him, without any reference point by which we might relate either concept to instances of them with which we are familiar.



  

to a subject is denied of it, as we say of a wall that it does not see.9 You know, dear reader, that with the heavens, which are moving bodies whose dimensions we might measure to the yard or to the inch, and for some parts of which and most of their motions we have already obtained knowledge of their measures, our minds remain totally unable to know their nature10—this despite the fact that we know that the heavens must have matter and form—for their matter is not the same as ours. That is why we cannot describe them in any definite or positive way, but only indefinitely: we say the heavens are neither light nor heavy, impassive and therefore not receptive of effects, tasteless, odorless, etc.—all of which negations are on account of our ignorance of the material of which they are composed. How then would it be for our minds if they aspired to apprehend Him who is free of matter, who is absolutely simple, necessarily existent, and uncaused, to whom no principle attaches beyond His perfect Selfhood, the meaning of whose perfection is its exclusion of all privations, as we have made clear? We know only His thatness, that there is a being whom no other existent resembles, that He has nothing whatever in common with all the other beings to which He gave existence, no plurality, no incapacity to give being to things other than Himself, that His relation to the world is as captain to ship, only this is not the real relationship, not a sound analogy, but only a means of directing the mind to the realization that He governs all that exists, meaning that He sustains all things and fittingly oversees their order—an idea which will be explained more expressly [see Moreh III]. Praised then be He, for when minds contemplate His Godhead, their awareness turns to incomprehension; when they consider the . To wit, not as we say of a blind man that he does not see. . This is something of a slap in the face to the prevailing Aristotelian cosmology, which presumed to have some understanding of the “fifth substance” which made up the heavens. Given the available data, Maimonides argues, it is impossible to say much more about the heavens than that we are unable to apply to them many of our familiar physical concepts. This point has been overthrown by the advent of Newtonian physics, which can account for celestial and terrestial mechanics in the same economy. Maimonides’ theological point, however, remains: if God is unique, no category of the natural world or of finite experience is applicable to Him. The difference, as Maimonides would say, between terrestial and celestial phenomena is only relative, whereas that between God and creation is absolute.

Moses Maimonides



nexus of His acts to His will, their knowledge turns to ignorance; when tongues aspire to praise Him by ascribing attributes to Him, all their eloquence turns to tedium and vapidity.

Moreh Nevukhim : Someone may ask, “If there is no technique of apprehending God as He really is, it being an outcome of the argument that what we grasp is only that He is, and if all positive attributes are demonstrated to be inapplicable to Him, then what makes anyone’s apprehension of Him any better than anyone else’s? If there is nothing to differentiate them, then what Moses or Solomon grasp is identical with what any individual student grasps—the student has nothing to learn!” It is generally supposed, not only among adherents of revelation but also among philosophers, that there is a wide range of divergence in the quality of various such apprehensions. You should recognize that this is so. There is a very wide range, for the more predicates assigned to a subject, the more particularly that subject is distinguished and the closer he who predicates comes to an apprehension of that subject as it really is. In the same way, the more negations you add regarding Him, the closer you are to apprehension—closer than he who does not negate what you have understood must demonstrably be negated of Him. A man, therefore, may work for years to understand a certain science, to verify its premises so as to hold it with certainty, with the net result that he knows demonstratively that we must deny the applicability of a certain notion to God, since it is absurd to apply that notion to Him. Another person, less insightful, might not grasp the demonstration. For him it would remain uncertain whether such a notion might be applied to God or not. Still another person, intellectually blind, will affirm of Him the same demonstrably inapplicable notion. . . . If there were a person who understood a demonstration which showed the impossibility in His regard of many things which we deem possible with regard to Him or as issuing from Him or even hold necessary for Him, then that person undoubtedly would be closer to perfection than we. Thus it should be clear that whenever you are able to demonstrate the inapplicability of some notion to Him, you become more perfect; and whenever you affirm some additional notion of Him



  

you are being anthropomorphic and placing yourself further from knowledge of His real nature . . . in two respects: first, whatever you have affirmed of Him is a perfection only for us; second, He is nothing but Himself (with which all His perfections are identical) as we have shown. Now since everyone is aware that we have no way of knowing God (to the extent that it is possible for us to apprehend Him at all) except through negations, and since negations afford us no knowledge whatever of the real nature of the thing itself of which they deny something, all mankind, past and future, freely admit that God is not apprehended by minds, that none knows what He is except Himself, that to know Him at all is to be unable to know Him fully. All philosophers say, “We are overwhelmed by His beauty,”“He is hidden from us by the splendor of His manifestness as is the sun from the apprehension of feeble vision.”11 The theme has been expounded at length, and it is of no benefit for us to reiterate all that has been said to this effect. The most eloquent of all such sayings is that in Psalms: “To Thee silence is praise” [Psalm :], which means, “You regard silence as praise.” This is awesomely expressive of this theme, for whatever we may say intended as praise and exaltation, we find applies to Him in some regard but falls short in some other. Silence is preferable to this, silence which confines itself to contemplation, as those whose understanding is most perfect say, “Speak to your heart in your bed and be silent. Selah” [Psalm :]. You are familiar with the famous dictum of the Sages (I wish that all their words were like it!)—but I shall quote it for you verbatim, although you must remember it well, to point up its meaning for you: “Someone prayed in the presence of Rabbi Hanina, ‘The God who is great, mighty and awesome, majestic and powerful, the terrible and magnificent.’ ‘Have you finished praising your Master?’ said Rabbi Hanina. ‘The first three12 themselves could not be used by us if Moses our teacher had not pronounced them in the Law and the men of the Great Assembly had not come and established their use in the Prayer [the Amida]. And you say all this! It is as if a king of flesh and blood who had millions in gold were praised for having silver. Would this not be offensive to him?’” [cf. Berakhot b]. Consider now this wor. Cf. Plato, Republic VII, –; Aristotle, Metaphysics a b. . Epithets used in the established liturgy: ha-Gadol, ha-Gibbor, haNoro —“the Great,”“the Mighty,”“the Awesome.”

Moses Maimonides



thy man’s reluctance, his aversion to the proliferation of positive predicates. Consider his explicit avowal that if it were left to reason alone not one of these predicates would have been applied or even uttered. Only the necessity of exhorting mankind in terms which would allow the formation of some conception—as the Sages say, “Torah speaks according to human language”—made it necessary for God to be described to men in terms of human perfections. We might go no further than these utterances, not name Him even by these except in reading the Torah, were it not for the fact that when the men of the Great Assembly came (they being prophets13), they ordained the use of these expressions in the liturgy. We can go no further, then, than to mention these words when we pray. The import of Rabbi Hanina’s statement is plainly that two compelling exigencies coincide when we pray using such words: the fact that they are used in the Torah and the fact that prophets used them in composing the liturgy. Were it not for the first we should not utter them at all, and were it not for the second we could not remove them from their context for use in our prayers. . . . He does not say that it is as though a king who had millions in gold were praised as having hundreds. For this would have suggested that His perfections differ in degree from those ascribed to Him but are of the same sort. Such is not the case, as we have demonstrated. The wisdom of Rabbi Hanina’s illustration lies in his saying, “who had gold and was praised for having silver,” indicating that nothing of the sort of what for us are perfections exist in Him; all such things would be faults in Him, as he makes clear when he says in his illustration, “would that not be offensive to Him?” . . . Solomon has given us ample guidance to this theme when he says, “God is in heaven and you are on earth. Therefore, let your words be few” [Ecclesiastes :].

Moreh Nevukhim : Suppose a person has established that there is a “ship” but does not know to what this term applies, not even whether it denotes a substance or an accident. A second person might realize that it is not an . The Great Assembly is credited with the establishment of Jewish liturgy and with the transfer of authority in Judaism from the priests to the scholars.



  

accident, a third that it is not a mineral, a fourth that it is not an animal, a fifth that it is not a plant still growing in the ground, a sixth that it is not a single, organically connected body, a seventh that it is not flat like a board or a door, an eighth that it is not spherical, a ninth that it is not conical, a tenth that it is not round, an eleventh that it is not equilateral, a twelfth that it is not solid. This last person, obviously, would be able virtually to conceive the ship as it is, through these negations. His idea of it is comparable to that of a man who conceptualized it in terms of positive attributes, as an oblong hollow body of wood, composed of a number of boards. Each of his predecessors in our parable is further than his successor from conceiving a ship, up to the first who knows nothing but the bare word. It is in this manner that negative predications bring you closer to an awareness of God and apprehension of Him. Bend every effort therefore to increasing what you can negate of Him, by proof, not in a merely verbal way; for whenever you discover the demonstration that something which was thought to apply to Him is in fact inapplicable to Him, there is no doubt that you draw one step nearer to Him. . . . Describing Him positively, on the other hand, is very dangerous. . . . I would not say that he who assigns positive predicates to God is deficient in his knowledge of Him, nor that he confounds Him with other things, nor that he apprehends Him differently than as He is. What I would say is that he has unwittingly disacknowledged the existence of the Deity in his creed. To explain: One is deficient in his understanding of a thing if he grasps one element of it but fails to understand another, for example, if he recognizes that the concept of “man” has all the implications of being an animal, but fails to apprehend that it has all the implications of being rational. But God has no plurality in His nature that part of it might be understood and part misunderstood. Similarly, one who confounds one thing with another understands one thing accurately and applies its concept to something else. But these attributes are not believed by those who uphold them to be the Deity but to belong to Him. Similarly again, one who understands something in a manner other than as it is must nonetheless have some understanding of it as it is. But of someone who thinks that “taste” is a quantity, I would not say that he understands taste other than as it is; I would say that he does not know that taste exists or what the word denotes. This is a rather subtle thought, so try to understand it. . . .

Moses Maimonides



He who applies a positive predication to Him knowing only the word and nothing of the Being to whom this word is imagined to apply is actually ascribing predicates to something which does not exist, a spurious invention of his own imagining, just as though the being to which he wished to apply that word did not exist—for no such being as he speaks of does exist. I would illustrate such a case as follows: A man hears the word “elephant”; he knows that an elephant is an animal but wants to find out about its nature and its shape. Suppose someone who is either deceived or a deceiver says that an elephant is an animal with one leg and three wings who lives in the depths of the sea, whose body is transparent, with a broad face like that of a man, having human shape and form as well, an animal who talks and sometimes flies through the air, sometimes swims like a fish. I shall not say that this is a misconception of an elephant or a deficient apprehension of an elephant, but that this thing which is pictured in this description is a spurious figment of the imagination. No such thing exists; this is a nonexistent thing to which the name of something which does exist has been applied . . . like “horse-man.”. . . The case here is parallel: God (glorious be His praise) exists and His existence can be demonstrated to be necessary. But necessary existence implies absolute simplicity, as I shall demonstrate [Moreh II:I, method iii]. As for that simplex, necessarily existent being to which attributes and other such notions allegedly apply, it demonstrably does not exist at all. If we call such a being “the deity” and say that it has a plurality of elements, in terms of which it may be described, then we have applied that designation to absolutely nothing. Consider, then, how dangerous it is to apply positive predications to Him. What we must believe is that the attributes which occur in inspired writing or the books of the prophets serve solely and simply to orient us toward His perfection, unless they are characterizations of acts which issue from Him, as we have made clear. Moreh Nevukhim : All the names of God found anywhere in the Scriptures are derived from verbs, as is obvious on inspection—the sole exception being YHVH.14 For this name was invented specifically for Him. That . The Tetragrammaton or quadriliteral name of God found in the Scriptures.



  

is why it is called the “explicit” name, meaning that it indicates His Godhead clearly, without any connotations. All the other revered names designate through the connotations which they have of actions the like of which we perform, as I have explained. Even the name which we pronounce instead of YHVH [Adonai, “Lord”] is derived from a verb which signifies mastery. . . . The other epithets, such as Judge, Righteous, Kindly, Compassionate, and God, are obviously used generically, and their derivation is obvious as well. But the name which is spelled YHVH has no commonly accepted etymology and is not applied to any other. This awesome name, which as you know is not to be pronounced except in the Sanctuary by “sanctified Priests of the Lord,” exclusively in the priestly blessing and by the High Priest on the Day of Atonement, doubtless indicates some notion in which God does not share with any other being. Perhaps in this language (of which we today have only the merest fraction, in proportion to the spoken language) this word indicates necessity of existence. In short, the reverence in which this name is held and the restrictions on its being spoken are perhaps due to its signifying God Himself in a way in which none of His creatures may share: as the Sages have it, “My name unique to Me” [Sota a to Numbers :–]. The other names are all indicative of attributes, not of God’s being itself but of some positive character—because they are derived. They therefore suggest multiplicity; i.e., they suggest the existence of attributes—an identity and various notions adventitious to it. For every derived noun signifies in this fashion. It designates a notion and, implicitly, a substratum to which that notion is linked. Once it has been proved that God is not some substrate to which various notions are attached, then it can be understood that these epithets derived from common concepts must serve either to relate an act to Him or to direct us toward His Perfection. That is why Rabbi Hanina would have been loath to say, “the Great, Mighty, and Awesome,” were it not for the two aforementioned compelling exigencies—since this suggested a plurality of real attributes (perfections) existing in God. The addition of further attributes derived from verbs suggested to some people that He had a plurality of attributes. For the actions, from the designations of which these epithets were derived, are many. That is why Scripture promises that people will one day overcome this delusion, saying, “On that day the Lord will be one and His name one” [Zechariah :], meaning that as He is one, so will He be

Moses Maimonides



known by just one name, that which designates His Godhead alone and which is not derived from any common notion. In Pirkei de Rabbi Eliezer [III] the Sages say, “Before the world was created there were only the Holy One, blessed be He, and His name.” Notice how this explicitly acknowledges that these derived names all came into being after the creation of the world. This is true: they are all nouns used in the conventional manner 15 to designate acts found in the world. But when you consider His Godhead in abstraction from all activity, then He will have no derived name whatever, but only the one name which has been improvised to indicate His Godhead itself. We have no other underived name than this: YHVH, the explicit name. Do not suppose the case to be otherwise—do not give a thought to the ravings of the amulet writers or any of the “names” you may hear from them or find in their books,16 names which they concocted and which do not signify anything whatever. They simply call them names and claim that they are sufficient causes of purity and holiness and that they work wonders. All this is unfit for a grown man to listen to, let alone believe! Nothing whatever is called the explicit name, but the Tetragrammaton as it is written, not as pronounced, according to the commentary of Sifre on the verse “Thus shall you bless the Children of Israel” [Numbers :], which they gloss: “ ‘Thus,’ i.e., in these words, ‘thus,’ that is with the explicit name. . . .”

. All language, as all medieval philosophers knew, is by convention. . Maimonides is thinking here chiefly of the Kabbalistic type of alchemy figuring in such works as the pseudo-Abrahamic Sefer Yetzirah, where mystic names and Kabbalistic alphabets of number-letter elements are used in acts of theurgy by which the mystic participates in the re-enactment of the divine creative act. See Gershom Scholem, On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism (New York, ). These symbolic acts often degenerated into plain magic, and it is against such superstition that the Rambam’s acerbity here is directed.

. K Azriel of Gerona, “Ein Sof,” “The Annihilation of Thought,” and “Being and Nothingness”; Zohar III, b; Isaac the Blind, “Beyond Knowing”; from Embellishments on the Zohar ; Joseph Gikatilla, “The Name of Nothingness”; David ben Abraham ha-Lavan and Asher ben David, “Ayin”; Moses of Léon, “The Wisdom of Nothingness” and “Ripples.” Translated texts from The Essential Kabbalah: The Heart of Jewish Mysticism, ed. Daniel C. Matt (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, ), pp. –, , –, –, –.

“Kabbalah” literally means “receiving” or “what has been received,” hence also “reception” or “tradition” of divine things. Accordingly, the nuances of the term encompass both adherence to the ancients and spontaneous receptiveness to the new.1 It designates a body of mystic and esoteric teachings within Judaism that pivots on the letters of the Hebrew alphabet and their symbolic value as Names of God, who in himself remains nameless. These letters are also the building blocks of Creation—an idea already, influentially, found in the Sefer Yetzirah (The Book of Creation, fourth century). The Kabbalah is thus a strongly language-based mysticism. It is centered on the letter both as law and as text. Language is not simply abandoned in the mystical movement of transcendence toward silence. Although God transcends every verbal formulation, he is nonetheless revealed in the world he has spoken into being: all Creation is conceived of as essentially a reification of his Name. Moreover, while language is not an adequate instrument for logically describing and designating the ultimate, divine reality, nevertheless the Torah, taken as one long Name of God, is the revelation, in symbolic form, of the intimate life of the Godhead. The Kabbalah emerges in the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Provence, Catalonia, and Castile. One of the earliest distinct personalities among Kabbalistic writers is Isaac the Blind (–), who speaks of “the Incomprehensible.” Gershom Scholem has pointed out that Isaac’s term, mah . Daniel Matt, The Essential Kabbalah, p. .



Kabbalah



sche’en ha-machschabab masseregeth, sounds like an “exact paraphrase” of the Neoplatonic term Ωkatålhptoq (“the ungraspable”).2 Indeed, the Kabbalah develops a rhetoric of negations referred to key biblical phrases, in which formulations very similar to those of Neoplatonic philosophy occur. For example, God is said to be wiser than Wisdom and more understanding than Understanding. God is also spoken of in an Aristotelian manner as the “Cause of causes” (Zohar II, b). The fundamental work for a certain main stream of Kabbalah tradition is the Zohar, that is, The Book of Splendor (Sefer ha-Zohar). Written in Aramaic with Hebrew interpolations, the Zohar presents commentaries on the Torah as if these were discussions among rabbis of the school of one Shim’on bar Yohai in the second and third centuries .. This setting, however, has long been considered fictitious for a work that first appears around ..  in Spain. Most modern scholars, along with Scholem, attribute it to Moses of Léon (–) since he circulated the texts, giving them out to be copies of an ancient manuscript which his widow is reported to have denied ever existed.3 The Zohar distinguishes between Ein Sof, the hidden God, literally the “Without End” or “Boundless,” and his manifestations in the ten spheres, or, literally, the ten letters of the divine manifestation, the Sefirot. In contrast to the absolutely ineffable Ein Sof, or In-finite, the world of the Sefirot, which manifests God as Creator, is a world of language. The Sefirot embody the ten Names of God; they manifest the divine emanations as the process of speech within God himself.4 As manifestation of the infinite Ein Sof, this world of the Sefirot cannot but be a world of symbols, and these are, paradoxically, anthropomorphic in nature. The ten Sefirot form the mystic Tree of Life, which is interpreted in terms of analogies with the human body. A rich and audacious symbolic language is developed in the Zohar and in the many Kabbalistic texts it spawned, such as the thirteenth- or fourteenth-century Tiqqunei ha-Zohar (Embellishments on the Zohar), relating the divine attributes to human anatomy, since man is made in the image of God. There are thus two worlds before and beyond the world as we ordinarily know it. Both, however, are God. The first is the hidden world of Ein Sof; the second is that of the Attributes or Sefirot, which make the divine manifest. . Gershom Scholem, Die judische Mystik in ihren Hauptströmungen (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, ), p.  n. . . See the introduction to Zohar: The Book of Enlightenment, trans. Daniel Chanan Matt (New York: Paulist Press, ), p. . . Scholem, “The Theosophical Doctrine of the Zohar,” chap.  of Die judische Mystik.



  

But this is not a dualism, as in Gnosticism. The dynamic unity of the two worlds is understood on the model of a dark coal and the bright flame by which alone it is manifest (Zohar III, a).5 Accordingly, the hidden God, deus absconditus, appears to Kabbalists in language, in the letters of the divine Name, which directly reveal the divine Life without the mediation of Creation. Scholem emphasizes that Jewish Kabbalah mysticism is distinguished by the very enthusiastic attitude it takes toward language. Language in its essence is the secret code of all Creation. Mirrored in human language, which serves for knowledge, is God’s creative language. God creates all things by language, specifically by the letters of his Name, and what the Creation reveals is nothing other than God’s Name. In language and its mystical interpretation lies the “path to the deepest knowledge of Creation and Creator alike.”6 Like Scholem, Moshe Idel emphasizes that Jewish mysticism is distinguished by its positive attitude toward language.7 But in opposition to Scholem, Idel finds that the mark of “negative theology” in the Kabbalah dates from comparatively recent stages of its history. For him, negative theology was foreign to the Kabbalah in its original inspiration: “It seems that in the whole history of the Kabbalah negative theology never enjoyed the interest among Kabbalists that it had in the period when Renaissance Neoplatonism was already in decline, at the beginning of the seventeenth century. . . . It was in Italy, the stronghold of the Neoplatonism of the Renaissance, that the Kabbalah underwent the most powerful impact of negative theology.” Hence Idel’s conclusion that “the influence of negative theology is marginal in medieval Kabbalistic texts. It comes to the fore by the end of the fifteenth century and reaches its apogee in the seventeenth.”8 Idel’s judgment is based on a definition of negative theology essentially in terms of its Neoplatonic sources: the influence of Neoplatonic negative discourses about God, he maintains, is rather limited in the earlier Kabbalah sources. But this claim actually comforts and supports the proposal that the Kabbalah sources themselves initiate an original discourse on the divine infinity, which clearly acknowledges God’s transcendence of any possible language. . Cf. Jezira I, , and Scholem, Die judische Mystik, p. . . Scholem, Die judische Mystik, p. . . See Moshe Idel, “Reification of Language in Jewish Mysticism,” in Mysticism and Language, ed. Steven Katz (New York: Oxford University Press, ), pp. –. . Moshe Idel, “Jewish Kabbalah and Platonism in the Middle Ages and Renaissance,” in Neoplatonism and Jewish Thought, ed. Lenn E. Goodman (Albany: SUNY Press, ), p. . See also Moshé Idel and Victor Malka, Les chemins de la Kabbale (Paris: Albin Michel, ).

Kabbalah



For this purpose, the basic text remains the Zohar, though it is heavily indebted to earlier writings, particularly those of the Kabbalist circle that formed in the Catalonian town of Gerona around –, including among its number one Azriel. While the linguistic mysticism of the Zohar concentrates on the objective quality of the letters, an orientation toward the subjective state induced by meditation on the letters and their combinations was developed contemporaneously in Italy by Abraham Abulafia (–). This approach contrasts, according to Scholem and Idel, with the sefirotic or theosophical approach of the Castilian Kabbalists, which reifies language.9 Abulafia’s method is one of meditation on the pure form of the letters of the alphabet, to the end of inducing mystical states. Idel describes it as “linguistic theurgy.”10 Abulafia emerges as the strongest exponent of an ecstatic or literally “prophetic” Kabbalah (Kabbalah Nevu’it) that focuses specifically on the search for a mystical experience of divine union. It is a Kabbalah of the Names (Kabbalat ha-Shemot). It does not respect the integrity of the sense of the text of the Torah but rather “deconstructs” it into an array of monads, where each letter is itself the divine name, turning the text into a means for enabling mystical experience. This monadization of language opens it to its magicomystical dimension.11 It steers Kabbalah doctrine further in a direction of the radical unsayability of God’s essence, opening further avenues of infinite significance in the divine Name. The ecstatic Kabbalah, focused on techniques of meditation, reunites with the theosophical and ethical tradition of the Zohar in Safed, a town above the Sea of Galilee, where Jewish mystics attempted to build a messianic community in the sixteenth century.12 Here Moses Cordovero (–) taught and wrote his numerous masterpieces. He was succeeded as leader of the community by his disciple Isaac Luria (–). In true apophatic fashion, Luria wrote practically nothing. His teaching, however, transmitted by his pupil Hayyim Vital, proved influential in the extreme. Luria introduced the ideas of . See Moshe Idel, The Mystical Experience in Abraham Abulafia (Albany: SUNY Press, ), and Gershom Scholem, Kabbalah (Jerusalem: Keter Publishing House, ). . Moshe Idel, “Reification of Language in Jewish Mysticism,” pp. –. . Moshe Idel, Language, Torah, and Hermeneutics in Abraham Abulafia (Albany: SUNY Press, ), p. xv. See also Idel, Kabbalah: New Perspectives (New Haven: Yale University Press, ). . See Safed Spirituality: Rules of Mystical Piety, The Beginning of Wisdom, trans. Lawrence Fine (New York: Paulist Press, ).



  

emanation as withdrawal, or Creation by contraction (tsimtsum), and of the “breaking of the vessels” (shevirah) as the origin of the Sefirot. These original notions crystallize in a distinctively exilic form of Kabbalah, which, in the wake of the  expulsion of the Jews from Spain, became broadly popular among the Jewish folk and spread far beyond the esoteric circles to which the Kabbalah previously had been confined.13 The Kabbalah, beyond its often enigmatic operations in interpreting passages of Scripture, is fundamentally a meditation on God’s unknowability and inexpressibility. As Scholem remarks, “the more these solutions are incomprehensible the higher is their rank.”14 The unspeakable fullness (or emptiness) of Ein Sof is the mystical Without End from which all self-unfolding in the Sefirot proceeds. The more the Kabbalistic significance of letters is intricate and impossible to rationalize, the more what they cannot say is exalted thereby. . See Scholem, “Isaac Luria und seine Schule,” chap.  of Die judische Mystik. . See Scholem, Die judische Mystik, chap. , on the theosophic doctrine of the Zohar, especially section  on “Der verborgene Gott” (“the Hidden God”).

Azriel of Gerona, in Me’ir ibn Gabbai, Derekh Emunah  b–c [Ein Sof]

Anything visible, and anything that can be grasped by thought, is bounded. Anything bounded is finite. Anything finite is not undifferentiated. Conversely, the boundless is called Ein Sof, Infinite. It is absolute undifferentiation in perfect, changeless oneness. Since it is boundless, there is nothing outside of it. Since it transcends and conceals itself, it is the essence of everything hidden and revealed. Since it is concealed, it is the root of faith and the root of rebellion. As it is written, “One who is righteous lives by his faith.” The philosophers acknowledge that we comprehend it only by way of no.

Kabbalah



Emanating from Ein Sof are the ten sefirot. They constitute the process by which all things come into being and pass away. They energize every existent thing that can be quantified. Since all things come into being by means of the sefirot, they differ from one another; yet they all derive from one root. Everything is from Ein Sof; there is nothing outside of it. One should avoid fashioning metaphors regarding Ein Sof, but in order to help you understand, you can compare Ein Sof to a candle from which hundreds of millions of other candles are kindled. Though some shine brighter than others, compared to the first light they are all the same, all deriving from that one source. The first light and all the others are, in effect, incomparable. Nor can their priority compare with its, for it surpasses them; their energy emanates from it. No change takes place in it—the energy of emanation simply manifests through differentiation. Ein Sof cannot be conceived, certainly not expressed, though it is intimated in every thing, for there is nothing outside of it. No letter, no name, no writing, no thing can confine it. The witness testifying in writing that there is nothing outside of it is: “I am that I am.” Ein Sof has no will, no intention, no desire, no thought, no speech, no action—yet there is nothing outside of it.

Azriel of Gerona, Perush ha-Aggadot  [The Annihilation of Thought]

Thought rises to contemplate its own innerness until its power of comprehension is annihilated.



  

Azriel of Gerona, Derekh ha-Emunah ve-Derekh ha-Kefirah [Being and Nothingness]

You may be asked: “How did God bring forth being from nothingness? Is there not an immense difference between being and nothingness?” Answer as follows: “Being is in nothingness in the mode of nothingness, and nothingness is in being in the mode of being.” Nothingness is being, and being is nothingness. The node of being as it begins to emerge from nothingness into existence is called faith. For the term “faith” applies neither to visible, comprehensible being, nor to nothingness, invisible and incomprehensible, but rather to the nexus of nothingness and being. Being does not stem from nothingness alone but rather, from being and nothingness together. All is one in the simplicity of absolute undifferentiation. Our limited mind cannot grasp or fathom this, for it joins infinity.

Zohar III, b [The Aroma of Infinity]

Ein Sof does not abide being known, does not produce end or beginning. Primordial Nothingness brought forth beginning and end. Who is beginning? The highest point, beginning of all, the concealed one abiding in thought. It also engenders end, the culmination of the word.

Kabbalah



But there, no end. No desires, no lights, no sparks in that Infinity. All these lights and sparks are dependent on it but cannot comprehend. The only one who knows, yet without knowing, is the highest desire, concealed of all concealed, Nothingness. And when the highest point and the world that is coming ascend, they know only the aroma, as one inhaling an aroma is sweetened.

Isaac the Blind, Commentary on Sefer Yetsirah [Beyond Knowing]

The inner, subtle essences can be contemplated only by sucking, not by knowing.

Tiqqunei ha-Zohar (Embellishments on the Zohar), Introduction a [Divine Qualities]

Elijah opened and said, “Master of the worlds! You are one—but not in counting. You are higher than the high, concealed from the concealed. No thought grasps you at all. It is you who generated ten adornments—called by us the ten sefirot—by which concealed, unrevealed worlds are conducted, and revealed worlds. In them you



  

conceal yourself from human beings, while you are the one who binds and unites them. Since you are within, whoever separates one of these ten from another—it is as if he divided you. “These ten sefirot proceed in order: one long, one short, one between. It is you who conducts them, and no one conducts you— neither above nor below nor in any direction. You have prepared garments for them, from which souls fly to human beings. You have prepared various bodies for them—called bodies in contrast to the garments covering them. These bodies are named according to this arrangement: Hesed, the right arm; Gevurah, the left arm; Tif ’eret, the trunk of the body; Netsah and Hod, the two legs; Yesod, completion of the body, sign of the holy covenant; Malkhut, the mouth—we call her oral Torah. Hokhmah is the brain, inner thought. Binah is the heartmind, through which the [human] heartmind understands. The highest crown, Keter Elyon, is the royal crown, the skull, inside of which is: yod he vav he, path of emanation, sap of the tree, spreading through its arms and branches—like water drenching a tree, which then flourishes. “Master of the worlds! You are the cause of causes, who drenches the tree with that flow—a flow that is like a soul for the body, life for the body. In you there is neither likeness nor image of anything within or without. You created heaven and earth, bringing forth sun, moon, stars, and constellations. And on earth: trees, grass, the Garden of Eden, animals, birds, fish, and human beings. So that the beyond might be known—how above and below conduct themselves and how they become known. “About you, no one knows anything. Apart from you, there is no union above and below. You are known as Lord of all. Every one of the sefirot has a name that is known, by which the angels are called, but you have no known name, for you pervade all names; you are the fullness of them all. When you disappear from them, all those names are left like a body without a soul. “You are wise—not with a known wisdom. You understand— not with known understanding. You have no known place—just making known your power and strength to human beings, showing them how the world is conducted by justice and compassion, according to human action. But actually you have no known justice or compassion, nor any quality at all.”

Kabbalah



Joseph Gikatilla, Gates of Light (Sha’arei Orah) [The Name of Nothingness]

The depth of primordial being is called Boundless. Because of its concealment from all creatures above and below, it is also called Nothingness. If one asks, “What is it?” the answer is, “Nothing,” meaning: No one can understand anything about it. It is negated of every conception. No one can know anything about it—except the belief that it exists. Its existence cannot be grasped by anyone other than it. Therefore its name is “I am becoming.”

David ben Abraham ha-Lavan, Masoret ha-Berit [Ayin]

Ayin, nothingness, is more existent than all the being of the world. But since it is simple, and every simple thing is complex compared with its simplicity, it is called Ayin.

Asher ben David, Ha-Qabbalah be-Khitevei [Ayin]

The inner power is called Ayin because thought does not grasp it, nor reflection. Concerning this, Job said, “Wisdom comes into being out of ayin.”



  

Moses of Léon, Sheqel ha-Qodesh [The Wisdom of Nothingness]

The ten sefirot are the secret of existence, the array of wisdom, by which the worlds above and below were created. Corresponding to this secret are the ten utterances by which the world was created, and the ten commandments, which epitomize the holy Torah. Indeed, the ten sefirot constitute the secret of divine existence; they comprise above and below, every single thíng. They are ancient and concealed. From them emerges the mystery of the supernal chariot—a matter concealed and sealed for those who discover knowledge. Keter Elyon, highest crown, is called the pure ether that cannot be grasped. It is the sum of all existence, and all have wearied in their search for it. One should not ponder this place. It is secretly named Ein Sof—Infinity—for it engenders everything that is. The belt of the wise is burst by this mysterious cause of causes. Arouse yourself to contemplate, to focus thought, for God is the annihilation of all thoughts, uncontainable by any concept. Indeed, since no one can contain God at all, it is called Nothingness, Ayin. This is the secret of the verse, “Wisdom comes into being out of ayin.” Anything sealed and concealed, totally unknown to anyone, is called ayin, meaning that no one knows anything about it. Similarly, no one knows anything at all about the human soul; she stands in the status of nothingness, as it is written: “The superiority of the human over the beast is ayin.” By means of this soul, the human being ascends higher than all other creatures and attains the glory of Ayin. At times, a breeze blows by, delighting the heart and the mind. You do not know what it is or why; it cannot be grasped. Similarly, when this sefirah is aroused, it radiates and sparkles and cannot be grasped at all. How precious it is to know that God generates all of existence. From one bit of existence, the soul can perceive the existence of God, which has neither beginning nor end. The highest crown is not a beginning, yet from there emerged the point of concealment, the head of all levels, of all the other mirrors, the beginning of all existence. If

Kabbalah



you have eyes to see, you can search this matter meticulously and waft the mind in imagination to the secret power of this sefirah. Contemplate, understand, dedicate yourself to know that this sefirah returns to its original state. To whom does it belong? The beginning of existence is the secret concealed point, primordial wisdom, the secret conceptual point. This is the beginning of all the hidden things, which spread out from there and emanate, according to their species. From a single point you can extend the dimensions of all things. Similarly, when the concealed arouses itself to exist, at first it brings into being something the size of the point of a needle; from there it generates everything. Contemplate this: When the emanation was emanated out of Ayin, all things and all sefirot were dependent on thought. God’s secret existence emerged from this single point. That which abides in thought yet cannot be grasped is called wisdom: Hokhmah. What is the meaning of Hokhmah? Hakkeh mah. Since you can never grasp it, hakkeh, “wait,” for mah, “what” will come and what will be. This is the sublime, primordial wisdom emerging out of Ayin.

Moses of Léon, Commentary on the Sefirot [Ripples]

Thought reveals itself only through contemplating a little without content, contemplating sheer spirit. The contemplation is imperfect: you understand—then you lose what you have understood. Like pondering a thought: the light of that thought suddenly darkens, vanishes; then it returns and shines—and vanishes again. No one can understand the content of that light. It is like the light that appears when water ripples in a bowl: shining here, suddenly disappearing— then reappearing somewhere else. You think that you have grasped the light, when suddenly it escapes, radiating elsewhere. You pursue



  

it, hoping to catch it—but you cannot. Yet you cannot bring yourself to leave. You keep pursuing it. It is the same with the beginning of emanation. As you begin to contemplate it, it vanishes, then reappears; you understand—and it disappears. Even though you do not grasp it, do not despair. The source is still emanating, spreading.

. I -‘A (–) From “The Wisdom of Exaltation in the Word of Noah” and “The Exaltation of Light in the Word of Joseph,” in The Bezels of Wisdom, trans. R. W. J. Austin (New York: Paulist Press, ), pp. –, –.

Called by Sufis the “supreme master” or “greatest shaikh” (al-Shaikh al-akbar), Ibn al-‘Arabi is widely recognized as representing the peak of speculation in the mystic current of Islamic tradition known as Sufism. He was born in Murcia in Andalusia during the great age of Muslim influence over the southern Iberian penninsula stretching from the eighth through the fifteenth century. With the rising power of the Almohads, who were generally suspicious of Sufis, he migrated from Spain to North Africa and thence to the Near East, having been summoned to Mecca in a vision. Eventually he settled in Damascus. Along with the voluminous Meccan Revelations (al-Futuhat al-Makkiyah), the Bezels of Wisdom (Fusus al-Hikam) counts as his major work from among about four hundred extant treatises that can be genuinely attributed to him.1 Like Sufis before him, and especially like the great Muslim philosopher alGhazali (d. ), Ibn al-‘Arabi’s principal emphasis is on the oneness of truth and the unity of being (wahdat al-wujud ). Wisdom is to wake up to one’s own identity with Reality (al-Haqq: the Real, the True), with Being-Perception. Outside this Oneness, all is illusion. Whatever is, to the extent that it is, cannot but be really just this oneness. Even the illusion of separateness belongs intrinsically to Reality’s consciousness of itself. Everything that is manifests the one divine Reality, and thus, “He may be defined by every definition.” Of course, such definitions state not the divine essence—which cannot be said—but only its Names or modes. The Real, as absolutely unmanifest and incapable of becoming manifest, is absolutely different from all its Names. Yet all that they really are is nothing different from it. Reality is One, and all that is is from and of Him (hu), and is in fact identical with Him as to its being or reality. Although “strictly speaking no predication . Majid Fakhry, A History of Islamic Philosophy, nd ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, ), p. .





  

is possible” with regard to it, the Absolute is nevertheless qualified as absolute being or essence or existence, as “existence viewed in its unconditional simplicity.” 2 Ibn al-‘Arabi is working from the mainstream metaphysical tradition flowing from Plotinus and his Neoplatonic heirs. He resembles most closely Parmenides in affirming that Being alone is and is one and that all else is appearance. Yet Ibn al-‘Arabi also places an emphasis on the immanence of this metaphysical principle to the world of appearance. Any doctrine of pure transcendence of divine Reality he condemns as a misrepresentation. The cosmos is the manifestation of divine Reality, in effect, the divine Name. Even as the Unmanifest, this divine Reality is apprehended in relation not to abstract thought of transcendence but rather in the manifest forms of the cosmos.3 This valorization of the sensible world as mystical revelation is crystallized, for example, in Ibn al-‘Arabi’s The Interpreter of Desires, a collection of poems inspired by the charms of an enrapturing virgin of Mecca. Ibn al-‘Arabi took pains to exonerate himself of charges of sensual concupiscience by writing voluminous commentaries on the mystical meanings of these poems. The parallel to Dante’s relation to Beatrice is not inapt:4 both cases suggest metaphysical vision, when given a mystical emphasis, can twist back round toward vigorous affirmation of the senses. This legacy from Dante develops in Christian epic and prophetic poetry through Tasso, Spenser, and Milton to Blake. But just such a reappraisal of sense experience in its revelatory capacity appeared much earlier in Ibn al-‘Arabi. One of his masterpieces of apophatic rhetoric of negation and tautology is the Treatise on Unity. God is nothing that can be said or seen or known or formulated in any way. He is totally unique and incomparable and like only himself. The self must annihilate itself, know itself as nothing, in order to approach the experience of God. But then it can experience God in everything. In fact, only God exists. Nothing and no one else is anything except in identity with God, and this can be realized only in the realization of one’s own utter nullity. Ibn al-‘Arabi takes the Islamic confession that there is no God but God in a strong sense to mean that there is no other being whatsoever besides God: nothing exists except God. This would be outright pantheism, except that the . Toshihiko Izutzu, Sufism and Taoism: A Comparative Study of Key Philosophical Concepts (Berkeley: University of California Press, ), p. . . Salman H. Bashier, Ibn al-‘Arabi’s Barzakh: The Concept of the Limit and the Relationship between God and the World (Albany: SUNY Press, ). . Such a parallel is suggested by R. W. J. Austin in his introduction to The Bezels of Wisdom, p. .

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approach is from God to the world rather than the other way around. God is not degraded to identity with things; he is in no way any thing. Rather, all things are nothing, except in him.5 As in Christian and other mysticisms, the individual (rational) soul attains perfection and unity by its own annihilation (fana). In Islamic philosophy, al-Ghazali had described this stage as annihilation or extinction in unity.6 He is the fundamental precursor of Ibn al-‘Arabi, as well as of philosophical writers such as Ibn Tufayl (–) and Ibn Rushd (Averroes, –). Ibn Tufayl’s philosophical tale Hayy Ibn Yaqzan is rich in apophatic passages concerning mystical experience of “a world indescribable without misrepresentation.” He pays acute attention to specifically linguistic limits and failure: “The ambition to put this into words is reaching for the impossible—like wanting to taste colors, expecting black as such to taste either sweet or sour.”7 Ibn al‘Arabi turns the negative theology of Ibn Tufayl and Averroes (he had direct contact with the latter) in a deliberately mystical direction and produces thereby perhaps the most deeply felt speculative reflection of Sufi mysticism on the ineffability of the divine. The apophatic themes that underlie the whole of Sufi culture emerge with particular force and clarity in Ibn al-‘Arabi with the “bezel” (or “ringsetting”—metaphorically the verbal holder for jewels of Wisdom) that interprets the figure of Noah in the Qur’an. Unqualified affirmation of either transcendence or immanence with respect to God is flawed. Noah’s affirmation only of God’s transcendence limits the deity over against the world. Only the dialectic between these two alternatives, their canceling each other out, enacts the “meaning event” in which apophasis essentially consists.8 Neither transcendence nor immanence can be affirmed without the other. By such dialectic Ibn al-‘Arabi criticizes both polytheistic and strictly unitarian concepts of God. Of course, an uncompromising emphasis on the identity of all in one courts charges of pantheism. And Sufism, especially in the radical form it

. This treatise is interpreted by Marco Vannini, Mistica e filosofia (Casale Monferrato: Piemme, ), pp. –, where parallels with Cusanus’s De visione Dei are particularly emphasized. The treatise is ascribed by other scholars rather to a disciple of Ibn al-‘Arabi named al-Balyani (d. ). See Alexander D. Knysh, Ibn Arabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: The Making of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, ), p. . . Fakhry, History of Islamic Philosophy, p. . . Ibn Tufayl, Hayy Ibn Yaqzan, ed. Lenn Evan Goodman (Los Angelos: gee tee bee, ), p. . . See Sells, Mystical Languages of Unsaying, pp. –.



  

takes in Ibn al-‘Arabi’s arduous speculations, was often under suspicion from the religious authorities for infractions against the monotheistic premises of Muslim doctrine.9 The conflict with rigid doctrinal orthodoxy was inevitable, since for Sufis knowledge is personal rather than objective. Indeed, Sufis acknowledge no division of subject and object. Essential to Sufism is the endeavor to relive the Koranic revelation at an interior level, in ecstasy of spirit, through a personal appropriation of religious truth.10 The theory of the divine Names is developed in many of the twenty-seven chapters of The Bezels of Wisdom but particularly in the chapters interpreting the words of Noah and of the prophets Enoch, Shu’aib, and Joseph. Ibn al-‘Arabi writes that every Name “implies the (divine] Essence” and indeed “is the one Named,” yet never as Himself but rather always as other and as “representing some particular aspect.” The divine Names “require our existence,” but the divine Essence itself is completely independent of the divine Names. That the divine Names are contingent on our existence implies that God Himself is nameless. All that can be said or made manifest belongs to the sphere of revelation of the Names of God and is infinitely removed from His Reality as such. . On the tension between pantheism and monotheism in Ibn al-‘Arabi, see Saiyid Abdul Qadir Husaini, The Pantheistic Monism of Ibn al-‘Arabi (Lahore: Sh Muhammad Ashraf, ). . See Henry Corbin, L’imagination créatrice dans le soufisme d’Ibn ‘Arabi (Paris: Flammarion, ).

The Bezels of Wisdom

The Wisdom of Exaltation in the Word of Noah For those who [truly] know the divine Realities, the doctrine of transcendence imposes a restriction and a limitation [on the Reality], for he who asserts that God is [purely] transcendent is either a fool or a rogue, even if he be a professed believer. For, if he maintains that God is [purely] transcendent and excludes all other considerations, he acts

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mischievously and misrepresents the Reality and all the apostles, albeit unwittingly. He imagines that he has hit on the truth, while he has [completely] missed the mark, being like those who believe in part and deny in part.1 It is known that when the Scriptures speak of the Reality they speak in a way that yields to the generality of men the immediately apparent meaning. The elite, on the other hand, understand all the meanings inherent in that utterance, in whatever terms it is expressed. The truth is that the Reality is manifest in every created being and in every concept, while He is [at the same time] hidden from all understanding, except for one who holds that the Cosmos is His form and His identity. This is the Name, the Manifest, while He is also unmanifested Spirit, the Unmanifest. In this sense He is, in relation to the manifested forms of the Cosmos, the Spirit that determines those forms. In any definition of Man, his inner and outer aspect are both to be considered, as is the case with all objects of definition. As for the Reality, He may be defined by every definition, for the forms of the Cosmos are limitless, nor can the definition of every form be known, except insofar as the forms are implicit in the [definition] of the Cosmos. Thus, a [true] definition of the Reality is impossible, for such a definition would depend on the ability to [fully] define every form in the Cosmos, which is impossible. Therefore, a [complete] definition of the Reality is impossible. It is similar in the case of one who professes the comparability of God without taking into consideration His incomparability, so that he also restricts and limits Him and therefore does not know Him. He, however, who unites in his knowledge of God both transcendence and immanence in a comprehensive way, it not being possible to know such a thing in detail, owing to the infinitude of Cosmic forms, knows Him in a general way, but not in a detailed way, as he may know himself generally but not in detail. In this connection the Prophet said, “Who [truly] knows himself knows his Lord,” linking together knowledge of God and knowledge of the self. God says, We will show them our signs on the horizons, . Cf. Qur’an, IV:.



  

meaning the world outside you, and in yourselves, self, here, meaning your inner essence, till it becomes clear to them that He is the Reality,  in that you are His form and He is your Spirit. You are in relation to Him as your physical body is to you. He is in relation to you as the spirit governing your physical form. This definition of you takes account of your outer and inner aspects, for the form that remains when the governing spirit is no longer present may no longer be called a man, but only a form resembling a man, there being no real difference between it and the shape of wood or stone. The name “man” may be given to such a form only figuratively, not properly. On the other hand, the Reality never withdraws from the forms of the Cosmos in any fundamental sense, since the Cosmos, in its reality, is [necessarily] implicit in the definition of the Divinity, not merely figuratively as with a man when living in the body. Just as the outer form of Man gives praise with its tongue to its spirit and the soul that rules it, so also did God cause the Cosmic Form to give praise to Him, although we cannot understand its praise by reasons of our inability to comprehend all the forms of the Cosmos. All things are the “tongues” of the Reality, giving expression to the praise of the Reality. God says, Praise belongs to God, Lord of the worlds,3 for all praise returns to Him Who is both the Praiser and the Praised. If you insist only on His transcendence, you restrict Him, And if you insist only on His immanence you limit Him. If you maintain both aspects you are right, An Imaµm and a master in the spiritual sciences. Whoso would say He is two things is a polytheist, While the one who isolates Him tries to regulate Him. Beware of comparing Him if you profess duality, And, if unity, beware of making Him transcendent. You are not He and you are He and You see Him in the essences of things both boundless and limited.

. Qur’an, XL:. . Qur’an, I..

Ibn al-‘Arabi

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God says, There is naught like unto Him, asserting His transcendence, and He says, He is the Hearing, the Seeing,4 implying comparison. On the other hand, there are implicit in the first quotation comparison [albeit negative] and duality [in the word “like”], and in the second quotation transcendence and isolation are implicit [He alone being named]. Had Noah combined the two aspects in summoning his people, they would have responded to his call. He appealed to their outer and inner understanding saying, Ask your Lord to shield you [from your sins], for He is Forgiving.5 Then he said, I summoned them by night [inwardly] and by day [outwardly], but my summons only made them more averse [outer].6 He states that his people turned a deaf ear to his summons only because they knew [innately] the proper way for them [maintaining God’s immanence in many forms] to respond to his summons [made from the standpoint of unity and transcendence]. Those who know God understand the allusion Noah makes in respect of [what he knows to be the real state of ] his people in that, by blaming them he praises them, since he knows the reason for their not responding [positively] to his summons; the reason being that his summons was made in a spirit of discrimination [seeking to oppose transcendence to immanence]. The whole truth is a conjunction [al-qur’aµn [qarana] as the whole revelation] and not a discrimination [al-furqaµn [faraqa] a chapter of the Qur’an, i.e., a part].7 One who is firmly established in [his knowledge of] the conjunction does not dwell on the discrimination, for the former [al-qur’aµn] includes the discrimination [the chapter—both aspects in their apparent opposition] and not vice versa. It is for this reason that the Qur’aµn [the union of the two aspects] was vouchsafed to Muhammad and this Community, which is the best granted to mankind. The quotation There is none like unto Him 8 combines the two aspects. Had Noah uttered this kind of saying [in summoning his people], they would have responded [positively] to him, for he would

. Qur’an, XLII:. . Qur’an, LXXI:. . Qur’an, LXXI:. . Cf. Qur’an, LXXV: and VIII:. Here Ibn al-‘Arabı µ seeks to derive qur’an from qarana rather than qara’a. . Qur’a µn, XLII:.



  

have combined in the single verse the transcendental and immanental modes; nay, even in half a verse. Noah summoned his people by night, in that he appealed to their intellects and spirits, which are unseen, and by day, 9 in that he appealed to the [evidence of ] their external senses. But he did not unite the two as in the verse There is none like unto Him.10 For this reason their inner selves [given to the immanental aspect] recoiled [from his summons] because of its discriminatory nature, making them even more averse [outer]. Then he told them that he summoned them in order that God might shield them [from the sin of excessive immanence] and not to reveal [uncover] for them [His transcendence as an absolute]. This they understood from him [according to their outer senses] so that they put their fingers in their ears and tried to cover themselves with their clothes.11 This is an [external] form of shielding to which he had summoned them, although they responded literally by their actions and not in humble surrender [to God’s shielding]. In the verse There is none like unto Him,12 similarity is at once implied and denied. Because of this Muhammad said that he had been granted [knowledge of God] integrating all His aspects. Muhammad [unlike Noah] did not summon his people by night and by day,13 but by night during the day [an inner summons implicit in the outer one], and by day during the night [the outer truth being implicit in the inner]. . Qur’an, LXXI:. . Qur’an, XLII:. . Qur’an, LXXI:. . Qur’an, XLII:. . Qur’an, LXXI:.

The Exaltation of Light in the Word of Joseph Have you not seen how your Lord extends the shade; if He so willed He would make it stay,1 that is, it would be in Him potentially, which . Qur’an, XXV:.

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is to say that the Reality does not reveal Himself to the contingent beings before He manifests His shadow, the shadow being [as yet] as those beings that have not been manifested in existence. Then We made the sun as an indication of it,2 which is His Name, the Light of which we have already spoken and by which the senses perceive; for shadows have no [separate] existence without light. Then We take it back to Ourselves easily,3 only because it is His shadow, since from Him it is manifest and to Him the whole manifestation returns, for the shadow is none other than He. All we perceive is nothing other than the being of the Reality in the essences of contingent beings. With reference to the Identity of the Reality, it is Its Being, whereas, with reference to the variety of its forms, it is the essences of contingent beings. Just as it is always called a shadow by reason of the variety of forms, so is it always called the Cosmos and “other than the Reality.” In respect of its unity as the shadow [of God], it is the Reality, being the One, the Unique, but in respect of the multiplicity of its forms it is the Cosmos; therefore understand and realize what I have elucidated for you. If what we say is true, the Cosmos is but a fantasy without any real existence, which is another meaning of the Imagination. That is to say, you imagine that it [the Cosmos] is something separate and self-sufficient, outside the Reality, while in truth it is not so. Have you not observed [in the case of the shadow] that it is connected to the one who casts it, and would not its becoming disconnected be absurd, since nothing can be disconnected from itself ? Therefore know [truly] your own self [essence], who you are, what is your identity and what your relationship with the Reality. Consider well in what way you are real and in what way [part of ] the Cosmos, as being separate, other, and so on. It is in this respect that the sages are better than one another; so heed and learn! The Reality is, in relation to a particular shadow, small or large, pure or purer, as light in relation to the glass that separates it from the beholder to whom the light has the color of the glass, while the light itself has no [particular] color. This is the relationship between your reality and your Lord; for, if you were to say the light is green because of the green glass, you would be right as viewing the situation . Qur’an, XXV:. . Qur’an, XXV:.



  

through your senses, and if you were to say that it is not green, indeed it is colorless, by deduction, you would also be right as viewing the situation through sound intellectual reasoning. That which is seen may be said to be a light projected from a shadow, which is the glass, or a luminous shadow, according to its purity. Thus, he of us who has realized in himself the Reality manifests the form of the Reality to a greater extent than he who has not. There are those of us in whom the Reality has become their hearing, sight, and all their faculties and limbs, according to signs taught us by revealed Law that tells us of God.4 Despite this, the shadow [the individual] still exists essentially, for the pronoun used [in the words of the Tradition] “his hearing,” refers to him [as shadow] particularly, since other servants are not of this attainment. Such a servant is more closely attached to the being of the Reality than others. If things are as we have decided, know that you are an imagination, as is all that you regard as other than yourself an imagination. All [relative] existence is an imagination within an imagination, the only Reality being God, as Self and the Essence, not in respect of His Names. This is because the Names have two connotations: The first connotation is God Himself Who is what is named, the second that by which one Name is distinguished from another. Thus the Forgiving is not [in this sense] the Manifest or the Unmanifest, nor is the First the Last. You are already aware in what sense each Name is essentially every other Name and in what sense it is not any other Name. As being essentially the other, the Name is the Reality, while as being not the other, it is the imagined Reality with which we are here concerned. Glory be to Him Who Alone is evidence of Himself Alone, and Who is Self-subsisting. There is naught in Being but is implicit in the divine Unity, and there is naught in the Imagination but is implicit in [Cosmic] multiplicity. Whoever holds to multiplicity is [involved] with the Cosmos, the divine Names [in their distinctions], and the cosmic names. Whoever holds to the Unity is with the Reality in His Essence as Self-sufficient beyond all worlds. Being Self-sufficient beyond all worlds, He is independent of and beyond all nominal rela-

. Bukhaµrıµ, LXXXI:.

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tionships, since the Names, while implying Him [as the Essence], also imply the realities named, whose effects they manifest. Say: He God is One,5 in His [Unique] Self; God the Eternal Refuge, in respect of our dependence on Him; He begets not, in His Identity or in relation to us; nor is He begotten, as for the preceding verse; He has no equal, as for the preceding verse. Thus does He describe Himself and isolates His Essence in the words God is One, although the multiplicity manifest through His Attributes is well known among us. We, for our part, beget and are begotten, we depend on Him and we compete one with another. However, the Unique One transcends all these attributes, having no need of them or of us. Indeed, the Reality has no [true] description better than this chapter, al-Ikhlasµ |, 6 which was revealed precisely for this reason. God’s Unity, in respect of the divine Names that require our existence, is a unity of many, while in respect of His complete independence of the Names and us, it is unity of Essence, for both of which the Name the One is used, so take note. God created shadows lying prostrate to right and left only as clues for you in knowing yourself and Him, that you might know who you are, your relationship with Him, and His with you, and so that you might understand how or according to which divine truth all that is other than God is described as being completely dependent on Him, as being [also] mutually interdependent. Also that you might know how and by what truth God is described as utterly independent of men and all worlds, and how the Cosmos is described as both mutually independent with respect to its parts and mutually dependent. Without any doubt, the Cosmos is fundamentally dependent on causes, the greatest of which enjoys the causality of the Reality. The divine causality on which the Cosmos depends is the Divine Names, which are every Name on which the Cosmos depends, whether on [a Name manifested in] a cosmos or the divine Essence. Whichever it be, it is [essentially] God, no other. Thus, He says, O Men, your need of God is total, while He is the Self-sufficient, the Praised.7 Besides . This and the subsequent verses quoted here make up Chapter CXII of the Qur’an. . Qur’an, CXII. . Qur’an, XXXV:.



  

this it is well known that we are also mutually dependent. Therefore, our [true] names are God’s Names, since all depends on Him. At the same time our essential selves are His shadow. He is at once our identity and not our identity. We have paved the way for you, so consider!

. R (–) “The Reed Flute’s Song”; “The World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness”; “Quietness.” The Essential Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks (San Francisco: Harper, ), pp. –, –.

Jalal al-Din Rumi’s name, from “Rum,” which is Persian for “Rome,” that is, Byzantium (the eastern Roman Empire), probably indicates that he came from the western, formerly Roman half of Anatolia. He was well-established as a learned Islamic teacher and preacher (a mullah), when, at thirty-seven years of age, his encounter with the wandering dervish, Shams of Tabriz, transformed him into an ecstatic mystical poet. Rumi’s creative and personal life remained closely bound up with that of Shams. The poems were composed and executed as a chant accompaniment to sacred dancing by dervishes. This resulted in Rumi’s founding of the Mevlevi order of the “Whirling Dervishes.”1 Rumi pursues in verse the Sufi vision that is brought to its philosophical and theological zenith by Ibn al-‘Arabi, whom he could have met in Konya, Anatolia, where Rumi lived and is buried. His poems, collected in the Mathnawi (rhyming or “spiritual” couplets) and Divani Shamsi Tabriz, consisting in quatrains (rubaiyat) and odes (ghazals), were in turn enormously influential upon subsequent Sufism. The poems’ constant deferral, speaking out of the experience of ecstatic love and enlightenment, to experience beyond the reach of words makes them eminently merit the epithet “mystical.” A. J. Arberry offers the view that “in Rumi we encounter one of the world’s greatest poets. In profundity of thought, inventiveness of image, and triumphant mastery of language, he stands out as the supreme genius of Islamic mysticism.”2 Such views have been current in Western culture ever since Hegel celebrated Rumi in his Enzyclopedie and accorded him unique distinction as a mystic poet. Rumi’s poems embody and articulate a theory of language according to which all our words bespeak our emptiness. Like the reed cut from the reed . For an authoritative introduction, see Annemarie Schimmel, I Am Wind, You Are Fire: The Life and Work of Rumi (Boston: Schambhalo [Random House], ). . Mystical Poems of Rumi, First Selection, Poems –, trans. A. J. Arberry (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, ), pp. – .





  

bed, we can only express our nostalgia for the source from which we are cut off. Our words are but resonances of this absence that is a silence at our center. Our emptiness, like the reed’s hollowness, is the enabling condition for allowing this silence to resonate. Coleman Barks, the translator of the following verses, points out that Persian poems typically end with a reference to the poet as a sort of signature. Rumi concluded five hundred of his odes with the soubriquet khamush, “the Silent.” Barks explains, “Rumi is less interested in language, more attuned to the sources of it. He keeps asking Husam, ‘Who’s making this music?’ He sometimes gives the wording over to the invisible flute player: ‘let that musician finish this poem.’”3 For it is not the words as such that count, but what they indicate as beyond saying—the source from which they resound. Rumi says as much in his avowal, This is how it always is when I finish a poem. A great silence overcomes me, and I wonder why I ever thought to use language. (from “A Thirsty Fish,” Barks’s translation) Rumi conceives meaning as an infinite sea that verbal form merely glides across. Speech is but a “veil for the soul.” His paradoxically verbal soundings of the divine ineffability also retrace poetically the aporias enshrined in the traditional theological problematic of the Divine Names: Sometimes I call Him wine, sometimes cup, Sometimes refined gold and sometimes silver ore, Sometimes grain, sometimes a snare, sometimes a quarry. Why all this? Because I cannot [or will not] express his name!4

. The Essential Rumi, p. . . For these lines and attendant discussion, see J. Christoph Bürgel, “‘Speech is a ship and meaning the sea’: Some Formal Aspects in the Ghzal Poetry of Rumi,” in Poetry and Mysticism in Islam: The Heritage of Rumi, ed. Amin Banani, Richard Hovannisian, and Georges Sabagh (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ), p. .

Rumi



The Reed Flute Song (from Mathnawi)

Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated. “Since I was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back. At any gathering I am there, mingling in the laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit up from body: no concealing that mixing. But it’s not given us to see the soul. The reed flute is fire, not wind. Be that empty.” Hear the love fire tangled in the reed notes, as bewilderment melts into wine. The reed is a friend to all who want the fabric torn



  

and drawn away. The reed is hurt and salve combining. Intimacy and longing for intimacy, one song. A disastrous surrender and a fine love, together. The one who secretly hears this is senseless. A tongue has one customer, the ear. A sugarcane flute has such effect because it was able to make sugar in the reedbed. The sound it makes is for everyone. Days full of wanting, let them go by without worrying that they do. Stay where you are inside such a pure, hollow note. Every thirst gets satisfied except that of these fish, the mystics, who swim a vast ocean of grace still somehow longing for it! No one lives in that without being nourished every day. But if someone doesn’t want to hear the song of the reed flute, it’s best to cut conversation short, say good-bye, and leave.

Rumi



The World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness (from Divani Shamsi Tabriz)

Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. Existence: this place made from our love for that emptiness! Yet somehow comes emptiness, this existence goes. Praise to that happening, over and over! For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness. Then one swoop, one swing of the arm, that work is over. Free of who I was, free of presence, free of dangerous fear, hope, free of mountainous wanting. The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece of straw blown off into emptiness. These words I’m saying so much begin to lose meaning: existence, emptiness, mountain, straw: words and what they try to say swept out the window, down the slant of the roof.

Quietness (from Divani Shamsi Tabriz)

Inside this new love, die. Your way begins on the other side.



  

Become the sky. Take an axe to the prison wall. Escape. Walk out like someone suddenly born into color. Do it now. You’re covered with thick cloud. Slide out the side. Die, and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign that you’ve died. Your old life was a frantic running from silence. The speechless full moon comes out now.

. A  G (. –) Commentary on Dionysius’ Mystical Theology, chapter . Trans. Simon Tugwell, O.P., in Albert and Thomas: Selected Writings (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, ), pp. –. Latin text of Super Mysticum Theologiam in Alberti Magni Opera Omnia, vol. , Part I, ed. Paul Simon (Münster: Aschendorff, ).

Although he was born in Lauingen on the Danube, Albert is associated with Cologne, where he built up a Dominican center for study that brought philosophy and scientific culture to Germany at a time when it still lacked a university such as those that flourished in Paris and Oxford. Albert became thereby the fountainhead of a distinctive German Scholastic and mystical current of theology that soon produced Eckhart. A crucial part of his mission was to champion the study of Aristotle as providing rational arguments useful and necessary for illuminating the precepts of faith. To this end, he fought against dogged resistance even from within his own Dominican order in the wake of papal condemnations of Aristotelian teachings in  and . Nevertheless, Albert’s Aristotelianism is thoroughly Neoplatonic in character, depending especially on the Liber de causis, as well as on the Corpus Hermeticum. Likewise Neoplatonic in outlook are his commentaries on Dionysius’s Divine Names and Mystical Theology. Adopting positions very close to Averroism, Albert defended the independence of philosophy from theology, its basis in reason rather than in revelation. He conceived of a cosmology unhinged from eschatology, of natural phenomena as having their causes immanent within themselves, uninfluenced by miracles, and of human blessedness as intellectual virtue achieved by the exercise of active intellect more than by reception of supernatural grace. He affirmed that, through the intellect and its capacity for the universal, human beings can attain to divinity (homines in deos transponi et transformari).1 Key to this process of deification is the transcendent indeterminacy of divinity. Something of this indeterminacy can be experienced by humans in . De XV problematibus, q. , cited by Kurt Flasch, Das philosophische Denken im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Reclam, ), p. .





  

the unlimited recursive power of their intellectual nature to take itself as its own object and to keep on doing so, reconceiving itself ever anew—so as never to allow the intellect to settle into any fixed, determinate form. Albert was a colossal figure in his own time and after. His éclat was dimmed only by the overpowering luster of his student, Thomas Aquinas, who also wrote commentaries on Dionysius’s works, including a commentary on the Divine Names that became particularly famous. Yet Albert’s Commentary on Dionysius’ Mystical Theology is a classic in its own right. Moreover, Albert’s treatise contains a full and lucid exposition of the main insight upon which Thomas’s own interpretation of the Divine Names turns. This is the paradox that predicates for perfections—Life, Being, Truth, and so on—that in absolute terms belong properly to God, nevertheless, when spoken in our language, pertain properly only to created beings. For we experience only created life, truth, and being, and our language has meaning only in relation to our concepts, which are drawn from this experience. Simon Tugwell’s introductory essay to the translation used here, “Albert and the Dionysian Tradition,” places Albert in a line of thinkers, reaching back to Eriugena, who attempted to synthesize the radical negative theology of Dionysius and his Greek successors with the milder negative theology of Saint Augustine. In the latter, Latin tradition stemming from Marcus Victorinus, God’s transcendence was acknowledged in deference to Neoplatonic philosophy, and yet God’s relation to his creatures and his immanence within being was likewise emphasized, against the Plotinian separation of the One and Being. For Augustine, God was identical with Being (in this respect, Augustine is more Middle Platonist than Neoplatonist). By such means, Albert reunites negative with positive theology, recovering the original stance of Dionysius, who even links negative theology with the positive manifestations of the sacraments—and with the celestial and ecclesiastical hierarchies. Albert’s exposition of the fifth chapter of the Mystical Theology of Dionysius draws attention, furthermore, to the contributions of Anselm of Canterbury, Jerome, and Damascene to the problem of analyzing how language can signify God, as well as to the Arab background and to Aristotle, making this text a veritable crossroads of intellectual history. It is uncannily so, since Albert points out that in propositions about God, “subject and predicate refer to the same reality and the distinction between them is not a real one.” This is exactly what Hegel would write of the speculative proposition in general toward the end of his preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit.

Albert the Great



Commentary on Dionysius’ Mystical Theology, chapter 

In this chapter Dionysius means to separate from God all that the understanding apprehends, such as life, substance and so on. But surely these things should not be separated from him: () As Anselm says, God is designated with the names of everything of which it is true, simply speaking, to say that it is better that it should exist than that it should not.1 But life, wisdom and so on are of that kind. So they should be used to name God, in which case they ought not to be denied of him. () An attribute which properly belongs to something names that thing and is predicated of that thing more truly than it is of anything else to which it does not properly belong. And, as Jerome says, being belongs properly only to God.2 Therefore talk of “essence” or saying that “he is” applies more truly to God than to creatures; so since we do not deny these things of creatures, they should be even less denied of the creator. () A property that belongs to something in its own right belongs to that thing more truly than to other things with only a derivative claim to it. But all these things belong to creatures only derivatively, because it is from God that they have life, substance, and so on. But they belong to God in his own right. So they are more truly ascribed to God than to creatures, so the same conclusion follows. () Anything that has being has it either necessarily or possibly, and whatever has it necessarily has a better claim to it than anything which has it possibly. Now Avicenna demonstrates that God alone is necessary being, while everything else possesses only possible being.3 Therefore being is more truly ascribed to God than to anything else, and the same principle applies to all these names. So once again the same conclusion follows. () It might be argued that the reality to which these names refer exists more truly in God, but our use of the names depends on the . Anselm, Proslogion , –. . Cf. Lombard, I Sent. d. c. , citing Jerome, Ep. .. . Avicenna, De Philosophia Prima .–.



  

way in which such things come to our knowledge, so that in this sense the names apply more truly to creatures, of which we do have some understanding, and are more truly separated from God, the knowledge of whom defeats our comprehension. But the fact that from our point of view something does or does not apply does not justify the conclusion that it absolutely does or does not apply because, as the philosopher says, the things that are naturally the most manifest of all are, from our point of view, unknown.4 So it does not follow from the fact that these names, as we use them, belong more truly to creatures that they ought absolutely to be denied of God. () It is fallacious to argue, “The heavens do not have the same consistency as the elements, therefore they have no consistency,” or “Human beings are not animals in the same way as asses, therefore they are not animals.” So there appears to be a similar fallacy in saying that God is not wisdom in the same sense in which there is wisdom among us, therefore he is not wisdom in any sense. In response we must say with Anselm that the realities signified by names like this are not foreign to God, they are more truly present in him than they are in the creatures into which they descend from him. In creatures they are a kind of image of the primary life and wisdom and so on. But the way in which we use these words to mean something is more truly applicable to creatures, and it is in this sense that they are foreign to God, because we attach names to things in accordance with the conception we have of things in our mind. As Damascene says, words announce our understanding.5 But our knowledge derives from things and so the meaning of our words follows the nature of the things from which our knowledge is taken, with all the complexity and temporality and other limiting factors which that involves. And so in this way they do not apply to God at all. This is why he says 6 that although all fatherhood derives from the Father in heaven 7 nevertheless the word “father” is more familiar to us as meaning our kind of fatherhood. Or we can say that even the reality these names refer to does not justify their application to God. In any predication you have to have a . . . .

Aristotle, Metaph. a,  (b–). De Fide Orthodoxa (Burgundio’s version). “He” is apparently Anselm. Eph. :.

Albert the Great



subject and something of which it is the subject, something, that is, that is in it and can be taken with it in some sense, and also there has to be the sort of relationship between them that makes one of them a proper subject and the other a proper predicate; you cannot predicate absolutely anything of absolutely anything. But God is utterly simple, and so in him it is not true that one thing is in another or that one thing is the subject of another, therefore the actual reality of God transcends any possibility of there being subjects and predicates. This means that no proposition can truly and properly be formed about God, as the commentator shows on Metaphysics XI:8 when we talk about God we use borrowed words and both subject and predicate refer to the same reality and the distinction between them is not a real one, but only one which we make in our understanding on the basis of God’s relationship to things outside himself. This makes it clear, then, that both from the point of view of the way in which we name things and from the point of view of the reality of God nothing can properly be predicated of him, and for this reason it is more true to separate everything from him. This is why it says in the Celestial Hierarchy that in theology negations are true, while affirmations are ill-adapted.9 The answer to the first four points raised above should now be clear. () Sometimes things as we know them are contrasted with things as they are in their own nature, when what does not really come first comes first for us and from our point of view. In such a case what we know of something is only what it is relative to something else, and we cannot deduce what it is in itself. But if we take “knowledge” in its general sense, as including all that we know, both a priori and a posteriori, then unconditional inferences can be made from the way things are as known by us. If something is not known to us and cannot be known by us in any way at all, then there is no way in which we can give it a significant name.

. Cf. Averroes, Metaph.  () comm.  (last half). . Dionysius, CH .. Alan of Lille takes incompactae to mean that there is no real compositio, which fits Albert’s own doctrine, but Albert actually interprets Dionysius’ phrase as meaning only that affirmations “are not straightforwardly true.”



  

() The heavens do possess some kind of consistency and human beings do have some kind of animal nature, but it cannot properly be said of God that he has anything or that he is anything or that anything is in him, because all such phrases signify some sort of differentiation and complexity and this is quite foreign to God. So the case is not the same. So Dionysius begins by saying, “Ascending further” from the things of the senses to the things of the mind “we say that he” (God) “is neither soul nor mind,” referring respectively to the lower part of the soul, viewed as that which makes a body alive, and to the higher part which is the eye of the soul, taking mens (mind) as coming from metiri (measure). Or “soul” can be referred to human beings and “mind” to the angels. “Nor does he possess phantasy.” The commentator here distinguishes between two kinds of phantasy, “of which neither can be ascribed to God. One is the sort which comes first, arising in our sensory apparatus from something naturally perceptible by the senses, and this is properly called an image expressed in the senses. The other is the sort which follows from this image and is shaped by it, and this is the phantasy proper which is commonly given the precise name of interior sense. The first is always attached to the body, the second to the soul. And although the first is in the senses it does not perceive itself, but the second both perceives itself and is the receiver of the first.”10 This appears to mean that the first sort of phantasy is the common sense and the second is what we usually call imagination, which the philosopher defines as “a movement taking place because of actual sense-perception.”11 The commentator himself implies this definition. And it is true that neither can be ascribed to God, but it is not true that the common sense is unaware of itself, because its proper function is to see itself see and to put together and distinguish between sense-objects. If we wish to save what the commentator says, we must say that phantasy is named after seeing, as the philosopher says,12 and so the first kind of phan-

. This is quoted more or less verbatim from the interpolated Gloss; it comes in fact from Eriugena, Periphyseon II. . Aristotle, De Anima . (a–). . Cf. Aristotle, De Anima . (a–) (fantasºa comes from fa´ oq, light, which is the sine qua non for seeing).

Albert the Great



tasy must refer to external vision and the second to the inner powers of sense, such as the common sense and imagination; then there will be no problem in what he says. “Nor does he have opinion,” opinion being a matter of accepting something merely on the basis of symptoms, with the fear therefore that the opposite might be true. “Nor does he have reason,” which tracks external symptoms down to essential inner principles, “or intellect,” which gets no further than the limits of rational thought, namely, understanding what something is and grasping first principles. He neither has nor is any of these things. Neither can he be “spoken of or understood”: we have no well-defined understanding “what” he is or “that” he is, only a blurred knowledge “that” he is. “He is neither number nor order”: order follows from number, because until there is number there cannot be any before and after. Nor is he “greatness,” spiritual greatness, that is, and so the other terms which follow have to be understood in the same way in line with the explanation given in the Divine Names.13 “Nor is he silence” (this refers to his name of “peace”) “or light” (intellectual light), nor can he be “touched by our understanding,” by an understanding, that is, that would enfold the outer limits of something.14 As Augustine says, to touch God with one’s mind is great bliss, but there “touching” means merely reaching the edge of him. “Nor is there knowledge of him” (enabling us to form conclusions about him) “or truth,” in the sense in which “truth” is contrasted with falsehood with reference to the facts, truth being an “equivalence between reality and our understanding.”15 And so on. The meaning is clear. “Or to any other being”: the angels, that is. “Nor is he anything non-existent”: anything merely potential. “As it really is”: that is to say, with a clearly defined knowledge “that” or with knowledge “what” it is.

. Dionysius, DN  deals with greatness, smallness, equality, likeness, unlikeness, standing and moving. . Augustine, Serm. .. (PL :). . This famous definition of truth was ascribed to all kinds of people in the Middle Ages (cf. note to St. Thomas, De Veritate q.  a. , Leonine XXII i p. :); it seems to derive from the Arab philosophers: cf. Averroes, Destructio destructionum.



  

“Nor does it know beings qua beings”: in such a way that God’s knowledge, like ours, would be caused by beings.16 “It has no explanation”: which would make it possible for us to reason about it. “Or darkness”: darkness on God’s side, that is. “Or error”: that is, going astray in knowledge because of wrong application of basic principles. “Or truth”: as opposed to appearance, so it does not mean the same as “truth” a few lines back. “Or negation”: no strictly accurate negation, because any negation rests on some affirmation, so where there is no true affirmation there will not be any true negation either, although when we are dealing with God negation is truer than affirmation. But in negative and affirmative theology “we neither affirm nor deny” God himself, but only “things which come after” him, for instance, when we say that God is wisdom or that he is not wisdom; the word “wisdom” designates our kind of wisdom, and that is not God’s wisdom. So it is clear that the perfection and unity of the first cause is “above all affirmation,” because all excellences are in him, but in him they are really identical, while any affirmation implies that there is some linking up of separate things. And the “transcendence” of him who is above all transcends all negation. The names which are denied of him are denied because of his transcendence, not because he lacks anything, which is why we deny things of creatures. And so his transcendence defeats all negation. And so neither negations nor affirmations arrive at any sufficient praise of him, to whom belong power and infinite splendor and eternity, forever and ever. Amen.

. God’s knowledge, unlike ours, is creative knowledge: things are what they are because he knows them, whereas we know things because they are what they are. Cf. I Sent. d.  a. , d.  a..

. T A (–) Summa theologiae Ia, q. , arts. –, – (“De nominibus Dei”). Blackfriars edition (New York: McGraw-Hill, ), pp. –, –. Latin text in Opera omnia, S. E. Fretté and P. Maré (Paris: Bibliopolam, ).

Born to minor feudal lords in the castle of Roccasecca near Aquino between Naples and Rome, Thomas spent most of his childhood in the Benedictine monastery of Monte Cassino, where he served as an oblate from  to . He then studied liberal arts at the University of Naples until , at which point he joined the Dominican order. He was sent to study in Paris, where Aristotle was being introduced into the schools—not without considerable controversy, but ably championed by Albert the Great. Thomas’s attachment to his great teacher took him to Cologne from  to . Afterwards he taught in Paris, before returning to Rome in  and Naples in . He held a second professoriate in Paris between  and . Thomas’s decision to join the Dominicans was tantamount to a renunciation of the social class into which he had been born and an embrace of a revolutionary new movement underway in his youth. The thirty-year-old Dominican order, like other mendicant orders, with their return to evangelical poverty in the midst of the prosperity of newly booming cities, was just then surging to amazing popularity among the youth. Thomas’s joining it was refractory to his family’s aspirations for him, not because of his choice of a religious vocation, which they supported, but because it entailed a rejection of the vast wealth and prestige of the Benedictines and their rural-based monastic life, securely ensconsed in the traditional feudal and imperial order. In fact, Thomas, en route to Paris, was abducted in Tuscany, in the imperial fortress city of Aquapendente, by members of his own family and sent back to Roccasecca, where he was detained for over a year before he managed to return to the Dominicans and re-embark for Paris.1

. Thomas and his historical milieu are revealingly analyzed by Marie-Dominique Chenu in St. Thomas D’Aquin et la théologie (Paris: Seuil, ) and Introduction à l’étude de saint Thomas D’Aquin (Paris: Vrin, ).





  

It is worth recalling this revolt in approaching a figure who, ironically, has become emblematic of theological conservativism. Thomas’s magisterial treatise on the Divine Names in the Summa theologiae is in its own way a piece of radically negative theological speculation. It proves the impossibility of any univocal language for expressing God himself in his essence. Thomas had made his own the lessons on negative theology of Pseudo-Dionysius, to whom he dedicated a classic commentary.2 However, he differs from Dionysius on a crucial point. He opposes the Dionysian thesis, developed from Plato’s dictum concerning the Good beyond Being and elevated to a cardinal tenet of negative theology, that God can best be apprehended as the Good and not as Being. For Dionysius, God must be sought by the will as the Good, in the order of the desirable, beyond anything that can be known by the intellect. But Thomas makes Being into the proper name of God, and other transcendentals (Good, Beauty, Unity) are comprehended as “precomprehending” esse, the Latin infinitive “to be.” This, in effect, gives existence—what in later existentialist philosophy is called “facticity”—priority over any possible concept. Accordingly, the only possible knowledge of God is by way of his creation. It is the miraculous fact of existence, rather than any howsoever rarified concept, that boggles comprehension and places the inquiring mind speechless before the divine. Thomas, the Scholastic theologian par excellence, thus turns out to be imbued with a mystic sense of the mystery of existence. The silent experience of being that animates Thomas’s thinking from behind its weighty metaphysical armature has been highlighted effectively by John Caputo in an attempt to save him from Heidegger’s critique of metaphysics. Caputo maintains that “in St. Thomas metaphysics itself tends to break down and to pass into a more profound experience of Being”—“a transforming mystical experience”—“even though the elaborate machinery of St. Thomas’ Scholasticism tends to conceal this fact.”3 All of Thomas’s thought builds up to an avowal of the “Unsayability of Esse” (a section heading in Caputo’s book). With the notion of ipsum esse per se subsistens (self-subsistent being itself), Thomas altogether surpasses metaphysical discourse and, in fact, the whole range of language and the sayable. As is documented by Caputo, this point had already been emphasized by eminent Thomist scholars such as Étienne Gilson. Moreover, W. Norris Clark underscored how esse, as a term . S. Thomae Aquinatis, In librum Beati Dionysii De Divinis Nominibus expositio, ed. Ceslai Pera, O.P. (Taurini: Marietti, ). . John D. Caputo, Heidegger and Aquinas: An Essay on Overcoming Metaphysics (New York: Fordham University Press, ), pp. –.

Thomas Aquinas

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which expresses God, is neither noun nor verb, since in this case there is no difference between them such as is necessary to make up the minimal structure of a significant statement. Esse rather “stretches the resources of language up to, if not beyond, their limits. It points beyond to something that cannot be properly said but can only be recognized, not conceptualized, in a flash of synthetic insight.” This means that “the core of St. Thomas’s teaching on the nature of God is something that cannot be directly said at all.”4 Three months before the end of his life Thomas had a vision, after which he stopped writing, suspending work on his great Summa, and observed virtually total silence. Importuned repeatedly by his secretary for his reasons, he reportedly did say, “Reginald, I cannot, because all that I have written seems like straw to me compared to the things I saw revealed to me.”5 The sense of Thomas’s entire metaphysical system may, after all, have been best expressed by this silence at his life’s end, a silence lurking behind every one of its propositions and testifying to the persistently ineffable experience of being. Clearly, then, Thomas Aquinas was far from incapable of mystic abandon to the unknowing beyond all knowing, even though the possibility of a doctrine concerning God by the analogy of his Names, the analogia nominis, is what his verbal efforts concentrate on explaining in Summa theologiae Ia, q. : “De divinis nominibus.”6 He begins by refusing the position that God cannot be named, quoting Dionysius’s denial but countering with Scripture: “Omnipotens nomen eius” (“Almighty is his name,” art. ). He has already admitted . W. Norris Clark, “What Cannot Be Said in St. Thomas’ Essence-Existence Doctrine,” The New Scholasticism  (): , . This sort of reading is also developed in more orthodox Thomist scholarship, notably, by Josef Pieper, The Silence of St. Thomas, trans. John Murray, S.J., and Daniel O’Connor (New York: Pantheon, ). Gregory Rocca, Speaking the Incomprehensible God, shows in painstaking detail how negative and positive theology in Aquinas presuppose each other. . “Omnia, quae scripsi, videntur mihi paleae respectu eorum, quae vidi et revelata sunt mihi.” S. Thomae Aquinatis Vitae Fontes Praecipuae, ed. A. Ferrua (Alba: Edizioni dominicane, ). . Thomas’s doctrine of analogy is sifted through in minute detail by a large body of secondary literature, exemplarily by George P. Klubertanz, St. Thomas Aquinas on Analogy: A Textual Analysis and Systematic Synthesis (Chicago: Loyola University Press, ), and Bernard Montagnes, La doctrine de l’analogie de l’être d’après saint Thomas d’Aquin (Louvain and Paris: Publications Universitaires and Béatrices-Nauwelaerts, ). David B. Burrell, Analogy and Philosophical Language (New Haven: Yale University Press, ), emphasizes that for Thomas, analogy opens language toward what it cannot conceptually grasp. Burrell develops this perspective in Knowing the Unknowable God: Ibn-Sina, Maimonides, Aquinas (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, ).

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  

and demonstrated in the preceding quaestio (q. ) that it is impossible for us in this life to know God according to his essence. God is known to us only from his creatures (“cognoscitur nobis ex creaturis”) as their cause: we ascend from them to him by the ways of excellence and “remotion.”7 Consequently, God can be named, although not according to his essence, that is, in such a way that the name would define him. He is named both by concrete names, which indicate substance, and by abstract names, which name simple forms and so hint at his absolute simplicity. Both are necessary, since abstract realities are simple but not subsistent, while composite realities are subsistent but not simple. Yet both sorts of predication represent God only inadequately (“deficiunt ad repraesentatione ipsius,” art. , respondeo). Similarly, nouns, verbs, and pronouns can all be predicated of him but are all only partially adequate: “God” seems to be between or above all these categories, which capture something but not all of him. God’s eternity, for example, includes time but is imperfectly expressed by it, since in him there is no succession. Thomas insists, nevertheless, that some names are more appropriate to God than others. He thus opposes the more radical negative theology of Moses Maimonides in his Doctor Perplexorum (Guide of the Perplexed ), according to which positive affirmations concerning God are really only negative or relative: to say God is living means simply that God’s mode of existence is not that of inanimate things. Thomas’s position is that perfections such as good, living, or wise can actually say something about what God is, about his essence, and not only about what he is not. Indeed, all perfections are ways of signifying the divine essence or substance, albeit always only imperfectly. The perfections attributed to creatures exist more perfectly in God. Although the predicates “good,” “substantial,” and so forth, apply properly to creatures, the perfections named by them exist more perfectly in God. But perfections exist in God in a way exceeding (“eminentiori modo”) what we can understand and express. Thomas distinguishes the perfections themselves that are signified (“perfectiones ipsas significatas”)—in more modern terms, the “signified”— from the “modus significandi” or “signifier.” With respect to the signified, perfections are attributed to God most properly. But with respect to the signifier

. Thomas expounds upon the via remotionis in Summa contra Gentiles, Book : God, chap. : “That to Know God We Must Use the Way of Remotion,” trans. Anton C. Pegis (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, ), pp. –. Chapters – of this work give a more straightforward version of the theory that receives rich and complex argumentation in Quaestio  of the Summa theologiae excerpted below.

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or the “mode of signifying,” they are not properly attributed to God but rather to creatures (q. , art. , respondeo). God is good more than anything else, but the meaning of “good” must be understood primarily in terms of good men, good houses, good wine, and so on. God is known and named derivatively from creatures, according to their imperfect representation of God, their Cause, to which they are in some degree similar. While in the order of being all perfections belong most properly to God, the only language we have for these perfections derives from our experience with creatures. This implies that we possess no proper language for talking about God. The names of God considered ontologically apply primarily to him, but semiologically they apply properly only to created things. Although prior to creatures in his being, God is posterior to them in the order of knowing, for he is known only through them—as the unknown cause of which they are the effects. In this way, the orders of knowing and naming invert that of being. Although God, having all perfections eminently in himself, is the most concrete of all beings, nevertheless language offers no determinate, concrete knowledge of him. Our intellect can understand the meaning of language properly only in reference to finite beings. It apprehends perfections as they are in creatures only. To this extent, of God we really know only what he is not, not what he is: “quia de Deo scire non possumus quid sit, sed quid non sit” (q. , proemia). This standard negative theological formula can be traced back through the tradition from Plotinus (Enneads VI.viii.). While our language formally may make statements about God’s essence, any human language used of God does not seem to have the same sense at all as it does when used about creatures. Is there anything that can be said univocally of God and of creatures, or is such language simply equivocal? In the latter case, we are left without any link from the language about creatures, which we understand, to the language we use about God but which we would then have no basis for understanding. This is hardly an acceptable alternative. Thomas responds that the meaning of language as applied to God and as used of creatures is neither completely identical nor completely diverse but rather analogical or proportionally similar (“secundum analogiam, idest proportionem”). This type of analogy is not based on a common relation to a third thing, since God is ultimate and cannot be likened to anything else in which the term of comparison would subsist more simply and primordially. In proportional analogy, the two members of the analogized pair are related directly to one another by an intrinsic common reality, possessed in varying proportion, that renders them similar to each other (“similitudo duarum ad

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  

invicem proportionum”). It is problematic to establish a proportion between the infinite and the finite, and in fact no proportion in a mathematical sense is possible. But the creature is like its Creator as an effect is like its cause, and although complete knowledge is not possible, nevertheless the existence of God and something of his perfections can be known from the perfections of his effects in his creatures. The fact that the same names can mean different things as applied to God and as applied to creatures raises the question of whether names are said first of God or of creatures (art. ). Clearly, metaphorical names like “lion” are said first of creatures and only in an extended sense of God. But names like “good” and “wise” are said first of God, so far as the things named are concerned (“quantum ad rem significatam per nomen, per prius dicuntur de Deo quam de creaturis”). It is only in the order of knowing that we apply such names first to creatures (“Sed quantum ad impositionem nominis, per prius a nobis imponitur creaturis, quas prius cognoscimus”). Thus, even given the analogical nature of all language about God, some names are still considered proper as used of him. It must simply be remembered that in this case we do not understand what these names properly mean so well as what they mean in the derivative sense they have as applied to creatures that are imperfectly good, wise, and so forth. Thomas Aquinas does, then, wish to answer positively that there is some language that is used properly of God, specifically, the names of perfections such as being, good, and living, used absolutely without any qualification. Nevertheless, the crucial qualification still applies: they are used properly of God only with respect to what they signify, which indeed belongs most properly to God. The difficulty remains that finite human intellects do not know these perfections as they exist in God and indeed in absolute identity with his absolutely simple and incomprehensible, inarticulable being. Such terms apply most properly to God, but what we are able to understand by them derives from their application to finite beings, creatures. There is, then, no humanly intelligible language for talking about God’s own nature. While certain names might be names for what are most properly God’s own perfections, our mode of signifying by means of them, so far as we can understand what we are saying, is informed by the finite things alone that bestow upon our language determinate meaning.

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Summa theologiae Ia, q. , arts. –, – (“De nominibus Dei”)

Question . theological language Having considered how we know God we now turn to consider how we speak of him, for we speak of things as we know them. Here there are twelve points of inquiry: . . .

can we use any words to refer to God? do any of the words we use express something that he is? can we say anything literally about God or must we always speak metaphorically? . are all the words predicated of God synonymous? . are words used both of God and of creatures used univocally or equivocally? . given that they are in fact used analogically, are they predicated primarily of God or of creatures? . in speaking of God can we use words that imply temporal succession? . does ‘God’ mean a thing of a certain kind or a thing having a certain operation? . is the name ‘God’ peculiar to God or not? . when it is used of God, of what shares in divinity and of what is merely supposed to do so, is it used univocally or equivocally? . is ‘He who is’ the most appropriate name for God? . can affirmative statements correctly be made about God? article . can we use any words to refer to God?   : . It seems that we can use no words at all to refer to God. For Dionysius says, Of him there is no naming nor any opinion,1 and we read in Proverbs, What is his name or the name of his son if thou knowest ? 2 . De div. nom. . . Prov. :.

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. Nouns are either abstract or concrete. The concrete noun is inappropriate to God because he is altogether simple; and the abstract noun is also ruled out because it does not signify a complete subsistent thing. Hence no noun can be used to refer to God. . A noun signifies a thing as coming under some description, verbs and participles signify it as enduring in time, pronouns signify it as being pointed out or as in some relationship. None of these is appropriate to God: we have no definition of him nor has he any accidental attributes by which he might be described; he is nontemporal and cannot be pointed to because he is not available to the senses; moreover he cannot be referred to by relative pronouns since the use of these depends on the previous use of some other referring term such as a noun, participle or demonstrative pronoun. Hence there is no way of referring to God.     we read in Exodus, The Lord is a great warrior; Almighty is his name.3 : Aristotle says that words are signs for thoughts and thoughts are likenesses of things,4 so words refer to things indirectly through thoughts. How we refer to a thing depends on how we understand it. We have seen already 5 that in this life we do not see the essence of God, we only know him from creatures; we think of him as their source, and then as surpassing them all and as lacking anything that is merely creaturely.It is the knowledge we have of creatures that enables us to use words to refer to God, and so these words do not express the divine essence as it is in itself. In this they differ from a word like ‘man’ which is intended to express by its meaning the essence of man as he is—for the meaning of ‘man’ is given by the definition of a man which expresses his essence; what a word means is the definition.6 Hence: . God is said to have no name, or to be beyond naming because his essence is beyond what we understand of him and the meaning of the names we use. . Since we come to know God from creatures and since this is how we come to refer to him, the expressions we use to name him signify in a way appropriate to the material creatures we ordinarily . . . .

Exod. :. De Interpretatione , . a. a. , . cf Metaphysics IV, . a.

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know.7 Amongst such creatures the complete subsistent thing is always a concrete union of form and matter; for the form itself is not a subsistent thing, but that by which something subsists. Because of this the words we use to signify complete subsistent things are concrete nouns which are appropriate to composite subjects. When, on the other hand, we want to speak of the form itself we use abstract nouns which do not signify something as subsistent, but as that by which something is: ‘whiteness’, for example, signifies the form as that by which something is white. Now God is both simple, like the form, and subsistent, like the concrete thing, and so we sometimes refer to him by abstract nouns to indicate his simplicity and sometimes by concrete nouns to indicate his subsistence and completeness; though neither way of speaking measures up to his way of being, for in this life we do not know him as he is in himself. . To signify a thing as coming under some description is to signify it as subsisting in a certain nature or definite form. We have already said that the reason we use concrete nouns for God is to indicate his subsistence and completeness,8 it is for the same reason that we use nouns signifying a thing under some description. Verbs and participles can be used of him although they imply temporal succession because his eternity includes all time. Just as we can understand what is both simple and subsistent only as though it were composite, so we can understand and speak of the simplicity of eternity only after the manner of temporal things: it is composite and temporal things that we ordinarily and naturally understand. Demonstrative pronouns can be used of God in so far as they point, not to something seen, but to something understood, for so long as we know something, in whatever way, we can point it out. And thus according as nouns and participles and demonstrative pronouns can signify God, so in the same way relative pronouns can be used. article . do any of the words we use of God express something of what he is?   : . It seems that no word is used of God to express what he is. For John Damascene says, The words used of God . a. , . . Reply to preceding argument.

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signify not what he is but what he is not, or his relationship to something else, or something that follows from his nature or operations.9 . Dionysius says, You will find a chorus of holy teachers seeking to distinguish clearly and laudably the divine processions in the naming of God.10 This means that the names which the holy teachers use in praising God differ according to his different causal acts. However, to speak of the causal activity of a thing is not to speak of its essence, hence such words are not used to express what he is. . We speak of things as we understand them. But in this life we do not understand what God is, and so we can use no words to say what he is.     Augustine says, The being of God is to be strong, to be wise or whatever else we say of his simplicity in order to signify his essence.11 All such names then signify what God is. : It is clear that the problem does not arise for negative terms or for words which express the relationship of God to creatures; these obviously do not express what he is but rather what he is not or how he is related to something else—or, better, how something else is related to him. The question is concerned with words like ‘good’ and ‘wise’ which are neither negative nor relational terms, and about these there are several opinions. Some have said that sentences like ‘God is good’, although they sound like affirmations are in fact used to deny something of God rather than to assert anything. Thus for example when we say that God is living we mean that God is not like an inanimate thing, and likewise for all such propositions. This was the view of the Rabbi Moses.12 Others said that such sentences were used to signify the relation of God to creatures, so that when we say ‘God is good’ we mean that God is the cause of goodness in things, and likewise in other such propositions. Neither of these views seem plausible, and for three reasons. Firstly, on neither view can there be any reason why we should use some words about God rather than others. God is just as much the . . . .

De Fide orthodoxa , . De div. nom. . De Trinitate VI, . Doctor Perplexorum ,  (The Guide for the Perplexed).

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cause of bodies as he is of goodness in things; so if ‘God is good’ means no more than that God is the cause of goodness in things, why not say ‘God is a body’ on the grounds that he is the cause of bodies? So also we could say ‘God is a body’ because we want to deny that he is merely potential being like primary matter. Secondly it would follow that everything we said of God would be true only in a secondary sense, as when we say that a diet is ‘healthy’, meaning merely that it causes health in the one who takes it, while it is the living body which is said to be healthy in a primary sense. Thirdly, this is not what people want to say when they talk about God. When a man speaks of the ‘living God’ he does not simply want to say that God is the cause of our life, or that he differs from a lifeless body. So we must find some other solution to the problem. We shall suggest that such words do say what God is; they are predicated of him in the category of substance, but fail to represent adequately what he is. The reason for this is that we speak of God as we know him, and since we know him from creatures we can only speak of him as they represent him. Any creature, in so far as it possesses any perfection, represents God and is like to him, for he, being simply and universally perfect, has pre-existing in himself the perfections of all his creatures, as noted above.13 But a creature is not like to God as it is like to another member of its species or genus, but resembles him as an effect may in some way resemble a transcendent cause although failing to reproduce perfectly the form of the cause—as in a certain way the forms of inferior bodies imitate the power of the sun. This was explained earlier when we were dealing with the perfection of God.14 Thus words like ‘good’ and ‘wise’ when used of God do signify something that God really is, but they signify it imperfectly because creatures represent God imperfectly. ‘God is good’ therefore does not mean the same as ‘God is the cause of goodness’or‘God is not evil’; it means that what we call ‘goodness’ in creatures pre-exists in God in a higher way. Thus God is not good because he causes goodness, but rather goodness flows from him because he is good. As Augustine says, Because he is good, we exist.15 . a. , . . a. , . . De doctrina Christiana , .

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  

Hence: . John Damascene says that these words do not signify what God is, because none of them express completely what he is; but each signifies imperfectly something that he is, just as creatures represent him imperfectly. . Sometimes the reason why a word comes to be used is quite different from the meaning of the word. Thus the word ‘hydrogen’ derives from what produces water, but it does not mean something that produces water, it means a particular chemical element, otherwise everything that produced water would be hydrogen. In the case of words used of God we may say that the reason they came to be used derives from his causal activity, for our understanding of him and our language about him depends on the different perfections in creatures which represent him, however imperfectly, in his various causal acts. Nevertheless these words are not used to mean his causal acts. ‘Living’ in ‘God is living’ does not mean the same as ‘causes life’; the sentence is used to say that life does pre-exist in the source of all things, although in a higher way than we can understand or signify. . In this life we cannot understand the essence of God as he is in himself, we can however understand it as it is represented by the perfections of his creatures; and this is how the words we use can signify it. article . can we say anything literally about God?   . . It seems that no word can be used literally of God. For we have already said that every word used of God is taken from our speech about creatures, as already noted,16 but such words are used metaphorically of God, as when we call him a ‘rock’ or a ‘lion’. Thus words are used of God metaphorically. . A word is not used literally of something if it would be more accurate not to use it than to use it. Now according to Dionysius it would be truer to say that God is not good or wise or any such thing than to say that he is.17 Hence no such thing is said literally of God. . Words for bodily things can only be used metaphorically of God because he is incorporeal. All our words, however, belong to a bodily context, for all imply such conditions as temporal succession

. a. , . . De cœlesti hierarchia .

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and composition of matter and form which belong to the material world. Therefore such words can only be used metaphorically.     Ambrose says, There are some ways of referring to God which show forth clearly what is proper to divinity, and some which express the luminous truth of the divine majesty, but there are others which are used of God metaphorically and through a certain likeness.18 Hence not all words are used of God metaphorically; some are used literally. : As we have said,19 God is known from the perfections that flow from him and are to be found in creatures yet which exist in him in a transcendent way. We understand such perfections, however, as we find them in creatures, and as we understand them so we use words to speak of them. We have to consider two things, therefore, in the words we use to attribute perfections to God, firstly the perfections themselves that are signified—goodness, life and the like—and secondly the way in which they are signified. So far as the perfections signified are concerned the words are used literally of God, and in fact more appropriately than they are used of creatures, for these perfections belong primarily to God and only secondarily to others. But so far as the way of signifying these perfections is concerned the words are used inappropriately, for they have away of signifying that is appropriate to creatures. Hence: . Some words that signify what has come forth from God to creatures do so in such a way that part of the meaning of the word is the imperfect way in which the creature shares in the divine perfection. Thus it is part of the meaning of ‘rock’ that it has its being in a merely material way. Such words can be used of God only metaphorically. There are other words, however, that simply mean certain perfections without any indication of how these perfections are possessed—words, for example, like ‘being’, ‘good’, ‘living’ and so on. These words can be used literally of God. . The reason why Dionysius says that such words are better denied of God is that what they signify does not belong to God in the way that they signify it, but in a higher way; thus in the same passage he says that God is beyond all substance and life. . De Fide II, prol. . a. , .

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  

. These words have a bodily context not in what they mean but in the way in which they signify it; the ones that are used metaphorically have bodily conditions as part of what they mean. article . are all the words predicated of God synonymous?   : . It seems, for three reasons, that all words applied to God are synonymous. For synonyms are words that mean exactly the same thing. Now whatever we say about God we mean the same thing, for his goodness and his wisdom and such-like are identical with his essence. Hence all these expressions are synonyms. . It might be argued that although they signify the same thing they do so from different points of view; but this will not do, for it is useless to have different points of view which do not correspond to any difference in the thing viewed. . One thing that can only be described in one way is more perfectly one than one thing that can be described in many ways. God is supremely one. Hence he cannot be describable in many ways, and so the many things said about him all have the same meaning: they are synonymous.     piling up synonyms adds nothing to the meaning; ‘clothing garments’ are just the same as ‘garments’. If therefore all the things said about God were synonymous it would be inappropriate to speak of ‘the good God’ or anything of the kind. Yet Jeremiah says, Most strong, mighty and powerful, the Lord of Armies is thy name.20 : The words we use to speak of God are not synonymous. This is clear enough in the case of words we use to deny something of him or to speak of his causal relation to creatures. Such words differ in meaning according to the different things we wish to deny of him or the different effects to which we are referring. But it should be clear from what has been said21 that even the words that signify what God is (although they do it imperfectly) also have distinct meanings.22 . Jer. :. . a. , . . a. ,  & .

Thomas Aquinas



What we mean by a word is the concept we form of what the word signifies. Since we know God from creatures we understand him through concepts appropriate to the perfections creatures receive from him. What pre-exists in God in a simple and unified way is divided amongst creatures as many and varied perfections. The many perfections of creatures correspond to one single source which they represent in varied and complex ways. Thus the different and complex concepts that we have in mind correspond to something altogether simple which they enable us imperfectly to understand. Thus the words we use for the perfections we attribute to God, although they signify what is one, are not synonymous, for they signify it from many different points of view. Hence: . The solution of the first objection is then clear. Synonyms signify the same thing from the same point of view. Words that signify the same thing, thought of in different ways do not, properly speaking, signify the same, for words only signify things by way of thoughts, as noted above.23 . The many different points of view are not baseless and pointless, for they all correspond to a single reality which each represents imperfectly in a different way. . It belongs to the perfection of God’s unity that what is many and diverse in others should in him be unified and simple. That is why he is one thing described in many ways, for our minds learn of him in the many ways in which he is represented by creatures. article . are words used univocally or equivocally of God and creatures?   : . It seems that words used both of God and of creatures are used univocally: the equivocal is based on the univocal as the many is based on the one. A word such as ‘dog’ may be used equivocally of a hound and a fish, but only because it is first used univocally—of hounds—otherwise there would be nowhere to start from and we should go back for ever. Now there are some causes that are called univocal because their effects have the same name and description as themselves—what is generated by a man, for example, is also a man. Some causes, however, are called equivocal, as is the sun when it causes heat, for the sun itself is only equivocally said to be hot. Since, therefore, the equivocal is based on the univocal it seems . a. , .



  

that the first cause upon which all others are based must be an univocal cause, hence what is said of God and of his creatures must be said univocally. . There is no resemblance between things that are only equivocally the same, but according to Genesis there is a resemblance between creatures and God; Let us make man in our own image and likeness.24 So it seems that something can be said univocally of God and creatures. . Aristotle says that the measure must be of the same order as the thing measured,25 and he also describes God as the first measure of all beings. God, therefore, is of the same order as creatures; and so something can be said univocally of both.     for two reasons it seems that such words must be used equivocally. First, the same word when used with different meanings is used equivocally, but no word when used of God means the same as when it is used of a creature. ‘Wisdom’, for example, means a quality when it is used of creatures, but not when it is applied to God. So then it must have a different meaning, for we have here a difference in the genus which is part of the definition. The same applies to other words; so all must be used equivocally. And second, God is more distant from any creature than any two creatures are from each other. Now there are some creatures so different that nothing can be said univocally of them—for example when they differ in genus. Much less, therefore, could there be anything said univocally of creatures and God. : It is impossible to predicate anything univocally of God and creatures. Every effect that falls short of what is typical of the power of its cause represents it inadequately, for it is not the same kind of thing as the cause. Thus what exists simply and in a unified way in the cause will be divided up and take various different forms in such effects—as the simple power of the sun produces many different kinds of lesser things. In the same way, as we said earlier,26 the perfections which in creatures are many and various pre-exist in God as one. The perfection words that we use in speaking of creatures all differ in meaning and each one signifies a perfection as something . Gen. :. . Metaphysics X, . a. . a. , .

Thomas Aquinas



distinct from all others. Thus when we say that a man is wise, we signify his wisdom as something distinct from the other things about him—his essence, for example, his powers or his existence. But when we use this word about God we do not intend to signify something distinct from his essence, power or existence. When ‘wise’ is used of a man, it so to speak contains and delimits the aspect of man that it signifies, but this is not so when it is used of God; what it signifies in God is not confined by the meaning of our word but goes beyond it. Hence it is clear that the word ‘wise’ is not used in the same sense of God and man, and the same is true of all other words, so they cannot be used univocally of God and creatures. Yet although we never use words in exactly the same sense of creatures and God we are not merely equivocating when we use the same word, as some have said, for if this were so we could never argue from statements about creatures to statements about God—any such argument would be invalidated by the Fallacy of Equivocation. That this does not happen we know not merely from the teachings of the philosophers who prove many things about God but also from the teaching of St Paul, for he says, The invisible things of God are made known by those things that are made.27 We must say, therefore, that words are used of God and creatures in an analogical way, that is in accordance with a certain order between them. We can distinguish two kinds of analogical or ‘proportional’ uses of language. Firstly there is the case of one word being used of two things because each of them has some order or relation to a third thing. Thus we use the word ‘healthy’ of both a diet and a complexion because each of these has some relation to health in a man, the former as a cause, the latter as a symptom of it. Secondly there is the case of the same word used of two things because of some relation that one has to the other—as ‘healthy’ is used of the diet and the man because the diet is the cause of the health in the man. In this way some words are used neither univocally nor purely equivocally of God and creatures, but analogically, for we cannot speak of God at all except in the language we use of creatures,28 and so whatever is said both of God and creatures is said in virtue of the order that creatures have to God as to their source and cause in which all the perfections of things pre-exist transcendently. . Rom. :. . a. , .



  

This way of using words lies somewhere between pure equivocation and simple univocity, for the word is neither used in the same sense, as with univocal usage, nor in totally different senses, as with equivocation. The several senses of a word used analogically signify different relations to some one thing, as ‘health’ in a complexion means a symptom of health in a man, and in a diet means a cause of that health. Hence: . Even if it were the case that in speech the equivocal were based on the univocal, the same is not true of causality. A non-univocal cause is causal by reference to an entire species—as the sun is the cause that there are men. An univocal cause, on the other hand, cannot be the universal cause of the whole species (otherwise it would be the cause of itself, since it is a member of that same species), but is the particular cause that this or that individual should be a member of the species. Thus the universal cause which must be prior to the individual cause, is nonunivocal. Such a cause, however, is not wholly equivocal, for then there would be no resemblance in any sense between it and its effects. We could call it an analogical cause, and this would be parallel to the case of speech, for all univocal predications are based on one non-univocal, analogical predicate, that of being. . The resemblance of creatures to God is an imperfect one, for as we have said,29 they do not even share a common genus. . God is not a measure that is proportionate to what is measured; so it does not follow that he and his creatures belong to the same order. The two arguments in the contrary sense do show that words are not used univocally of God and creatures but they do not show that they are used equivocally. article . are words predicated primarily of God or of creatures?   : . It seems that the words we use of God apply primarily to creatures. For we speak of things as we know them since, as Aristotle says, words are signs for things as understood.30 But we know creatures before we know God, hence our words apply to creatures before they apply to God. . Dionysius says that the language we use about God is derived from what we say about creatures.31 But when a word such as ‘lion’ or . a. , . . De Interpretatione , , a. . De div. nom. .

Thomas Aquinas



‘rock’ is transferred from a creature to God it is used first of the creature. Hence such words apply primarily to the creature. . Words used of both God and creatures are used of him in that he is the cause of all things, as Dionysius says.32 But what is said of something in a causal sense applies to it only secondarily—as ‘healthy’ applies primarily to a living body and only secondarily to the diet that causes its health. Hence such words are applied primarily to creatures.     we read in Ephesians, I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus, from whom all fatherhood in heaven and on earth is named; 33 and the same seems to apply to other words used of God and creatures. These words, then, are used primarily of God. : Whenever a word is used analogically of many things, it is used of them because of some order or relation they have to some central thing. In order to explain an extended or analogical use of a word it is necessary to mention this central thing.34 Thus you cannot explain what you mean by a ‘healthy’ diet without mentioning the health of the man of which it is the cause; similarly you must understand ‘healthy’ as applied to a man before you can understand what is meant by a ‘healthy complexion’ which is the symptom of that health. The primary application of the word is to the central thing that has to be understood first; other applications will be more or less secondary in so far as they approximate to this use. Thus all words used metaphorically of God apply primarily to creatures and secondarily to God. When used of God they signify merely a certain parallelism between God and the creature. When we speak metaphorically of a meadow as ‘smiling’ we only mean that it shows at its best when it flowers, just as a man shows at his best when he smiles: there is a parallel between them. In the same way, if we speak of God as a ‘lion’ we only mean that, like a lion, he is mighty in his deeds. It is obvious that the meaning of such a word as applied to God depends on and is secondary to the meaning it has when used of creatures. This would be the case for non-metaphorical words too if they were simply used, as some have supposed, to express God’s causality.

. De mystica theologia . . Eph. :–. . Cf. Metaphysics IV, . a.



  

If, for example, ‘God is good’ meant the same as ‘God is the cause of goodness in creatures’ the word ‘good’ as applied to God would have contained within its meaning the goodness of the creature; and hence ‘good’ would apply primarily to creatures and secondarily to God. But we have already shown35 that words of this sort do not only say how God is a cause, they also say what he is.When we say he is good or wise we do not simply mean that he causes wisdom or goodness, but that he possesses these perfections transcendently. We conclude, therefore, that from the point of view of what the word means it is used primarily of God and derivatively of creatures, for what the word means—the perfection it signifies—flows from God to the creature. But from the point of view of our use of the word we apply it first to creatures because we know them first. That, as we have mentioned already,36 is why it has a way of signifying that is appropriate to creatures. Hence: . This is valid so far as our first application of the words is concerned. . Words used of God metaphorically are not in the same case as the others, as we have said.37 . This objection would be valid if all words were used to express the causality of God and not to say what he is, as ‘healthy’ expresses the causality of a diet and not what it consists in. . . . article . does ‘God’ mean a thing of a certain kind?   : . It seems that ‘God’ does not mean a being of a certain kind. For John Damascene says that God (ueøq) is derived from ue¡n, which means to take care of or foster all things; or else from a¬uein, which means to burn—for our God is a fire burning up all wickedness; or from ue˙suai, which means to consider all things.38 All these refer to activity. Hence ‘God’ means an activity, not a thing. . We name things as we know them. We do not know what kind of thing God is. Therefore the name ‘God’ cannot signify what he is.     Ambrose says that ‘God’ is a name signifying the divine nature.39

. . . . .

a. , . a. , . In the body of the article. De Fide orthodoxa I, . The reference is to Deut. :. De Fide I, .

Thomas Aquinas



: What makes us use a word is not always what the word is used to mean. We come to understand what a thing is from its properties and its behaviour, and often it is from some piece of its behaviour that we take our name for the sort of thing it is. Thus the word ‘hydrogen’ is derived from the fact that this gas when burnt produces water, but the word does not mean something that produces water but a particular sort of gas. Things that we recognize immediately like heat or cold or whiteness are not named from anything else, and so in their case what makes us use the word is the same as what it is used to mean. Now God is not known to us in his own nature, but through his works or effects, and so, as we have seen,40 it is from these that we derive the language we use in speaking of him. Hence ‘God’ is an operational word in that it is an operation of God that makes us use it—for the word is derived from his universal providence: everyone who uses the word ‘God’ has in mind one who cares for all things. Thus Dionysius says, The Deity is what watches over all things in perfect providence and goodness.41 But although derived from this operation the word ‘God’ is used to mean what has the divine nature. Hence: . Everything John Damascene says here refers to divine Providence, which is what makes us use this word in the first place. . The meaning of the name we give to something depends on how much of its nature we understand from its properties and effects. Since from its properties we can understand what a stone is in itself, the word ‘stone’ signifies the nature of the stone as it is in itself. Its meaning is the definition of a stone, in knowing which we know what a stone is; for ‘what a word means is the definition.’42 But from divine effects we do not come to understand what the divine nature is in itself, so we do not know of God what he is. We know of him, only as transcending all creatures, as the cause of their perfections and as lacking in anything that is merely creaturely, as already noted.43 It is in this way that the word ‘God’ signifies the divine nature: it is used to mean something that is above all that is, and that is the source of all things and is distinct from them all. This is how those that use it mean it to be used. . . . .

a. , . De div. nom. . Metaphysics IV, . a. a. , .



  

article . is the name ‘God’ peculiar to God alone?   : . It seems that ‘God’ is not peculiar to God, but can be used of other things. For whatever shares in what a name signifies can share in the name, but we have just said44 that ‘God’ signifies the divine nature and this is something that can be communicated to others, according to II Peter, He has bestowed upon us precious and very great promises . . . that by this we may become partakers of the divine nature.45 Hence ‘God’ may be applied to others besides God. . Only proper names are altogether incommunicable. But ‘God’ is not a proper name as is clear from the fact that it can be used in the plural, as in the Psalm, I say you shall be gods.46 Hence the word ‘God’ is applicable to many things. . The name ‘God’ is applied to God, as we have just seen,47 because of his operations. But other words that are used of God because of his operations such as ‘good’, ‘wise’ and such-like, are all applicable to many things. So ‘God’ is as well.     we read in Wisdom, They gave the incommunicable name to sticks and stones,48 and the reference is to the name of the Godhead. Hence the name ‘God’ is incommunicable. : A noun may be used of many things in two ways, either properly or by metaphor. It is properly used of many when the whole of what it means belongs to each of them; it is used metaphorically when some part of what it means belongs to each. The word ‘lion’, for example, properly speaking applies only to the things that have the nature it signifies, but it is also applied metaphorically to other things that have something of the lion about them. The courageous or the strong can be spoken of in this way as ‘lions’. To understand which nouns properly speaking apply to many things we must first recognize that every form that is instantiated by an individual either is or at least can be thought of as being common to many; human nature can be thought of, and in fact is, common to many in this way; the nature of the sun, on the other hand, can be . . . . .

a. , .  Peter :. Psalms  ():. a. , . Wisdom :.

Thomas Aquinas



thought of as being, but in fact is not, common to many. The reason for this is that the mind understands such natures in abstraction from the individual instances, hence whether it be in one individual or in many is irrelevant to our understanding of the nature itself; given that we understand the nature we can always think of it as being in many instances. The individual, however, from the very fact of being individual, is divided from all others. Hence a word that is used precisely to signify an individual cannot be applicable to many in fact, nor can it be thought of as applicable to many. It is impossible to think that there could be many of this individual. Hence no proper name is properly speaking communicable to many, though it may be communicable through some resemblance—as a man may metaphorically be called ‘an Achilles’ because he has the bravery of Achilles. But consider the case of forms which are not instantiated by being the form of an individual, but by themselves (inasmuch as they are subsistent forms). If we understood these as they are in themselves it would be clear that they are not common to many in fact and also cannot be thought of as being common to many—except perhaps by some sort of resemblance as with individuals. In fact, however, we do not understand such simple self-subsistent forms as they are in themselves, but have to think of them on the model of the composite things that have their forms in matter. For this reason, as we said earlier,49 we apply to them concrete nouns that signify a nature as instantiated in an individual. Thus the nouns we use to signify simple subsistent natures are grammatically the same as those we use to signify the natures of composite things. Now ‘God’ is used, as we saw,50 to signify the divine nature, and since this nature cannot have more than one instance,51 it follows that from the point of view of what is in fact signified, the word cannot be used of many, although it can mistakenly be thought of as applying to many—rather as a man who mistakenly thought there were many suns would think of ‘sun’ as applying to many things. Thus we read in Galations, You were slaves to gods who by nature were not gods, and a gloss says, not gods by nature but according to the opinion of men.52 . . . .

a. ,  ad . a. , . a. , . Gal. :.



  

Nevertheless the word ‘God’ does have several applications, though not in its full meaning. It is applied metaphorically to things that share something of what it means. Thus ‘gods’ can mean those who by resembling God share in some way in the divine, as in the Psalm, I say you shall be gods.53 If, however, a name were given to God, not as signifying his nature but referring to him as this thing, regarding him as an individual, such a proper name would be altogether incommunicable and in no way applicable to others—perhaps the Hebrew name of God, the Tetragrammaton was used in this way: it would be as though someone were to use the word ‘Sun’ as a proper name designating this individual. Hence: . The divine nature can be communicated to others only in the sense that they can share in the likeness of God. . ‘God’ is a common noun and not a proper name because it signifies in the concrete the divine nature, although God himself is neither universal nor particular. We do not, however, name things as they are in themselves but as they are to our minds. In actual fact the name ‘God’ is incommunicable rather as we said of the word ‘Sun’.54 . Words like ‘good’ and wise are applied to God because of the perfections that flow from God to creatures. They do not mean the divine nature, they mean these perfections; and so not only can they be thought of as applicable to many things but they actually are in fact. But the word ‘God’ is applied to him because of the operation peculiar to him which we constantly experience, and it is used to signify the divine nature. article . is the name used in the same sense of God, of what shares in divinity, and of what is merely supposed to do so?   : . It seems for three reasons that ‘God’ is used univocally of what has the divine nature, what shares in this nature and what is supposed to have it. For when men have not the same meaning for the same word they cannot contradict each other, equivocation eliminates contradiction. But when the Catholic says ‘The idol is not God’ he contradicts the pagan who says ‘The idol is God’, hence ‘God’ is being used univocally by both. . Ps.  ():. . In the body of the article.

Thomas Aquinas



. An idol is supposed to be God but is not so in fact, just as the enjoyment of the delights of the flesh is supposed to be felicity but is not so in fact. But the word ‘happiness’ is used univocally of this supposed happiness and of true happiness. So also the word ‘God’ must be used univocally of the supposed and the real God. . A word is used univocally when its meaning is the same. But when the Catholic says there is one God he understands by ‘God’ something almighty, to be revered above all things, but the pagan means the same when he says that his idol is God. Hence the word is used univocally in the two cases.     for two reasons it seems that the word is used equivocally. . What is in the mind is a sort of picture of what is in reality, as is said in De Interpretatione,55 but when we say ‘That is an animal’, both of the real animal and of the one in a picture, we are using the word equivocally. Hence the word ‘God’ used of the real God and of what is thought to be God is used equivocally. . A man cannot mean what he does not understand, but the pagan does not understand the divine nature, so when he says, ‘The idol is God’, he does not mean true divinity. But when the Catholic says that there is one God he does mean this. Hence ‘God’ is used equivocally of the true God and of what is supposed to be God. : The word ‘God’ in these three cases is used neither univocally nor equivocally but analogically. When a word is used univocally it has exactly the same meaning in each application, when it is used equivocally it has an entirely different meaning in each case, but when it is used analogically its meaning in one sense is to be explained by reference to its meaning in another sense. Thus to understand why we call accidents ‘beings’ we have to understand why we call substances beings; and we need to know what it means for a man to be healthy before we can understand a ‘healthy’ complexion, or a ‘healthy’ diet, for such a complexion is indicative and such a diet is productive of the health that belongs to a man. It is the same with the case we are considering. For we have to refer to the use of ‘God’ to mean the true God in order to explain its use in application to things that share in divinity or which are supposed to be gods. When we say that something is a ‘god’, by sharing in . De Interpretatione . a.



  

divinity we mean that it shares in the nature of the true God. Similarly when we say that an idol is a god, we take this word to mean something that men suppose to be the true God. Thus it is clear that while ‘God’ is used with different meanings one of these meanings is involved in all the others; the word is therefore used analogically. Hence: . We say a word has different uses not because it can be used in different statements but because it has different meanings. Thus the word ‘man’ has one meaning and one use whatever it is predicated of, whether truly or falsely. It would be said to have several uses if we meant it to signify different things—if, for instance, one speaker used it to signify a man and another to signify a stone or something else. Thus it is clear that the Catholic, when he says the idol is not God, is contradicting the pagan who affirms that it is, for both are using ‘God’ to signify the true God. When the pagan says ‘The idol is God’ he is not using ‘God’ to mean that which is merely supposed to be God; if he were he would be speaking truly, as the Catholic does, when he sometimes uses the word in that way, e.g., ‘All the gods of the pagans are demons’.56 , . The same reply can be made to the second and third objections, for these arguments have to do with the different statements that can be made with a word, not with a difference in meaning. . As to the fourth argument which takes the opposite point of view: the word ‘animal’ is not used wholly equivocally of the real animal and the animal in the picture. Aristotle uses the word ‘equivocal’ in a broad sense to include the analogical;57 thus he sometimes says that ‘being’ which is used analogically, is used equivocally of the different categories. . Neither the Catholic nor the pagan understands the nature of God as he is in himself, but both know him as in some way causing creatures, surpassing them and set apart from them, as we have said.58 In this way when the pagan says, ‘The idol is God’ he can mean by ‘God’ just what the Catholic means when he declares, ‘The idol is not God’. A man who knew nothing whatever about God would not be able to use ‘God’ at all, except as a word whose meaning he did not know. . Ps.  ():. . Categoriae , a. . . a. , .

IN-FINITE, IN-FANT SPIRIT

. M P (?– ) The Mirror of Simple Souls, chapters  and . Trans. Ellen Babinsky (New York: Paulist Press, ), pp. –, –. Old French text in Le Mirouer des simples ames, ed. Romana Guarnieri, Corpus Christianorum  (Turnholti: Brepols, ).

Le Mirouer des simples ames anienties et qui seulement demourent en vouloir et désir d’amour (The Mirror of simple annihilated souls who abide in will and desire of love alone) was revered for centuries as a Christian mystical classic. The Old French original was translated into Italian, Middle English, and Latin and enjoyed centuries of international popularity unparalleled for a work of mysticism written by a woman. Only in  was it identified by Romana Guarnieri as the book of Marguerite Porete, who had been condemned as a relapsed heretic and burned at the stake on June , , in Paris, Place de Grève. Only its erstwhile anonymity preserved from oblivion the book and teaching that Marguerite did not desist from disseminating, even after being issued episcopal orders to do so in . Marguerite’s story belongs to the history of the thirteenth- and fourteenthcentury spiritual movement of women known as beguines, who sought a new sort of religious life unconstrained by the traditional cloister and its rule. Separate from all male monastic and ecclesiastical authority, these women dedicated themselves to a life of purgation and rapturous contemplative devotion, partly under the sign of the Song of Songs, thus with a strong tenor of affective and erotically energized piety. Despite certain efforts to foster them, notably by Meister Eckhart in the Rhine valley, they were suspected and persecuted as propagating the so-called “heresy of the free spirit.”1 Marguerite’s book is a model of ascetic spirituality and apophatic theology, indeed, an “apophasis of desire.” 2 The annihilated soul “neither wills . For a probing discussion, see Alain de Libera, Penser au moyen âge (Paris: Seuil, ), pp. ff. For further scholarly apparatus and analysis, see Margaret Porette, The Mirror of Simple Souls, trans. Edmund Colledge, O.S.A., J. C. Marler, and Judith Grant (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, ). . Sells, Mystical Languages of Unsaying, p. . Marguerite’s work is also read as a “highly refined version of negative theology” by Maria Lichtman, “Negative Theology in

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nor not-wills anything which might be named here” (chap. ). Marguerite acknowledges that, by attempting to write, she “undertook a thing which one cannot say.” The method of approaching God is that of eliminating thought, speech, and representation of any kind until “the Soul remains in pure nothingness without thought” (chap. ). The spiritually perfect will say nothing, for “the language of such a life of divine life is a hidden silence of divine love” (chap. ). “Thus He is neither known, nor loved, nor praised by such creatures, except only in this, that one cannot know Him, nor love, nor praise Him” (chap. ). Near the end of the book, Marguerite apologizes for having produced so many words for naught: “For everything one can say or write about God, or think about Him, God who is greater than what is ever said, is thus more like lying than speaking the truth” (chap. ).3 Nevertheless, she manages to give eloquent expression to the apophatic logic of negating self in order to open to the infinite that one is not. The soul in this free and annihilated existence is “inebriated by what it has not drunk nor ever will drink.”4 This Soul, annihilated in God, “returns into the sea and so loses her name and has a name no longer” (chap. ) To place these lapidary apophatic statements in context, it is helpful to summarily review the romance plot and the chief train of thought of the work. The book unfolds as a dramatic dialogue, in the language of courtly love, largely between Lady Love (Dame Amour), the Enfranchised Soul (l’Ame enfranchie), and Reason. Reason is lacking in capacity to understand fine amour, which connotes the complete loss of self in mystical love. This selfannihilation for love results in paradoxes for Reason, as suggested by the oxymoronic name Loingprés (“FarNear”) of the divine Lover to whom such love is directed. Reason fittingly dies a death, wounded mortally by love, in the pivotal event of the drama (chap. ). Marguerite dismisses the virtues as the path to God because of their inextricable complicity in self-will and pride. They have rendered a necessary service, but they are not sufficient to open the way to the experience of God. They remain bound to the experience of the individual ego. Only negation of Marguerite Porete and Jacques Derrida,” Christianity and Literature / (Winter ): –. . Mirror, trans. Babinsky, pp. –. “Mon cuer est tiré si hault et avalé si bas, que je n’y puis actaindre; car tout ce que l’en peut de Dieu dire ne escrire, ne que l’en en peut penser, qui plus est que n’est dire, est assez mieulx mentir que ce n’est vray dire” (Mirouer, p. ). . As cited by Henri Le Saux in Sagesse Hindoue, Mystique Chrétienne: Du Védanta à la Trinité (Paris: Centurion, ), p. .

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all finite determinations and images opens the soul to the life of the spirit—to being inhabited by and being one with God, detached and selfless. This entails acceptance of one’s own utter nullity, of self-annihilation, as announced by the work’s full title. Only in detachment from all personal interest can the will heal itself. However, even this is self-contradictory, since it must be a will not to will anything. Only the death of all willing engenders unity with God. In Marguerite’s teaching of the freedom of the spirit, determinate attributions to God must be altogether avoided in order to overcome representing God as alterity. Marguerite strives to leave behind every human image, even that of Christ, on her path of detachment and liberation. She abstracts from the written word, eschewing it as entailing reification and petrification. She boldly describes the Being of God as being without being. Moreover, she begins to employ the negative dialectics so characteristic of Meister Eckhart, whereby God is only to the extent that he is not (anything we can grasp or define).5 The final poem, selected as summarizing the work, dramatizes the speaker’s dilemma of impossible and yet necessary speech about her Lover. She ends by avowing the impossibility of her own discourse, since the “I” of that discourse has been annihilated. . Maria Lichtman, “Marguerite Porete and Meister Eckhart: The Mirror for Simple Souls Mirrored,” in Meister Eckhart and the Beguine Mystics, ed. McGinn, considers Porete’s great influence on Eckhart. She also argues that Porete is both Dionysian, hence apophatic, and beguine, which entails kataphatic affirmation of the supreme value of love—generally the basis of female Minnemystik.

The Mirror of Simple Souls

Chapter . How this Soul is noble, and how she takes no account of anything. [Love]: This Soul, says Love, takes account of neither shame nor honor, of neither poverty nor wealth, of neither anxiety nor ease, of neither love nor hate, of neither hell nor of paradise.

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Reason: Ah, for God’s sake, Love, says Reason, what does this mean, what you have said? Love: What does this mean? says Love. Certainly the one knows this, and no other, to whom God has given the intellect—for Scripture does not teach it, nor the human mind comprehend it, nor does creaturely work deserve to grasp it or comprehend it. Thus this gift is given from the most High, into whom this creature is carried by the fertility of understanding, and nothing remains in her own intellect. And this Soul, who has become nothing, thus possesses everything, and so possesses nothing; she wills everything and she wills nothing; she knows all and she knows nothing. Reason: And how can it be, Lady Love, says Reason, that this Soul can will what this book says, when before it said that she had no more will? Love: Reason, says Love, it is no longer her will which wills, but now the will of God wills in her; for this Soul dwells not in love which causes her to will this through desiring something. Instead, Love dwells in her who seized her will, and Love accomplishes Love’s will in her. Thus Love works in her without her, which is why no anxiety can remain in her. This Soul, says Love, no longer knows how to speak about God, for she is annihilated from all her external desires and interior sentiments, from all affection of spirit; so that what this Soul does she does by practice of good habit according to the commandment of the Holy Church, without any desire, for the will is dead which gave desire to her.

Chapter . Here the Soul begins her song. [Soul ]: [It is] in view of the ascent on high and the precious entry, and the worthy indwelling of human creation by the sweet humanity of the Son of God our savior [that] the Deity seated such humanity in highest possession in paradise, there to be elevated to the right hand of God the Father, joined to the Son for our sake, richly producing in it these graces and mercy, by which you are amazed. Thus, since that day, Fine Love separated me through courtesy. From

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whom? From myself, from my neighbors, and from the whole world, from the spirit of affection, and from the Virtues to whom I had been a servant through effort in the domination of Reason. Here I will tell you the truth about it: Such a beast I was, In the time that I served them, That I could not express it to you From my heart. And as long as I served them, And the better I accommodated them, Love caused me to hear tell of her Through joy. And in spite of all, as simple as I was, As much as I would consider it, So the will of Love held me in love. And when Love saw me think about her, on account of the Virtues, she did not refuse me, but instead she freed me from their petty service and guided me to the divine school. There she retained me without my performing any service, there I was filled and satisfied by her. Thought is no longer of worth to me, Nor work, nor speech. Love draws me so high (Thought is no longer of worth to me) With her divine gaze, That I have no intent. Thought is no longer of worth to me, Nor work, nor speech. Love has made me find by nobility These verses of a song. It is [of] the Deity pure, About whom Reason knows not how to speak, And of a Lover, Which I have without a mother, Who is the issue

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Of God the Father And of God the Son also. His name is Holy Spirit, From whom I possess such joining in the heart, That He causes joy to remain in me. It is the peace of the nourishment Which the Lover gives in loving. I wish to ask nothing of Him, To do so would be too wretched of me. Instead I owe Him total faith In loving such a Lover. O Lover of gentle nature, You are to be much praised: Generous, courteous without measure, Sum of all goodness, You do not will to do anything, Lover, without my will. And thus I must not hold silence About your beauty and goodness. Powerful you are for my sake, and wise; Such I cannot hide. Ah, but to whom will I say it? Seraphim know not how to speak of it. Lover, you have grasped me in your love, To give me your great treasure, That is, the gift of your own self, Which is divine goodness. Heart cannot express this, But willing pure nothingness purifies [the heart], Which makes me climb so high, By union in concordance, Which I ought never to reveal. I used to be enclosed in the servitude of captivity, When desire imprisoned me in the will of affection.

Marguerite Porete

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There the light of ardor from divine love found me, Who quickly killed my desire, my will and affection, Which impeded in me the enterprise of the fullness of divine love. Now has Divine Light delivered me from captivity, And joined me by gentility to the divine will of Love, There where the Trinity gives me the delight of His love. This gift no human understands, As long as he serves any Virtue whatever, Or any feeling from nature, through practice of reason. O my Lover, what will beguines say and religious types, When they hear the excellence of your divine song? Beguines say I err, priests, clerics, and Preachers, Augustinians, Carmelites, and the Friars Minor, Because I wrote about the being of the one purified by Love. I do not make Reason safe for them, who makes them say this to me. Desire, Will, and Fear surely take from them the understanding, The out-flowing, and the union of the highest Light Of the ardor of divine love. Truth declares to my heart, That I am loved by One alone,

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And she says that it is without return That He has given me His love. This gift kills my thought By the delight of His love, Which delight lifts me and transforms me through union Into the eternal joy of the being of divine Love. And Divine Love tells me that she has entered within me, And so she can do whatever she wills, Such strength she has given me, From One Lover whom I possess in love, To whom I am betrothed, Who wills what He loves, And for this I will love Him. I have said that I will love Him. I lie, for I am not. It is He alone who loves me: He is, and I am not; And nothing more is necessary to me Than what He wills, And that He is worthy. He is fullness, And by this am I impregnated. This is the divine seed and Loyal Love.

. M E ( –) German Sermons  and . Trans. Edmond Colledge, O.S.A., and Bernard McGinn, Meister Eckhart: The Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises, and Defense (New York: Paulist Press, ), pp. –, – (notes). Commentary on Exodus, sections –. Trans. Bernard McGinn, Meister Eckhart: Teacher and Preacher (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, ), pp. –, – (notes). Granum sinapis, stanzas VII (“Wirt als ein kint”) and VIII (“O sele min”). My original English translation based on “Granum Sinapis: An den Grenzen der Sprache,” in Sermo mysticus: Studien zu Theologie und Sprache der deutschen Mystik, ed. Alois M. Haas (Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag, ), pp. –. The original German and Latin works (indicated by GW and LW, respectively) are found in Meister Eckhart, Die deutschen und lateinischen Werke: Herausgegeben im Auftrage der deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft (Stuttgart and Berlin: W. Kohlhammer, – ). Sermons are abbreviated “Pr.” (Predigt).

Meister Eckhart is one of the principal forces driving the contemporary apophatic revival. As a Dominican monk and preacher, as well as a master teacher of theology in the schools of Paris—hence both Lebemeister and Lesemeister— he gave Christian theological insight into the ineffability of God some of its most philosophically profound, rhetorically provocative, and poetically beautiful expressions. Endowing Middle High German with novel conceptual aptitudes for abstraction and synthesis adapted from Latin, he has been deemed the architect of German as a language of learning and culture, thereby laying crucial foundation stones for the German nation. In this respect, he has been accorded a position parallel to that of Dante, his contemporary, in Italy.1

. Recent scholarship has strongly qualified such traditional views. See Alois M. Haas, “Meister Eckhart und die Sprache: Sprachgeschichtliche und sprachtheologische Aspekte seines Werkes” and “Meister Eckhart und die deutsche Sprache,” in Geistliches Mittelalter (Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag, ), pp. – and –.

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Eckhart invents a language that chafes against the limits of language. As an exegete and preacher he emphasized the characteristically “excessive” mode of speaking typical of divine Scripture: “Everything divine, as such, is immense and not subject to measure.”2 Interpreters have emphasized Eckhart’s battle with language: his daring neologisms, his peculiar employment of negative particles and prepositions, and his apophatic strategies of hyperbole, paradox, antithesis, and chiasmus—which repeats but dialectically reverses the order of a verbal sequence.3 Writing in the vernacular was in itself a gesture of emancipation from feudal hierarchy. It was key to the women’s movements, including the “heresy of the free spirit,” with which Eckhart was linked in significant ways. After teaching in Paris and Cologne from  to , Eckhart served as provincial for the Dominican order in Saxonia, in which capacity he was responsible for the spiritual direction of numerous women’s communities. His own teaching was condemned on March , , by Pope John XXII, who some years earlier had canonized Thomas Aquinas. Eckhart thought the ineffability of God through to some of its most radical consequences. He did so, however, within the tradition of negative theology and on the basis of the Scholastic and particularly Thomistic theology of God as Being itself: his teaching comprises an extraordinarily ambitious attempt to demonstrate the philosophical cogency of Christian doctrine. Doctrines like the Trinity and the Incarnation, which ultimately were simply revealed truths for Saint Thomas, Eckhart wished to think out on the basis of a spiritually enlightened reason, in which reason and revelation could no longer be separated or even distinguished.4 The Being as such (esse) that is God in Scholasticism, Eckhart emphasizes, is Intellect (intelligere), which he understands as the negation of beings. Intellect is no finite being, no thing. In fact, it is non-being, not-caused, and non-created. This negativity of Intellect, rather than any positive form of substance, is what infinitely exists. Accordingly, not

. Commentary on John, no.  (LW :.–), quoted by Bernard McGinn, The Mystical Thought of Meister Eckhart (New York: Crossroad, ), p. . . A path-breaking study is Joseph Quint’s “Mystik und Sprache: Ihr Verhältnis zueinander, insbesondere in der spekulativen Mystik Meister Eckharts,” in Altdeutsche und altniederländische Mystik (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchhandlung, ), pp. –. More recent contributions include Suzanne Köbele, Bilder der unbegriffenen Wahrheit: Zur Struktur mystischer Rede im Spannungsfeld von Latein und Volkssprache (Tübingen: Francke, ), and Frank Tobin, Meister Eckhart: Thought and Language (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, ). . McGinn, The Mystical Thought of Meister Eckhart, underlines Eckhart’s predilection for “indistinction” (for example, on p. ).

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static substance but the dynamism of thought becomes the paradigm of the divine Being.5 In his Quaestiones Parisienses (–), Eckhart emphasized that in God, being is intellect rather than substance. Thought is given priority over substantive being, which entails determination, the state of being-created. This move is symptomatic of a shift toward privileging the subjective element, thinking, as indeterminate, infinite Wisdom and as uncreated. Thought is the key to all that is because it is the negation of being (this or that). In the first Parisian Question, Eckhart expounds the “nothingness of the intellect,” and this nothingness (in terms of finite being) is reason, the ground of the soul. Reason (Vernunft) is “nothingness,”“purely and simply,”“nameless,”“divested of every this and that.”6 God has no formal or determinate being (“deus formaliter non erit ens”). He is rather without determinate form because he is pure being, puritas essendi, which Eckhart prefers to identify only as intelligere at this stage. However, subsequently, in the prologues to the work he projected as his comprehensive summa, the Opus Tripartitum or Three-part Work (–), the formula esse est deus (“Being—or ‘to be’—is God”) emerges as a basic postulate.7 While Eckhart avoided such apparently onto-theological affirmations in the Parisian Questions, that was because there he took “esse” not as esse indistinctum but as particularized being. In his treatise on the Names of God within his Commentary on Exodus, sections – and –, Eckhart continues to develop the theme of the identity of God with Being. However, this is a Being that is beyond all limits of identity. Being or existence (esse) is the all-inclusive name of God, the nomen omninominabile (secs. –), says Eckhart (echoing Asclepius ): “That which is above every name excludes no name, but universally includes all names and in an equally indistinct way. None of these names will, . Henri Delacroix, Étude sur le mysticisme spéculatif en Allemagne au XIVe siècle (Paris: F. Alcan, ), summarized the burden of Eckhart’s thinking as “putting life and movement into Being itself ”: “tout le système d’Eckhart n’est qu’un effort long et passionné pour mettre la vie et le mouvement dans l’Être lui-même” (p. ). . See Master Eckhart: Parisian Questions and Prologues, trans. Armand Maurer (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, ), as well as John Caputo, “The Nothingness of the Intellect in Meister Eckhart’s ‘Parisian Questions,’” The Thomist  (): –. . The formula occurs thus in the general prologue, nos. – (LW :–) and as “Esse Deus est” in the prologue to the first part, the Work of Propositions, nos. – (LW :–), translated in Master Eckhart: Parisian Questions and Prologues, pp. –.

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consequently, be proper to it, save that which is above every name and is common to all names. But existence is common to all beings and names, and hence existence is the proper name of God alone.” In sections –, Eckhart reaffirms this position, common to Avicenna and Thomas, saying that Qui est expresses what is most proper to God. Yet this must not be understood as belying God’s ineffability any more than does the Tetragrammaton, “the ineffable name of God,” which is not the name itself but only a circumlocution for it, the name itself being “inexpressible in its nature and purity” (sec. ). The identification of God with Being means that God is Being itself (esse ipsius) as opposed to any finite determination of being (esse hoc et hoc). In this absolute sense, Being is God (esse est Deus). To identify Being with God in any determinate sense would be pantheism. This leads Eckhart to categorically deny that God is (anything) at all, in order to defend himself against just this charge, which was effectively lodged against him by the Inquisition. Statements denying being to God have led to certain atheistic interpretations of Eckhart, notably among Marxist interpreters. Yet Eckhart clearly intends to deny to God only “this or that being” and, in the tradition of PseudoDionysius, to place God beyond Being, which means to attribute to him a being higher than any being that can be said: “Although I have said that God is not Being and is above Being, I have not thereby denied Being to him, rather I have heightened it in him.”8 In this sense, God is said to be pure Being (“got ist ein lûter wesen”).9 To express this, Eckhart develops a language of the “ground,” emphasized by Bernard McGinn in presenting Eckhart as a “mystic of the grunt.”“Ground” works as a Sprengmetapher that explodes all normal semantic systems. God is the only One (“dem ainigen ain”) known in the ground (“grunt”) of the soul, which is the abyss (“abgrunt”) of deity, by an unknowing (“unwizzen”) or unknown knowledge (“unbekante bekantnisse”), a learned ignorance. Thus Eck. “Daz ich aber gesprochen hân, got ensî niht ein wesen und sî über wesene, hie mite enhân ich im niht wesen abegesprochen, mêr: ich hân es in im gehoehet” (Pr. , DW I , –). . Pr. a, DW II , –, . This basic thesis can be traced through both the Latin and German works, as well as in Eckhart’s defense against the Inquisition, which seems to have accepted his orthodoxy on this point (it is not among the theses finally condemned). See Karl Albert, “‘Das Sein ist Gott’: Zur philosphischen Mystik Meister Eckharts,” in Zu Dir Hin: Über mystische Lebenserfahrung von Meister Eckhart bis Paul Celan, ed. Wolfgang Böhme (Frankfurt a.M.: Insel Verlag, ), pp. –, here p. . This essay, a crystalline demonstration of the identity of God and Being as the foundation or “Grundgedanke” of Eckkhart’s philosophy, condenses Albert’s Meister Eckharts These vom Sein (Saarbrücken: Universitäts- und Schulbuchverlag, ).

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hart teaches a complete fusion of God and the human soul in the ground. The ground of God’s being (grunt götliches wesens) and the soul’s ground (grunt der sêle) are identical.10 At its foundation or in its grunt the soul finds its uncreatedness (“ungeschaffenheit”) (see, for example, German Sermons  and ). In its ground, the soul is indistinct from God, and this union in indistinction is purely apophatic: it cannot be distinctly said or signified—it is in effect simply a negation of all distinctions. The Latin term for this is unum: total oneness with or of God in the ground. It is a union achieved by the soul in unknowing through un-becoming all that it distinctly is. God and the soul thus become “the same ground.”11 Removing all that is accidental—and that means every inflection of determinate and nameable, articulable form—the ground of the soul emerges as Nothing or as absolutely simple Being, which is also God. We must struggle to achieve detachment from all particular determinations in order to be one with God. Eckhart follows the tradition of Plotinus and Pseudo-Dionysius in describing a process of removal (“aphairesis”) and even redeploys their analogy of the sculptor who removes material in order to let the image already present in the stone he sculpts emerge. In this venerable lineage, Eckhart teaches detachment from every created image, from all representation and from the very frame of space-time, so that all objectivity is negated. In his preaching, Eckhart describes the experience of God through detachment from all positive being as pivoting on the birth of God as Logos in the soul that annihilates itself. This Logos is silent because it is infinite. It cannot be articulated without betraying its wholeness and infinity. It is the eternal Word outside time theorized by Augustine on the basis of an adaptation of the Stoic notion of the logos endiathetos, the inner word that is thought, not uttered, not divided into syllables of time but all eternally present as thought is present to the mind, totum simul. Eckhart develops his doctrine of the eternal birth of the Son in the soul of the believer in a cycle of sermons (Prr. –) for Christmastide. By collapsing together the three traditional births of the Son—eternally from the Father, historically through Mary, and presently in the soul of the believer—Eckhart conceives God’s salvific birth as actualized in the liturgy. An unmediated receiving of God himself, without images,

. McGinn, The Mysical Thought of Meister Eckhart, p. . . See McGinn, ibid., chap. , “Mysticism of the Ground.” This is a “ground that has no ground” (“gruntlôs grunt”) and a sea of groundlessness (“mer sîner gruntlösicheit”): Pr.  (DW I , ). Cf. Pr.  and Pr. .

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occurs silently in the ground of the soul. One must completely empty oneself through utter detachment in order to create the inner void that draws God into one (Pr. ). God can never be known as a discrete object. Such scientific knowledge is supplanted by Eckhart’s wisdom of unknowing (unwizzen). God is known only as he is generated in the depths of the soul. As such, he is completely one with and incarnate in human beings. Being God rather than knowing him, which is too objectivizing, is Eckhart’s legacy. The soul must lose God as an object of knowledge in order to be generated in and as God. Thus God is nothing (to us) but generated Logos and living Spirit in us. This is the encounter, indeed the coincidence, of the finite with the infinite through the negation of every limitation attendent upon every finite, determinate form of being. In this sense, in relation to creatures and everything knowable, God is the negation of negation (negatio negationis). In other words, God is distinguished precisely by his indistinction from all things. No other thing is like God in this respect—all have some distinction, some determination. God alone is distinguished by his absolute indistinction. It is precisely insofar as God is indistinct from all things that he is distinct from them. This sort of dialectic of distinction and indistinction is worked out not only in the relation between God and creation but also in the relation between the persons of the Trinity. The distinct persons are indistinctly one God. This distinct-indistinction is the characteristic of the One as well as of Esse. Around  Eckhart in all probability authored, in a Thuringian dialect of High Middle German, an eight-part poem called Granum sinapis de divinitate pulcherrima (The Mustard Seed of the Most Beautiful Divinity).12 The last two parts appear below. They are extraordinarily direct and vigorous in describing the approach to God by self-annihilation. Not only the word but all representations and the very sense of self are to be abandoned in order to encounter God as purely Nothing.

. No less an authority than Kurt Ruh is certain that Eckhart is not only the mastermind behind the poem but its actual author: “Ich habe heute keine Bedenken mehr, in ihm nicht nur den geistigen Anreger, sondern den wirklichen Verfasser zu sehen.” Kurt Ruh, Meister Eckhart: Theologe-Prediger-Mystiker (Munich: C. H. Beck, ), pp. –. Ruh’s attribution of the poem to Eckhart is endorsed in their respective editions by Alois M. Haas and Alain de Libera, Le grain de sénevé (Paris: Arfuyen, ).

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German Sermon  Misit dominus manum suam et tetigit os meum et dixit mihi . . . Ecce constitui te super gentes et regna (Jr. :)

When I preach, I am accustomed to speak about detachment, and that a man should be free of himself and of all things; second, that a man should be formed again into that simple good which is God; third, that he should reflect on the great nobility with which God has endowed his soul, so that in this way he may come to wonder at God; fourth, about the purity of the divine nature, for the brightness of the divine nature is beyond words. God is a word, a word unspoken. Augustine says: “All writings are in vain. If one says that God is a word, he has been expressed; but if one says that God has not been spoken, he is ineffable.”1 And yet he is something, but who can speak this word? No one can do this, except him who is this Word. God is a Word that speaks itself. Wherever God is, he speaks this Word; wherever he is not, he does not speak. God is spoken and unspoken. The Father is a speaking work, and the Son is speech working.2 Whatever is in me proceeds from me; if I only think it, my word manifests it, and still it remains in me. So does the Father speak the unspoken Son, and yet the Son remains in him. And I have often said: “God’s going out is his going in.” To the extent that I am close to God, so to that extent God utters himself into me. The more that all rational creatures in their works go out of themselves, the more they go into themselves. This is not so with merely corporeal creatures; the more they work, the more they go out of themselves. All creatures want to utter God in all their works; they all come as close as they can in uttering him, and yet they cannot utter him. Whether they wish it or not, whether they like it or not, they all want to utter God, and yet he remains unuttered. . This seems to be a free rendition of Augustine, De doctrina christiana ... . The Son is “speech working” because all things are made through him (John :).

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David says: “The Lord is his name” (Ps. :). “Lord” signifies being promoted in power, “servant” means subjection. There are some names that are proper to God and inappropriate to all other things, such as “God.” “God” is the name most proper to God of all names, as “man” is the name of men. A man is a man, be he foolish or wise. Seneca says: “That man is a pitiful creature who cannot rise above other men.”3 Some names denote a connection with God, such as “fatherhood” and “sonship.” When one says “father,” one understands “son.” No one can be a father if he does not have a son, nor can a son be a son if he has no father; both of them have an eternal relationship that is beyond time. Third, there are some names that signify a lifting up to God and a regard to time. In scripture God is called by many names. I say that whoever perceives something in God and attaches thereby some name to him, that is not God. God is above names and above nature. We read of one good man who was entreating God in his prayer and wanted to give names to him. Then a brother said: “Be quiet—you are dishonoring God.” We cannot find a single name we might give to God. Yet those names are permitted to us by which the saints have called him and which God so consecrated with divine light and poured into all their hearts. And through these we should first learn how we ought to pray to God. We should say: “Lord, with the same names that you have so consecrated in the hearts of your saints and have poured into all their hearts, so we pray to you and praise you.” Second, we should learn not to give any name to God, lest we imagine that in so doing we have praised and exalted him as we should; for God is “above names” and ineffable. The Father speaks the Son out of all his power, and he speaks in him all things. All created things are God’s speech. The being of a stone speaks and manifests the same as does my mouth about God; and people understand more by what is done than by what is said.4 The work that is performed by the highest nature in its greatest power is not understood by an inferior nature. If the inferior nature performed the same work, it would not be subject to the highest nature—they would be the same. All creatures would like to echo God in their works, but there is little indeed they can manifest. Even the highest angels, as they mount toward and touch God, are as un. See Seneca, Natural Questions .. . Josef Quint, Meister Eckhart: Deutsche Predigten und Traktate (Munich: Hanser, ) cites Thomas Aquinas, STH Ia . as a source.

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like that which is in God as white is unlike black. What all creatures have received is quite unlike him, except only that they would gladly express him as closely as they can. The prophet says: “Lord, you say one thing, and I hear two things” (Ps. :). As God speaks into the soul, the soul and he are one; but, as soon as this goes, there is a separation. The more that we ascend in our understanding, the more are we one in him. Therefore the Father speaks the Son always, in unity, and pours out in him all created things. They are all called to return into whence they have flowed out. All their life and their being is a calling and a hastening back to him from whom they have issued. The prophet says: “The Lord stretched out his hand” (Jr. :), and he means the Holy Spirit. Now he says: “He has touched my mouth,” and goes on at once, “and has spoken to me.” The soul’s mouth is its highest part, which the soul means when it says: “He has put his word in my mouth” (ibid.). That is the kiss of the soul, there mouth touches mouth, there the Father bears his Son into the soul, and there the soul is spoken to. Now he says: “Take heed; today I have chosen you, and have placed you above peoples and above kingdoms” (Jr. :). In a “today” God vows that he will choose us where there is nothing, and where yet in an eternity there is a “today.” “And I have placed you above peoples,” that is, above all the world, of which you must be free, “and above kingdoms,” that is, whatever is more than one, which is too much, for you must die to all things and be formed again into the heights, where we dwell in the Holy Spirit. May God the Holy Spirit help us to that end. Amen.

German Sermon  Renovamini spiritu (Eph. :)

“Be renewed in your spirit” (Eph. :), which is here called mens,1 that is, your disposition. This is what Saint Paul says. . Mens = mind.

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Augustine says that in the highest part of the soul, which he calls mens or disposition, God created together with the soul’s being a power, which the authorities call a store or a coffer of spiritual forms or formal images.2 This power makes the soul resemble the Father in his outflowing divinity, out of which he has poured the whole treasure of his divine being into the Son and into the Holy Spirit, differentiating between the Persons, just as the soul’s memory pours the treasure of its images into the soul’s powers. So when the soul with these powers contemplates what consists of images, whether that be an angel’s image or its own, there is for the soul something lacking. Even if the soul contemplates God, either as God or as an image or as three, the soul lacks something. But if all images are detached from the soul, and it contemplates only the Simple One, then the soul’s naked being finds the naked, formless being of the divine unity, which is there a being above being, accepting and reposing in itself. Ah, marvel of marvels, how noble is that acceptance, when the soul’s being can accept nothing else than the naked unity of God! Now Saint Paul says: “Be renewed in the spirit.” Renewal happens to all created beings under God; but no renewal comes to God, but evermore only eternity. What is eternity? Pay heed! It is the property of eternity that in it being and youth are one because eternity would not be eternal if it could be renewed, if it did not always exist. So I say: Renewal happens to the angels, as the future is intimated to them, for an angel knows about future things, though only so much as God reveals to him. And renewal happens also to the soul, so far as “soul” is its name, for it is called soul because it gives life to the body and is a form of the body. To a soul, too, renewal happens, so far as “spirit” is its name. It is called spirit because it is detached from here and now and from the whole natural order. But when it is an image of God and as nameless as God, then no renewal happens to it, but only eternity, as in God. Now pay attention: God is nameless, because no one can say anything or understand anything about him. Therefore a pagan teacher says: “Whatever we understand or say about the First Cause, that is far more ourselves than it is the First Cause, for it is beyond all saying

. Quint adduces Augustine’s Enarration on Ps. :, and also Albert the Great, One Man and On the Good, as sources.

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and understanding.”3 So if I say: “God is good,” that is not true.4 I am good, but God is not good. I can even say: “I am better than God,” for whatever is good can become better, and whatever can become better can become best of all. But since God is not good, he cannot become better. And since he cannot become better, he cannot be best of all. For these three degrees are alien to God: “good,” “better,” and “best,” for he is superior to them all. And if I say: “God is wise,” that is not true. I am wiser than he. If I say: “God is a being,” it is not true; he is a being transcending being and a transcending nothingness. About this, Saint Augustine says: “The best that one can say about God is for one to keep silent out of the wisdom of one’s inward riches.”5 So be silent, and do not chatter about God; for when you do chatter about him, you are telling lies and sinning. But if you want to be without sin and perfect, you should not chatter about God. And do not try to understand God, for God is beyond all understanding. One authority says: “If I had a God whom I could understand, I should never consider him God.”6 If you can understand anything about him, it in no way belongs to him, and insofar as you understand anything about him, that brings you into incomprehension, and from incomprehension you arrive at a brute’s stupidity; for when created beings do not understand, they resemble the brutes. So if you do not wish to be brutish, do not understand the God who is beyond words. “Then what ought I to do?” You ought to sink down out of all your yourness, and flow into his his-ness, and your “yours” and his “his” ought to become one “mine,” so completely that you with him perceive forever his uncreated is-ness, and his nothingness, for which there is no name. Now Saint Paul says: “You should be renewed in the spirit.” If we want to be renewed in the spirit, each of the soul’s six powers, the superior and the inferior powers, must have a ring of gold, gilded with the gold of divine love. Now pay heed! There are three inferior powers. The first is called “rational,” and it is discretion, and on it you ought to wear a golden ring, which is the light, a divine light, with

. Book of Causes, prop. . . A similar expression of apophatic theology was condemned by the Bull, “In agro dominico” (). . Pseudo-Dionysius, Mystical Theology .. . Augustine?

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which your powers of discretion should always be illumined. The next is called “irascible,” the “angry power,” and on it you ought to have a ring, which is your peace. “Why?” Because as much as you are at peace, so much are you in God, and as much as you lack peace, so much do you lack God. The third power is called “appetitive,” and on it you ought wear a ring, which is contentment; that is, you should be content with all creatures who are under God, but you should never be content with God, because you can never be content with God. The more you have of God, the more you long for him, for if you could be content with God, and such a contentment with him were to come, God would not be God. And you must also wear a golden ring on each of the superior powers. There are, too, three superior powers. The first is called a retentive power, “memory.” This power one compares with the Father in the Trinity, and on it you should have a golden ring, that is, a retention so that you hold on to everything that is eternal. The second power is called “intellectual,” understanding. This power one compares with the Son, and you ought to wear on it a golden ring, that is, an understanding so that you should always perceive God. “And how?” You should perceive him without images, without a medium, and without comparisons. But if I am to perceive God so, without a medium, then I must just become him, and he must become me. I say more: God must just become me, and I must just become God, so completely one that this “he” and this “I” become and are one “is,” and, in this is-ness, eternally perform one work, for this “he,” who is God, and this “I,” which is the soul, are greatly fruitful. But let there be a single “here” or a single “now,” and the “I” and the “he” will never perform anything or become one. The third power is called “voluntary,” the will, and one compares it with the Holy Spirit. On it you should wear a golden ring, that is, love: You should love God. You should love God apart from his loveableness, that is, not because he is loveable, for God is unloveable. He is above all love and loveableness. “Then how should I love God?” You should love God unspiritually, that is, your soul should be unspiritual and stripped of all spirituality, for so long as your soul has a spirit’s form, it has images, and so long as it has images, it has a medium, and so long as it has a medium, it has not unity or simplicity. Therefore your soul must be unspiritual, free of all spirit, and must remain spiritless; for if you love God as he is God, as he is spirit, as he is person and as he is image—all this must

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go! “Then how should I love him?” You should love him as he is a nonGod, a nonspirit, a nonperson, a nonimage, but as he is a pure, unmixed, bright “One,” separated from all duality; and in that One we should eternally sink down, out of “something” into “nothing.” May God help us to that. Amen.

Commentary on Exodus, sections –

. The name Tetragrammaton (whatever it is) is of four letters (whatever they may be) and takes its name from that fact. It is hidden and secret; it is the ineffable name of God. The term “Tetragrammaton” is not the name itself that we are treating, but it is a circumlocution for the four-letter name which is a sacred secret. Therefore, it is never expressed among the Jews, but is inexpressible in its nature and purity, just like the substance of God which it signifies. Second, in this name there is nothing derived from God’s works, and perhaps there is nothing in this name that is derived at all in the sense that with us compound terms are derived and deduced from simple and primitive ones. Even the term “Adonai,” as mentioned above, is derived from “adon.” Third, this name is “written, but not spoken nor expressed, save in the sanctuary by the holy priests at the priestly blessing and by the High Priest on the Day of Atonement.”1 . Fourth. “Great care and apprehension is taken in speaking this name because it signifies the Creator’s substance in whose signification none of his creatures shares.” This is why “the Hebrew sages say that this name is set apart simply for God,” as one proper to him only.2 Hence also Thomas in the [Summa of Theology] Ia, q. , a.  says: “The name Tetragrammaton is used to signify the incommunicable, and if we can speak this way, individual substance of God . Maimonides, Guide .. . Ibid.

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itself.” Earlier, in article , he says, “This name Tetragrammaton is used to signify God not from the viewpoint of nature, but from that of the supposit, according to which he is considered as an individual, and hence incommunicable in every way, just as if someone gives a person a name that means this individual.” This is why some of the Hebrew sages say that before the world’s creation there was only God and his name of four letters. Another of their sages says that “therefore the prophet promised people a mode of understanding that will remove improper, unfitting and imperfect denominations, when he said, ‘In that day there will be one Lord and his name will be one’ (Zc. :).”3 That means, when you understand God’s simple substance, you will not have any name taken from divine works, but only the one true name that signifies his very substance. And this is the name of four letters. . Fifth. What this name is and “how it is pronounced and how its consonants are written, either in the short or long form, the sages receive from one another.” They teach it only to the worthy, “and only once a week.”4 This is why, as I mentioned, it is not found clearly and openly in the scripture, but in concealed and secret fashion, as in Exodus : “You shall with engraver’s work write ‘Holy to the Lord’ ” (Ex. :), which the Gloss says signifies the ineffable name of four letters.5 . Then there is the “name of twelve letters,” about which the Hebrews say that “its holiness is less than the name of four letters.” This “is not one name, but is made up of many names whose letters together make up twelve.” “The individual names signify different concepts that lead people to knowledge of the Creator’s true substance.” This was the name that used to be substituted for the Tetragrammaton, “just as with us today” the name Adonai is so used for the four-letter name that is very rarely spoken due to its purity and reverence. The name of twelve letters signifies “something more proper to God than the term Adonai.”6

. . . . ..

Guide .. Ibid. Ordinary Gloss on Ex. :, citing Bede. This section is a pastiche of quotations and paraphrases from Guide

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. Fifthly, the sages would teach the name of twelve letters to anyone who wanted to learn it. Later on, when people had become quite evil, there was complete silence regarding the name of four letters, and in its place the sages employed the name of twelve letters. This is why from that time “only the humble and the priests” taught in that name, “in order to bless the people with it in the sanctuary.”7 . Rabbi Moses writes four things about the fourth name of God, which is the name of forty-two letters. The first is that it is not one simple name, as is also the case in the name of twelve letters mentioned above. Just as that was one name composed of many which together made up twelve, so this is one name made up of many which all taken together equal forty-two letters.8 . The second point is that each of these names indicates some perfection from whose concept there is a path leading to knowledge of the Creator’s substance. Taken altogether they lead to a higher perfection than any of them taken individually, and this is signified in the name made up of them all. Let us give an example. The word “benediction” is one word made up of two: “bene” (i.e, well) and “dictio” (i.e., saying). Likewise, the Holy Spirit is one name made up of two, “sanctus” and “spiritus.” The individual names in each of these also have their own meanings and the perfections proper to what they signify. The first word, benediction, taken together has ten letters; and the second, Holy Spirit, has fifteen. Each of these two words signifies a perfection that their individual components do not. It is possible that not only the names (both as making up the compound and as in it when it is whole) but also the numerical value of the letters of the names (e.g., forty-two or twelve) signify some perfection in God. They could indicate perfections and properties of the divine nature with regard to the order of letters in the names, their nature and their shape, just as, for example, with us the secondary “stars” of the lower regions (whether in the air, the clouds, water, the earth and things growing on earth) point to the superior nature and properties of the primary heavenly stars. “Appearances in this world are subject to celestial appearances,” as Ptolemy says in the ninth axiom of his Centiloquium,9 because inferior things signify the . Ibid. . Ibid. . The Centiloquium is a work pseudonymously attributed to Ptolemy.

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nature, shape, order, and number of superior things, just as effects signify their causes. Alchemy, geomancy, pyromancy, and many similar sciences trust in this.10 With us, for example, some letters are voiced, others unvoiced, others liquid insofar as they belong to the genus and species of letters.11 Each letter has its own proper form. Some hold that the number and order of letters in nouns is perhaps not without meaning and a natural propriety so that neither the order nor the number is fortuitous. . The third point is that the things signified by these names are not to be taken “at face value,” but according to the secret hidden thing they signify.12 For example, with alchemists the name “sun” means gold, the name “moon” silver, and so on. So too, Aristotle often attacks the surface meaning of Plato rather than the inner sense. . The fourth point is because this name, like the twelve-letter name, is a name set apart as dedicated and sacred to God. It approaches more closely the purity of the four-letter name without attaining it. This is why the sages have said: “The forty-two letter name is holy and sanctified and will only be given to a humble person of mature years who is not wrathful, nor a drunkard, nor subject to bad habits, and who is on good terms with people. Everyone who knows it, guards himself in it and keeps it pure, is beloved above and popular below. His reverence descends upon created things, and his instruction is always in his hand. He lives in two ages: this present one and that to come.”13 After this he adds: “What a distance there is between what people understand by these words and what is in the mind of the speaker, because many think that they are only letters pronounced, and that there is no meaning in them through which one gains promised higher levels,” that is, “the grasp of the Agent Intellect.”14 . Fifth, there is another “name of two letters,” whatever it is, which Rabbi Moses writes about. One point about it is that “it is derived from the four-letter name,” the second is that it is settled and

. Geomancy and pyromancy are forms of divination by signs taken from handfuls of earth and from fire. . Priscian, Grammatical Institutes ..–. . Maimonides, Guide .. . Ibid., citing the Talmud. . Ibid.

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imposed on God “by reason of the stability of his essence.”15 This is why that name of itself does not directly signify God, but stability. . There is still a sixth name of God, namely “Shaddai,” which is “derived from ‘dai,’ that is ‘sufficiency.’ ”16 Hence this name signifies sufficiency directly and immediately, but God only mediately, indirectly, and in a secondary way. In the same way the firmness, stability, and immobility of the divine essence is signified in or through the two-letter name, as in the text, “I am God and I do not change” (Ml. :), and in Boethius, “Remaining stable, he gives movement to all.”17 The immensity and infinity of the divine essence is illuminated for our understanding through this, because the Infinite has nothing by means of which or from which it is moved since there is nothing outside it which could do so. It cannot be moved by itself, because nothing moves itself [in this way]. Even if you grant that the Infinite could be moved, it would still have no place to move from or to, since there is nothing outside it. This is clear from the first book of the Physics.18 . Similarly, the name “Shaddai, which is derived from ‘dai,’ or ‘sufficiency,’” signifies that the “divine essence is self-sufficient” in itself and in other things. I say that it is sufficient for itself in the realm of existence and in everything else—knowledge, will, power, operation, and universally all things. This belongs to it alone and nothing below it. In everything below it the essence is not self-sufficient in relation to all things, and therefore it needs something else to help it. For example, the architect’s essence does not suffice for the work of art, but above and beyond this habitual power, the habit of art, instruments, and other things are required. The same is true of everything generated or created below God. What is second always depends on what is first and is not self-sufficient unless it is helped and moved by what is first.19 Thus the perfection of the divine essence and its sufficiency is signified through the name “Shaddai” by which “its substance is self-sufficient” in everything and hence has no accident. There is no place for an accident where the essence is totally self-sufficient.

. . . . .

Guide . in modern versions. Ibid. Boethius, Consolation of Pbilosophy , poem . Aristotle, Phys. . (a). Cf. Book of Causes prop. .

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. Consequently, the name “Shaddai” signifies that God is Existence Itself and that his essence is Existence Itself. 20 He is what he is and who he is. “I am who I am,” and “He who is sent me” (Ex. :). “Through him and in him” (Rm. :) as Sufficiency Itself is everything that is; in him and through him and from him there is enough for all—“Our sufficiency is from God” ( Co. :). He it is who gives rest to himself in himself, and in him and through him all things come to rest, following Augustine’s saying in Book  of the Confessions, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”21 Every effort of nature and of art pursues, desires, and seeks existence. Every agent and even the subject of action is restless, is not self-sufficient, does not rest from motion and from the labor of action and passion below or outside of existence. When it has achieved existence, it rests and is satisfied; the turbulence and conflict of action, passion, and motion are stilled. . This is the reason why the act of begetting that confers existence is nontemporal. It is the goal of time, because it is not in the motion that is measured by time.22 It is different with the alteration which assists begetting, because this is in motion and hence in time. In it there is an angry murmur and struggle between the agent and the subject of action that is not silent, satisfied, or at rest until the motion is finished and the act of becoming has reached existence itself. I have noted this in expounding the Genesis text: “God rested on the seventh day” (Gn. :).23 . It is clear then that just as the stability and infinity of the divine essence is signified in the two-letter name which is taken from the “concept of firmness,” so too the perfection of the divine essence is signified in the name “Shaddai,” which is taken from the concept of sufficiency. This latter is existence: It gives rest to all things, is sufficient for them all. In it, as in existence, all things rest and have enough. What has been said about these two names generally holds for all the names used of God in the scriptures, save only for the “four-letter name which is not derived from a work and does not express any participation,”24 as we said above. . . . . .

See Eckhart, General Prologue to the Three-Part Work no. . Augustine, Conf. ... Aristotle, Generation and Corruption . (b), and Phys. . (b). Cf. Comm. Gen. nos. , . Maimonides, Guide ..

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. As a consequence from what has been said, in the seventh place there is that other name of God, I mean the name “Who is.”“He who is sent me” (Ex. :). John Damascene in Book  says that this is the first name of God,25 and Thomas gives three beautiful reasons for this in Ia, q. , a. . . This can be proven in another fashion here by the following four arguments. The first is this: No name is more proper to man than the name “man.” Therefore, no name is more proper to Existence Itself than the name “existence.” But God is Existence Itself, as we have said. . The second argument is this. That name is most proper to a thing which encompasses everything that belongs to and is attributed to it. But Existence Itself has and possesses everything which is proper to God. Therefore, this name “Existence” is the first and most proper of all God’s names. The major is explained as follows. Not everything that exists is called “man,” nor everything that lives or senses, because all these things are not proper to man, but are shared by other things. But everything which reasons and makes syllogisms is called “man,” because reasoning is proper to the thing called man. The minor is evident by means of a universal induction, for example as in the text, “From him, through him and in him are all things” (Rm. :). The same is clear from the fact that God is everywhere, and from the fact that God is in everything created through power, presence, and essence, totally in each thing—totally within and totally without. Therefore, he is not moved, nor changed, nor corrupted no matter what corrupts, just as the soul is not corrupted when the hand is cut off, because the whole soul is in the hand in such a way that it is also completely outside the hand. You must not think that existence is not totally in every being, but only some part of existence. A part of existence is no existence and consequently does not give existence, just as a part of a man is not a man, and so on. Further, existence belongs to and is attributed to God because he is said to be lasting and eternal, having no cause nor principle, but himself being the cause and principle of all things. The same can be said about everything that is generally spoken about God. All these statements more plainly and clearly appear to belong to God under the name of existence than under the name “God.”

. John Damascene, Orthodox Faith ..

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. The minor and major premises of the second argument are clear, and so the conclusion follows, that is, that of all the names of God existence is the first and proper one. This is why Avicenna very frequently, especially in his Metaphysics, speaks of God as “necessary existence.” Rabbi Moses and many others rightly do the same. Only God’s existence is “necessary existence.” Someone might perhaps think that existence is the name of four letters itself, because the term “existence” [esse] has literally four letters and many hidden properties and perfections. It also does not seem “to be derived from a work nor express any participation.” But this is enough. . The third argument for the thesis is this. In every being there are three things to consider: genus, species, and supposit.26 Because a thing is constituted in existence, known and hence named from these three, it follows that any created thing receives its name from genus, species, and the property of supposit. For example, Martin truly is and is called an animal by virtue of genus; he is truly called a man by virtue of species, and he is truly and properly called Martin by virtue of the property of his supposit. The names taken from the genus and species belong to many others and by nature are common and communicable to other beings besides Martin. Therefore, only the proper name that is taken from the property and the idea of the supposit (whatever it is) belongs to Martin and is incommunicable to other beings and proper to Martin alone. In God alone, if we could speak this way about the Godhead, the supposit is totally identical with the nature of the species and genus, and existence is the selfsame simple thing, as Thomas says in the second book of his Quodlibetal Questions. Therefore, the term existence is the proper name of God himself. This is what is said in the Psalm: “His name is in the Selfsame” (Ps. :); and Augustine in the ninth book of the Confessions when he discusses Psalm  (“In peace, in the selfsame”: Ps. :) says: “Oh in peace, Oh in the Selfsame. . . You, O Lord, who do not change, are completely the same, because there is no other like you.” To say “in the selfsame” three times is important for referring to genus, species, and supposit. If someone says that God’s name is “the Same,” following the Psalm text, “But you are the same” (Ps. :)—that is,

. The supposit is the concrete existing thing as the subject of predication.

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“the same thing”—then the first part refers to the nature and the second to the supposit.27 . The fourth argument for the main thesis is this. That which is above every name excludes no name, but universally includes all names and in an equally indistinct way. None of these names will consequently be proper to it save that which is above every name and is common to all names. But existence is common to all beings and names, and hence existence is the proper name of God alone. . The major is evident from the nature of what is essentially superior which always includes everything that is beneath it totally in itself, even in its least part. Thus, the whole of time and its differences are found in equal fashion in the now of eternity, the past and future no less than the present. The minor is explained thus. What does not participate in existence is not a being or a name. Wisdom, power, and each of these things either are not names or participate in that which is above every name. But that is existence alone. What is without existence does not exist, is not a name, but a false, empty, phony name. It is not a name, because it does not give knowledge. “Name” is derived from “knowledge,” in that it is the mark of some concept in the intellect making that concept known to others. Therefore, it is a messenger by which a concept is announced to others. This is why nothing impossible deserves to be called a name or word, as the text says: “No word is impossible with God” (Lk. :). . With the major and the minor set forth, the conclusion follows, namely that existence is the proper name of God alone. This is what is said in the Psalm, “You have magnified your holy name above all” (Ps. :), and Philippians , “He has given him a name which is above every name” (Ph. :). The twenty-second proposition of the Book of Causes says, “The First Cause is above every name by which it is named.” . According to Avicenna, “the first thing that comes into the intellect” and what is most general in understanding “is being.”28 This is the reason why the metaphysician in treating the primary beings and the first principles of things presupposes being,29 and why being

. That is, “the same” will refer to the genus and species that comprise the nature, and “thing” will refer to the supposit that actually exists. . Avicenna, Metaphysics .. . Aristotle, Met. . (a).

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is and is said to be his subject in that it underlies and is presupposed by everything, even the first act of knowing and grasping. Every noun and word is a mark and sign of a preceding apprehension. Hence the meaning of the passage about “everything that is impossible with God” (Lk. :) is that anything whose existence is impossible will not be and is not a “word.” . Finally, in the eighth place we must take a look at the universal names of God, such as when he is called steadfast, generous, good, wise, and the like. On these you have [what I said] above on the fifteenth chapter concerning the text “Almighty is his name.” I still have something to note here, first about affirmative terms, like wise and others, and second about negative ones. . Rabbi Moses in [Guide] . says: “Nothing is in the Creator but the true, perfectly realized simplicity.”30 Therefore, anyone who “attributes positive denominations to the Creator sins in four ways.” First, because the intellect and the apprehension of the one grasping something of this sort about God is “limited.” Second, because such a person “makes God participate,” that is, he understands him as having parts, and not as perfectly realized simplicity, or else as “participating,” that is, he makes him participate and share something with the creature. Third, because “he apprehends God other than he is”; and fourth, because such a person removes “God’s existence from his heart,” even if he does not know it. . He proves the premises in this chapter with the following words: “The explanation of this matter is that everyone who is limited in apprehending the truth of something grasps some part of its truth, but does not know how to grasp the other part, e.g., as when a person understands that man is living, but not the truth of his rationality. In the Creator there is no multiplicity in the truth of his essence that would enable you to know one part and be ignorant of another. Similarly, one who shares something with someone knows the truth of some substance as it is and attributes the truth of the substance to something else . . . Likewise, one who apprehends a thing otherwise than it really is cannot do this without apprehending something of what it is. Concerning someone who thinks that taste is a quantity, I do not say that he thinks of the thing otherwise than it is, but that he does not know the essence of taste and does not know to . Guide . in modern editions.

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what the term applies.” Later on he says, “Anyone who attributes a denomination to the Creator . . . thinks that the name applies to him. This is not in the nature of things, but is a useless thought, as though one were to use that name about something that did not exist, because there is no being like that.” . He says, “An example would be of a man who has heard the name elephant and knows that it is something alive. He wants to know its shape and truth, and someone responds who leads him astray, saying ‘It is something having one foot and three wings that lives at the bottom of the sea. Its body shines like clear light, its face is like a human face, and sometimes it flies through the air, other times it swims in the sea like a fish.’ Such a person would have the wrong idea of an elephant and would be limited in his apprehension; the way he conceived an elephant would be vain, because there is nothing like this among real beings. It is only a privation to which the name of a being is attributed.”31 . This is why he says in another chapter that the sages find it is dangerous, harmful, and unfitting to hear someone piling up words about God even in prayer, due to the imperfection which names and words entail and their distance from God’s simplicity.32 Thus the text of the sage, “God is in heaven, you are upon the earth, therefore let your words be few” (Qo. :); and in Psalm  according to another version it says, “Speak in your hearts and on your beds and always be silent” (Ps. :).33 Again, in another Psalm where we have “A hymn is fitting for you, O God,” (Ps. :), the text of Rabbi Moses has, “Silence is praise for you,” or “To be silent is praise for you.” Therefore, he concludes that “our every affirmative apprehension of God . . . is defective for drawing near to understanding him. . . Whatever we say of God in praise and exaltation . . . diminishes what belongs to him and is a defect,” or withdrawal from knowing him.34 This is how to explain the verse of  Kings : “Do not multiply to speak lofty things” ( K. :). Rabbi Moses also says, “Let the Creator be praised. In the apprehension of his essence the inquiries of the sciences receive their

. This is taken from Guide ., but in a rather different form from that found in modern versions. . Guide .. . Ibid. . Ibid.

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limit, wisdom is held to be ignorance, and elegance of words is foolishness.”35 The Savior himself says, “When you pray, do not say many words” (Mt. :); and Proverbs  says, “Where there are many words sin is not lacking” (Pr. :). . A threefold reason can now again be given for what has been said. The first point is this. Everything which with us is found in things is in them in a formal sense, but in God they are in no way formally found, because they do not inform him, but [they are there] virtually.36 To grasp these things or to affirm them of God is false and unfitting, just as if we were to call God a circle or changeable. There is no circle or changeableness in God, but rather the idea of the circle and the idea of changeableness. The idea of circle is not a circle itself, nor is the idea of changeableness changeable, just as there is no stone in the soul, but the [intelligible] species of a stone.37 . The second reason is this. Reason in its essence belongs to intellect and to truth, for truth is only in the intellect, not outside it. Therefore, the perfections in exterior things are not true perfections, and to attribute them to God is to apprehend him imperfectly and as not being totally pure Intellect himself, but as being something external, at least with some part of him, as is the case in created intellects. . The third reason is this. Existence receives nothing, since it is last,38 and it is not received in anything, since it is first.39 But God is existence, “the first and the last” (Is. :). Therefore, nothing is positively received by God nor apprehended truly in him, but it is empty and incorrect. So much for the affirmative names applied to God. . In the second place we need to look at what is negatively said about God. The first thing to recognize here is that “a negative statement provides no truth about the thing to which the statement applies”—nor about anything that is in it.40 Therefore, “from negatives nothing follows,”41 is known, or established in existence. A two. Guide .. . That is, “in power” (virtute). . See Aristotle, Soul . (b); and Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles .. . See Boethius, How Substances Are Good; and Thomas Aquinas, On the Soul .. ad . . Thomas Aquinas, In I Sent. d. , q. , a. , citing Pseudo-Dionysius. . Maimonides, Guide .. . Peter of Spain, Logical Summaries .

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fold question remains. First, according to the saints and doctors in general how is it that negations in the Godhead or in God are true? Hence, even Rabbi Moses himself, as mentioned above,42 says about the passage in Exodus  “Almighty is his name” (Ex. :): “Know that a negative proposition concerning the Creator is true; there is nothing doubtful in it, nor does it detract from the Creator’s truth in any way. But an affirmative proposition about him is partly equivocal and partly imperfect.” Later he says, “We do not have any way to speak about God except through negatives.”43 Further, what is the difference between Moses, Solomon, Paul, John, and the other wise men and any nincompoop whatever in knowing God if the only things they know about him are pure negations? . There is still the second question. How do negatives spoken about God differ from affirmatives if the latter posit nothing, and the former, that is, the negatives, do not posit either, but only deny? [In answer to this,] know that affirmations of their nature produce knowledge of something that is either the substance of what is being talked about, or what belongs to it, such as a property or an accident. Negations, on the other hand, are not so by nature, but as negative terms they signify only the removal or privation of a perfection. Negation surely takes away the whole of what it finds and posits nothing. Blindness, as Anselm says, does not posit anything more in the eye than it does in the stone.44 Therefore, the negations that are said of God only show that nothing of what is found in external things and grasped by the senses is in him. . To make this clearer, let us look at an example.45 Someone sees “a person far off,” and asks what it is. Somebody answers and says that what he sees and asks about is “a living thing.” Someone else responds that what he sees is not metal nor a stone. The first respondent, though he did not fully and exactly say what it was that was seen, still brought something to mind which in some way belongs “to the universe” that one sees. The second, however, who said that what was seen was not a stone, said nothing at all about the substance or

. . . .

Maimonides, Guide .. Ibid. Anselm of Canterbury, Virginal Conception . Taken from Maimonides, Guide ..

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anything in the substance, except by way of negation. This is the solution to the second question. . As far as both parts of the first question are concerned, we can say that just as a negation in law is not a direct but an indirect proof (e.g., “Martin did not commit adultery at Thebes,” if he was seen at Athens on that day and at that hour),46 so in our proposition the manifest works of God prove that he is not material, and therefore it is an evident conclusion that he is free from every imperfection that accompanies the property of matter, such as ignorance, capacity to change, and the like. Because privation necessarily follows possession, and negation is based on affirmation, it can be decisively concluded that something exists in God, whatever it is, that excludes ignorance, capacity to change, and this sort of thing, just as light does darkness and good evil. . Here note that “negative names are not attributed to the Creator save in the way in which one denies something of a thing that is not fittingly found in it, for example, when we say that a wall does not see.”47 In the same way we say that the heavens are not “composed of the matter and form” found in things that corrupt, and that “the heavens are neither light nor heavy, nor ‘made,’ nor do they receive passing influences. Nor do they have a flavor or odor, or anything of the sort.” We say all these negative things, “because we are ignorant of their nature.”48 As Wisdom  says, “Who will investigate what is in heaven?” (Ws. :) This is the answer to the first part of the first question. . As for the second part, know that “whatever you add by way of negative names with respect to the Creator, you come nearer to grasping him and will be closer to him than the person who does not know how to remove from God the perfections and attributes that have been proven to be far from him. It will be a conclusion and advance for knowledge to prohibit and remove from the Creator by way of negative names those things that have been proven to be meaning-

. Cicero, Invention ... . Maimonides, Guide .. . Ibid. The point is that the higher nature of the heavens, only partially understood by us, involves many negations of our own realm of experience and thus hints at the completely unknowable nature of God.

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less when applied to him.”49 Let us give an example. Say there is someone who does not know how to prove that God is not a body. Therefore, when he thinks of God, he imagines him to be a body, having the qualities and properties he sees in bodies. Another person knows through demonstration that God is not a body and does not possess the things that are perfections in bodies, and that to posit them in God is impossible because they have many imperfections. There is a third person who knows by demonstration that not only corporality, but also all matter is far from God, and consequently all the properties of matter, such as corruptibility, the capacity to change, and the like, are also distant from him. Even the things that seem to be perfections in material things, but are really only remedies of imperfections, for example, motion, generation, corruption, alteration, and things of the sort, are not in God in any way. There is a fourth person who knows how to prove universally that nothing that is created or limited or determined to some genus of being is in God. Hence, in God himself there is nothing which signifies an end or a limit, like definition, or demonstration, existence from another, the possibility of nonexistence, all changeableness, instability, and anything of the sort. How great the perfection in knowledge of the second person is in relation to that of the first, the third to the second and the fourth to the third is clear. This is sufficient for the other part of the first question. The stronger the argument by which a person removes these attributes from God, the more perfect he is in divine knowledge. The same holds for one who knows how to deny many such things of him by means of the removal that happens through negative names. . Rabbi Moses says, “Therefore, the sages agree that the sciences do not grasp the Creator, and only he himself understands himself. Our understanding in his case is a distancing rather than an approach to grasping him.”50 Hence Plato, as Macrobius says,51 when “he was inspired to speak about God did not dare to say what he is, but only knew that no one can know what he is.” This supports the

. Maimonides, ibid. . Maimonides, ibid. . Macrobius, Commentary on the Dream of Scipio ...

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axiom of Socrates: “I know that I don’t know,”52 which is like saying, “The one thing I know about God is that I do not know him.” Algazel toward the end of the third tractate of his Metaphysics agrees with all this, as do many of the ancient philosophers. . Cited, e.g., by Jerome in Letter ...

From Granum sinapis de divinitate pulcherrima VII Wirt als ein kint wirt toup, wirt blint! dîn selbes icht mûz werden nicht, al icht, al nicht trîb uber hôr! lâ stat, lâ zît, ouch bilde mît! genk âne wek den smalen stek, sô kums du an der wûste spôr

VII Become as a child, become deaf, become blind! Your very something must become nothing, drive all something, all nothing away! Leave place, leave time, and images as well! Go without way on the narrow path, thus you will come to the desert trace.

VIII Ô sêle mîn genk ûz, got in! sink al mîn icht in gotis nicht, sink in dî grundelôze vlût! vlî ich von dir, du kumst zu mir. vorlîs ich mich, sô vind ich dich, ô uberweselîches gût!

VIII O my soul, get out, god in! all my something sink into god’s nothing, sink into the bottomless swell! If I flee from you, you come to me. If I lose myself, I find you, O goodness beyond being!

. D (–) Paradiso, Canto XXXIII, –. My original English translation based on Dante Alighieri, La Divina Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata, ed. G. Petrocchi,  vols. (Milan: Mondadori, –).

Dante’s Paradiso sums up an entire age of theological reflection and mystical experience oriented to the end of a direct, unmediated experience of God. The apophatic thought of medieval mystic writers such as Bernard of Clairvaux and Richard of Saint Victor is distilled especially in the description of the final vision of God that concludes the Paradiso and therewith the Divine Comedy.1 This vision is beyond language and, moreover, configures itself precisely as the beyond of language: it abounds in linguistic, or ultra-linguistic metaphors, including that of the speechless infant (in-fans, literally, “without speech”). Nevertheless, this ineluctable failure of language to express its object—a failure which is given maximum relief by constant reiteration of the “ineffability topos”—paradoxically itself becomes the supreme expression of the “vision.” Dante’s entire poetic itinerary leads up to this final resolution in a poetics of silence. God is his goal, in some sense, throughout the course of his theologically driven poetic career, but in the end he comes to the full realization that God’s transcendence condemns him as poet to developing discourses that are analogous to apophatic theological language, which is designed to allude to what stubbornly repels every effort of expression. He therefore links his poetic project with the great speculative and contemplative tradition based on the inexpressibility of the divine nature in Christian, as well as in Jewish and Muslim thought. A contemporary of Meister Eckhart (d. ), Marguerite Porete (d. ), Abraham Abulafia (d. ca. ), Moses de Léon (d. ), and Rumi (d. ), Dante writes at the height of the flourishing of apophatic mysticism in the Middle Ages.2

. The Letter to Can Grande, whether or not it is Dante’s own, provides a critical introduction to the Paradiso that specifies its derivation from the mystical theologies of Richard, Bernard, and Augustine. After discussing the visio Pauli in  Corinthians :–, the Letter goes on in section  to name these three theologians along with some Old and New Testament precedents for Dante’s vision. . See Sells, Mystical Languages of Unsaying, especially p.  n. .

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Dante, like Augustine, does not generally opt for silence, yet his language in the Paradiso is in crucial ways an equivalent for silence. There is a discourse about God, that of Christian revelation, which Dante accepts, but he regrounds it in a secular literary language that transposes its sense and makes it echo, finally, in silence. Here it is the intrinisic negativity and openness of language, not the positive forms of discourse sanctioned by dogmatic theology or rhetoric, that signify the ultimately unsayable and unknowable but desired Beloved toward which language yearns. Like certain modern poets, Dante discovers the pure negativity of language, but he uses it to express an opening toward transcendence, toward the indefinable divinity that transcends every sayable object. Consistently remarkable about Dante’s Paradiso is its faculty of selftranscendence: it builds a total system in order to interrupt and exceed it. The meaning of the whole is realized at the moment when it bursts through its own bounds and shatters its total structure, so as to let something other and transcendent and ineffable, understood nevertheless in terms of the God of Christian revelation, shine through. This happens dramatically at the end of the poem, emblematically with the image of the scattering of the prophetess Sibyl’s leaves. Dante’s language, even in creating a closed circle of coherence, achieves its purpose only in discovering and uncovering its own limitations and its ultimate nullity before God. It thereby gestures beyond itself to what it does not and cannot comprehend. As an encyclopaedic summa of culture and knowledge, the Divine Comedy attempts to say everything and, in a sense, says everything that can be said—in order, in the end, to make appear the horizon of what cannot be said. The concluding passage of the Paradiso follows directly upon Saint Bernard’s Prayer to the Virgin, entreating grace for Dante to attain at last the vision of God. The passage begins with a reference to the eyes of the Virgin Mary in heaven: they are fixed on Bernard as suppliant (literally, orator, in the etymological sense of one praying). Then these eyes turn to the Divine Light.

Dante

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Paradiso, Canto XXXIII, –

The eyes beloved and reverenced by God, fixed on the suppliant, demonstrated how much devout prayers are pleasing to her; then they were turned toward the eternal light, into which it should not be believed that any creature can penetrate with such clear eye. And I, who was nearing the end of all longings, just as I had to do, completed the ardor of my craving. Bernard signaled to me and smiled in order that I look up; but I already on my own was just as he wished me; For my sight, becoming clean and candid, entered more and more into the ray of the high light which of itself is true. From here on out my vision was greater than saying shows, which gives way before such sight, and our memory too gives way before such excess. Like one who sees in sleep, on whom, after dreaming, the passion remains impressed, while the rest comes no more to mind, so am I, for my vision ceases almost entirely, yet still the sweetness that was born of it distills within my heart. So the snow is unsealed by the sun; so in the wind on light leaves the sentences of Sibyl were dispersed. O highest light, who are exalted far above our mortal concepts, lend my mind a bit once more of that as which you then appeared, and make my tongue so potent that it leave to posterity but a single spark of your glory, since, by returning in some degree to my memory

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and sounding a little in these verses, more will be perceived of your victory. I believe, given the acuteness of the living ray I suffered, that I would have been lost had my eyes turned away from it. And I remember that I was more ardent on this account to sustain it, so much so that I united my vision with that infinite Worth. Oh abounding grace, whence I presumed to fix my look on the eternal light, so long that I consumed my vision there! In its profundity I saw that what unfolds itself throughout the universe inthrees itself in one volume bound by love: substances and accidents and their dispositions, as if conflated together, in such manner that what I tell of is a simple light. The universal form of this knot I believe I saw because, saying this, I feel my joy grow greater. A single point is to me more oblivious than twenty-five centuries to the enterprise that made Neptune admire the Argo’s shadow. Thus my mind, suspended wholly, looked fixedly, unwavering and intent, and always becoming the more ardent as it looked. In that light one becomes such that it is impossible one should consent to turn from it to any other sight; because the good, that is the will’s object, gathers itself wholly within that light, and outside it all is deficient that there is perfect. Now my tale will be more brief, even with respect to what I recall, than that of an infant that bathes its tongue still at the breast. Not because any more than a simple semblance was in the living light I saw, which is always what it was before. but because of vision that grew stronger

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in me as I looked, one sole appearance, while I was mutating, for me was in travail. In the profound and lucid substance of the high light appeared to me three circles of three colors and one circumference; and one from the other as rainbow from rainbow appeared reflected, and the third appeared fire that here and there breathed equally. Oh how short is speech and weak compared to my concept! and this to that which I saw— so much so that to say “little” is too much. Oh eternal light, who only in yourself reside, alone knowing yourself, and by yourself known and knowing, love and smile on yourself! The circling which so conceived appeared in you like light reflected, regarded by my eyes a while, within itself, of its same color, appeared to me painted with our effigy; therefore my vision was wholly fixed on it. Like the geometer wholly intent upon squaring the circle, who fails to find by thinking the principle he lacks, so was I before that novel sight; I wished to see how our image fits with the circle and installs itself there; but so much did not suit these pinions of mine: were it not that my mind was struck by lightning in which its wish came true. The power of high phantasy here failed; but already my desire and will were turned, like a wheel that uniformly moves, by the love that moves the sun and the other stars.

. G P ( –) Triads in Defence of the Holy Hesychasts, I.iii, chapters , , –. Trans. Nicholas Gendle, The Triads, ed. John Meyendorff (New York: Paulist Press, ), pp. –. Greek text in Défense des saints hésychastes, ed. John Meyendorff, nd ed. (Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, ).

Gregory Palamas was born in Constantinople into a noble family and received a classical Byzantine education. At the age of twenty he turned to the monastic life and joined a community on Mount Athos. He lived for a time as a hermit, rejoining the larger community for weekly Eucharists. In solitude he would have concentrated on constant repetition of the Prayer of Jesus (“Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner”), reciting it inwardly so as to induce a trance-like state of union. Ordained a priest in  and even serving as abbot around , he became a prominent figure in ecclesiastical politics and theological controversies. This caused him to be subjected to periods of imprisonment and exile at the hands not only of Turks but also of his Byzantine political enemies. In his polemic against the philosopher Barlaam the Calabrian, between  and , Gregory wrote a series of nine treatises grouped into three triads expounding the hesychast spirituality: For the Defence of Those Who Practice Sacred Quietude (Êper t©n erøq Ôsyxazont©n). The hesychasts (from Ôsyxºa for quiet, stillness) were hermits living the contemplative life on a model originating in the fourth century with “desert fathers” such as Anthony, Evagrius, and Macarius. Barlaam had attacked the hesychasts for pretending to have a direct experience of the divine presence even in their bodies, and these claims are what Gregory defended. According to this hesychastic spirituality, by ceaseless recitation of the Jesus Prayer in coordination with a yoga-like technique of controlled breathing, the monks’ bodies became the locus of an incarnate presence of the divine. Specifically, they believed that the divine light of the Transfiguration, shining on Mount Tabor in Christ’s human body, was communicated to all those incorporated into Christ’s spiritual body: they became



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participants in the uncreated energies that animate it.1 The hesychasts thus claimed that the human body together with the mind could be transfigured by the experience of this divine light, thereby rendering God’s energy known in the created order. This process of transfiguration has no end but remains always open to the inexhaustible transcendence that informs it and that exceeds any given experience. In this respect, Palamas extends Gregory of Nyssa’s notion of epektasis—irresolvable tension toward never-ending perfection. In his justification of the strong claims of the hesychasts to experience God himself in his operations or energeia, distinct from his essence, but nonetheless genuinely the divine presence, Gregory emphasizes that this experience takes place not through any natural faculties but in and through the Holy Spirit, which transfigures its recipient in mind and body. Barlaam, having journeyed from early humanist, Renaissance Italy to Constantinople in search of original Greek philosophical texts and very much under the influence of Aristotelian philosophy, conceived of all knowledge and possible experience only in terms of human nature and its faculties. By such means, God himself could not be known, but only his symbols or effects. In other words, God could be known only through the mediation of his creatures. Barlaam, moreover, accused the hesychasts of denying that vehicles such as the sacraments and even Scripture were necessary to salvation, while relying exclusively on their purported direct experience of God, which he considered fraudulent. Gregory, by contrast, characteristically approaches theology not only as predicated on concepts and doctrines, as “revealed premises,” but as based on religious experience. This emphasis is crucial to the Eastern Orthodox mystical tradition stemming from hermetic monasticism, which values direct experience, particularly in prayer and sacrament, above verbally formulated and transmitted teachings. This fundamentally apophatic tradition leads from Gregory of Nyssa and Basil of Caesarea (–), through Dionysus and Maximus the Confessor (–), to Gregory Palamas: all represent in various ways the insight that God can be accessible to personal experience in his energeia with no detriment to the absolute transcendence of his essence beyond all possibility of knowing.2 Gregory’s teaching was strongly opposed, but

. See, further, John Meyendorff, A Study of Gregory Palamas, nd ed. (London and Crestwood, N.Y.: Faith Press and St. Vladmir’s Seminary Press, ). . Vladimir Lossky, Essai sur la théologie mystique de l’église d’orient (Aubier: Éditions Montaigne, ), p. . See, further, John Meyendorff, St. Gregoire Palamas et la mystique orthodoxe (Paris: Seuil, ) and Introduction a l’étude de Grégoire Palamas

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in the end it enjoyed enormous success and diffusion in the Greek and Russian Orthodox worlds. It remains normative in Orthodox religion to this day.3 (Paris: Seuil, ), trans. George Lawrence as A Study of Gregory Palamas (London: Faith Press, ). . Cf. Vladimir Lossky, In the Image and Likeness of God, ed. John H. Erickson and Thomas E. Bird (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, ).

Triads in Defence of the Holy Hesychasts, I.iii, chapters , , – [Apophatic theology as positive experience]

I. iii: The third question I understand better now, Father, how it is that the accusers of the hesychasts not only lack the knowledge that comes from works, and are even ignorant of that which comes from the experience of life, which alone is certain and irrefutable; they also absolutely refuse to listen to the words of the Fathers. “Puffed up with pride, they busy carnal minds with things that they have not seen”,1 as the Apostle says. They are so far from the right way that, while openly calumniating the saints, they are not even in accord with each other. Thus, in undertaking to speak of illumination, they consider any illumination which is accessible to the senses as illusion, but yet themselves affirm that all divine illumination is accessible to the senses. For they claim that all illuminations that occurred among the Jews and their prophets under the Old Law and before the coming of Christ were only symbolic; but that the illumination on Thabor at the time of the Saviour’s Transfiguration, and the one when the Holy Spirit descended, and all similar phenomena, were clearly perceptible to the . Col. : (variant).

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senses.2 According to them, knowledge is the only illumination that transcends the senses, and so they declare it to be superior to the divine light, and the goal of all contemplation. I shall now briefly describe to you what they claim they have heard certain people say.3 I beg you to be patient with me, and bear in mind that I myself have never heard anything of this sort from any hesychasts. I cannot persuade myself that they could have heard such things from one of our people. They say that they pretended to become disciples of certain monks without accepting their teaching, and wrote down what these teachers said in order to cajole and persuade them.4 Thus, according to them, these masters suggested they should entirely abandon Sacred Scripture as something evil, and attach themselves to prayer alone: for it is prayer that drives away the evil spirits which become mingled with the very being of man. They said also that these monks become inflamed in a sensible manner, leap about and are filled with feelings of joy, without their souls being in any way changed. They see sensible lights, and come to think that the sign of divine things is a white colour, and of evil things a fiery yellow.5 They [the anti-hesychasts] write that those who taught them speak thus: but for their own part, they declare that all this is of the devil; and if anyone contradicts them on any point, they say this is a sign of passion, which in turn is a mark of error.6 They throw numerous reproaches in the faces of their adversaries; in their writings they imitate the many convolutions and perfidies of the serpent, turning back upon themselves in many ways, employing many ruses, and interpreting their own words in different and contradictory manners. They do not possess the firmness and simplicity of truth, but . That is, the theophanies of the Old Testament were symbolic, those of the New actual—not in itself a contradictory view. . For Barlaam’s account of the spiritual practices of the hesychasts, see Ep. V to Ignatius, ed. G. Schirò, Barlaam Calabro epistole greche i primordi episodici e dottrinari delle lotte esicaste (Palermo, ), pp. –. . An unworthy suggestion of skullduggery! In fact, Barlaam says that in becoming for a while the pupil of the monks, he wished only to accept the best of their teaching (Schirò, ibid., p. ). We may well suppose that certain neoMessalian excesses were current in some quarters towards which B. was right to adopt a critical attitude. . Cf. ibid., p. . . Barlaam, Ep. III to Palamas (ibid., p. ).

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fall easily into contradiction. Ashamed at the accusation of their own conscience, they seek like Adam to hide themselves in complication, conundrums and ambiguities about different meanings of words. I therefore beseech you, Father, to clarify our opinion on their views.

I. iii. . The human mind also, and not only the angelic, transcends itself, and by victory over the passions acquires an angelic form.7 It, too, will attain to that light8 and will become worthy of a supernatural vision of God, not seeing the divine essence, but seeing God by a revelation appropriate and analogous to Him. One sees, not in a negative way— for one does see something—but in a manner superior to negation. For God is not only beyond knowledge, but also beyond unknowing; 9 His revelation itself is also truly a mystery of a most divine and an extraordinary kind, since the divine manifestations, even if symbolic, remain unknowable by reason of their transcendence. They appear, in fact, according to a law which is not appropriate to either human or divine nature—being, as it were, for us yet beyond us—so that no name can properly describe them. And this God indicated when, in reply to Manoe’s question, “What is your name?”, He replied, “It is marvellous”,10 for that vision, being not only incomprehensible but also unnameable, is no less wonderful. However, although vision be beyond negation, yet the words used to explain it are inferior to the negative way. Such explanations proceed by use of . Cf. Ps. Denys [Pseudo-Dionysius], De div. nom. I., and Evagrius, De orat. , PG , D. [PG stands for Patrologia Graeca, ed. J.-P. Migne (Turnholti: Brepols, ).] . That is, the divine uncreated light of Thabor, God Himself in His outward manifestation (or energies). . A key idea in Palamas, deriving ultimately from Ps. Denys (e.g., De myst. theol. I.): The Divine Reality transcends not only the positive concepts we may hold of God (kataphatic theology), but also the negations of the apophatic way. The “knowledge” of the utterly unknowable God is a supremely positive experience, not a cognitive void; for it is the superabundance of light and being in God that dazzles the created mind. God, as Denys says, is beyond unknowability (hyperagnostos), beyond the human antithesis of affirmation and negation. Similarly the vision of such a God must be ineffable; yet it is less misleading to say what it is not than what it is. . Judg. :–.

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examples or analogies, and this is why the word “like”, pointing to a simile, appears so often in theological discourse; for the vision itself is ineffable, and surpasses all expression.

 So, when the saints contemplate this divine light within themselves, seeing it by the divinising communion of the Spirit, through the mysterious visitation of perfecting illuminations—then they behold the garment of their deification, their mind being glorified and filled by the grace of the Word, beautiful beyond measure in His splendour,11 just as the divinity of the Word on the mountain glorified with divine light the body conjoined to it. For “the glory which the Father gave Him”, He Himself has given to those obedient to Him, as the Gospel says, and “He willed that they should be with Him and contemplate His glory”.12 How can this be accomplished corporeally, now that He Himself is no longer corporeally present after His ascension to the heavens? It is necessarily carried out in a spiritual fashion, for the mind becomes supercelestial, and as it were the companion of Him who passed beyond the heavens for our sake, since it is manifestly yet mysteriously united to God, and contemplates supernatural and ineffable visions, being filled with all the immaterial knowledge of a higher light. Then it is no longer the sacred symbols accessible to the senses that it contemplates, nor yet the variety of Sacred Scripture that it knows; it is made beautiful by the creative and primordial Beauty, and illumined by the radiance of God.13 In the same way, according to the revealer and interpreter of their hierarchy,14 the ranks of supracosmic spirits above are hierarchically . The vision of God for Palamas is not an intellectual grasp of an external object, but an interior participation in the life of the Holy Spirit: to see God is to share in this life, i.e., become divinized. This involves a complete transfiguration of the whole person, body and soul together. . John :, . . That is, the transfigured spiritual intellect is able to apprehend directly the transcendent realities figured forth symbolically in Scripture and the Liturgy. . That is, Ps. Denys, the author of the treatise Concerning the Celestial Hierarchy.

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filled, in a way analogous to themselves, not only with the first-given knowledge and understanding, but with the first light in respect of the sublimest triadic initiation. Not only do they [the angels] participate in, and contemplate, the glory of the Trinity, but they likewise behold the manifestation of the light of Jesus, revealed to His disciples on Thabor.15 Judged worthy of this vision, they are initiated into Him, for He is Himself deifying light: They truly draw near to Him, and enjoy direct participation in His divinising rays. This is why the blessed Macarius calls this light “the food of the supracelestial beings”.16 And there is what another theologian says: “All the intelligible array of supracosmic beings, immaterially celebrating this light, give us a perfect proof of the love which the Word bears towards us.”17 And the great Paul, at the moment of encountering the invisible and supracelestial visions that are in Christ, was “ravished”18 and became himself supracelestial, without his mind needing to pass beyond the heavens by actually changing place. This “ravishment” denotes a mystery of an entirely different order, known only to those who have experienced it. But it is not necessary to mention that we ourselves have heard the testimony of Fathers who have had this experience, so as not to expose these things to calumny. But what has already been said should suffice to demonstrate easily to the unconvinced that there is indeed an intellectual illumination, visible to those whose hearts have been purified, and utterly different from knowledge, though productive of it.

 . . . No one has ever seen the fulness of this divine Beauty, and this is why, according to Gregory of Nyssa,19 no eye has seen it, even if it . Ps. Denys, De coel. hier., VII. and De div. nom., I.. . Cf. Hom. XII., PG , BC. . St. Andrew of Crete, Hom. VII in Transfig., PG , C. .  Cor. :. Paul’s ecstasy is frequently cited by the Greek Fathers as a paradigm of mystical experience (e.g., Maximus, Ambig., PG , BC, C, and Cent. V., PG , D.) . Cf. In Cant. hom. IV, PG , CD, and VII, ibid. BC. Gregory of Nyssa points out that the inexhaustibility of the vision of God is a function not only of human limitations but of the transcendent fullness and infinity of the Divine Nature.

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gaze forever: In fact, it does not see the totality such as it is, but only in the measure in which it is rendered receptive to the power of the Holy Spirit. But in addition to this incomprehensibility, what is most divine and extraordinary is that the very comprehension a man may have, he possesses incomprehensibly. Those who see, in fact, do not know the one who enables them to see, hear and be initiated into knowledge of the future, or experience of eternal things, for the Spirit by whom they see is incomprehensible.20 As the great Denys says, “Such a union of those divinised with the light that comes from on high takes place by virtue of a cessation of all intellectual activity.”21 It is not the product of a cause or a relationship, for these are dependent upon the activity of the intellect, but it comes to be by abstraction, without itself being that abstraction.22 If it were simply abstraction, it would depend on us, and this is the Messalian doctrine, “to mount as far as one wills into the ineffable mysteries of God”, as St. Isaac 23 says of these heretics. Contemplation, then, is not simply abstraction and negation; it is a union and a divinisation which occurs mystically and ineffably by the grace of God, after the stripping away of everything from here below which imprints itself on the mind, or rather after the cessation of all intellectual activity; it is something which goes beyond abstraction (which is only the outward mark of the cessation). This is why every believer has to separate off God from all His creatures, for the cessation of all intellectual activity and the resulting union with the light from on high is an experience and a divinising end, granted solely to those who have purified their hearts and re. Palamas here points to a central paradox of Christian experience: that the Holy Spirit, Who is the very milieu of the believer’s innermost life, is also the most elusive and intangible of realites. He as it were effaces Himself to make known the Father through the Son. . De div. nom. I.. . That is, there must be a stripping of the mind (which does require human effort), a kind of mental ascesis, in order that God, Who transcends all concepts (and their negations), may freely make Himself known. One must not confound the apophatic preparation with the ineffable divine gift. . Ep. IV. The Messalian heretics seem to have believed that progress in the vision of God was simply a matter of the spiritual prowess of the believer, in which grace played little part. Fr. Hausherr (in Orientalia Christiana Periodica I, , pp. –) has rightly drawn a parallel with the error of the Pelagians, though in this case it is more a question of an activism of prayer than of outward works.

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ceived grace. And what am I to say of this union, when the brief vision itself is manifested only to chosen disciples, disengaged by ecstasy 24 from all perception of the senses or intellect, admitted to the true vision because they have ceased to see, and endowed with supernatural senses by their submission to unknowing? But we intend to show later on, by God’s aid, that though they have indeed seen, yet their organ of vision was, properly speaking, neither the senses nor the intellect.

 Do you now understand that in place of the intellect, the eyes and ears, they acquire the incomprehensible Spirit and by Him hear, see and comprehend? For if all their intellectual activity has stopped, how could the angels and angelic men see God except by the power of the Spirit? This is why their vision is not a sensation, since they do not receive it through the senses; nor is it intellection, since they do not find it through thought or the knowledge that comes thereby, but after the cessation of all mental activity. It is not, therefore, the product of either imagination or reason; it is neither an opinion nor a conclusion reached by syllogistic argument. On the other hand, the mind does not acquire it simply by elevating itself through negation. For, according to the teaching of the Fathers, every divine command and every sacred law has as its final limit purity of heart; every mode and aspect of prayer reaches its term in pure prayer;25 and every concept which strives from below to. Ecstasis in the Greek Fathers need not imply any kind of paranormal psychological state or loss of consciousness. It is (literally) a “going-out” from oneself, a self-transcendence under the influence of love and divine grace. It enables a supernatural mode of cognition of divine things, which is mystical knowledge, after one has ceased to know and see through the functions of the discursive intellect and the senses. . A technical phrase deriving from Evagrius, “pure prayer” means the state of undifferentiated consciousness when the mind is “naked” of all images and earthly notions. But, Palamas insists, it is not enough to abstract oneself from creation; the mind must be emptied of contingent things so as to be filled with divine ones. He draws a parallel with the moral life: The extirpation of the passions and achievement of “purity of heart” are not matters of static impassivity but of opening up of the self to the inexhaustible life of Heaven.

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wards the One Who transcends all and is separated from all comes to a halt once detached from all created beings. However, it is erroneous to say that over and above the accomplishment of the divine commands, there is nothing but purity of heart. There are other things, and many of them: There is the pledge of things promised in this life, and also the blessings of the life to come, which are rendered visible and accessible by this purity of heart. Thus, beyond prayer, there is the ineffable vision, and ecstasy in the vision, and the hidden mysteries. Similarly, beyond the stripping away of beings, or rather after the cessation [of our perceiving or thinking of them] accomplished not only in words, but in reality, there remains an unknowing which is beyond knowledge; though indeed a darkness, it is yet beyond radiance, and, as the great Denys says,26 it is in this dazzling darkness that the divine things are given to the saints. Thus the perfect contemplation of God and divine things is not simply an abstraction; but beyond this abstraction, there is a participation in divine things, a gift and a possession rather than just a process of negation. But these possessions and gifts are ineffable: If one speaks of them, one must have recourse to images and analogies—not because that is the way in which these things are seen, but because one cannot adumbrate what one has seen in any other way. Those, therefore, who do not listen in a reverent spirit to what is said about these ineffable things, which are necessarily expressed through images, regard the knowledge that is beyond wisdom as foolishness; trampling under foot the intelligible pearls,27 they strive also to destroy as far as possible by their disputations those who have shown them to them.

 As I have said, it is because of their love of men that the saints speak, so far as this is possible, about things ineffable, rejecting the error of those who in their ignorance imagine that, after the abstraction from beings, there remains only an absolute inaction, not an inaction surpassing all action. But, I repeat, these things remain ineffable by their . Cf. Ep. V. . Cf. Matt. : (“pearls before swine”).

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very nature. This is why the great Denys says that after the abstraction from beings, there is no word but “an absence of words”;28 he also says, “After every elevation, we will be united with the Inexpressible.”29 But, despite this inexpressible character, negation alone does not suffice to enable the intellect to attain to superintelligible things. The ascent by negation is in fact only an apprehension of how all things are distinct from God;30 it conveys only an image of the formless contemplation and of the fulfillment of the mind in contemplation, not being itself that fulfillment. But those who, in the manner of angels, have been united to that light celebrate it by using the image of this total abstraction. The mystical union with the light teaches them that this light is superessentially transcendent to all things. Moreover, those judged worthy to receive the mystery with a faithful and prudent ear can also celebrate the divine and inconceivable light by means of an abstraction from all things. But they can only unite themselves to it and see if they have purified themselves by fulfillment of the commandments31 and by consecrating their mind to pure and immaterial prayer, so as to receive the supernatural power of contemplation.

 What then shall we call this power which is an activity neither of the senses nor of the intellect? How else except by using the expression of Solomon, who was wiser than all who preceded him: “a sensation intellectual and divine”.32 By adding those two adjectives, he urges his . Cf. De myst. theol. III. . Cf. ibid. . The cardinal point about the via negativa is that it is neither a species of agnosticism nor itself the vision of God, but rather a necessary preliminary process of mental detachment from created things which provides an image of the otherness of divine ones. . This moral note reappears time and again in the Triads: First and foremost the knowledge of God is not an intellectual matter (in the modern sense), but is acquired by grace and obedience to God’s commands. . In fact, the phrase “divine sense” (aisthesis theia) is an Origenist version of Prov. : (LXX: epignosis theou). The primary exegesis of this key idea [“spiritual sense”] of Eastern Christian spirituality is in Gregory of Nyssa (In cant. hom. I, PG , C).

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hearer to consider it neither as a sensation nor as an intellection, for neither is the activity of the intelligence a sensation, nor that of the senses an intellection. The “intellectual sensation” is thus different from both. Following the great Denys, one should perhaps call it union, and not knowledge. “One should realise,” he says, “that our mind possesses both an intellectual power which permits it to see intelligible things, and also a capacity for that union which surpasses the nature of the intellect and allies it to that which transcends it.”33 And again: “The intellectual faculties become superfluous, like the senses, when the soul becomes deiform, abandoning itself to the rays of the inaccessible light in an unknown union by blind advances.”34 In this union, as St. Maximus puts it, “the saints by beholding the light of the hidden and more than ineffable glory themselves become capable of receiving blessed purity, together with the celestial powers”.35 Let no one think that these great men are referring here to the ascent through the negative way. For the latter lies within the powers of whoever desires it; and it does not transform the soul so as to bestow on it the angelic dignity. While it liberates the understanding from other beings, it cannot by itself effect union with transcendent things. But purity of the passionate part of the soul effectively liberates the mind from all things through impassibility, and unites it through prayer to the grace of the Spirit; and through this grace the mind comes to enjoy the divine effulgence, and acquires an angelic and godlike form.

 This is why the Fathers, following the great Denys, have called this state “spiritual sensation”,36 a phrase appropriate to, and somehow more expressive of, that mystical and ineffable contemplation. For at such a time man truly sees neither by the intellect nor by the body,

. De div. nom. VII.. . Ibid. IV.. . Cf. Cap. theol. , ; PG , , . . Or “perception.” Yet it is neither intellection nor sense perception, but transcendental knowledge, directly infused by the Holy Spirit alone.

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but by the Spirit, and he knows that he sees supernaturally a light which surpasses light. But at that moment he does not know by what organ he sees this light, nor can he search out its nature, for the Spirit through whom he sees is untraceable. This was what Paul said when he heard ineffable words and saw invisible things: “I know not whether I saw out of the body or in the body.”37 In other words, he did not know whether it was his intellect or his body which saw. Such a one does not see by sense perception, but his vision is as clear as or clearer than that by which the sight clearly perceives sensibilia. He sees by going out of himself,38 for through the mysterious sweetness of his vision he is ravished beyond all objects and all objective thought, and even beyond himself. Under the effect of the ecstasy, he forgets even prayer to God. It is this of which St. Isaac speaks, confirming the great and divine Gregory: “Prayer is the purity of the intellect which is produced with dread only from the light of the Holy Trinity.”39 And again, “Purity of spiritual mind is what allows the light of the Holy Trinity to shine forth at the time of prayer. . . . The mind then transcends prayer, and this state should not properly be called prayer, but a fruit of the pure prayer sent by the Holy Spirit. The mind does not pray a definite prayer, but finds itself in ecstasy in the midst of incomprehensible realities. It is indeed an ignorance superior to knowledge.”40 This most joyful reality, which ravished Paul, and made his mind go out from every creature but yet return entirely to himself—this he beheld as a light of revelation, though not of sensible bodies; a light without limit, depth, height or lateral extension. He saw absolutely no limit to his vision and to the light which shone round about him; but rather it was as it were a sun infinitely brighter and greater than the universe, with himself standing in the midst of it, having become all eye.41 Such, more or less, was his vision.

. Cf.  Cor. :. . See note , above, on ecstasy. . Hom. . Isaac is presumably citing Gregory of Nazianzus, though the language is also very reminiscent of Evagrius. . Ibid. . The image of becoming “all eye,” entirely subsumed in the vision that consumes and unites, goes back to Plotinus.

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 This is why the great Macarius says that this light is infinite and supercelestial.42 Another saint, one of the most perfect, saw the whole universe contained in a single ray of this intelligible sun—even though he himself did not see this light as it is in itself, in its full extent, but only to that extent that he was capable of receiving it.43 By this contemplation and by his supra-intelligible union with this light, he did not learn what it is by nature, but he learnt that it really exists, is supernatural and superessential, different from all things; that its being is absolute and unique, and that it mysteriously comprehends all in itself. This vision of the Infinite cannot permanently belong to any individual or to all men.44 He who does not see understands that he is himself incapable of vision because not perfectly conformed to the Spirit by a total purification, and not because of any limitation in the Object of vision. But when the vision comes to him, the recipient knows well that it is that light, even though he sees but dimly; he knows this from the impassible joy akin to the vision which he experiences, from the peace which fills his mind, and the fire of love for God which burns in him. The vision is granted him in proportion to his practice of what is pleasing to God, his avoidance of all that is not, his assiduity in prayer, and the longing of his entire soul for God; always he is being borne on to further progress45 and experiencing even more resplendent contemplation. He understands then that his vision is infinite because it is a vision of the Infinite, and because he does not see the limit of that brilliance; but, all the more, he sees how feeble is his capacity to receive the light. . Cf. Macarius-Symeon, De libert. mentis , PG , A. . An episode in the Life of St. Benedict, whose biography was popular among Byzantine monks. At a time of theological tension between Latins and Greeks, it is pleasing to find Palamas describing a Western saint as “one of the most perfect.” . That is, the vision of God does not belong to creatures, as their natural property. . Palamas here takes up another leading theme of Gregory of Nyssa epektasis, the inexhaustible character of the vision of God as rooted in the infinite nature of the Divine. Even in the Age to Come, there can be no end to the good things that God has to reveal; so the soul is always in via, always moving on.

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But he does not consider that the vision of which he has been deemed worthy is simply the Divine Nature. Just as the soul communicates life to the animated body—and we call this life “soul”, while realising that the soul which is in us and which communicates life to the body is distinct from that life—so God, Who dwells in the Godbearing soul, communicates the light to it. However, the union of God the Cause of all with those worthy transcends that light. God, while remaining entirely in Himself, dwells entirely in us by His superessential power; and communicates to us not His nature, but His proper glory and splendour.46 The light is thus divine, and the saints rightly call it “divinity”, because it is the source of deification. It is not only “divinity”, but “deification-in-itself ”,47 and thearchy. While it appears to produce a distinction and multiplication within the one God, yet it is nonetheless the Divine Principle, more-than-God, and more-than-Principle. The light is one in the one divinity, and therefore is itself the Divine Principle, more-than-God and more-than-Principle, since God is the ground of subsistence of divinity. Thus the doctors of the Church, following the great Areopagite Denys, call “divinity” the deifying gift that proceeds from God. So when Gaius asked Denys how God could be beyond the thearchy, he replied in his letter: “If you consider as ‘divinity’ the reality of the deifying gift which divinises us, and if this Gift is the principle of divinisation, then He Who is above all principle is also above what you thus call ‘divinity’.”48 So the Fathers tell us that the divine grace of the suprasensible light is God. But God in his nature does not simply identify Himself with this grace, because He is able not only to illumine and deify the mind, but also to bring forth from nonbeing every intellectual essence. . This touches on the cardinal doctrines of Palamas, that God, utterly and permanently unknowable and inaccessible in His essence, yet comes to us and shares His life with us in His energies. Palamas insists that the energies are God, personally present, not just a created grace in us; yet also affirms that the energies are distinct from the essence, without implying division in God. . The language in this paragraph is Dionysian (cf. De div. nom., XI., II., V.. The light energy or grace is indeed “divinity,” a communication of the life of God; yet God as the source of that life may be termed “beyond being,” or even “beyond divinity” (hypertheos). . Epist. .

. T C  U The Cloud of Unknowing and The Book of Privy Counseling, chapters , , . Trans. William Johnston (Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books, ), pp. –, –. Middle English text in Phyllis Hodgson, ed., The Cloud of Unknowing and Related Treatises (Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, ).

The author of the Cloud of Unknowing succeeded in preserving its anonymity. All that can be deduced from its style and dialect of Middle English is that its author wrote in the northeast Midlands in the late fourteenth century. It can be placed between the works of Richard Rolle (–), with which its author is familiar, and Walter Hilton (d. ), to whom it is itself known. The book is representative of a turn in fourteenth-century spirituality that divides it from speculative and Scholastic theology and orients it toward a newly emerging experiential dimension. This directly experiential mysticism of love is no longer beholden to the intellectual exercise and dialectical discipline that had generally characterized negative theologies since ancient Greece. Nevertheless, although this experience will become ever more deeply personal and subjective in modern times, the Cloud author still inscribes it explicitly into the Dionysian tradition of unknowing. Toward the end of the work the author claims, “Anyone who reads Denis’ book will find confirmed there all that I have been trying to teach in this book from start to finish” (chap. ). The same author, in the prologue to Dionise Hid Divinite, a translation of Dionysius’s Mystical Theology, claims to have rendered the text according to its naked letter, as well as to have been guided in interpretating it by a commentary on the work by Thomas Gallus, then abbot of Saint Victor: “I have not onliche folowed the naked lettre of the text, bot for to declare the hardnes of it, I have moche folowed the sentence of the Abbot of Seint Victore, a noble & worthi expositour of this same book.”1 In effect, however, the author has been led by Gallus into a thoroughgoing transmogrification of Dionysius’s teaching, by minor alterations and interpolations into the letter of the text. It . The Cloud of Unknowing and Related Treatises, ed. Hodgson, p. .

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changes from a mysticism of intellectual vision to a mysticism of affectivity.2 Denys Turner analyzes Gallus’s spirituality and finds that for him, “Apophasis begins where intellectus ends” and proceeds “by means of affectus on its own.” Rather than a self-negation of intellect—the dialectic of the negation of the negation—intellect as such is negated by another power, that of love. For Gallus, “there can be no apophaticism native to intellect itself ”: in other words, “intellectual knowledge of God is inherently cataphatic.”3 Likewise for the Cloud author, apophasis entails an extinguishing of intellect and its replacement by a different faculty, that of loving. The author clearly separates the loving power from the knowing power (chap. ). Still, there is a knowing by love that is unknowing: the imagery and semantics of a cloud of unknowing, as well as of forgetting, remain strongly reminiscent of the vocabulary of intellectus. Moreover, it turns out that desire has a dialectic of its own, in which every object it can represent to itself is negated. Indeed, the Cloud is far removed from any sort of indulgent psychology of imagination and affect. The dialectical self-subversion of representation now operates on the plane of affectivity, parallel to that of the intellect in more speculative mysticisms. In this negative dialectic of desire, every determinate desire for an imagined object is negated and transcended into an infinite and indefinable desire for the God whom we are powerless to grasp but whom we nakedly (that is, without concepts) intend and seek with our will. The inadequacy of language in this endeavor is emphasized expressly by the same author in his later tract, The Book of Privy Counseling, which is a guide to what he calls the work of contemplation: Now to satisfy your proud intellect I will sing the praises of this work. Believe me, if a contemplative had the tongue and the language to express what he experiences, all the scholars in Christendom would be struck dumb before his wisdom. Yes, for by comparison the entire compendium of human knowledge would appear as sheer ignorance. Do not be surprised, then, if my awkward, human tongue fails to explain its value adequately. And God forbid that the experience itself become so degenerate as to fit into the narrow confines of human language. No, it is not possible

. See Alastair Minnis, “Affection and Imagination in The Cloud of Unknowing and Hilton’s Scale of Perfection,” Traditio  (): –. . Denys Turner, The Darkness of God: Negativity in Christian Mysticism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, ). Citations pp. , .

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and certainly will never happen; and God forbid that I should ever want that! Whatever we may say of it is not it, but only about it.4 The Cloud author clearly approaches the mystic experience of unknowing through apophasis, although in a primarily voluntaristic rather than intellectual register. As an apophasis of the word that registers its motives in the desires of the human “heart,” the Cloud is on a trajectory that leads to John of the Cross and connects him with Dionysius. . The Cloud of Unknowing and The Book of Privy Counseling, trans. Johnston, chap. , p. .

The Cloud of Unknowing

Chapter . How the work of contemplation shall be done; of its excellence over all other works. This is what you are to do: lift your heart up to the Lord, with a gentle stirring of love desiring him for his own sake and not for his gifts. Center all your attention and desire on him and let this be the sole concern of your mind and heart. Do all in your power to forget everything else, keeping your thoughts and desires free from involvement with any of God’s creatures or their affairs whether in general or in particular. Perhaps this will seem like an irresponsible attitude, but I tell you, let them all be; pay no attention to them. What I am describing here is the contemplative work of the spirit. It is this which gives God the greatest delight. For when you fix your love on him, forgetting all else, the saints and angels rejoice and hasten to assist you in every way—though the devils will rage and ceaselessly conspire to thwart you. Your fellow men are marvelously

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enriched by this work of yours, even if you may not fully understand how; the souls in purgatory are touched, for their suffering is eased by the effects of this work; and, of course, your own spirit is purified and strengthened by this contemplative work more than by all others put together. Yet for all this, when God’s grace arouses you to enthusiasm, it becomes the lightest sort of work there is and one most willingly done. Without his grace, however, it is very difficult and almost, I should say, quite beyond you. And so diligently persevere until you feel joy in it. For in the beginning it is usual to feel nothing but a kind of darkness about your mind, or as it were, a cloud of unknowing. You will seem to know nothing and to feel nothing except a naked intent toward God in the depths of your being. Try as you might, this darkness and this cloud will remain between you and your God. You will feel frustrated, for your mind will be unable to grasp him, and your heart will not relish the delight of his love. But learn to be at home in this darkness. Return to it as often as you can, letting your spirit cry out to him whom you love. For if, in this life, you hope to feel and see God as he is in himself it must be within this darkness and this cloud. But if you strive to fix your love on him forgetting all else, which is the work of contemplation I have urged you to begin, I am confident that God in his goodness will bring you to a deep experience of himself.

Chapter . That during contemplative prayer all created things and their works must be buried beneath the cloud of forgetting. If you wish to enter into this cloud, to be at home in it, and to take up the contemplative work of love as I urge you to, there is something else you must do. Just as the cloud of unknowing lies above you, between you and your God, so you must fashion a cloud of forgetting beneath you, between you and every created thing. The cloud of unknowing will perhaps leave you with the feeling that you are far from God. But no, if it is authentic, only the absence of a cloud of forgetting keeps you from him now. Every time I say “all creatures,” I refer not only to every created thing but also to all their circumstances and activities. I make no exception. You are to concern yourself with no creature whether material or spiritual nor with their situation and doings whether good or ill. To put it briefly, during this work you must abandon them all beneath the cloud of forgetting.

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For although at certain times and in certain circumstances it is necessary and useful to dwell on the particular situation and activity of people and things, during this work it is almost useless. Thinking and remembering are forms of spiritual understanding in which the eye of the spirit is opened and closed upon things as the eye of a marksman is on his target. But I tell you that everything you dwell upon during this work becomes an obstacle to union with God. For if your mind is cluttered with these concerns there is no room for him. Yes, and with all due reverence, I go so far as to say that it is equally useless to think you can nourish your contemplative work by considering God’s attributes, his kindness or his dignity; or by thinking about our Lady, the angels, or the saints; or about the joys of heaven, wonderful as these will be. I believe that this kind of activity is no longer of any use to you. Of course, it is laudable to reflect upon God’s kindness and to love and praise him for it; yet it is far better to let your mind rest in the awareness of him in his naked existence and to love and praise him for what he is in himself.

Chapter . A short explanation of contemplation in the form of a dialogue. Now you say, “How shall I proceed to think of God as he is in himself ?” To this I can only reply, “I do not know.” With this question you bring me into the very darkness and cloud of unknowing that I want you to enter. A man may know completely and ponder thoroughly every created thing and its works, yes, and God’s works, too, but not God himself. Thought cannot comprehend God. And so, I prefer to abandon all I can know, choosing rather to love him whom I cannot know. Though we cannot know him we can love him. By love he may be touched and embraced, never by thought. Of course, we do well at times to ponder God’s majesty or kindness for the insight these meditations may bring. But in the real contemplative work you must set all this aside and cover it over with a cloud of forgetting. Then let your loving desire, gracious and devout, step bravely and joyfully beyond it and reach out to pierce the darkness above. Yes, beat upon that thick cloud of unknowing with the dart of your loving desire and do not cease come what may.

. N  C (–) Dialogue on the Hiddenness of God. Trans. H. Lawrence Bond, in Nicholas of Cusa, Selected Spiritual Writings (New York: Paulist Press, ), pp. –. Latin text in Dialogus de Deo abscondito in Nicolai de Cusa opera omnia iussu et auctoritate Academiae Heidelbergensis, vol. , Opuscula I (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, ). On Learned Ignorance, Book I, chapters –. Trans. Jasper Hopkins, Nicholas of Cusa on Learned Ignorance: A Translation and an Appraisal of De Docta Ignorantia (Minneapolis: Arthur J. Baning Press, ; nd ed., ), pp. –. Latin text in De docta ignorantia (), ed. Paulus Wilpert, th ed., ed. Hans Gerhard Senger (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, ), Book I, chapters – (sections –).

Nicholas of Cusa (Cusanus) was a paragon of the Renaissance man. In his official capacities as cardinal of the curia (from ) and vicar of the papal state, he was called upon for much diplomatic and juridical work, yet he managed to make fundamental contributions to philosophy and religious thought as well. These have earned him widespread recognition as an authentic progenitor of modern thinking by philosophers such as Ernst Cassirer (Individual and Cosmos in Renaissance Philosophy, ), Karl Jaspers (Nicolaus Cusanus, ), and Hans-Georg Gadamer. He has also been exalted as a mathematical genius whose researches stopped just short of the discovery of the infinitesimal calculus merely for lack of instruments available a century later to Leibniz and Newton. Anticipating Copernicus and Descartes, Cusanus promulgated the idea of an infinite cosmos. Any and every point can be the center in such a universe, and so a plurality of worlds is possible. Since there cannot be two infinities, such an infinite universe must be identical with God—as apprehended outwardly. God is absolutely distinct from the world, on the other hand, in the dimension of his infinite inwardness. By a similar logic of the coincidence of opposites, Cusanus was also an inaugural thinker of the unity in diversity of all religions (in his De pace fide, ). Holding God to be above all opposi-

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tions, he worked to reconcile the Eastern and Western churches. On a diplomatic mission to Constantinople he even showed deep appreciation for the Qur’an. Cusanus thus holds a privileged place in intellectual history as a pivotal thinker between the medieval and the modern. He managed to unify the guiding insights of medieval metaphysical speculation and thereby to carry the tradition over into the newly emerging forms of modern thought.1 He brings high Scholasticism to a majestic culmination, reinterpreting it through German speculative mysticism in the wake of Eckhart. Cusanus believed that medieval Scholasticism in the tradition of Anselm, Albert, Thomas, and Duns Scotus was foundering because it had forsaken the subtleties of negative theology as taught by Dionysius and Eriugena. These two, together with Raymond Lull and Eckhart, became for him beacons lighting the way to a renewal of thinking that was called for by the times of dawning humanism, with which he had become imbued as a student in Padua. Aristotle’s logic, fundamental to Scholastic thought since Boethius (ca. –ca. ), posited determinate, individual substance as the universal object of thought; in contrast, Dionysius had considered all that could be objectively apprehended as but a metaphor for the Unnameable.2 All that substantially exists and thus all that can be perceived or intuited is only unreality in relation to the nameless not-even-nothing beyond every category, on which everything that is nevertheless depends. The logic of the categories based on non-contradiction applies to defined objects but not to deeper reality, not even that of the world of the senses, which is always characterized by an interpenetration of opposites—the coincidentia oppositorum. Cusanus’s leading doctrines of the “coincidence of opposites”and “learned ignorance” are presented provocatively and in the briefest compass in his Dialogue on the Hidden God (De deo abscondito, –). The state of not knowing God is elevated above knowing him, for knowledge of God could only be a finite conception of the knower rather than an apprehension of God himself in his true infinity. The Christian worships the “God who is ineffable truth,” but even “ineffable” must be denied as any positive sort of predication, . Cf. K. H. Volkmann-Schluck, Nicolaus Cusanus: Die Philosophie im Übergang vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit (Frankfurt a.M.: Klostermann, ), p. ix; similarly, KarlHermann Kandler, Nikolaus von Kues: Denker zwischen Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, ). . Cf. Kurt Flasch, Das philosophische Denken im Mittelalter: Von Augustin zu Machiavelli, pp. ff. Cusanus’s critique of Aristotle is further analyzed by Flasch in his Nicolaus Cusanus (Munich: C. H. Beck, ), pp. ff. Cusanus’s friend Ambrosius Traversari produced a new Latin translation of Dionysius’s texts in .

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in order to affirm that God is beyond everything effable. He is neither named nor not named, but is prior to this very opposition. The pagan participant in Cusanus’s dialogue learns that only such a God, one that cannot be known or named, is worthy of being worshipped. To worship any object of our own knowledge would be idolatry.3 The key to philosophical and theological thinking, as Cusanus construes them, is recognition of the ineffability of their first principle. Indeed, all discourse revolves around, and at its deepest level expresses, just this ineffable origin, which, following in the Parmenides tradition, he calls (figuratively) the One: “So it is good to assume that the One, which is the origin of all, although it is the origin of all that is sayable, remains unsayable. All the things, therefore, which can be said do not express the unsayable, and nevertheless every discourse expresses the unsayable.”4 This contradictory principle underlies the discourse of Cusanus’s first major philosophical masterpiece, On Learned Ignorance (De docta ignorantia, ). The oxymoronic title alludes to the wisdom of Socrates, who insisted that he knew nothing except that he did not know anything. This idea, combined with Aristotle’s axiom concerning human beings’ natural desire to know, is given a witty turn to produce the postulate that “it is our desire to know that we do not know” (chap. ). Learning the limitations of our own finite conceptions instructs us regarding the inconceivable infinity of God. Turning knowledge into unknowing, or learned ignorance, is the goal of all our necessarily vain efforts to comprehend God in words and concepts. Throughout his work Cusanus is following in the Neoplatonic tradition, but he adds a new mathematical accent in terms of a logic of the infinite. As a circle expands, the curvature of its circumference diminishes and, at infinity, would become a straight line. Similarly, as the obtuse angle of a triangle widens, the triangle flattens out, and were the angle opened to the limit of  degrees, the triangle would become a straight line. This demonstration of how apparently incompatible, mutually exclusive geometric shapes coincide at infinity is but an illustration suggesting how all contraries coincide in the divine nature, which is infinite and beyond logical comprehension. . For an apophatically sensitive reading of Cusanus’s major works beginning with De deo abscondito, see Clyde Lee Miller, Reading Cusanus: Metaphor and Dialectic in a Conjectural Universe (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, ). . Cusanus, De filiatione dei, in Nicolai de Cusa Opera omnia iussu et auctoritate Academiae Litterarum Heidelbergensis (Leipzig-Hamburg: Meiner, – ), vol. : “Sic conicere te convenit unum illud, quod est omnium principium, ineffabile esse, cum sit omnium effabilium principium. Omnia igitur, quae effari possunt ineffabile non exprimunt, sed omnis elocutio ineffabile fatur.”

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The first book of On Learned Ignorance forms the ground-plan for Cusanus’s thought as a whole. Its climax is the discussion in the final three chapters (–) of God’s transcendence of every possible name. The many different names of the gods among the pagans are but explications for the one, true, ineffable divine Name (“Quae quidem omnia nomina unius ineffabilis nominis complicationem sunt explicantia,” chap. , sec. ), which cannot be named or stated. Since this name is infinite, it is capable of an infinity of explanations. In fact, the proper Name of God (as distinct from all the names we assign him with relation to his creations) is indistinguishable from God himself, since in God there can be no distinctions. While Book I develops a theory of God as “absolute maximum,” Book II deals with this “maximum” contracted into the universe, and Book III considers the maximum as contracted and absolute in Jesus Christ. Cusanus’s apophatic logic reaches its most mature formulation in a final masterpiece, On the Non-Other (De li non aliud, ). God is conceived as absolute difference from all that exists in dependence on him, thus as nihil omnium, the nothing of everything, different from all, pure difference itself. But then God must be thought as different from all thinkable differences too, and therefore as not-different, as non aliud. Not only does this negation of negation anticipate Hegel; this is precisely the thinking of an absolute ontological difference between Being and beings that Heidegger, generalizing from highly selective texts and neglecting crucial layers of the tradition, erroneously maintained to have been forgotten by Western metaphysics.5 In Cusanus, the tradition of metaphysical speculation can be rediscovered as still open to its apophatic ground, still silently illuminated at its heart by the unsayable. . Cf. Werner Beierwaltes, Platonismus im Christentum, pp. –.

Dialogue on the Hiddenness of God

A dialogue between two men, one of whom is a pagan, the other a Christian:

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And the PAGAN says: I see you prostrated most devoutly and weeping tears of love, not false tears but from the heart. Tell me who you are. CHRISTIAN: I am a Christian. PAGAN: What are you worshiping? CHRISTIAN: God. PAGAN: Who is the God you worship? CHRISTIAN: I do not know. PAGAN: How can you so earnestly worship that which you do not know?1 CHRISTIAN: It is because I do not know that I worship. PAGAN: It is amazing to see a person devoted to that which he does not know. CHRISTIAN: It is even more amazing to see a person devoted to that which he thinks he knows. PAGAN: Why is this? CHRISTIAN: Because one knows that which one thinks one knows less than that which one knows one does not know. PAGAN: Please explain. CHRISTIAN: Whoever thinks one knows something, although nothing can be known, seems out of one’s mind to me. PAGAN: But you seem irrational to me when you say that nothing can be known. CHRISTIAN: By knowledge I understand the apprehension of truth. Whoever says that one knows is saying that one has apprehended truth. PAGAN: And I also believe the same. CHRISTIAN: How, therefore, can truth be apprehended other than through itself ? Truth is not then apprehended when the “apprehending” comes first and the “apprehended” afterward. PAGAN: I do not understand your statement that truth can be apprehended only through itself. CHRISTIAN: Do you think that it can be apprehended in another way and in something else? PAGAN: I think so. CHRISTIAN: You are clearly mistaken. For outside truth there is no truth; outside circularity there is no circle; and outside humanity . John :.

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there is no human being. Therefore, truth is not found outside truth neither in some other way nor in something else. PAGAN: But how, therefore, do I come to know what a human being is, or a stone or anything else I know? CHRISTIAN: You know nothing of these; you only think you know. For if I ask you about the quiddity of what you think you know, you will affirm that you cannot express the truth of a human being or of a stone. That you know that a human is not a stone does not result from a knowledge by which you know a human and a stone and their difference, but it results from accident, from a difference of their ways of operating and their shapes, to which when you discern them, you impose different names. For it is a movement in differentiating reason that imposes names. PAGAN: Is there one truth or is there more than one? CHRISTIAN: There is only one truth. For there is only one unity, and truth coincides with unity, because it is true that unity is one. Therefore, just as there is only one unity in a number, so there is only one truth in the many. Hence, whoever does not attain unity will always be ignorant of number, and whoever does not attain truth in unity cannot truly know anything. Although someone may think that one truly knows, one will easily discover that what one thinks one knows can be known even more truly. For what is visible can be seen more truly than it is seen by you. For it would be seen more truly by keener eyes. Therefore, it is not seen by you as it is visible in truth. And it is the same with hearing and the other senses. But all that is known, not however with that knowledge with which it can be known, is known not in truth but otherwise and in another manner, but truth is not known otherwise and in some other manner than the manner truth itself is. Hence, one is out of one’s mind who thinks one knows anything in truth but who is ignorant of truth. Would not a blind man be judged out of his mind who thought he knew the differences between colors, when he was ignorant of color? PAGAN: But if nothing can be known, who among human beings, therefore, is knowing? CHRISTIAN: One is deemed to be knowing who knows oneself to be ignorant. One reveres truth who knows that without it one can attain nothing, whether being or living or understanding. PAGAN: Perhaps it is the desire to be in truth that has led you to worship.

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CHRISTIAN: It is what you say. For I worship God, not whom your paganism falsely thinks it knows and whom it names, but the God who is ineffable truth. PAGAN: I ask you, Brother, since you worship the God who is truth and since we do not intend to worship a god who is not in truth God, what is the difference between you and us? CHRISTIAN: There are many differences. But one and the greatest of them is that we worship the absolute, unmixed, eternal, and ineffable truth itself, but you do not worship truth as it is absolute in itself but as it is present in its works, not absolute unity but unity in number and plurality. And in this you err, for the truth, which is God, is incommunicable to another. PAGAN: I ask you, Brother, to lead me so that I can understand you about your God. Tell me what you know about the God you worship. CHRISTIAN: I know that everything I know is not God and that everything I conceive is not like God,2 but rather God surpasses all these. PAGAN: Therefore, God is nothing. CHRISTIAN: God is not nothing, for this nothing has the name “nothing.” PAGAN: If God is not nothing, then God is something. CHRISTIAN: God is not something, for something is not everything. But God is not something rather than everything. PAGAN: You affirm marvels—the God you worship is neither nothing nor something; no reason grasps this. CHRISTIAN: God is beyond nothing and beyond something, for nothing obeys God in order that something may come into being. And this is God’s omnipotence, by which God surpasses everything that is or is not, so that thus that which is not obeys God just as that which is obeys God. For God causes not-being to enter into being and being to enter into not-being.3 Therefore, God is nothing of those things that are under God and which God’s omnipotence precedes. And, consequently, God cannot be called “this” rather than “that,” since all things are from God.4 . Cf. Acts :. . Rom. :. . Rom. :.

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PAGAN: Can God be named? CHRISTIAN: That which is named is small. That whose magnitude cannot be conceived remains ineffable. PAGAN: But is God ineffable? CHRISTIAN: God is not ineffable but beyond everything that is effable, for God is the cause of all nameable things. How is it, therefore, that the one who gives a name to others is oneself without a name? 5 PAGAN: Therefore, God is both effable and ineffable. CHRISTIAN: Not this either. For God is not the root of contradiction, but God is the simplicity itself prior to every root. So it should not be said that God is both effable and ineffable. PAGAN: What, therefore, will you say about God? CHRISTIAN: That God is neither named nor not named, nor is God both named and not named, but because of the excellence of God’s infinity all that can be said disjunctively and unitively, whether by means of agreement or contradiction, does not correspond to God, for God is the one beginning prior to every idea that can be formed of God. PAGAN: In this way, therefore, being does not correspond to God. CHRISTIAN: You speak correctly. PAGAN: Therefore, God is nothing. CHRISTIAN: God is neither nothing nor not nothing, nor is God both nothing and not nothing, but God is the source and origin of all beginnings of being and not-being.6 PAGAN: Is God the source of the beginnings of being and notbeing? CHRISTIAN: God is not. PAGAN: But you have just said that. CHRISTIAN: I was speaking the truth when I said it, and I am speaking the truth now, when I deny it. For if there are any beginnings of being and not-being, God comes before them. But not-being does not have a beginning of not-being, but of being. For not-being needs a beginning in order to be. Therefore, in this way there is a beginning of not-being, for without it there is no not-being. . Cf. Pseudo-Dionysius, De divinis nominibus I.. . Cf. Rom. :.

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PAGAN: Is God truth? CHRISTIAN: No, but God precedes all truth. PAGAN: Is God other than truth? CHRISTIAN: No. For otherness cannot correspond to God. But God is infinitely excellently prior to everything we conceive and name as “truth.” PAGAN: Do you not name God “God”? CHRISTIAN: We do. PAGAN: Are you saying something true or something false? CHRISTIAN: Neither the one nor the other, nor both. For we are not saying that it is true that this is God’s name, nor are we saying that it is false, for it is not false that this is God’s name. Nor are we saying that it is true and false, for God’s simplicity precedes both all that can be named and all that cannot. PAGAN: Why do you call that “God” whose name you do not know? CHRISTIAN: Because of a likeness of perfection. PAGAN: Please explain. CHRISTIAN: The name “God” comes from theoro, which means “I see.” For God is in our realm as sight is in the realm of color. For color is attained in no other way than by sight, and in order that sight can freely attain every color, the center of sight is without color. Therefore, because sight is without color, sight is not found in the realm of color. And so to the realm of color sight is nothing rather than something. For the realm of color does not attain any being outside its realm, but it maintains that everything that exists is in its realm. But sight is not found there. Therefore, sight, because it exists without color, is unnameable within the realm of color, for no color’s name corresponds to it. But sight has given a name to every color through its differentiating judgment. Hence, in the realm of color all naming depends on sight, but sight’s name, the derivation of every color’s name, is discovered to be nothing rather than something. God, therefore, is to all things as sight is to visible things. PAGAN: Your explanation pleases me. I clearly understand that neither God nor God’s name is to be found in the realm of all creatures and that God flees from every concept rather than being asserted as something. For that which does not have the condition of a creature is not to be found in the realm of creatures. In the realm of composite things the non-composite is not found. And all names

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that are named are of composite things. That which is composite is not from itself but from that which precedes every composite. And even though both the realm of composite things and all the composite things are what they are only through the non-composite, yet because it is not composite, it is unknown in the realm of composite things. Therefore, may God, who is hidden from the eyes of all the wise of the world, be blessed forever.7 . Cf. Rom. : and :;  Cor. :.

On Learned Ignorance, Book I, chapters –

Chapter . The name of God; affirmative theology Now that in our ignorance we have striven—with divine assistance and by means of mathematical illustration—to become more knowledgeable about the First Maximum, let us inquire about the name of the Maximum, in order that our learning may be still more complete. If we rightly keep in mind the points already frequently made, this inquiry will easily lead to discovery. Since the Maximum is the unqualifiedly Maximum, to which nothing is opposed, it is evident that no name can properly befit it. For all names are bestowed on the basis of a oneness of conception [ratio] through which one thing is distinguished from another. But where all things are one, there can be no proper name. Hence, Hermes Trismegistus rightly says: “Since God is the totality of things, no name is proper to Him; for either He would have to be called by every name or else all things would have to be called by His name”;1 for in His simplicity He enfolds the totality of things. Hence, as regards His . Asclepius .

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own name, which we say to be ineffable and which is “tetragrammaton” (i.e., “of four letters”) and which is proper because it befits God according to His own essence, not according to any relation to created things: He ought to be called “One-and-all,” or better, “Allin-one.” And in like manner we previously discovered [the name] “Maximum Oneness,” which is the same thing as “All-in-one”; indeed, the name “Oneness” seems still closer and still more suitable than the name “All-in-one.” Wherefore the prophet says: “On that day there will be one God, and His name will be one.”2 And elsewhere: “Hear, O Israel,” (“Israel” means “one who sees God with the understanding”) “that your God is one.”3 However, it is not the case that “Oneness” is the name of God in the way in which we either name or understand oneness; for just as God transcends all understanding, so, a fortiori, [He transcends] every name. Indeed, through a movement of reason, which is much lower than the intellect, names are bestowed for distinguishing between things. But since reason cannot leap beyond contradictories: as regards the movement of reason, there is not a name to which another [name] is not opposed. Therefore, as regards the movement of reason: plurality or multiplicity is opposed to oneness. Hence, not “oneness” but “Oneness to which neither otherness nor plurality nor multiplicity is opposed” befits God. This is the maximum name, which enfolds all things in its simplicity of oneness; this is the name which is ineffable and above all understanding.4 For who could understand the infinite Oneness which infinitely precedes all opposition?—where all things are incompositely enfolded in simplicity of Oneness, where there is neither anything which is other nor anything which is different, where a man does not differ from a lion, and the sky does not differ from the earth. Nevertheless, in the Maximum they are most truly the Maximum, [though] not in accordance with their finitude; rather, [they are] Maximum Oneness in an enfolded way. Hence, if anyone were able to understand or to name such Oneness—which, since it is Oneness is all things and since it is the Minimum is the Maximum—he would attain to the name of God. But since the Name-of-God is God, His Name is known only by [that] . Zachariah :. . Deut. :. . Phil. :.

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Understanding which is the Maximum and is the Maximum Name. Therefore, in learned ignorance we attain unto [the following]: Although “Oneness” seems to be a quite close name for the Maximum, nevertheless it is still infinitely distant from the true Name of the Maximum—[a Name] which is the Maximum. And so, from these considerations it is evident that the affirmative names we ascribe to God befit Him [only] infinitesimally. For such [names] are ascribed to Him in accordance with something found in created things. Therefore, since any such particular or discrete thing, or thing having an opposite, can befit God only very minutely: affirmations are scarcely fitting, as Dionysius says.5 For example, if you call God “Truth,” falsity is the contradistinction; if you call Him “Virtue,” vice is the contradistinction; if you call Him “Substance,” accident is the contradistinction; and so on. But since God is not a substance which is not all things and to which something is opposed, and is not a truth which is not all things without opposition, these particular names cannot befit Him except very infinitesimally. For it is not the case that any affirmations—which posit in Him, as it were, something of what they signify—can befit Him who is not some particular thing more than He is all things. Therefore, if affirmative names befit God, they befit Him only in relation to created things. [I do] not [mean] that created things are the cause of [these names’] befitting Him, for the Maximum can have nothing from created things; rather, [I mean that these names] befit Him on the basis of His infinite power in relation to created things. For God was eternally able to create, because unless He had been able, He would not have been supreme power. Therefore, although the name “Creator” befits Him in relation to created things, it also befit Him before there was a created thing, since He was eternally able to create. The case is similar with “justice” and all the other affirmative names which we symbolically ascribe to God on the basis of created things because of a certain perfection signified by these names. Nonetheless, even before we ascribed all these names to God, they were eternally and truly enfolded in His supreme perfection and in His infinite name—as were all the things () which are signified by such names and () from which we transfer [the names] to God.

. The Celestial Hierarchy .

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The aforesaid is so true of all affirmations that even the names of the Trinity and of the persons—viz., “Father,” “Son,” and “Holy Spirit”—are bestowed on God in relation to created things. For because God is Oneness, He is Begetter and Father; because He is Equality of Oneness, He is Begotten, or Son; because He is Union of both [Oneness and Equality-of-Oneness], He is Holy Spirit. Accordingly, it is clear that the Son is called Son because He is Equality of Oneness, or of Being, or of existing. Hence, from the fact that God was eternally able to create things—even had He not created them—it is evident [that] He is called Son in relation to these things. For He is Son because He is Equality of being [these] things; things could not exist beyond or short of Equality. Thus, He is Son because He is Equality of being of the things which God was able to make, even had He not been going to make them. Were God not able to make these things, He would not be Father, Son, or Holy Spirit; indeed, He would not be God. Therefore, if you reflect quite carefully, [you will see that] for the Father to beget the Son was [for Him] to create all things in the Word.6 Wherefore, Augustine7 maintains that the Word is both the Art and the Idea in relation to created things. Hence, God is Father because He begets Equality of Oneness; but He is Holy Spirit because He is the Love common to both [Oneness and Equality of Oneness]; and He is all these8 in relation to created things. For created things begin to be by virtue of the fact that God is Father; they are perfected by virtue of the fact that He is Son; they harmonize with the universal order of things by virtue of the fact that He is Holy Spirit. And in each thing these are traces of the Trinity. Moreover, this is the opinion of Aurelius Augustine when he expounds the following passage from Genesis: “In the beginning God created heaven and earth.” For he says that by virtue of the fact that God is Father He created the beginnings of things.9 Therefore, whatever is said about God through affirmative theology is based upon a relationship to created things. [This is true] even with respect to those most holy names in which the greatest mysteries of divine knowledge lie hidden. These names are found among . . . .

Col. :. De Trinitate VI, . Viz., Oneness, Equality of Oneness, and Love. De Genesi ad Litteram I, .

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the Hebrews and the Chaldees; all of them signify God only according to some individual property—[all] except for the name from four letters, viz., ioth, he, vau, he. (This is the proper and ineffable [name], previously commented on.)10 Jerome and also Rabbi Solomon (in his book Dux Neutrorum) deal extensively with these names. They can be consulted.

Chapter . The pagans named God in various ways in relation to created things The pagans likewise named God from His various relationships to created things. [They named Him] Jupiter because of marvelous kindness (for Julius Firmicus11 says that Jupiter is a star so auspicious that had he reigned alone in the heavens, men would be immortal); similarly, [they named Him] Saturn because of a profundity of thoughts and inventions regarding the necessities of life; Mars because of military victories; Mercury because of good judgment in counseling; Venus because of love which conserves nature; Sun because of the force of natural movements; Moon because of conservation of the fluids upon which life depends; Cupid because of the unity of the two sexes (for which reason they also called Him Nature, since through the two sexes He conserves the species of things). Hermes12 said that not only all [species of ] animals but also all [species of] nonanimals have two sexes; wherefore, he maintained that the Cause of all things, viz., God, enfolds within Himself both the masculine and the feminine sex, of which he believed Cupid and Venus to be the unfolding. Valerius,13 too, the Roman, making the same affirmation, professed that Jupiter is the omnipotent Divine Father and Mother. Hence, in accordance with one thing’s desiring (cupit) another, they gave to the daughter of Venus, i.e., of natural beauty, the name “Cupid.” But they said that Venus is the daughter of omnipotent Jupiter, from whom Nature and all its accompaniments derive. . . . .

Toward the beginning of the chapter. Julius Firmicus Maternus, Matheseos II... Asclepius . Valerius Soranus. See Augustine, De civitate Dei VII.

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Even the temples—viz., the Temple of Peace, the Temple of Eternity, the Temple of Harmony, and the Pantheon (in which there was in the middle, under the open air, the altar of the Infinite Limit, of which there is no limit)—and other such [edifices] inform us that the pagans named God in various ways in accordance with His relationship to created things. All these names are unfoldings of the enfolding of the one ineffable name.14 And as accords with [this] proper name’s being infinite, it enfolds an infinite number of such names of particular perfections. Therefore, the unfolded [names] could be many without being so many and so great that there could not be more of them. Each of them is related to the proper and ineffable name [i.e., to the tetragrammaton] as what is finite is related to what is infinite. The ancient pagans derided the Jews, who worshipped one infinite God of whom they were ignorant. Nevertheless, these pagans themselves worshipped Him in unfolded things—i.e., worshipped Him where they beheld His divine works. In those days there was the following difference among all men: viz., [although] all believed that God is the one Maximum, than which there cannot be a greater, some of them (e.g., the Jews and the Sissennii) worshipped Him in His most simple oneness (as the Enfolding of all things is); but others worshipped Him in the things in which they found the unfolding of His divinity, construing what was perceptually-observed as guidance toward the Cause and Beginning. In this last-mentioned way the simple populace was deceived; for they construed the unfolded things not as images but as the reality itself. As a result thereof, idolatry was introduced to the people—though, for the most part, the wise continued rightly to believe in the oneness of God. These points can be known to anyone who will carefully examine Cicero On the Nature of the Gods,15 as well as the ancient philosophers. I do not deny, however, that certain of the pagans did not understand that since God is the being of things, He exists independently of things in a way other than through abstraction. (By comparison, prime matter exists independently of things only through the abstracting intellect). Such men worshipped God in created things; they also provided idolatry with supporting reasons. Certain men even  . I.e., “Tetragrammaton” or “Oneness to which neither otherness nor plurality nor multiplicity is opposed.” . De Natura Deorum II, ; II, .

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thought that God can be summoned forth. For example, the Sissennii summoned Him in angels. But the pagans summoned Him in trees, as we read regarding the Tree of the Sun and the Moon. Others summoned Him, with fixed incantations, in air, water, or temples. My earlier remarks show how deceived all these men were and how far they were from the truth.

Chapter . Negative theology The worshipping of God, who is to be worshipped in spirit and in truth,16 must be based upon affirmations about Him. Accordingly, every religion, in its worshipping, must mount upward by means of affirmative theology. [Through affirmative theology] it worships God as one and three, as most wise and most gracious, as Inaccessible Light, as Life, Truth, and so on. And it always directs its worship by faith, which it attains more truly through learned ignorance. It believes that He whom it worships as one is All-in-one, and that He whom it worships as Inaccessible Light is not light as is corporeal light, to which darkness is opposed, but is infinite and most simple Light, in which darkness is Infinite Light; and [it believes] that infinite Light always shines within the darkness of our ignorance but [that] the darkness cannot comprehend it.17 And so, the theology of negation is so necessary for the theology of affirmation that without it God would not be worshipped as the Infinite God but, rather, as a creature. And such worship is idolatry; it ascribes to the image that which befits only the reality itself. Hence, it will be useful to set down a few more things about negative theology. Sacred ignorance has taught us that God is ineffable. He is so because He is infinitely greater than all nameable things. And by virtue of the fact that [this] is most true, we speak of God more truly through removal and negation—as [teaches] the greatest Dionysius, who did not believe that God is either Truth or Understanding or Light or anything which can be spoken of.18 (Rabbi Solomon19 and all the wise follow Dionysius.) Hence, in accordance with this negative . . . .

John :. John :. The Mystical Theology . Guide for the Perplexed I, .



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theology, according to which [God] is only infinite, He is neither Father nor Son nor Holy Spirit. Now, the Infinite qua Infinite is neither Begetting, Begotten, nor Proceeding. Therefore, when Hilary of Poitiers distinguished the persons, he most astutely used the expressions “Infinity in the Eternal,” “Beauty in the Image,” and “Value in the Gift.”20 He means that although in eternity we can see only infinity, nevertheless since the infinity which is eternity is negative infinity, it cannot be understood as Begetter but [can] rightly [be understood as] eternity, since “eternity” is affirmative of oneness, or maximum presence. Hence, [Infinity-in-the-Eternal is] the Beginning without beginning. “Beauty in the Image” indicates the Beginning from the Beginning. “Value in the Gift” indicates the Procession from these two. All these things are very well known through the preceding [discussion]. For although eternity is infinity, so that eternity is not a greater cause of the Father than is infinity: nevertheless, in a manner of considering, eternity is attributed to the Father and not to the Son or to the Holy Spirit; but infinity is not [attributed] to one person more than to another. For according to the consideration of oneness infinity is the Father; according to the consideration of equality of oneness it is the Son; according to the consideration of the union [of the two it is] the Holy Spirit. And according to the simple consideration of itself infinity is neither the Father nor the Son nor the Holy Spirit. Yet, infinity (as also eternity) is each of the three persons, and, conversely, each person is infinity (and eternity)—not, however, according to [the simple] consideration [of itself ], as I said. For according to the consideration of infinity God is neither one nor many. Now, according to the theology of negation, there is not found in God anything other than infinity. Therefore, according to this theology [God] is not knowable either in this world or in the world to come (for in this respect every created thing is darkness, which cannot comprehend Infinite Light), but is known only to Himself. From these [observations] it is clear () that in theological matters negations are true and affirmations are inadequate, and () that, nonetheless, the negations which remove the more imperfect things from the most Perfect are truer than the others. For example, it is truer that God is not stone than that He is not life or intelligence; and . De Trinitate II, .

Nicholas of Cusa

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[it is truer that He] is not drunkenness than that He is not virtue. The contrary [holds] for affirmations; for the affirmation which states that God is intelligence and life is truer than [the affirmation that He is] earth or stone or body. All these [points] are very clear from the foregoing. Therefrom we conclude that the precise truth shines incomprehensibly within the darkness of our ignorance. This is the learned ignorance we have been seeking and through which alone, as I explained, [we] can approach the maximum, triune God of infinite goodness—[approach Him] according to the degree of our instruction in ignorance, so that with all our might we may ever praise Him, who is forever blessed above all things,21 for manifesting to us His incomprehensible self.22

. Rom. :. . Nicholas’s language is here deliberately paradoxical: God manifests His incomprehensible self.

. T  Á (–) Interior Castle, Sixth Mansions, from chapters  and . Trans. E. Allison Peers (New York: Doubleday, ), pp. –, –. Spanish text in Obras Completas de Santa Teresa de Jesús, ed. Efren de la Madre de Dios and Otger Steggink,  vols. (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, –).

Teresa wrote in the wake of the Reconquista of , when Moors and Jews were expelled from the Iberian penninsula under the Reyes Catholicos, Ferdinand and Isabella. Teresa’s grandfather was a convert (converso ) from Judaism. This, together with her status as a woman, contributed to the marginal, self-deprecating, yet subtly subversive authorial pose and markedly personal viewpoint that she manages to communicate even amid the rigors of a highly conformist Catholicism in Counter-Reformation Spain. She was personally hard-pressed under the suspicious scrutiny of the Inquisition in  when she wrote the Castillo Interior. The tide had turned against her reform of the Carmelite order, with her emphasis on interior prayer and spirituality over formal observances and rules. The traditional calzados (literally, “shoed”) were regaining the upper hand over her descalzos (“barefoot”). She was confined from  to  by the superior of the order to a convent in Toledo, where her close friend and collaborator, John of the Cross, languished in prison. Much of Teresa’s drama of expression has to do with dodging the multiple male authorities conspiring in various ways to silence female voices.1 There is, however, also an essential silence in her experience of union with God as it emerges from the Interior Castle. The Interior Castle describes a path of prayer leading to silent oration, an interior, purely mental activity relinquishing all verbal formulas of ordinary devotion. Beginning particularly with the fifth level of moradas (mansions), the soul must reduce itself to emptiness and silence, forgoing all stimuli in an objectless stillness. It enters a cocoon from which it will emerge transfigured into a divine butterfly (mariposa). It must relinquish words in this experience (V..). It cannot speak about God, . See Alison Weber, Teresa of Avila and the Rhetoric of Femininity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ).



Teresa of Ávila

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and it can say nothing of the life of the spirit (V..).2 Nevertheless, it breaks out in words of praise. It is moved by “certain secret aspirations” (“unas secretas aspiraciones”), which are powerfully felt and cannot be doubted, although the soul “knows not how to express them” (“aunque no se saben decir,” VII..). In the fourth of the seven tiers of moradas or mansions which make up the Interior Castle, after the ascetic excercises of the first three moradas, the soul recollects itself in silent prayer and prepares for union with Christ in betrothal (sixth moradas) and spiritual matrimony (seventh moradas). From the outset of the fifth moradas especially, Teresa’s account is punctuated by disclaimers of its own adequacy: “Oh, sisters! how shall I ever be able to tell you of the riches and the treasures and the delights which are to be found in the fifth Mansions? I think it would be better if I were to say nothing of the Mansions I have not yet treated, for no one can describe them, the understanding is unable to comprehend them and no comparisons will avail to explain them, for earthly things are quite insufficient for this purpose” (Peers translation, p. ). She consistently checks and rejects the comparisons she herself draws as “not suitable” (“No sé comparación que poner que cuadre,” Moradas VI.). She also emphasizes that her own text is improvised, that she gets off track and talks beside the point: “I don’t know to what purpose I said this, sisters, nor why, since I didn’t intend it” (Moradas VI.). The following selections from the Sixth Mansions illustrate some of Teresa’s many attempts to describe the indescribable, the experience of rapture, the flight of the spirit, the transport of the soul to union with God. The salient features of the description belong to a classic rhetoric of apophasis used to emphasize the writer’s inability to find words to express the experience. The model for this (non)description is Paul’s (non)description in  Corinthians :– of his transport to the third heaven, where he heard unutterable words, as is hinted at by Teresa’s insistence on her uncertainty as to whether the experience takes place “in the body or out of the body.” What is described here is still not the highest level of visionary experience, since Teresa qualifies it as “imaginative” rather than “intellectual.” This means that it is still mediated by images rather than being totally unmediated presence without representation (see Moradas VI.), according to the traditional hierarchy established by Saint Augustine’s exegesis of the Pauline raptus in Book XII of De Genesi ad litteram. Since description of this ineffable transport to madness and inebriation be. Rowan Williams, Teresa of Avila (Wilton, Conn.: Morehouse, ), pp. ff., traces this development through the Castillo Interior.



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yond all reason is impossible, it is expressed indirectly in praises to God for what cannot be said.

The Interior Castle, Sixth Mansions

From Chapter  Turning now to this sudden transport of the spirit, it may be said to be of such a kind that the soul really seems to have left the body; on the other hand, it is clear that the person is not dead, though for a few moments he cannot even himself be sure if the soul is in the body or no. He feels as if he has been in another world, very different from this in which we live, and has been shown a fresh light there, so much unlike any to be found in this life that, if he had been imagining it, and similar things, all his life long, it would have been impossible for him to obtain any idea of them. In a single instant he is taught so many things all at once that, if he were to labour for years on end in trying to fit them all into his imagination and thought, he could not succeed with a thousandth part of them. This is not an intellectual, but an imaginary vision, which is seen with the eyes of the soul very much more clearly than we can ordinarily see things with the eyes of the body; and some of the revelations are communicated to it without words. If, for example, he sees any of the saints, he knows them as well as if he had spent a long time in their company. Sometimes, in addition to the things which he sees with the eyes of the soul, in intellectual vision, others are revealed to him—in particular, a host of angels, with their Lord; and, though he sees nothing with the eyes of the body or with the eyes of the soul, he is shown the things I am describing, and many others which are indescribable, by means of an admirable kind of knowledge. Anyone who has experience of this, and possesses more ability than I, will perhaps know

Teresa of Ávila

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how to express it; to me it seems extremely difficult. If the soul is in the body or not while all this is happening I cannot say; I would not myself swear that the soul is in the body, nor that the body is bereft of the soul. I have often thought that if the sun can remain in the heavens and yet its rays are so strong that without its moving thence they can none the less reach us here, it must be possible for the soul and the spirit, which are as much the same thing as are the sun and its rays, to remain where they are, and yet, through the power of the heat that comes to them from the true Sun of Justice, for some higher part of them to rise above itself. Really, I hardly know what I am saying; but it is a fact that, as quickly as a bullet leaves a gun when the trigger is pulled, there begins within the soul a flight (I know no other name to give it) which, though no sound is made, is so clearly a movement that it cannot possibly be due to fancy. When the soul, as far as it can understand, is right outside itself, great things are revealed to it; and, when it returns to itself, it finds that it has reaped very great advantages and it has such contempt for earthly things that, in comparison with those it has seen, they seem like dirt to it. Thenceforward to live on earth is a great affliction to it, and, if it sees any of the things which used to give it pleasure, it no longer cares for them. Just as tokens of the nature of the Promised Land were brought back by those whom the Israelites sent on there,1 so in this case the Lord’s wish seems to have been to show the soul something of the country to which it is to travel, so that it may suffer the trials of this trying road,2 knowing whither it must travel in order to obtain its rest. Although you may think that a thing which passes so quickly cannot be of great profit, the help which it gives the soul is so great that only the person familiar with it can understand its worth. Clearly, then, this is no work of the devil; such an experience could not possibly proceed from the imagination, and the devil could never reveal things which produce such results in the soul and leave it with such peace and tranquillity and with so many benefits. There are three things in particular which it enjoys to a very high degree. The first is knowledge of the greatness of God: the more we see of this, the more deeply we are conscious of it. The second is self-knowledge . Num. :–. . Los trabajos de este camino tan trabajoso: the word-play is intentional.



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and humility at realizing how a thing like the soul, so base by comparison with One Who is the Creator of such greatness, has dared to offend Him and dares to raise its eyes to Him. The third is a supreme contempt for earthly things, save those which can be employed in the service of so great a God. These are the jewels which the Spouse is beginning to give to His bride, and so precious are they that she will not fail to keep them with the greatest care. These meetings3 with the Spouse remain so deeply engraven in the memory that I think it is impossible for the soul to forget them until it is enjoying them for ever; if it did so, it would suffer the greatest harm. But the Spouse Who gives them to the soul has power also to give it grace not to lose them. Returning now to the soul’s need of courage, I ask you: Does it seem to you such a trifling thing after all? For the soul really feels that it is leaving the body when it sees the senses leaving it and has no idea why they are going. So He Who gives everything else must needs give courage too. You will say that this fear of the soul’s is well rewarded; so too say I. May He Who can give so much be for ever praised. And may it please His Majesty to grant us to be worthy to serve Him. Amen. . Vistas.

From Chapter  Together with these things, which are at once distressing and delectable, Our Lord sometimes bestows upon the soul a jubilation and a strange kind of prayer, the nature of which it cannot ascertain. I set this down here, so that, if He grants you this favour, you may give Him hearty praise and know that such a thing really happens. I think the position is that the faculties are in close union, but that Our Lord leaves both faculties and senses free to enjoy this happiness, without understanding what it is that they are enjoying and how they are enjoying it. That sounds nonsense but it is certainly what happens. The

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joy of the soul is so exceedingly great that it would like, not to rejoice in God in solitude, but to tell its joy to all, so that they may help it to praise Our Lord, to which end it directs its whole activity. Oh, what high festival such a one would make to this end and how she would show forth her joy, if she could, so that all should understand it! For she seems to have found herself, and, like the father of the Prodigal Son,1 she would like to invite everybody and have great festivities because she sees her soul in a place which she cannot doubt is a place of safety, at least for a time. And, for my own part, I believe she is right; for such interior joy in the depths of the soul’s being, such peace and such happiness that it calls upon all to praise God cannot possibly have come from the devil. Impelled as it is by this great joy, the soul cannot be expected to keep silence and dissemble: it would find this no light distress. That must have been the state of mind of Saint Francis, when robbers met him as he was going about the countryside crying aloud and he told them that he was the herald of the great King. Other saints retire to desert places, where they proclaim the same thing as Saint Francis— namely, the praises of their God. I knew one of these, called Fray Peter of Alcántara. Judging from the life he led, I think he is certainly a saint, yet those who heard him from time to time called him mad. Oh, what a blessed madness, sisters! If only God would give it to us all! And how good He has been to you in placing you where, if the Lord should grant you this grace and you show others that He has done so, you will not be spoken against as you would be in the world (where there are so few to proclaim God’s praise that it is not surprising if they are spoken against,) but will be encouraged to praise Him the more. Oh, unhappy are the times and miserable is the life which we now live, and happy are those who have had the good fortune to escape from it! Sometimes it makes me specially glad when we are together and I see these sisters of mine so full of inward joy that each vies with the rest in praising Our Lord for bringing her to the convent; it is very evident that those praises come from the inmost depths of the soul. I should like you to praise Him often, sisters, for, when one of you begins to do so, she arouses the rest. How can your

. Luke :–.

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tongues be better employed, when you are together, than in the praises of God, which we have so many reasons for rendering Him? May it please His Majesty often to bestow this prayer upon us since it brings us such security and such benefit. For, as it is an entirely supernatural thing, we cannot acquire it. It may last for a whole day, and the soul will then be like one who has drunk a great deal, but not like a person so far inebriated as to be deprived of his senses; nor will it be like a melancholiac, who, without being entirely out of his mind, cannot forget a thing that has been impressed upon his imagination, from which no one else can free him either. These are very unskilful comparisons to represent so precious a thing, but I am not clever enough to think out any more: the real truth is that this joy makes the soul so forgetful of itself, and of everything, that it is conscious of nothing, and able to speak of nothing, save of that which proceeds from its joy—namely, the praises of God. Let us join with this soul, my daughters all. Why should we want to be more sensible than she? What can give us greater pleasure than to do as she does? And may all the creatures join with us for ever and ever. Amen, amen, amen.

. J   C (–) Spiritual Canticle, Prologue, sections –; The Dark Night, Book II, chapter xvii, sections –; Ascent of Mount Carmel, Book I, chapter xiii, ; “The Dark Night” (poem); “Stanzas Concerning an Ecstasy Experienced in High Contemplation.” Trans. Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D., and Otilio Rodriguez, O.C.D., The Collected Works of John of the Cross (Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Co., ), pp. –, –, –, -. “Stanzas” is my translation; I thank Azucena García-Marcos for her counsel. Spanish originals in San Juan de la Cruz, Obras completas,  vols., ed. Luce López-Baralt and Eulogio Pacho (Madrid: Alianza, ).

Son of a well-born father who married low for love, forfeiting his family fortune, Juan de Yepes, or John of the Cross, was well acquainted with poverty in his childhood in Castile near Ávila. In his youth he worked caring for the sick at a hospital and also managed to receive a classical education from the Jesuits. At twenty-one years of age he became a Carmelite monk. After his novitiate, he spent four years studying philosophy and theology at the University of Salamanca. In  he met Teresa of Ávila, then fifty-two, who enlisted him for her reform of the Carmelite order. This involved him in conflicts with unreformed elements of the order in a climate of rigid Counter-Reformation Catholicism intent on the enforcement of orthodoxy. An emphasis on inner experience and individual contemplation, as opposed to conformity to outward observances, made Teresa’s reformed or descalzo (“barefoot”) movement suspect. Imprisoned in December  in Toledo, Juan was subjected to cruel humiliations and maiming tortures. He resolutely interpreted this calvary, however, as a “night of purification” of both his senses and his spirit. He spent nine months in a tiny dark cell, where he mentally composed poems, some of his most important. He was able to pen them only after escaping in July . In subsequent years he produced voluminous commentaries on these poems, generally in connection with his activities of founding and directing numerous discalced monastic communities.



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The works of Juan that are certainly authentic consist of ten to twelve lyric poems and four extensive commentaries on three of these poems. El Cántico espiritual (The Spiritual Canticle) and Llama de amor viva (The Flame of Living Love) are long prose works cast as commentaries on the homonymous poems. The rapturous stanzas of his poem “The Spiritual Canticle” are Juan’s lyricized version of the Song of Songs. The anguish of separation from the Beloved sets the scene for the poem, which was written in prison. The prologue of the prose commentary is in many ways the best introduction to John’s whole oeuvre, with its focus upon the ineffable. Its introductory paragraphs declare the impossibility of exhaustive exegesis for verses that express unspeakable mystical experience. In stanza  of the poem, the Bride complains that others stammer what she does not understand about the Bridegroom, whom she seeks, and indeed her own words are themselves a perfect stammer: “un no sé qué que quedan balbuciendo” (“an I-know-not-what that they keep stammering”). As the commentary on this line explains, “Stammering, a trait we notice in children’s speech, means that one is unsuccessful in saying and explaining what one has to say.” In “Oh Living Flame of Love!” this stammer over the unsayable turns into the interjection “oh!” which echoes in repetitions throughout the poem, establishing exclamation as its basic discursive mode. The commentary explains: “The soul, desiring to speak of it, does not do so, but keeps the valuation in its heart and expresses praise vocally through the use of ‘O,’ saying: ‘O sweet cautery’” (Llama de amor viva, II, ).1 Other lyrics become explicitly apophatic. The refrain “transcending all knowledge” (“toda ciencia transcendiendo”) concludes each of the eight stanzas of “Entréme donde no supe” (“I entered I knew not where”), and “Glosa a lo divino” repeats in every stanza a refrain stating, “I will never abandon myself except to what I do not know” (“sino por un no sé qué”). The Ascent of Mount Carmel (Subida del monte Carmelo) and The Dark Night (Noche oscura) form a continuous sequence interpreting the poem “En una noche oscura” but also offering lengthy doctrinal disquisitions on John’s spiritual and moral theology. The Ascent treats of sensual and spiritual purgation with respect to the soul’s activity—its ascetic discipline—while The Dark Night treats purgation of the sensual part of the soul followed by the spiritual with regard to the soul’s passivity (Books I and II, respectively). It is inspired . Collected Works, p. . “Que queriéndolo ella decir no lo dice, sino quédase con la estimación en el corazón y con el encarecimiento en la boca por este término oh, diciendo: !Oh cauterio suave!”

John of the Cross



by a Dionysian conception of luminous darkness. (The pursuit of a passivity that can never be purely passive enough is taken up again by recent apophatic thinkers such as Emmanuel Levinas and Maurice Blanchot.) Although Juan does not often concentrate specifically on the linguistic aspects of the experience of the dark night of the soul, his concrete descriptions of what apophasis consists in give him a preeminent place in the literature. Apophasis as he discloses it is not just loss of the faculty of speech in an empirical sense. The loss of speech manifests a negation of all human capabilities of sensing and perceiving, emoting, and acting, and an annihilation of the very self. The total negation of the self is a moral and spiritual process of purification for which ineffability, the negation of speech, stands as an emblem. The total denial of the self and of everything finite or created is implicit in apophasis as we come to conceive it, in the full range of its implications, through Juan. Linguistic apophasis thus appears as nothing but an expression for apophasis as a condition and a dynamic of negation and self–annihilation that remains indefinable and unutterable. It cannot be formulated adequately in linguistic terms, not even as “what cannot be said,” but can only be practiced in the wordless straining of the soul trained upon what it can neither know nor say. In order to reach union with God as a simple, supernatural light that is alien from all objects of knowledge (“tan pura y sencillamente y tan desnuda ella ajena de todas las formas inteligibles, que son objetos del entendimiento”), the soul must do precisely nothing (“hace nada, ni està empleyada en nada, por que no obra nada con los sentidos ni con las potencias”) (Subida del monte Carmelo II, xiv, Collected Works, p. ). For union with God, the soul has to be stripped of all representations. Images and intelligible concepts alike must be surrendered (Carmelo II, xvi, , Collected Works, pp. –). It is necessary for the soul to abide in utter darkness and emptiness of everything, without sight or feeling. This state of union is defined by Juan as a night of faith in which the soul empties itself completely in order to unite with God (“vacío en fe, que es lo que se requiere para la unión del alma con Dios,” Carmelo II, xxiv, , Collected Works, p. ). Juan’s thought revolves around achieving utter emptiness of finite representations—and thereby unsaying everything that is articulated and said. He renounces relentlessly all forms and phenomena, including every experience of divine appearance or consolation. For no finite, determinate representation can be like God in the least degree. He quotes the Scholastic principle that there is no proportion between the infinite and the finite, and his own realization of this idea makes it much more than an abstract principle. He has an



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overwhelmingly vivid sense of what is lost by every representation and of what can be gained by suspending them all, namely, union with God. Any representation of God, even if it comes from God, is subject to human interpretations and even to potentially devilish interceptions and manipulations. Thus the soul’s right and worthy objective can only be its own evacuation. This renders the soul independent of everything outside it and even of itself. In renunciation or self-negation, the soul achieves freedom. This is the emptiness which enables union with God—though nothing can be said about this emptiness that would not make it into something and thus be an impediment to, rather than a realization of, freedom. Juan is accordingly an uncompromising proponent of the negative way of unknowing in the approach to God. The self-emptying he relentlessly urges is in essence a reduction of the self to silence, to a state of complete inactivity and total receptivity, in order that an unsayable, unrepresentable divinity might be all in all. Juan is exploring the moral conditions and spiritual discipline necessary to know “how not to speak,” how to be purged of articulated, ineluctably self-serving discourse. He calls this state “spiritual nakedness” (“desnudez del espíritu”) and describes how it is reached by a way of negation—for example, in the verses excerpted from the Ascent of Mount Carmel, I, xiii. He considers in detail all the different sorts of revelations, visions, oracles, and prophecies in order to conclude that all must be left behind in the ascent to union with God. All Juan’s saying concentrates on reducing and eliminating the finite self ’s articulation of itself. This effort is directed toward what Juan does not attempt to say, except in poetic language. In the prose commentaries he analyzes what it means psychologically and anthropologically to pursue the via negativa to its goal, accepting all the consequences. Curiously, the poetry is lavishly sensuous, whereas the commentaries counsel the severest asceticism.2 Such paradoxes, which issue in apophaticism, were to become a hallmark of baroque style.3 In his Paradoxa () the German Protestant thinker Sebastian Franck made the paradoxes of theology as “Word of God” the basis for a peculiarly baroque philosophy. Juan’s oeuvre shows traces of influence from the German mystic tradition and in turn influences the baroque flowering of mystic and metaphysi. See especially Jose C. Nieto, San Juan de la Cruz: Poeta del amor profano (Madrid: Torre de la Botica/Swan, ). . R. V. Young, “Ineffable Speech: Carmelite Mysticism and Metaphysical Poetry,” Communio: International Catholic Review  (Summer ): –. Another excellent commentary on Juan’s poetry as an absolute apex of apophatic expression in mystical tradition is Jorge Guillén, “The Ineffable Language of Mysticism: San Juan de la Cruz,” in Language and Poetry (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, ), pp. –.

John of the Cross

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cal poetry in Germany, Flanders, and England.4 Eckhart’s teaching would have been communicated to Juan, as to other Spanish mystics, via Johannes Tauler (–), who develops a doctrine of the night of the spirit. Juan also shows signs of contact with the Arab heritage of Sufi mysticism, particularly that of Ibn al-‘Arabi.5 But most of all, his apophaticism is distilled from his own directly personal experience of relationship with God as Lover and Beloved. . See J. Orcibal, St. Jean de la Croix et les mystiques rhénoflammands (Paris: Desclée, ) and Edith Stein, Kreuzeswissenschaft. Studien über Johannes von Kreuz in Edith Steins Werke, vol.  (Louvain: Nauwelaerts, ). . Juan’s presumable Sufi precedents are explored in detail by Luce López-Baralt in “Simbología mística musulmana en Juan de la Cruz y en Santa Teresa de Jesús,” Nueva Revista de Filologia Hispanica  (): –, and in San Juan de la Cruz y el Islam (Madrid: Hiperión, ). On Juan as a poet of the ineffable, see further López-Baralt’s Asedios a lo Indecible (Madrid: Trotta, ).

The Spiritual Canticle, Prologue, sections  and 

. These stanzas, Reverend Mother, were obviously composed with a certain burning love of God. The wisdom and charity of God is so vast, as the Book of Wisdom states, that it reaches from end to end [Wis. :], and a person informed and moved by it bears in some way this very abundance and impulsiveness in his words. As a result I do not plan to expound these stanzas in all the breadth and fullness that the fruitful spirit of love conveys to them. It would be foolish to think that expressions of love arising from mystical understanding, like these stanzas, are fully explainable. The Spirit of the Lord, who abides in us and aids our weakness, as St. Paul says [Rom. :], pleads for us with unspeakable groanings in order to manifest what we can neither fully understand nor comprehend. Who can describe the understanding He gives to loving souls in whom He dwells? And who can express the exprience He imparts to them? Who, finally, can explain the desires He gives them? Certainly, no one can! Not even they who receive these communications. As a

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result these persons let something of their experiences overflow in figures and similies, and from the abundance of their spirit pour out secrets and mysteries rather than rational explanations. If these similitudes are not read with the simplicity of the spirit of knowledge and love they contain, they will seem to be absurdities rather than reasonable utterances, as will those comparisons of the divine Canticle of Solomon and other books of Sacred Scripture where the Holy Spirit, unable to express the fullness of His meaning in ordinary words, utters mysteries in strange figures and likenesses. The saintly doctors, no matter how much they have said or will say, can never furnish an exhaustive explanation of these figures and comparisons, since the abundant meanings of the Holy Spirit cannot be caught in words. Thus the explanation of these expressions usually contains less than what they in themselves embody. . Since these stanzas, then, were composed in a love flowing from abundant mystical understanding, I cannot explain them adequately, nor is it my intention to do so. I only wish to shed some general light on them, since Your Reverence has desired this of me. I believe such an explanation will be more suitable. It is better to explain the utterances of love in their broadest sense so that each one may derive profit from them according to the mode and capacity of his spirit, rather than narrow them down to a meaning unadaptable to every palate. As a result, though we give some explanation of these stanzas, there is no reason to be bound to this explanation. For mystical wisdom, which comes through love and is the subject of these stanzas, need not be understood distinctly in order to cause love and affection in the soul, for it is given according to the mode of faith, through which we love God without understanding Him.

The Dark Night, Book II, Chapter XVII, –

. We ought to explain three properties of this night indicated in the three terms of this verse. Two of them, “secret” and “ladder,” pertain

John of the Cross



to the dark night of contemplation now under discussion; the third, “disguised,” refers to the soul and the way it conducts itself in this night. Relative to the first two, it should be known that in this verse the soul calls dark contemplation, by which it goes out to the union of love, a “secret ladder” because of two properties that are found in it: it is secret, and it is a ladder. We will discuss them separately. . First, it calls this dark contemplation “secret” since, as we mentioned, contemplation is the mystical theology which theologians call secret wisdom and which St. Thomas says is communicated and infused into the soul through love. This communication is secret and dark to the work of the intellect and the other faculties. Insofar as these faculties do not acquire it but the Holy Spirit infuses it and puts it in order in the soul, as the bride says in the Canticle of Canticles [Ct. :], the soul neither knows nor understands how this comes to pass and thus calls it secret. Indeed, not only does the soul fail to understand, but no one understands, not even the devil, since the Master who teaches the soul dwells within it substantially where neither the devil, the natural senses, nor the intellect can reach. . Not only because of this inability to understand contemplation is it called “secret” but also because of the effects it produces in the soul. The wisdom of love is not secret merely in the darknesses and straits of the soul’s purgation (for the soul does not know how to describe it) but also afterwards in the illumination, when it is communicated more clearly. Even then it is so secret that it is ineffable. Not only does a man feel unwilling to give expression to this wisdom, but he finds no adequate means or similitude to signify so sublime an understanding and delicate a spiritual feeling. Even if the soul should desire to convey this experience in words and think up many similitudes, the wisdom would always remain secret and still to be expressed. Since this interior wisdom is so simple, general, and spiritual that in entering the intellect it is not clothed in any sensory species or image, the imaginative faculty cannot form an idea or picture of it in order to speak of it; this wisdom did not enter through these faculties nor did they behold any of its apparel or color. Yet the soul is clearly aware that it understands and tastes that delightful and wondrous wisdom. If a man were to behold an object never before seen in itself or in its likeness, he would be unable to describe it or give it a name

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no matter how much he tried, even though he does understand and find satisfaction in it. And if he should encounter such difficulty in describing what he perceives through the senses, how much greater difficulty he will have in expressing what does not enter through the senses. The language of God has this trait: Since it is very spiritual and intimate to the soul, transcending everything sensory, it immediately silences the entire ability and harmonious composite of the exterior and interior senses. . We have examples of this ineffability of the divine language in Sacred Scripture. Jeremias manifested his incapacity to describe it when, after God had spoken to him, he knew of nothing more to say than ah, ah, ah. [Jer. :] Moses also declared before God, present in the burning bush, his interior inability (the inability of both his imagination and his exterior senses). [Ex. :] He asserted that he was not only unable to speak of this converse but that he did not even dare consider it in his imagination, as is said in the Acts of the Apostles. [Acts :] He believed that his imagination was not only as it were dumb in the matter of forming some image of what he understood in God, but also incapable of receiving this knowledge. Since the wisdom of this contemplation is the language of God to the soul, of Pure Spirit to the spirit alone, all that is less than spirit such as the sensory, fails to perceive it. Consequently this wisdom is secret to the senses; they have neither the knowledge nor ability to speak of it, nor do they even desire to do so because it is beyond words. . We understand, then, why some persons who tread this road and desire to give an account of this experience to their director— for they are good and God-fearing—are unable to describe it. They feel great repugnance in speaking about it, especially when the contemplation is so simple that they are hardly aware of it. All they can manage to say is that they are satisfied, quiet, and content, and aware of God, and that in their opinion all goes well. But the experience is ineffable, and one will hear from the soul no more than these general terms. It is a different matter when the communications the soul receives are particular, such as visions, feelings, etc. These communications are ordinarily received through some species in which the sense participates and which are describable through that species or a similar one. Yet pure contemplation is indescribable, as we said, and on this account called “secret.”

John of the Cross

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. Not for this reason alone do we call mystical wisdom “secret”—and it is actually so—but also because it has the characteristic of hiding the soul within itself. Besides its usual effect, this mystical wisdom will occasionally so engulf a person in its secret abyss that he will have the keen awareness of being brought into a place far removed from every creature. He will accordingly feel that he has been led into a remarkably deep and vast wilderness, unattainable by any human creature, into an immense, unbounded desert, the more delightful, savorous, and loving, the deeper, vaster, and more solitary it is. He is conscious of being so much the more hidden the more he is elevated above every temporal creature. A man is so elevated and exalted by this abyss of wisdom, which leads it into the veins of the science of love, that he realizes that all the conditions of creatures in relation to this supreme knowing and divine experience are very base, and he perceives the lowliness, deficiency, and inadequacy of all the terms and words used in this life to deal with divine things. He will also note the impossibility, without the illumination of this mystical theology, of a knowledge or experience of these divine things as they are in themselves through any natural means, no matter how wisely or loftily one speaks of them. Beholding this truth—that it can neither grasp nor explain this wisdom—the soul rightly calls it secret. . This divine contemplation has the property of being secret and above one’s natural capacity, not merely because it is supernatural, but also because it is the way which guides the soul to the perfections of union with God, toward which one must advance humanly by not knowing and divinely by ignorance, since they are not humanly knowable. . Speaking mystically, as we are here, the divine things and perfections are not known as they are in themselves while they are being sought and acquired, but when they are already found and acquired. Accordingly, the prophet Baruch speaks of this divine wisdom: There is no one able to know her ways or think of her paths. [Bar. :] The royal prophet of this road also speaks of this kind of wisdom in his converse with God: And your illuminations enlightened and illumined the entire world; the earth shook and trembled. Your way is in the sea and your paths are in many waters, and your footsteps shall not be known. [Ps. :–]. Spiritually speaking, this passage refers to our subject. The lightning of God illumining the whole earth signifies the

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illumination this divine contemplation produces in the faculties of the soul; the shaking and trembling of the earth applies to the painful purgation it causes in the soul; and to assert that the way and road of God, by which the soul travels toward Him, is in the sea, and His footsteps in many waters, and thereby unknowable, is similar to stating that the way to God is as hidden and secret to the sensory part of the soul as are the footsteps of one walking on water imperceptible to the bodily senses. The traces and footsteps God leaves in those whom He desires to bring to Himself, by making them great in the union with His wisdom, are unrecognizable. In the Book of Job this fact is stressed in these words: Do you perchance know the paths of the great clouds or the perfect sciences? [Jb. :] This passage refers to the ways and roads by which God exalts souls (here referred to by the clouds) and perfects them in His wisdom. Consequently, this contemplation which is guiding the soul to God is secret wisdom.

The Ascent of Mount Carmel, Book I, Chapter XIII, 

To reach satisfaction in all desire its possession in nothing. To come to possess all desire the possession of nothing. To arrive at being all desire to be nothing. To come to the knowledge of all desire the knowledge of nothing. To come to the pleasure you have not you must go by a way in which you enjoy not. To come to the knowledge you have not you must go by a way in which you know not. To come to the possession you have not

John of the Cross

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you must go by a way in which you possess not. To come to be what you are not you must go by a way in which you are not. When you turn toward something you cease to cast yourself upon the all. For to go from all to the all you must deny yourself of all in all. And when you come to the possession of the all you must possess it without wanting anything. Because if you desire to have something in all your treasure in God is not purely your all.

Noche Oscura

The Dark Night

En una Noche oscura Con ansias en amores inflamada —¡Oh dichosa ventura!— Salí sin ser notada, Estando ya mi casa sosegada.

One dark night, Fired with love’s urgent longings —Ah, the sheer grace!— I went out unseen, My house being now all stilled;

A oscuras, y segura Por la secreta escala disfrazada —¡Oh dichosa ventura!— A oscuras y en celada, Estando ya mi casa sosegada.

In darkness, and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised, —Ah, the sheer grace!— In darkness and concealment, My house being now all stilled;

En la noche dichosa En secreto, que nadie me veía, Ni yo miraba cosa, Sin otra luz y guía Sino la que en el corazón ardía.

On that glad night, In secret, for no one saw me, Nor did I look at anything, With no other light or guide Than the one that burned in my heart;



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Aquesta me guiaba Más cierto que la luz del mediodía, A donde me esperaba —Quien yo bien me sabía— En parte donde nadie parecía.

This guided me More surely than the light of noon To where He waited for me —Him I knew so well— In a place where no one else appeared.

¡O noche que guiaste! ¡Oh noche amable más que el alborada! Oh noche que juntaste Amado con amada, Amada en el Amado transformada.

O guiding night! O night more lovely than the dawn! O night that has united The Lover with His beloved, Transforming the beloved in her Lover.

En mi pecho florida, Que entero para él solo se guardabe, Allí quedó dormido, Y yo le regalaba, Y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.

Upon my flowering breast Which I kept wholly for Him alone, There He lay sleeping, And I caressing Him There in a breeze from the fanning cedars.

El aire de la almena, Cuando ya sus cabellos esparcía, con su mano serena En mi cuello hería, Y todos mis sentidos suspendía.

When the breeze blew from the turret Parting His hair, He wounded my neck With his gentle hand, Suspending all my senses.

Quédeme y olvidéme, El rostro recliné sobre el Amado, Cesó todo, y dejéme, Dejando me cuidado Entre las azucenas ovlidado.

I abandoned and forgot myself, Laying my face on my Beloved; All things ceased; I went out from myself, Leaving my cares Forgotten among the lilies.

John of the Cross



Coplas del Mismo Hechas sobre un Extasis de Harta Contemplacion

Stanzas Concerning an Ecstasy Experienced in High Contemplation

Entréme donde no supe, Y quedéme no sabiendo, Toda ciencia trascendiendo.

I entered I knew not where and abided without knowing, transcending all knowledge.

Yo no supe dónde entraba, Pero, cuando allí me vi, Sin saber dónde me estaba, Grandes cosas entendí; No diré lo que sentí, Que me quedé no sabiendo, Toda ciencia transcendiendo.

I did not know where I was, but, when I saw myself there, without knowing where I was, I understood great things; I will not say what I heard, since I abided without knowing, transcending all knowledge.

De paz y de pïedad Era la ciencia perfecta, En profunda soledad, Entendida (vía recta); Era cosa tan secreta, Que me quedé balcuciendo, Toda ciencia trascendiendo.

Of peace and piety was my knowledge perfect, in profound solitude understood, the straight path; it was such a secret thing that I abided stammering, transcending all knowledge.

Estaba tan embebido, Tan absorto y ajenado, Que se quedó mi sentido De todo sentir privado, Y el espíritu dotado De un entender no entendiendo, Toda ciencia trascendiendo.

I was so engrossed, so absorbed and beside myself, that my senses remained deprived of all sensation, and my spirit was endowed with an understanding not under stood, transcending all knowledge.



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El que allí llega de vero, De sí mismo desfallece; Cuanto sabía primero, Mucho bajo le parece; Y su ciencia tanto crece, Que se queda no sabiendo, Toda ciencia trascendiendo.

Whoever really arrives there in himself faints and fails; all that he knew before seems very low to him, and his knowledge increases so much that he abides not knowing, transcending all knowledge.

Cuanto más alto se sube, Tanto menos se entendía, Que es la tenebrosa nube Que a la noche esclarecía; Por eso quien la sabía Queda siempre no sabiendo Toda ciencia transcendiendo.

The higher one ascends, the less one understands, Because it is a dark cloud that illuminates the night; Whoever knows this abides always in unknowing, transcending all knowledge.

Este saber no sabiendo Es de tan alto poder, Que los sabios arguyendo Jamás le pueden vencer; Que no llega su saber A no entender entendiendo, Toda ciencia trascendiendo.

This knowing of unknowing is of so high power that the wise in their reasonings can never master it; for their knowledge does not arrive at the understanding of not understanding, transcending all knowledge.

Y es de tan alta excelencia Aqueste sumo saber, que no hay facultad ni ciencia Que le puedan comprender; Quien se supiere vencer Con un no saber sabiendo, Irá siempre trascendendo.

And it is of such high excellence, this highest knowledge, that there is no faculty or science that can comprehend it; whoever is able to master himself by a knowing unknowing will always go on transcending.

John of the Cross Y si lo queréis oir, Consiste esta suma ciencia En un subido sentir de la divinal esencia; Es obra de su clemencia Hacer quedar no entendiendo, Toda ciencia trascendiendo.



And if you care to hear of it this highest science consists in an elevated sense of the divine essence; it is the work of His mercy to make one abide without understanding, transcending all knowledge.

. J B (–) De electione gratiae (On the Election of Grace), chapter . Trans. John Rolleston Earle (London: Constable & Co, ), pp. –. German original in Von der Gnadenwahl, ed. Roland Pietsch (Stuttgart: Reclam, ).

The visionary mystic Jakob Böhme, from Görlitz in Silesia, was a shoemaker by trade. He experienced his first vision—an illumination that awoke him to his mystic vocation—in , at the age of twenty-five. He was persecuted by his Lutheran pastor, Gregor Richter, who forbade him to write about his visions. Encouraged by friends and admirers, however, he produced a sizeable body of writings that circulated widely and made him a highly revered author. Böhme’s writings fostered a range of theosophies, which flourished especially in northern Europe from the seventeenth century on. They earned him the honorary title “Philosophicus Teutonicus,” accorded him by Hegel, Schelling, and other German Idealists, and general recognition as an essential link in the tradition of German speculative mysticism. In fact, Böhme’s writings are often taken to constitute the first philosophical oeuvre to be written entirely in the German language. Hegel and Schelling recognized in Böhme one of the supreme metaphysical geniuses of humanity. His speculation began from the cardinal principle that God cannot be known directly as he is in himself but only indirectly in nature and creation (“Gott hat ausser der Natur und Creatur keinen Namen,” Mysterium Magnum, LX, ).1 Yet neither can man and creation be known except in and through God. Therefore all that is must be recognized as fundamentally a mystery. God is named Nothing because he is inconceivable and inexpressible (“Gott . . . wird darum ein Nichts genannt dass er unbegreiflich und unaussprechlich ist,” Questiones Theosophicae, q. II, ). All is fundamentally unity in God, “but the unity of God cannot be expressed” (“aber die Einheit Gottes kan nicht ausgesprochen werden,” Questiones Theosophicae, q. I, ).

. Citations of works other than the anthologized piece are from Sämtliche Schriften (Stuttgart: F. Frommanns Verlag, –), ed. Will-Erich Peuckert, facsimile of  edition by August Faust.



Jakob Böhme



Nevertheless, at every level of being there is a drive toward knowledge, essentially toward self-knowledge. We know from revelation that we are made in God’s likeness. If we can begin by weaning ourselves away from the falsities of exterior knowledge of ourselves and come to know our true nature inwardly, we witness the actual birth of God in us. The method is negative, and in fact its fundamental points are constant in the tradition from Meister Eckhart. Böhme’s characteristic accent falls on this revelation by means of unknowing as a revelation of the mystery of the person. According to Alexandre Koyré’s lucid and powerful reading of Böhme, which focuses on the inviolable value of personality, Böhme refuses self-annihilation by fusion in God in order to affirm the perfection of man in his finite being as the incarnation and expression of God, who is himself without determinations (ens nullo modo determinatum) but nevertheless includes all determinations (ens determinatum omnimodo).2 Thus the personal being of God is not set apart by its eternity from the world but realizes itself totally in every moment (totum simul) in the dynamic and concrete life of the world. God is not placed outside time: he contains time in himself in synthesis with his eternity. At least, this is how God is known by human beings—anthropomorphically. Although he is not himself nature, he reveals himself to humans as nature: and this self-revelation is God’s own nature so far as we can know it. Böhme regarded Von der Gnadenwahl () as his clearest work (see Clavis, ). It contains the most systematic laying out of the metaphysical principles of his theosophy. The first chapter expresses eloquently the principle from which his entire, fantastic metaphysical system begins: the purely negative, unrepresentable and unsayable principle of All. This is an indeterminate un-ground (“Ungrunt”), an abyss, a Nichts, that is, a Nothing, about which it is “possible to say neither this nor that” (“Den man kann nicht von gott saygen / das Er dis oder das sey”). This sheer immunity from all determination, this purely negative transcendence, is itself nothing; it is not even itself, yet it is the eternally fecund source and germ of God as Being. The eternal One, likewise, is nothing determinate, but its abstract unity is what realizes in itself all varieties of concrete, organic, living being. It becomes truly the Good in all the relations of Creation upon which it enters.3 In this manner, everything that is manifest and expressed (in the world) bespeaks what cannot appear or be said. . Alexandre Koyré, La philosophie de Jacob Boehme (New York: Burt Franklin, ; original edition, Paris, ), pp. –. . Ibid., pp. –.



  -       ,   -         

In his account of his first vision, written twelve years later in his first book, Aurora, oder Morgenröte im Aufgang, Böhme declares his inability to write or express what he experienced: “What a triumph for the spirit it was I cannot write or say. Neither is it susceptible of comparison with anything. . . .”4 It can be compared only with the birth of life in the midst of death. From their inception, Böhme’s writings are presented as his impossible attempt to express in words his experience of the inexpressible.5 . “Was aber für ein triumpffiren in dem Geiste gewesen sey / kahn Ich nicht schreiben / oder Reden / Es lest sich auch mit nichtes ver gleichen . . . .” Aurora, oder Morgenröte im Aufgang, Die Urschriften, vol. , pp. , ff. . Cf. Roland Pietsch, “Die innerste Geburt der Gottheit: Zur Mystik und Metaphysik Jakob Böhmes,” in Zu Dir Hin: Über mystische Lebenserfahrung. Von Meister Eckhart bis Paul Celan, ed. W. Böhme, pp. ff. See also Andreas Gauger, Jakob Böhme und das Wesen seiner Mystik (Berlin: Weißensee, ), particularly pp. ff.: “Mystik und das Sprachproblem,” on “the paradox of the inexpressible God.”

On the Election of Divine Grace, chapter 

Of the One Will of God, and of the Introduction of What He Has Revealed as His Being. What the One God Is. . God says in Moses in a manifested voice to the people of Israel (by which voice he brought himself out of his hiddenness into a manifest sound in an express creaturely manner, and made himself heard, so that the creature might apprehend him): I the Lord thy God am one God only; thou shalt honour no other gods beside me (Ex. xx. , ; Deut. vi. ). And again, Moses says: The Lord our God is an angry, jealous God, and a consuming fire (Deut. iv. ). And then again: God is a merciful God. His Spirit is a flame of love (Deut. iv. ). . These passages seem to involve a contradiction, inasmuch as God calls himself an angry God and a consuming fire, and then

Jakob Böhme



again, a flame of love—he who can be nothing but good, else he were not God, viz. the one good. . For it cannot be said of God that he is this or that, evil or good, or that he has distinctions in himself. For he is in himself natureless, passionless, and creatureless. He has no tendency to anything, for there is nothing before him to which he could tend, neither evil nor good. He is in himself the unground, without any will towards nature and creature, as it were an eternal nothing. There is no pain or quality (Qual) in him, nor anything that could incline either to him or from him. He is the one sole existence, and there is nothing before him or after him by or in which he might draw or grasp a will for himself; neither has he anything that generates or produces him. He is the nothing and the all, and is a single will in which the world and the whole creation lies. In him all is alike eternal, without beginning, equal in weight, measure and number. He is neither light nor darkness, neither love nor wrath, but the eternal One. Therefore Moses says: The Lord is one God only (Deut. vi. ). . This unfathomable, incomprehensible, unnatural and uncreaturely will, which is one only and has nothing before it nor after it; which in itself is but a one, which is as nothing and yet is everything—this will is called and is the one God, which seizes and finds himself in himself, and begets God from God. . That is to say, the first unoriginated single will, which is neither evil nor good, generates within itself the one eternal good as an apprehensible will, which is the Son of the unfathomable will, and yet co-eternal with the unoriginated will. This second will is the first will’s eternal feeling and finding, for the nothing finds itself in itself as a something. And the unfathomable will, i.e. the indiscoverable One, by its eternal discovery goes forth, and brings itself into an eternal intuition of itself. . Thus the unfathomable will is called eternal Father. And the will that is found, grasped and brought forth by the unground is called his begotten or only-begotten Son; for it is the Ens of the unground, whereby the unground apprehends itself in a ground. And the outgoing of the unfathomable will through the apprehended Son or Ens is called Spirit, for he leads the apprehended Ens out of itself into a movement or life of the will, as a life of the Father and of the Son. And what has gone forth is joy, viz, the discovery of the eternal nothing, in which Father, Son and Spirit behold and find themselves; and this is called God’s wisdom or intuition.



  -       ,   -         

. This threefold being in its birth and in its self-contemplation in wisdom has been from eternity, and possesses in itself no other ground or place than just itself. It is a single life and a single will without desire. It has in itself neither thickness nor thinness, neither height nor depth, nor space nor time; but is through all and in all, and yet is to all as an unseizable nothing. . As the lustre of the sun works in the whole world, in all things and through all things, and yet all this can take away nothing from the sun, but must suffer him and work along with the power of the sun: in such a way is God to be considered, as to what he is apart from nature and creature in himself, in a self-comprehensible Chaos, independent of ground, time and place. In this Chaos the eternal nothing comprehends itself in an eye or eternal power of seeing, for the beholding, feeling and finding of itself. In such case it cannot be said that God has two wills, one to evil, and the other to good. . For in the unnatural, uncreaturely Deity, there is nothing more than a single will, which is called also the one God; and he wills in himself nothing more than just to seize and find himself, go out from himself, and with the outgoing bring himself into an intuition; by which is understood the triad of the Deity together with the mirror of his wisdom or the eye of his seeing. Therein are understood all powers, colours, wonders and beings, in the eternal (one) wisdom, in equal weight and measure without properties, as a single ground of the Being of all beings. And a longing that is found in himself or a desire for somewhat, a longing for manifestation or discovery of properties, which divine longing or wisdom is in itself, in the primal Ground, wholly without properties. For if there were properties, there would have to be something to produce or cause the properties. But there is no cause of the divine powers and of the divine longing or wisdom save the one will, that is to say, the one God who brings himself into a threefoldness as into an apprehensibility of himself. This apprehensibility is the centre, as the eternal apprehended One, and is called the heart or seat of the eternal will of God, in which the unground possesses itself in a ground. And it is the one place of God, but with no partition or separation; moreover immeasurable, without any form or parallel, for there is nothing before it to which it might be compared. . This heart or centre of the unground is the eternal mind of the will, and yet has nothing before it that it can will, save only the

Jakob Böhme



one will that apprehends itself in this centre. The first will to the centre likewise has nothing that it can will, save only this one place of its self-discovery. The first will is therefore the Father of its heart or the place of its discovery, and a possessor of what is found, viz. its onlybegotten will or Son. . The unfathomable will, which is the Father and a beginning of all being, generates itself within itself into a place of apprehensibility, or possesses the place; and the place is the ground and beginning of all beings, and possesses in its turn the unfathomable will, which is the Father of the beginning and so of the ground. . Thus the Father and his Son (as the place of a selfhood) is one God only, with one only will. This one will in the apprehended place of the ground goes out from itself, from the apprehension, and with the outgoing it is called a spirit. Thus the one will of the unground through the first, eternal, unoriginated grasp divides into three kinds of working, and yet remains but one will. The first will, which is called Father, produces in itself the Son as the place of the Deity. And the place of the Deity, which is the Father’s Son, produces in itself, in the discovery, the power of wisdom—all which powers take their rise in the Son. And yet here all powers are but one power, and that power is the perceptible, discoverable Deity in itself, in one only will and being, with no distinction. . These found, generated and produced powers, as the centre of the beginnings of all beings, does the first will in the perceptibility of itself breathe forth from itself, from the one power which is its seat or Son, in manner as the sun’s rays shoot forth from the magical fire of the sun, and reveal the sun’s power. Accordingly this outgoing is a ray of the power of God, as a moving life of the Deity, in which the unfathomable will has brought itself into a ground, as into an assurgent power. Such a power does the will to power breathe forth out of the power, and the outgoing is called the Spirit of God, and makes the third kind of working, as a life or movement in the power. . The fourth kind of working takes place in the outbreathed power as in the divine intuition or wisdom, where the Spirit of God (which arises from the power) with the outbreathed powers as with one power sports with himself, and in the power introduces himself into forms in the divine longing, as if he wished to bring an image of this generation of the triad into a particular will and life as a representation of the one trinity. And this imprinted image is the joy of



  -       ,   -         

the divine intuition, though we are not to understand a comprehensible, creaturely image possessing circumscription; but the divine Imagination as the primal ground of Magic, from which the creation has had its beginning and origin. . And in this imprint or magical representation in wisdom is understood the angelic and soulic true image of God, whereof Moses says (Gen. i. ): God created man in his own image, that is, in the image of this divine imprint according to the spirit; and in the image of God created he him as to the creature of created corporeal form. So likewise is it to be understood with regard to the angels, in respect of the divine existence out of the divine wisdom. But the creaturely ground, wherein lie the properties, shall be indicated hereafter. . In the foregoing account we understand in a summary way what God apart from nature and creature is, when He declares in Moses: I the Lord thy God am one God only. His name in the sensual tongue (this Divine process of birth in the powers of the one wisdom bringing itself into a framing of the image of itself) is called J, as an embodied longing of the Nothing in a something, or the Eternal One. This in a manner might be delineated thus | , and yet there is no measurable or divisible form or thing; but it is for the mind to reflect upon. . For this inward figuration is neither great nor small, and has nowhere either a beginning or an end (save where God’s longing is carried into a being of his intuition, as in the creation), but it is infinite and its form uncircumscribed—just as the modelizing in man’s mind remains immeasurable in a constant form, where innumerable thoughts may fashion and define themselves in the one mind; which, however, in the earthly creature take their rise for the most part from the phantasy of the astral mind, and not from the powers of the inward ground of the Divine wisdom. . Here we remind the reader that God in himself (so far as he is called God apart from nature and creature) has no more than one will, which is, to give and bring forth himself. God Jehovah generates nothing but God; that is, there is generated one Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in the one Divine power and wisdom. . As the sun has but a single will, which is, to give itself, and with its desire to press forth in all things, and yield up to every life power with itself; so likewise is God apart from nature and creature the one good, that neither wills nor can give anything but God or the good.

Jakob Böhme



. Out of nature God is the greatest gentleness and humility, wherein is found no trace either of a will to good or a will to evil inclination; for there is neither evil nor good before him. He is himself the one eternal good, and a beginning of all good being and will. Nor is it possible for anything evil to penetrate into him, in so far as he is this one good; for to everything that is posterior to him he is a nothing. He is a power operative within itself, essential and spiritual, the supremest purest humility and beneficence, namely, a feeling, a tasting of love and goodness in the Sense of the sweet bringing-forth, a ravishing and delightful hearing. . For all senses inqualify [in God] in equal harmonious accord, and there is nothing but a lovely assurgency of the Holy Spirit in the one wisdom. In this connection it cannot be said that he is an angry God or that he is a merciful God, because here there is no cause of anger, nor any cause to love anything; for he is the one Love himself, who in pure love gives birth to himself in and ushers himself into threefoldness. . The first will, which is called Father, loves his Son, viz. his heart of his self-revelation, because the Son is his discovery and power. As the soul loves the body, so the apprehended will of the Father is his power and spiritual body, as the centre of the Deity or Divine something, in which the first will is a something. . The Son is the first will’s (i.e. the Father’s) humility, and in his turn desires powerfully the Father’s will, for without the Father he would be a nothing. And he is rightly called the Father’s longing or desire for the manifestation of powers, viz. of the Father’s taste, smell, hearing, feeling and seeing. And yet here distinctions must not be made or understood, for all these senses are in equipoise in the one Deity. Let it only be considered that these senses, which have their origin in the ground of nature, arise by the Father speaking forth these powers from himself into divisibility. . And the holy Spirit is therefore called holy and a flame of love, because he is the emanating power from the Father and the Son, viz. the moving life in the first will of the Father, and in the second will of the Son, in his power; and because he is a shaper, worker and leader in the emanated joy of the Father and the Son in wisdom. . Therefore, ye dear brethren, ye poor men confused by Babel, who has confused you through Satan’s envy, observe this: When you are told about three persons in the Deity, and about the divine will, know that the Lord our God is one God only, who neither wills nor



  -       ,   -         

can will anything evil. For if he willed something evil, and then willed something good in himself, there would be a separation in him; and thus there would have to be something that were the cause of opposition. . Seeing there is nothing before God, nothing can move him to anything. For if something did move him, then that something would be prior to and greater than himself, and it would be the case that God were divided in himself; and hence too that moving something would have to be of another beginning, as having moved itself. . But, in regard to the declaration of the One, we tell you that God’s essence (so far as this is called the one God) is to be understood apart from ground, place and time, dwelling in itself, and not to be considered in any region specially with a particular abode. But if thou wilt know where God dwells, abstract nature and creature, and then God is all. Abstract the expressed formed word, and then thou beholdest the ever-speaking Word which the Father speaks in the Son, and thou seest the hidden wisdom of God. . But thou sayest: I cannot abstract from myself nature and creature; for if that were done, I should be a nothing. Therefore I must represent to myself the Deity by means of images: because I see there is evil and good in me, as well as in the whole creation. . Hearken, my friend: God saith in Moses; Thou shalt make thee no likeness of the one God, neither in the heavens nor upon the earth, nor in the water nor in anything; to signify that He is no image, nor needs a place for an abode, and that He should be sought nowhere but in His formed expressed Word, that is, in the form of God, in man himself. For it is written: The Word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth, and in thy heart (Rom. x. ). And this is the nearest way to God, namely, that the form of God sink down in itself from all imprinted images, abandon all images, disputation and contention in itself, despair of its own will, desire and opinion, and merely sink into the eternal One, into the pure single love of God, and trust in that; which love after the fall of man God introduced again, in Christ, into humanity. . This I have set forth at some length, that the reader may learn to understand the primal Ground, what God is and wills; and that he seek not for an evil and good will in the one, unnatural, uncreaturely God; and that he leave the images of the creature if he would consider God, His will and His ever-speaking Word. Further, if he would

Jakob Böhme



consider from whence spring evil and good, with regard to which God calls himself an angry jealous God, then let him turn to the eternal Nature, i.e. to the expressed compacted formed word, and also to the temporal Nature that has a beginning, wherein lies the creation of this world. . We now proceed to inform the reader further concerning God’s word (which He speaks forth from His powers), and will indicate to him the process of separation, that is, the origin of properties, from which a good and evil will take their rise, and to what end this must inevitably be. And we will show him how all things depend on such inevitable separation, and how badness originates in the creature.

. S A (–) The Wandering Cherub I., , , , , , , , , , ; II., , , , , , , ; III, ; IV.; VI., , . My original English translations are based on Angelus Silesius: Cherubinischer Wandersmann. Kritische Ausgabe, ed. Louise Gnädiger (Stuttgart: Reclam, ). I have been able to preserve some but not all of the typographical style as it appears in the Gnädiger edition, which is also useful for its introduction and notes. A selection of verses from the work— though generally not the ones I have translated here—is also available in English translation by Maria Shrady, Angelus Silesius: Selections from The Cherubic Wanderer (New York: Paulist Press, ).

Johannes Scheffler’s soubriquet “Silesius Angelus”—borrowed presumably from the sixteenth-century Spanish mystic Fray Juan de los Angeles (–), a Platonist in the tradition of Dionysius the Areopagite, Hugh of Saint Victor, and Bonaventure—identifies him as the “Angel of Silesia.” He was born in Breslau, the capital of Silesia (now in Poland), during the Thirty Years War, which was concluded only in  by the Treaty of Westphalia. He studied in Padua, a Catholic humanist center, and in Strasbourg and Leiden, where he encountered the currents stirred up by Jakob Böhme. He earned a doctorate in medicine and philosophy and returned to his homeland to become court physician. His native city suffered acutely from the contention between the Catholic powers and the largely Protestant population. Although Silesius was born a Lutheran, Lutheran circles were less receptive to his brand of mysticism than were Catholics. He converted to Catholicism on June ,  and became a priest in . He was an active participant in the Counter-Reformation. His later work, especially as pamphleteer, became bitter and bigoted in the judgment of many who had appreciated his earlier spiritual openness. Silesius’s poetic work belongs to the so-called new mysticism of the Baroque age, which is generally distinguished by its view of the universe as moral allegory and emblem. This view renders possible the use of imagery in spiritual exercises, such as those of Ignatius of Loyola, without necessarily compromising the inexpressibility of God that was so strongly emphasized by the



Silesius Angelus



Spanish Carmelites. Silesius’s collection of verse, first published in  in an early version entitled Geist-Reiche Sinn- und Schluß-Reime, is representative of a wave of edifying epigram-writing in the middle of the seventeenth century, particularly in the circle around Silesius’s friend and mentor, Abraham von Franckenberg, which also included the mystical poet Daniel Czepko von Reigersfeld. Various testimonies, particularly Silesius’s preface to the  second and enlarged edition of what was now called Cherubinischer Wandersmann, aver that the first of its six component books was entirely written in four days, in a sudden, overpowering burst of inspiration. These very beautiful and spiritually subtle verses exemplify the cooperation, to the point of indistinguishability, of speculative thinking with poetic creativity—Denken with Dichten. They have been widely admired as a classic of negative theology.1 Some aphoristic phrases have become part of the general heritage of Western culture. They have an anonymously familiar sound, like verses from the Bible and lines from Shakespeare, for example: “The rose is without why; it blooms because it blooms” (Die Ros’ ist ohn warumb / sie bluehet weil sie bluehet,” I.). This particular verse, moreover, together with the second half of the couplet to which it belongs—“It pays no heed to itself, asks not if it is seen” (“Sie acht nicht ihrer selbst, fragt nicht, ob man sie siehet”)— provided Heidegger with material for deep philosophical meditation in his Der Satz vom Grund (). Heidegger’s exegesis contrasts the rose with human beings, who cannot but question themselves in search of a ground for their being. This dominant drive of human subjects places all beings—and even being itself—under the rule of calculability as objects. The imperative of grounding eventually leads to the totalized rationality of what Heidegger calls “the Atomic Age.” Silesius’s utterance refuses such rampant rationalization. He contradicts the principle of sufficient reason as formulated by Leibniz, namely, that everything must have a ground, and therewith demands a rethinking of the basic tenets of rationalist philosophy.2 Despite their philosophical subtlety, it often takes a dose of naiveté to fully enter into the spirit of Silesius’s verses and enjoy them. The reward is that they . See, for instance, Jacques Derrida, Sauf le nom (Paris: Galilée, ), and Hent de Vries, Philosophy and the Turn to Religion (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, ), chapter . . The alternative to metaphysical philosophy offered by Silesius and the mystical tradition he represents is pursued further by Georg Stenger in Ohne Warum: Versuch einer Phänomenologie des Ungrundes im Anschluß an den ‘Cherubinischen Wandersmann’ von Angelus Silesius (Essen: Die Blaue Eule, ).



  -       ,   -         

then break upon the receptive mind with the peculiar potency of high spiritual poetry. The translations, accordingly, must have a tuneful ring to them, even if the meaning, word by word, is not an exact rendering in equivalent concepts. Although it is not possible to reproduce Silesius’s full rhymes without becoming unfaithful and at times absurd, the use of near-rhymes and consonances is necessary to give both resolution and also some dissonance to the sound—which remains crucial to the poetic effect of vibration between alternative senses and interpretations of concepts. No concept proves finally adequate—all must be relinquished. Silesius gives an exquisitely poetic form to the main ideas of the tradition of intellectual mysticism as it had evolved from the Neoplatonists and especially as distilled in the works of Meister Eckhart. Since Eckhart’s German works (Traktate and Predigten) were banned, their inspiration would have reached Silesius via the writings of John Tauler, as well as of Valentin Wiegel. Detachment from all particularity, all personal desire, and all proprietary claims, and the abandonment of the self to what cannot be said—to a God that cannot be named or possess any attributes—foster a complete liberation of the spirit. In classical terms, knowing God and knowing the self are achieved concomitantly, and in Christian terms detachment or self-abandon is presented as a state of unbounded love. The self, by annihilating itself as ego, as a particular, determinate psyche, finds its identity with God in the ungraspable ground of its being. Silesius makes radical statements concerning the” God-I” equivalence and even asserts the complete dependency of God on “me,” since all duality is removed: I, God, and the All are inseparable in the life of the spirit. Jch bin wie Gott / und Gott wie ich. Jch bin so groß als Gott / Er ist als ich so klein: Er kan nicht über mich / ich unter Jhm nicht seyn. (I.) I am as God / and God as I. I am as great as God / He is as small as I. He cannot be over me / nor I under him. Silesius denies that God is higher than he, for “God” is but his concept, and this is inferior to his own being, an instance of being itself, which in its infinity is absolute divinity (see also I.: “Man muss noch über Gott,” in the following selection).

Silesius Angelus



The epigrammatic form of the aphorisms proves to be happily matched to their mystic meaning and message. Silesius develops the new poetic form to perfection, exploiting fully its potential for terse statement and sudden, unexpected reversal. The verses consist mainly of rhyming couplets of -syllable Alexandrines broken, generally, by a caesura in the middle of each line. This form is minimalist. It says just enough to suggest the rest, the immeasurable All. The breaking of language in the cut, the “caesura,” lets something of the order of the unsayable break into utterance, but in a clipped and curt form that merely hints at the measure of what is left unsaid and remains indeed unsayable. This silence in the caesura enables an escape from merely verbal antitheses: it opens a space for the coincidentia oppositorum upon which the verses typically turn. The aphorisms selected here illustrate how this verse form at its simplest—generally, couplets of iambic pentameter—embodies these breakings of speech in which an inarticulable unity may be realized in the intimation of something unsayable. Silesius’s conversion from Protestantism to Catholicism corresponds to a turning point in his work that separates the first two books of Cherubinischer Wandersmann from the rest. Whereas the first two are very Eckhartian in inspiration, the last four books show the influence of the Jesuits.3 Thus these later books take a more practical turn: the technique for engineering spiritual perfection can even become dominant over the experience of sheer abandon to the Transcendent. An important line of continuity in Silesius’s work, however, is his persistent polemic against the literal reading of Scripture. Fixing the sense of Holy Scripture in one determinate meaning is contrary to the freedom of the life of the spirit: “writing is but writing, nothing more” (“Die Schrift ist Schrift, sonst nichts,” II.). This life of the spirit is open to infinity and refuses all definitive determinations: it therefore expresses itself best only as inexpressible.

. Marco Vannini, Il volto nascosto: L’esperienza mistica dall’Iliade a Simon Weil (Milan: Mondadori, ), p. .

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  -       ,   -         

From The Wandering Cherub

I. Man weiß nicht was man ist Jch weiß nicht was ich bin. Jch bin nicht was ich weiß: Ein ding und nit ein ding: Ein stüpffchen und ein kreiß. One knows not what one is. I know not what I am. I am not what I know: A thing and not a thing: a point and a circle. I. Man muß noch über Gott Wo ist mein Aufenthalt? Wo ich und du nicht stehen: Wo ist mein letztes End in welches ich sol gehen? Da wo man keines findt. Wo sol ich dann nun hin? Jch muß noch über GOtt in eine wüste ziehn. One must surpass God Where is my halting place? Where I and you are not. Where is my final goal, to which I should go? There where one finds none. Whereto then with me now? I must yet go over God and move into a desert. I. Die über-GOttheit Was man von GOtt gesagt, das gnügt mir noch nicht : die über GOttheit ist mein Leben und mein Liecht. The beyond-Godhood What one has said of God does not for me suffice: The beyond Godhood is my life and my light. I. Das seelige Stillschweigen Wie seelig ist der Mensch / der weder wil noch weiß! Der GOtt (versteh mich recht) nicht gibet Lob noch Preiß.

Silesius Angelus

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The blessed silence-keeping How blessed is the man / who neither wills nor knows! Praises to God (understand me aright) he neither gives nor forgoes. I. GOtt ergreifft man nicht GOtt ist ein lauter nichts / Jhn rührt kein Nun noch Hier: Je mehr du nach Jhm greifst / je mehr entwird Er dir. One Cannot Grasp God God is a pure nothing, touched by neither Here nor Now: The more you grasp after Him, the more he eludes you. I. Dass etwas muss man lassen Mensch so du Etwas liebst, so liebstu nichts fürwahr: Gott is nicht diss und dass, drumb lass dass Etwas gar. The something must be left Listen, so long as you love something, you do not truly love: God is not this or that, so every something—leave. I. Die GOttheit ist ein nichts Die zarte Gottheit ist das Nichts und Übernichts: Wer nichts in allem sicht, Mensch glaube, dieser sichts. Godhood is a nothing The tender Godhead is the nothing and more-than-nothing: Whoever sees nothing in everything, believe me, sees this. I. GOtt auser Creatur Geh hin / wo du nicht kanst: sih / wo du sihest nicht: Hoer wo nichts schallt und klingt / so bist du wo Gott spricht. God Is beyond Creatures Go where you cannot go; see where you do not see; Hear where nothing sounds or rings, so you are where God speaks.

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  -       ,   -         

I. Das stillschweigende Gebeth GOtt ist so ueberalls daß man nichts sprechen kan: Drumb bettestu Jhn auch mit schweigen besser an. Silent Prayer God is so far above all that one can have nothing to say: Therefore to pray to him in silence is the best way. I. An GOtt ist nichts Creatuerlichs Liebstu noch was an Gott / so sprichstu gleich dabey / Daß Gott dir noch nicht Gott und alle dinge sey. In God is nothing creaturely If you still love something about God, you thereby at once avow That God is not yet God—and everything else—to you. I. Das erkennende muß das erkandte werden In GOtt wird nichts erkandt: er ist ein Einig Ein. Was man in Jhm erkennt / das mus man selber seyn. The Knowing Must Become the Known. In God is nothing known: he is a unique One, That which one knows in Him, one must oneself become. II. Mit Schweigen lernet man Schweig allerliebster schweig: kanstu nur gaentzlich schweigen: So wird dir Gott mehr guts / als du begehrst / erzeigen. One learns by silence Be silent, dearly beloved, be silent: if you can just be wholly silent: So will God show you more good than you ever can want. II. Das unaußsprechliche Daenkstu den Namen GOtts zu sprechen in der Zeit? Man spricht jhn auch nicht auß in einer Ewigkeit.

Silesius Angelus

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The inexpressible Do you aim to express God’s Name in time? It is not expressed even in an eternity. II. Mit Schweigen wirds gesprochen Mensch so du wilt das seyn der Ewigkeit außsprechen / So mustu dich zuvor deß Redens gantz entbrechen. Silence speaks If as a human being you would express the being of eternity, Then you must first break off all talk completely. II. Die geheimste Gelassenheit Gelassenheit fäht GOtt: GOtt aber selbst zu lassen, Ist ein Gelassenheit die wenig Menschen fassen. The most secret abandon Abandon grasps God: but to leave God Himself Is an abandon that few people can grasp. II. GOttes Eigenschafft Was ist GOtts Eigenschaft? sich ins Geschöpff ergiessen / Allzeit derselbe seyn / nichts haben / wollen / wissen. God’s Property What is God’s proper attribute? to pour Himself into the Creation. Always to be the same, to have, to will, to know nothing. II. Eben von derselben [Gelassenheit] Geh auß / so geht Gott ein: Stirb dir / so lebstu GOtt: Sey nicht / so ist es Er: thu nichts / so geschicht’s Geboth. Self-Abandon Go out, so God comes in: die, so you live as God; Be nothing, so is that Him: do nothing, so His will be done.

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  -       ,   -         

II. Die Selbt-vernichtung Nichts bringt dich ueber dich als die Vernichtigkeit: Wer mehr Vernichtigt ist / der hat mehr Goettlichkeit. Self-Annihilation Nothing raises you over yourself so much as becoming nothing; Whoever is more nothing has more of God. II. Die Ewigkeit Was ist die Ewigkeit? Sie ist nicht diß / nicht das / Nicht Nun / nicht Jehts / nicht Nichts / sie ist / ich weiß nicht was. Eternity What is eternity? It is not this, not that, Not Now, not Something, not Nothing; it is I know not what. III. Auch von GOtt GOtt ist noch nie gewest / und wird auch niemals seyn: Und bleibt doch nach der Welt / war auch vor jhr allein. Also of God God has never yet been / nor ever will begin: Yet he remains after the world / and was before it alone. IV. Der unerkandte GOtt Was GOtt ist weiß man nicht: Er ist nicht Licht / nicht Geist / Nicht Wonnigkeit / nicht Eins / nicht was man Gottheit heist: Nicht Weißheit / nicht Verstand / nicht Liebe / Wille / Gütte: Kein Ding / kein Unding auch / kein Wesen / kein Gemütte: Er ist was ich / und du / und kein Creatur / Eh wir geworden sind was Er ist / nie erfuhr.

Silesius Angelus

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The Unrecognized God One knows not what God is: He is not light, not spirit, Not weal, not One, not what is called Godhead: Not wisdom, not reason, not love, will, goodness: No thing nor any unthing either, no being, nor feeling: He is what neither I, nor you, nor any creature— before we become what he is—ever knew. VI. Nichts werden ist GOtt werden Nichts wird was zuvor ist: wirstu nicht vor zu nicht / So wirstu nimmermehr gebohrn vom ewgen Licht. Becoming Nothing is becoming God Nothing becomes what is before: until you become nothing, So will you never again be born of eternal light. VI. Das überunmölglichste ist möglich Du kanst mit deinem Pfeil die Sonne nicht erreichen / Jch kan mit meinem wol die ewge Sonn bestreichen. The most impossible is possible You cannot with your arrow reach the sun, But I can with mine caress the eternal Son. VI. Beschluß Freund es ist auch genug. Jm fall du mehr wilt lesen / So geh und werde selbst die Schrifft und selbst das Wesen. Closing Friend, that’s enough already. In case you would read more, Go and become yourself the script, yourself the core.

PERMISSIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

. Plato, “Parmenides.” Trans. Francis Macdonald Cornford () in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns. Princeton: Princeton University Press, . Copyright (c)  by Princeton University Press, renewed . Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press. . Plotinus, The Enneads. Trans. Stephen MacKenna, ed. John Dillon. London: Penguin, . Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd. . The Anonymous Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides. Trans. and ed. Gerald Bechtle. Bern: Verlag P. Haupt, . Reprinted by permission of Verlag P. Haupt. . Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides. Trans. Glenn R. Morrow and John Dillon. Princeton: Princeton University Press, . Copyright (c)  by Princeton University Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press. . Damascius. Original English translation by William Franke appeared with introduction as “Of the Ineffable: Aporetics of the Notion of an Absolute Principle” in Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics / (Spring/Summer ): –. Copyright (c)  by William Franke. . Bible. Authorized King James Version, . New York: American Bible Society, n.d. . The Works of Philo. Complete and Unabridged. New Updated Edition. Trans. C. D. Yonge. U.S.A.: Hendrickson Publishers, . Reprinted by permission of Hendrickson Publishers. . Hermetica: The Greek Corpus Hermeticum and the Latin Asclepius in a New English Translation with Notes and Introduction. Trans. Brian Copenhaver. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, . Reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press. . “The Tripartite Tractate.” Trans. Harold W. Attridge and Dieter Mueller, in The Nag Hammadi Library in English. rd ed. completely revised by James M. Robinson, general

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ed. Copyright (c) ,  by E. J. Brill, Leiden, The Netherlands. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc. . The Writings of Clement of Alexandria, vol. II. Trans. William Wilson. London: Hamilton & Co, . Public domain. . Gregory of Nyssa. The Life of Moses or Concerning Perfection in Virtue. Trans. Abraham J. Malherbe and Everett Ferguson. New York/Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used by permission of Paulist Press. From Glory to Glory: Texts From Gregory of Nyssa’s Mystical Writings. Trans. Herbert Musurillo, S.J. Ed. J. Daniélou, S.J. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, . Reprinted by permission of St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press,  Scarsdale Road, Crestwood, N.Y. -. . Augustine. Confessions. Trans. F. J. Sheed, Confessions. Indianapolis: Hackett, . Reprinted by permission of Hackett Publishing Co. Inc. All rights reserved. . Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. The Divine Names and Mystical Theology. Trans. John D. Jones. Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, . Reprinted with permission from Marquette University Press. . Eriugena. Periphyseon (The Division of Nature). Trans. I. P. Sheldon-Williams, revised by John J. O’Meara. Montréal: Bellarmin, . Reprinted by permission of Copibec. . Maimonides. RAMBAM: Readings in the Philosophy of Moses Maimonides. Trans. and ed. Lenn E. Goodman. Los Angeles: Gee Tee Bee, . Reprinted with permission. . Kabbalah. The Essential Kabbalah: The Heart of Jewish Mysticism. Ed. Daniel C. Matt. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, . Reprinted with permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc. . Ibn al-‘Arabi. The Bezels of Wisdom. Trans. by R. W. J. Austin. New York/Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press. . Rumi. The Essential Rumi. Trans. Coleman Barks. San Francisco: Harper, . Reprinted by permission of Coleman Barks (c) . . Albert the Great. Commentary on Dionysius’ Mystical Theology, in Albert and Thomas: Selected Writings. Trans. Simon Tugwell, O.P. New York/Mahweh, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press.

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. Thomas Aquinas. Summa theologiae. Blackfriars ed. New York: McGraw-Hill, . All possible efforts were made to contact copyright holder through McGraw-Hill and Methuen Publishing Limited. . Marguerite Porete. The Mirror of Simple Souls. Trans. Ellen Babinsky. New York/Mahwah, N.J: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press. . Meister Eckhart. The Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises, and Defense. Trans. Edmond Colledge, O.S.A., and Bernard McGinn. New York/Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press. Meister Eckhart: Teacher and Preacher. Ed. and trans. Bernard McGinn. New York/ Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press. Original English translations based on “Granum Sinapis. An den Grenzen der Sprache,” in Sermo mysticus. Studien zu Theologie und Sprache der deutschen Mystik, ed. Alois M. Haas. Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag, . . Dante. Paradiso. Original English translation based on La Divina Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata. Ed. G. Petrocchi,  vols. Milan: Mondadori, –. . Palamas. The Triads. Trans. Nicholas Gendle. New York/ Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press. . The Cloud of Unknowing and The Book of Privy Counseling. Trans. William Johnston. Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books, . Copyright (c)  by William Johnston. Used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. . Cusanus. Dialogue on the Hiddenness of God. Trans. H. Lawrence Bond. in Nicholas of Cusa, Selected Spiritual Writings. New York/Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, . Used with permission of Paulist Press. Nicholas of Cusa on Learned Ignorance: A Translation and an Appraisal of De Docta Ignorantia. Ed. Jasper Hopkins. Minneapolis: Arthur J. Banning Press, ; nd ed. . Reprinted with permission. . Teresa of Ávila. Interior Castle. Trans. E. Allison Peers. New York: Doubleday, . Reprinted by permission of Sheed & Ward, an imprint of Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. . John of the Cross. The Collected Works of John of the Cross. Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Co., . Trans. Kieran Kavanaugh and Otilio Rodriguez Copyright (c) , ,  by Washington Province of Discalced Carmelites ICS Publications  Lincoln Road, N.E. Washington , DC - U.S.A., www.icspublications.org Reprinted with permission.

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. Böhme. De electione gratiae (On the Election of Grace). Trans. John Rolleston Earle. London: Constable & Co, ). Public domain. . Angelus Silesius. Cherubinischer Wandersmann. Kritische Ausgabe. Ed. Louise Gnädiger. Stuttgart: Reclam, . Reprinted by permission. Original English translations. Throughout, notes to the excerpted readings are a selection, sometimes shortened or slightly edited, of the notes in the English-language editions of the source texts at the beginning of each section. Parts of my introduction are incorporated in “Praising the Unsayable: An Apophatic Defense of Metaphysics Based on the Neoplatonic Parmenides Commentaries,” Epoché: A Journal for the History of Philosophy  /  (): ‒.