Efficient Causation

Efficient Causation
oxford philosophical concepts

Christia Mercer, Columbia University
Series Editor
forthcoming in the oxford philosophical concepts series

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Efficient Causation
a history
j
Edited by Tad M. Schmaltz
1
1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Efficient causation : the history of a concept /
edited by Tad M. Schmaltz.
pages cm.
(Oxford philosophical concepts)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-19-978218-5 (hardcover)—ISBN 978-0-19-978217-8 (paperback)
1. Causation. I. Schmaltz, Tad M., 1960- editor.
BD531.5.E34 2014
122.09—dc23 2014002931
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
Contents
List of Illustrations vii
Contributors ix
Series Editor’s Foreword xiii
Introduction to Efficient Causation

Tad M. Schmaltz 3
Part I :: Ancient and Medieval

1 Aristotle and the Discovery of Efficient Causation
Thomas M. Tuozzo 23
Reflection: Representations of Efficient Causation in the Iliad

Tobias myers 48
2 Efficient Causation in the Stoic Tradition

R. J. Hankinson 54
3 Efficient Causation in Late Antiquity and the Earlier Medieval Era

Ian wilks 83
4 Efficient Causation: From Ibn Sīnā to Ockham

Kara Richardson 105
vi contents
Reflection: Efficient Causation and Musical Inspiration

Anna harwell celenza 132
Part II :: Modern
5 Efficient Causation: From Suárez to Descartes
Tad M. Schmaltz 139
6 Efficient Causation in Spinoza and Leibniz

Martin Lin 165
Reflection: Reason, Calculating Machines, and Efficient Causation

Matthew L. Jones 192
7 Efficient Causation in Malebranche and Berkeley

Lisa Downing 198
8 Efficient Causation in Hume

P. J. E. Kail 231
9 Efficient Causation in Kant

Eric watkins 258
Part III :: Contemporary

10 Contemporary Efficient Causation: Humean Themes
Douglas ehring 285
Reflection: Efficient Causation in Art

Tina Rivers ryan 311
11 Contemporary Efficient Causation: Aristotelian Themes

Stephen mumford 317
Bibliography 341
Index 367
List of Illustrations
Figure 1. hildegard of bingen, Portrait in Scivias, 1151

Figure 2. elias gottlob haussman, Portrait of Johann Sebastian
Bach, 1746
Figure 3. françois joseph aimé de lemud, Beethoven inspiré, 1863
Figure 4. giorgio ghisi after michelangelo, The Prophet Jeremiah,
early 1570s
Figure 5. marcel duchamp, Three Standard Stoppages, 1913–14
Figure 6. andy warhol, Marilyn Monroe, 1967
vii
Contributors
anna harwell celenza is the Thomas E. Caestecker Professor of Music at

Georgetown University. Her research focuses on the intersections among music,
the visual arts, literature, and politics in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
She is currently completing her fifth scholarly book, a monograph on jazz in Italy
under Fascism.
lisa downing is Professor of Philosophy at The Ohio State University. Her

papers (on Locke, Berkeley, and Malebranche, among others) have focused
on mechanist conceptions of body and their justification, debates surround-
ing gravity/attraction, and changing views of scientific explanation in the early
modern period.
douglas ehring is the William Edward Easterwood Professor of Philoso-

phy at Southern Methodist University in Dallas. He has published articles and
book chapters on various topics in causation, the problem of universals and per-
sonal identity. He is the author of Causation and Persistence: A Theory of Cau-
sation (Oxford, 1997) and Tropes: Properties, Objects, and Mental Causation
(Oxford, 2011).
r. j. hankinson is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Texas, Austin.

He has special interest in ancient medicine and philosophy of science, especially
in Galen. He is the author of The Sceptics (Routledge, 1995) and Cause and
Explanation in Ancient Greek Thought (Oxford, 1998), is editor of The Cambridge
Companion to Galen (Cambridge, 2008), and has published translations of
works by Aristotle and Galen.
ix
x contributors
matthew l. jones is the James R. Barker Associate Professor of Contempo-

rary Civilization in the Department of History at Columbia University. He has
published The Good Life in the Scientific Revolution: Descartes, Pascal, Leibniz
and the Cultivation of Virtue (Chicago, 2006), and his Reckoning with Matter:
Calculating Machines, Innovation, and Thinking about Thinking from Pascal to
Babbage is forthcoming from Chicago. With the support of the Mellon and
Guggenheim foundations, he is working on the history of data mining from 1963
to the present.
p. j. e. kail is University Lecturer in the History of Modern Philosophy,

University of Oxford, and Fellow and Tutor in Philosophy at St. Peter’s College,
Oxford. He is coeditor with Marina Frasca-Spada of Impressions of Hume (2005),
and the author of Projection and Realism in Hume’s Philosophy (2007). He has
published papers on Hume, Berkeley, Hutcheston, and Nietzsche.
martin lin is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Rutgers University, New

Brunswick. He has published articles and book chapters on early modern meta-
physics, philosophy of mind, and moral psychology.
stephen mumford is Professor of Metaphysics in the Department of Phi-

losophy and Professor II at Norwegian University of Life Sciences (UMB). He
is the author of Dispositions (Oxford, 1998), Laws in Nature (Routledge, 2004),
Getting Causes from Powers (Oxford, 2011 with Rani Lill Anjum), Metaphysics: a
Very Short Introduction (Oxford, 2012) and Causation: A Very Short Introduction
(Oxford, 2013, with Rani LillAnjum). He is coeditor of Metaphysics and Science
(Oxford, 2013 with Matthew Tugby).
tobias myers is Assistant Professor of Classics at Connecticut College. His

dissertation (Columbia University, 2011), revised and published as a mono-
graph, proposes a “metaperformative” reading of the Iliad ’s gods, whereby divine
responses to the action at Troy may anticipate and critique potential responses
by Homer’s own audience.
kara richardson is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Syracuse Univer-

sity. Her published articles focus primarily on causation and explanation in Avi-
cenna (Ibn Sīnā) and the reception of his views in the Latin West. She is working
on a book project entitled Avicenna on Human Action.
contributors xi
tina rivers ryan is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Art History and
Archaeology at Columbia University. Her dissertation is the first major study of
New York’s Howard Wise Gallery, which pioneered the use of new media tech-
nologies in art. Her writing is collected on her website, www.tinarivers.com.
tad m. schmaltz (volume editor) is Professor of Philosophy at the Uni-

versity of Michigan, Ann Arbor. He has published articles and book chapters on
various topics in early modern philosophy, and is the author of Malebranche’s
Theory of the Soul (Oxford, 1996), Radical Cartesianism (Cambridge, 2002), and
Descartes on Causation (Oxford, 2008).
thomas m. tuozzo is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Kansas.

He has published articles on ancient moral psychology, ethics, and theories of
causation. He is the author of Plato’s Charmides: Positive Elenchus in a “Socratic”
Dialogue (Cambridge, 2012).
eric watkins is Professor of Philosophy at the University of California, San

Diego. He has published numerous articles and several books on Kant and
modern philosophy, including Kant and the Sciences (Oxford, 2001), Kant and
the Metaphysics of Causality (Cambridge, 2005), Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason:
Background Source Materials (Cambridge, 2009), Immanuel Kant: Natural S cience
(Cambridge 2012) and The Divine Order, the Human Order, and the Order of
Nature: Historical Perspectives (Oxford, 2013).
ian wilks is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Acadia University. His re-

search specialty is the philosophy of Peter Abelard. He is the author of “Peter
Abelard and his Contemporaries,” in the Handbook of the History of Logic, vol. 2,
and of “Moral Intention,” in the Oxford Handbook of Medieval Philosophy.
Series Editor’s Foreword
Oxford Philosophical Concepts (OPC) offers an innovative approach to

philosophy’s past and its relation to other disciplines. As a series, it is
unique in exploring the sources of philosophy’s central concepts and
presenting astute accounts of their histories.
OPC has several goals: to make it easier for historians of philosophy
to contextualize key concepts in philosophy’s history, to render that
history accessible to a wide audience, and to enliven contemporary
philosophy by displaying the rich and varied sources of concepts still in
use today. The means to these goals are simple enough: eminent histo-
rians of philosophy come together in each book to rethink a central con
cept in the history of philosophy. The point of this rethinking is not to
offer a broad overview, but to identify problems the concept was orig-
inally supposed to solve and investigate how approaches to those prob-
lems shifted over time, sometimes radically. Each OPC volume is a
history of its concept in that it tells a story about changing solutions to
specific philosophical problems.
Recent scholarship has made evident the benefits of reexamining
the standard narrative about the history of western philosophy. OPC’s
editors look beyond the canon and explore their concepts over a wide
philosophical landscape. Each volume traces a concept from its inception
as a solution to specific problems through its historical transformations
to its modern use, all the while acknowledging its h istorical context.
xiii
xiv series editor’s foreword
Many editors have found it appropriate to include long-ignored Arabic

contributions to Western philosophy and the philosophical contributions
of women. Volumes also explore ideas drawn from Buddhist, C hinese,
Indian, and other philosophical cultures, when doing so significantly
enriches the understanding of its concepts. By combining scholarly inno-
vation with focused and astute analysis, OPC encourages a deeper under-
standing of our philosophical past and present.
One of the most innovative features of Oxford Philosophical Concepts
is its recognition that philosophy bears a rich relation to art, music, lit-
erature, religion, science, and other cultural practices. The series speaks
to the need for informed interdisciplinary exchanges. Its editors assume
that the most difficult and profound philosophical ideas can be made
comprehensible to a large audience and that materials which are not
strictly philosophical often bear a significant relevance to philosophy.
To this end, each OPC volume includes Reflections. These are short,
stand-alone essays written by specialists in art, music, literature, the-
ology, science, or cultural studies that reflect on the concept from other
disciplinary perspectives. The goal of these essays is to enliven, enrich, or
exemplify the volume’s concept and reconsider the boundary between
philosophical and extraphilosophical materials. OPC’s Reflections dis-
play the benefits of using p hilosophical concepts and distinctions in
areas that are not strictly philosophical, and encourage philosophers to
move beyond the borders of their discipline as presently conceived.
The volumes of OPC arrive at an auspicious moment. Many phi-
losophers are keen to invigorate the discipline. OPC aims to provoke
philosophical imaginations by uncovering the brilliant twists and un-
foreseen turns of philosophy’s past.
Christia Mercer
Gustave M. Berne Professor of Philosophy
Columbia University in the City of New York
May 2014
figure 1. hildegard of bingen, Portrait in Scivias, 1151
Formerly at the Hessische Landesbibliothek, Wiesbaden
figure 2. elias
gottlob haussman,
Portrait of Johann
Sebastian Bach, 1746
Altes Rathaus, Leipzig
figure 3. françois joseph aimé de lemud, Beethoven inspiré, 1863

Library of Congress, Washington, DC
figure 4. giorgio ghisi after michelangelo, The Prophet Jeremiah, early 1570s.
Engraving laid on paper, plate: 56 × 43 cm; sheet: 59.9 × 44.8 cm. National Gallery of
Art (Washington, DC), Alisa Mellon Bruce Fund.
This engraving—produced within a century of Michelangelo’s Sistine Ceiling, from which
this image is reproduced—represents the almost immediate apotheosis of Michelangelo.
The artist used a medium of mechanical reproduction to copy Michelangelo’s painted
self-portrait (as the moody figure of Jeremiah), helping to spread the legend of his terri
bilità to a wide audience.
figure 5. marcel duchamp, Three Standard Stoppages, 1913-14; Schwarz Edition,
1964. Thread, canvas, glass, and wood in a wooden box, 28.2 × 129 × 22.7 cm. Yale
University Art Gallery, Katherine Ordway Fund. © Succession Marcel Duchamp/
ADAGP, Paris/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 2013.
To produce Three Standard Stoppages, Duchamp dropped three one-meter strings onto
three canvases, using the lines they happened to form as outlines for a new set of totally
idiosyncratic wooden rulers. A sly take on the adoption of the French meter as a
“universal” standard, this work reminds us that our seemingly sacred, rational conventions
are just that—that is to say, randomly derived social constructions or forces of habits,
rather than absolute truths.
figure 6. andy warhol, Marilyn Monroe,

1967. Screenprint (green, yellow, red, violet),
92.71 × 92.71 cm. Yale University Art Gal
lery, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore E. Stebbins,
Jr., B.A. 1960, Contemporary Print Fund.
©2013 The Andy Warhol Foundation for
the Visual Arts, Inc./Artists Rights Soci
ety (ARS), New York.
The source photograph (here, a publicity
still from one of Monroe’s films) lurking
within the planes of color reminds us that
this is not a portrait of a person who sat
for him, but an image of an image, or a
copy of a copy. The overall flatness of the
image (which eschews painting’s traditional techniques of creating illusory depth, such
as shading, in favor of broad fields of printed color) reminds us of the “flatness” of the
invented persona of Marilyn Monroe and, beyond that, of the “flattening” of subjectivity
through consumerism: as Warhol observed, we, the President, and Liz Taylor all drink
the same Coke.
Efficient Causation
Introduction to Efficient Causation
Tad M. Schmaltz
j
“Knowledge is the object of our inquiry, and men do not think they know a thing
till they have grasped the ‘why’ of it (which is to grasp its primary cause).”
aristotle, Physics II.3
“As these [principles of Resemblance, Contiguity and Causation] are the only
ties of our thoughts, they are really to us the cement of the universe.”
david hume, Abstract of a Treatise of Human Nature
1. (Efficient) Causation
This volume is a contribution to the Oxford Philosophical Concepts

(OPC) series. The main goal of this series is to provide historical accounts
of the development of central philosophical concepts. Among these con-
cepts would seem to be that of efficient causation (or, today, simply causa-
tion). Causation is now commonly supposed to involve a succession that
instantiates some lawlike regularity. This understanding of causality has a
history that includes various interrelated conceptions of efficient causation
that date from ancient Greek philosophy and that extend to discussions of
causation in contemporary metaphysics and philosophy of science.
The fact that we now often speak only of causation, as opposed to effi-
cient causation, serves to highlight the distance of our thought on this
issue from its ancient origins. In the Physics, Aristotle introduces four
3
4 introduction
different kinds of “cause” (aitia): material, formal, efficient, and final.

Aristotle himself tends to illustrate this distinction in terms of artifacts.
Thus, he offers the bronze of a statue as an example of a material cause,
that from which the statue comes to be. He then claims that shape is the
formal cause of the statue, since it is that which makes the statue to be the
kind of statue it is. The sculptor is the efficient cause of the statue, since
she is the primary source of the change resulting in the production of a
statue. The final cause is the goal of the sculptor in producing the statue,
which is that for the sake of which the statue is produced.1
However, Aristotle provides an importantly different characteriza-
tion particularly of formal and final causes in the case of things that
come to be “by nature” rather than “by art.” In terms of Aristotle’s own
(outdated) account of the generation of higher animals, for instance,
the matter of the menstrual flow of the mother serves as the material
cause and the father (working through his semen) as the efficient cause,
whereas the formal cause is the internal principle (or “soul”) that drives
the growth of the fetus, and the final cause is the healthy adult animal,
the end point toward which the natural process of growth is directed.2
In contrast to the case of the production of the statue, there is in the
case of animal generation not the imposition of a passive form by an
external agent, but the natural production of an internal form that has
its own teleologically oriented activity.
From a contemporary perspective, it would seem that only the
father or sculptor—or perhaps, the father’s act of procreation or the
sculptor’s act of sculpting—is the “true” cause, that which actually
produces the effect. Indeed, such a reaction helps us to understand
Gregory Vlastos’s classic proposal that “Aristotle’s so-called four
‘causes’ are his four ‘becauses’ ” (Vlastos 1969, 294). That is, though
Aristotle’s aitiai all serve to explain why the statue or animal is as it is
1 The characterization of the “causes” is drawn from Aristotle’s remarks in Physics II.3, 194b15–195a1,
in Aristotle 1984, 1:332–33.
2 The examples here are drawn from Aristotle’s discussion in Generation of Animals I.22 and II.1,
730a33–730b31 and 734b19–735a25, in Aristotle 1984, 1133–34 and 1140–41.
introduction to efficient causation 5
(and in this way are “becauses”), the material, formal and final causes
are not causes of the effect in our own sense. Rather, only the sculptor
or father (or sculpting or fathering) can be such a cause. Somewhere
along the road that leads from Aristotle to our own time, then, mate-
rial, formal and final aitiai were lost, leaving only efficient aitiai to
serve as the central element in our causal explanations. Indeed, there
is reason to think that the journey has transformed Aristotle’s efficient
aitiai into something he could not have anticipated. Thus, for in-
stance, the analysis of efficient causation in Aristotle and later Aristo-
telianism does not appeal to the notion of a natural law, but as I have
already indicated, such a notion is prominent in contemporary analy-
ses of causation.
There is in fact no straightforward connection between Aristotle’s
concept of an efficient aitia and our concept of a cause. Rather, these
different concepts are linked by means of a complex history. It is this
history that this volume attempts to trace. But is this task even pos-
sible? Perhaps one reason for thinking that it is not is connected to
the doctrine in Thomas Kuhn of the incommensurability of scientific
paradigms. As is well known, Kuhn proposed that scientific change
consists not in cumulative advance, but rather in epochs of paradigm-
guided “normal science” punctuated by episodes of revolutionary
paradigm change. Postrevolutionary theory is to a considerable
extent conceptually isolated from its prerevolutionary predecessor.
As Kuhn puts the point dramatically, “after a revolution scientists
are responding to a different world” (Kuhn 2012, 111). But what if we
have something similar in the case of the concepts themselves?
What if different instances of a concept are to a considerable extent
tied to their own particular contexts, and so isolated from earlier
and later instances? In this case, the very notion of the history of a
concept—or even a series of interrelated concepts—is in jeopardy.
We would have something similar here to the “pessimistic” implication
that the editors of Philosophy in History take a strong view of incom-
mensurability to have, namely, that “we should not attempt intellectual
6 introduction
history, for what is needed is something more like a series of ethno-

graphic reports” (Rorty et al. 1984, 2).3
Nonetheless, the question of whether there is, in the case of particular
concepts, a kind of incommensurability that precludes the possibility of a
continuing history would appear to be an empirical one. One relevant
consideration is that a concept from a previous historical period typically
is an important part of the context of the development of a new concep-
tual understanding. Thus, for instance, one need not simply identify Aris-
totle’s own concept of efficient causation with the concept of this sort of
causality that emerged during the High Middle Ages to see the latter as
deriving in a crucial sense from the former. If there is a chain of develop-
ment that connects earlier to later concepts, there may well be sufficient
overlap to warrant a history of the concept-type that comprises histori-
cally diverse concept-instances. The crucial question for us is whether we
can write a history that serves to link Aristotle’s concept of efficient aitiai
to our current conception of causation in a way that does not anachronis-
tically read distinctive aspects of our conception back into the concepts
employed in earlier periods of thought. The conclusion that Alistair
MacIntyre has reached with regard to a question about the possibility of
writing a certain kind of philosophical history would seem to be apt for
the current volume as well: “The only way to answer that question is by
trying to write it and either failing or succeeding” (MacIntyre 1984, 47).4
2. A History of Efficient Causation
The history of the concept(s) of efficient causation that this volume

attempts to provide begins with a section on the development of the
3 The editors (Richard Rorty, J. B. Schneewind, and Quentin Skinner) are themselves optimistic that
“there are always what have been called ‘rational bridgeheads’—not high level criteria, but rather
low-level platitudes—which have made conversation possible across chasms” (Rorty et al. 1984, 2).
4 MacIntyre is concerned with a history that reveals that “the achievements of philosophy are in the
end to be judged in terms of the achievements of the history of philosophy,” and thus that the history
of philosophy is “that part of philosophy which is sovereign over the rest of the discipline” (MacIntyre
1984, 47).
concept in ancient and medieval philosophy. In chapter 1, Thomas

Tuozzo focuses on Aristotle’s discovery—or, perhaps, his invention—of
the concept. Aristotle conceives of an efficient cause as a power that
brings a potentiality in something else into actuality. We are far here
from a familiar “billiard ball” conception of efficient causality, accord-
ing to which such causality involves a mechanical transfer of motion
between colliding bodies.5 For one thing, Aristotle did not restrict effi-
cient causality to locomotion, but held that it is present also in quantita-
tive augmentation, qualitative alteration, and substantial change. For an-
other, an efficient cause, in the strict sense, is always the first beginning of
a change, and as such is necessarily unmoved insofar as it causes change.
To be sure, Aristotle allows that in cases where the efficient cause is a
physical power, such as heat, that is present in the kind of matter it also
affects, the efficient cause is reciprocally acted on and so is diminished.
However, he also insists that in the case of efficient causes not present in
the sort of matter they affect, such as the arts or rational powers, there is
no such reciprocal change and diminishment. Thus, the rational power
of teaching in the instructor actualizes the potential for learning in the
pupil without that power suffering any sort of change. Indeed, Aristotle
takes the case of rational powers to provide the model for the efficient
causality of souls in general, including nutritive and sensitive souls.
Though the body to which the soul is united must be in a proper condi-
tion for the activity of that soul to have its proper effect, the soul itself
suffers no change in acting on the body. Tuozzo indicates that the anal-
ysis of efficient causality drawn from the case of the soul does not apply
in a straightforward manner to the seemingly simpler case in Aristotle of
the efficient causality of the natural motion of the four elements. He
then closes with a brief consideration of the sort of efficient causation
that could apply to Aristotle’s enigmatic remarks concerning the produc-
tion of the eternal motion of a celestial sphere by an “unmoved mover.”
5 As Tuozzo notes, this billiard ball conception is closer to the view of causality offered by atomistic
predecessors from which Aristotle is concerned to distance himself.
8 introduction
I noted at the outset that, for Aristotle, efficient causes are only one
of four different types of cause (the other three being material, formal,
and final causes). In an influential article, however, Michael Frede has
argued that the Stoics made an advance toward a more familiar view in
proposing that all causation is in fact efficient causation (Frede 1980).
Frede’s position is a point of departure in chapter 2, where R. J. Han-
kinson considers the Stoic theory of causation. However, Hankinson
emphasizes the peculiarly Stoic nature of this theory, as revealed by its
connections to the Stoic doctrines of materialism, providentialism,
and determinism. Whereas for Aristotle the primary example of an ef-
ficient cause is a soul that is distinct from the body on which it acts, the
materialism of the Stoics led them to insist that all causes must be
bodily. This insistence they shared with their Epicurean rivals, but
unlike the Epicureans they held that the interactions of these causes are
not random, in the sense of being simply reducible to mechanical in-
teractions of objects, but rather exhibit a rational order. Such an order
is to be explained in terms of the causal activity of an all-pervasive ma-
terial element in the universe that the Stoics identified with God. The
acceptance of this sort of order is connected as well to the Stoic doc-
trine of universal causal determinism. Hankinson notes that there are
distinctions in Stoic writings—as well as later commentary on these
writings in the medical works of Galen (129–ca. 200)—among various
kinds of causes, such as antecedent, auxiliary and cooperative, not all of
which are linked to their effects in the same way. There is thus some
reason to qualify Frede’s suggestion that the Stoics anticipated modern
discussions in providing a streamlined theory of causation. However,
an element of the Stoic theory that is undeniably important for later
treatments of causation is the insistence that “primary and proximate”
causes, at least, necessitate their effects. The implication of universal
determinism that all effects have such causes gives rise to the problem—
with which Stoics such as Chrysippus (279–206 bce) were centrally
concerned—of the consistency of the claim that we are responsible for at
least some of our actions with the fact that such actions are necessitated.
As Hankinson indicates, the central move in Stoic compatibilism in-

volves an emphasis on the fact that the actions for which we are re-
sponsible are necessitated not merely by antecedent conditions, but
also by the nature of our own character and activity.
In chapter 3, Ian Wilks considers the development of the under-
standing of efficient causality in late antiquity and the earlier medieval
era, a period that begins with the infusion of Christianity into pagan
thought in the initial centuries of the Common Era, and that ends
with the re-infusion of pagan thought into Christianity in the Latin
West during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Whereas we have been
focusing to this point on the importance of Aristotle’s discussion of
efficient causality, in late antiquity it is later Platonic treatments of this
issue that are most prominent. We have seen how Stoic thinkers held
that only bodies can be efficient causes. However, Wilks highlights the
claim in later Platonists such as Plotinus (ca. 204–270) and Proclus
(ca. 412–485) that mere corporeal beings are causally inefficacious, and
that true efficient causality is restricted to incorporeal beings. This sort
of claim carries over to Augustine (354–430), who has special theolog-
ical reasons for emphasizing that immaterial human souls are free
causes of sinful actions. The Platonizing influence is also evident in
later thinkers such as John Scotus Eriugena (ca. 800–ca. 877), who at-
tributes causality in nature to spiritual forms, directed ultimately by
God, that act in accord with certain ends. Yet Wilks traces a subse-
quent repudiation of the disparagement of merely bodily causes that
emerges with the reintroduction of non-Platonic themes into medi-
eval natural philosophy. Already in the eleventh century, there are at
least initial suggestions in Anselm (ca. 1033–1109) that bodies can be
characterized as efficient causes, and this point is even more explicit in
the following century in the writings of thinkers such as Adelard of Bath
(b. ca. 1100) and William of Conches (1085–ca. 1154). The door is now
open for the more self-consciously Aristotelian account of causality in
nature that emerges in the thirteenth century with the rediscovery of the
Aristotelian corpus in the Latin West.
10 introduction
In chapter 4, Kara Richardson considers the development of the

concept of efficient causation in the period bounded by the work of
the Islamic philosopher Ibn Sīnā (or Avicenna, d. 1037), on the one
end, and the work of William of Ockham (d. 1347), on the other. Ibn
Sīnā is an important figure in the interpretation and development of
Aristotelian philosophy in the Islamic East, whose work conditioned
the later reception of Aristotle in the Latin West. Whereas Aristotle
identified efficient causes with the primary source of change or rest,
Ibn Sīnā held that in all cases efficient causality involves the produc-
tion of the existence of something distinct from the cause, and so in-
cludes the case of divine creation. In line with a view that we find in the
Stoics, moreover, he emphasizes that causes necessitate the existence of
their effects. The particular point about necessity plays an important
role in an influential debate concerning natural causation that pitted
Ghazālī (d. 1111) against Ibn Rushd (or Averroes, d. 1198). Ghazālī at-
tempts to make room for the religious belief in divine miracles by de-
nying that natural agents cause their purported effects. He argues that
since there is no logically necessary connection between, say, cotton’s
contact with fire and its burning, the fire cannot be a true cause of the
burning. His occasionalist conclusion is that the burning is due rather
to the will of God, which institutes that the burning of cotton follow
habitually from its contact with fire. Ibn Rushd counters by agreeing
that the burning of cotton does not follow logically simply from con-
tact with fire, since other causal conditions are necessary. However, he
insists that when all the requisite conditions are present, fire is in fact a
genuine cause of the burning. When the debate became known in the
Latin West, most rejected Ghazālī’s occasionalism, but also attempted
to reconcile the possibility of miraculous divine intervention with the
fact that there is necessitation in cases where all causal factors are pre-
sent. This attempt involved the claim, common in the later medieval
period, that the relevant causal conditions must include God’s “coop-
eration” with the activity of the created cause. In addition, Ghazālī’s
insistence, against Ibn Sīnā, that God must be a free cause anticipates a
prominent feature of later medieval discussions of efficient causality:

a debate over the contributions of intellect and will to free action.
Whereas thinkers such as Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) held that the
will is moved to action by the intellect, successors such as John Duns
Scotus (ca. 1266–1308) insisted that the will is a self-determined power.
For Ibn Sīnā and Thomas, the relationship between will and intellect
accords with a more general relationship between the efficient cause
and the final cause: in moving an agent to act, the final cause is the
cause of the causality of the efficient cause. In the Latin West, some
philosophers came to doubt the idea that every type of efficient cause
is moved to act by a final cause. Scotus and Ockham argue that for an
agent to be moved to act by an end, the agent must know and love the
end. According to Scotus, natural agents are directed to their ends by
God, whereas Ockham argues that final causality can be proved only in
cases of voluntary agency. There is thus an anticipation toward the end
of the medieval period of a more modern view that allows for the pos-
sibility of efficient causality without final causality.
The second section of this volume concerns the development in the
modern period of the concept of efficient causation (or later in the
period, simply causation). This section begins with my discussion in
chapter 5 of the transition from an account of efficient causality in later
scholasticism, and particularly in the work of Francisco Suárez (1548–
1617), to the account of this sort of causality in the work of René Des-
cartes (1596–1650), the widely proclaimed “Father of Modern Philoso-
phy.” Though Descartes’s own rhetoric may suggest that he made a
clean break with scholasticism, his discussion of efficient causation re-
veals an important dependence on earlier scholastic discussions. For
one thing, Suárez anticipated the point in Descartes that efficient
causes have a special sort of priority. For another, Descartes’s discus-
sion of efficient causation is conducted in terms set by the scholastics.
This is evident in the case of the particular “axioms” that Descartes
takes to govern efficient causality, namely, that the efficient cause must
contain the reality of its effect “formally or eminently,” and that the
12 introduction
efficient causality involved in the conservation of a being differs from

the efficient causality involved in the creation of that being only by a
“distinction of reason.” However, I note in addition remnants of scho-
lasticism in Descartes’s view of body-body causation in physics and in
his account of mind-body interaction. Descartes did not simply adopt
the scholastic concept of efficient causation without revision; as I
argue, his rejection of scholastic physics and psychology in fact re-
quired significant departures from this concept as Suárez defined it.
Nonetheless, a central claim in this chapter is that Descartes’s own con-
cept of efficient causation remains in certain fundamental respects a
scholastic one.
We have seen the point in the Stoics, as well as in Ibn Sīnā, that effi-
cient causation involves necessitation. In chapter 6, Martin Lin ex-
plores the early modern development of this point in the work of
Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677) and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–
1716). Lin begins with four considerations that seem to count against
the strong necessity of causal connections, namely, the dependence of
causation on background conditions, the existence of probabilistic
causality, the contingency of laws of nature, and the possibility of mir-
acles. Lin argues that in the face of these considerations, both Spinoza
and Leibniz claimed that the necessity of efficient causal connections
is absolute or logical. In the case of Spinoza, there is an identification of
all causation with efficient causation, and an insistence that efficient
causal relations are akin to logical inferences. Lin canvasses various ex-
planations of this insistence, settling in the end on an argument from
the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) that he grants Spinoza him-
self did not explicitly endorse. In contrast to Spinoza, Leibniz did not
restrict causation to efficient causation, allowing most notably for a
form of final causation. Moreover, it is a distinctive feature of Leibniz’s
theory of “preestablished harmony” that genuine efficient causation in
nature is restricted to the internal production of a substance’s percep-
tual states. Whereas other commentators have claimed that Leibniz
denies the absolute necessity of this sort of internal causation, however,
Lin argues that he is in fact committed by his account of essences to

the conclusion that insofar as it is in state F, a substance essentially—
and thus with absolute necessity—causes itself to be in state G.
In chapter 4, we encountered the suggestion in the medieval Islamic
theologian Ghazālī that God is the only genuine cause. There were re-
vivals of different versions of this sort of occasionalist position in the
modern era. In chapter 7, Lisa Downing considers two such versions in
the work of Nicolas Malebranche (1638–1715) and George Berkeley
(1685–1753). Malebranche and Berkeley agree that ordinary sensible
objects are not efficient causes. But though Malebranche claims—in
line with Ghazālī’s form of occasionalism—that God is the only true
cause, Berkeley offers a more restricted form of occasionalism that
allows for finite spirits or minds to exhibit efficient causality as well.
There is a prominent view in the literature that Malebranche and
Berkeley agree that volitions are the only legitimate candidates to be
efficient causes, with Malebranche simply taking the further step of
restricting efficient causality to the volitions of an omnipotent being.
However, Downing argues that both thinkers in fact struggled with
the apparent implication of the new mechanistic physics that bodily
forces are genuine efficient causes of their effects. Downing’s conclu-
sion is that Malebranche attempted to block this implication by iden-
tifying these forces with the divine creative will, whereas Berkeley
treats such forces as technical notions in mechanics that have no meta-
physical import. The result in Berkeley that physics deals with regulari-
ties, and not the genuine causes with which metaphysics is concerned,
prepares the way for Hume’s radical reconfiguration of (efficient) cau-
sation itself.
The account of (efficient) causation in the work of David Hume
(1711–1776) is the focus of P. J. E. Kail’s discussion in chapter 8. As Kail
indicates, the nature of this account is a matter of deep scholarly con-
troversy. However, one thing that is clear to all sides of the debate is
that Hume rejects metaphysical distinctions among various kinds of
causes, and holds that we are to understand causation simply in terms
14 introduction
of constant conjunction and a mental expectation that an effect will

follow from a given cause. For Hume, then, we are to speak henceforth
simply of causation, and to dispense with the qualifier ‘efficient’ and its
accompanying implication of a plurality of causal kinds. The real ques-
tion, though, is whether Hume is intending to show what causation is
in reality, or rather merely what it is for us. Kail calls these competing
positions the “immodesty” and “modesty” readings of Hume, respec-
tively, and he provides some grounds for thinking that modesty is re-
quired. One reason is that Hume’s discussion of his two definitions of
‘cause’ is set in the context of an investigation of the mental faculties
involved in our causal inferences. Another is that Hume himself ties
our “idea of necessary connexion” to the manner in which we think
about causation. As we have seen, previous figures have insisted that
causation involves necessitation. Whereas Hume denies that we can
literally see necessitation in causal relations external to us, or even with
respect to introspectable relations, he nonetheless allows that our idea
of cause must include an idea of necessary connection. The sort of ne-
cessity with which Hume is concerned, however, pertains not to the
causal relata themselves, but rather to the way in which we are com-
pelled to think of these relata. Kail closes with a brief defense of Hume
against objections in the work of his fellow Scot Thomas Reid that rely
on a metaphysically more robust understanding of causation.
In chapter 9, Eric Watkins considers the complex account of causation
in the work of Immanuel Kant (1724–1804). What is distinctive about
Kant’s account is his attempt to give a justification for fundamental
causal principles that is “transcendental” insofar as it shows that such
principles are required to account for the very possibility of experience of
an objective world. For Kant, then, causality involves a kind of epistemic
necessity that is different both from the metaphysical/logical necessity
that we perhaps find in Leibniz (or Spinoza), and from the psycholog-
ical compulsion that we find in Hume. Watkins considers Kant’s tran-
scendental arguments in his Second and Third Analogies of Experience
for the particular causal principles required for the determination of
o bjective temporal succession and simultaneity. He argues that these ar-

guments suggest a model of causality on which substances bring about
change by means of the temporally indeterminate activity of their causal
powers. Thus, along with Kant’s distinctive arguments for causal princi-
ples goes a distinctive ontology that Watkins shows to be linked to the
version of Newtonian physics that emerges in Kant’s scientific writings.
Kant is distinctive as well in reintroducing an altered version of the old
Aristotelian distinction between efficient and final causality. Watkins
draws attention to the important differences for Kant between mechan-
ical efficient causation and teleological final causation: Whereas a whole
is determined entirely by its parts according to the former, there is recip-
rocal causal interaction between the whole and its parts according to
the latter, which is most evident in the case of natural organisms. There
is thus the implication in Kant that physics and the life sciences employ
fundamentally different kinds of causal explanation.
The third and final section of this volume is devoted to a discussion
of various contemporary accounts of causation (with the qualifier ‘effi-
cient’ now being widely seen as redundant). There are two main tradi-
tions of thought on this issue that are labeled ‘Humean’ and ‘Aristote-
lian’ in recognition of their connections to the concepts of (efficient)
causation in Hume and Aristotle, respectively. In chapter 10, Douglas
Ehring surveys broadly Humean accounts of causation. He begins with
the “regularity theory,” according to which sequences are causal in
virtue of the fact that they fall under a lawlike generalization. Though
popular prior to the 1970s, this theory confronted difficulties that led
philosophers to search for alternative accounts of causation that remain
broadly Humean in the sense that they refrain from explaining causal
connections in terms of underlying dispositions or powers. There is, for
instance, the “counterfactual theory” that David Lewis (1941–2001)
popularized, according to which causation is to be understood in terms
of the counterfactual dependence of effects on their causes. In contrast,
probabilistic theories of causation define a cause as that which raises
the probability of its effect. As Ehring makes clear, there are different
16 introduction
versions of each alternative theory that provide different answers to

questions about the precise nature of the causal connection. The impres-
sion from the survey in this chapter is in fact that Hume’s reflections
on causation have prompted a bewildering variety of contemporary
accounts of causal relations and causal relata, some of which are quite
removed from Hume’s own treatment of these phenomena.
Though Hume has had a profound influence on the contemporary
discussions of causation, there has in recent years been a revival of ac-
counts of causation that are broadly Aristotelian in nature. This volume
comes full circle by ending with Stephen Mumford’s discussion in
chapter 11 of theories of causation that are linked to the concept of ef-
ficient causation in Aristotle with which we started. As indicated in
chapter 1, Aristotle defined efficient causes in terms of powers that ac-
tualize potentialities. Similarly, the new Aristotelian movement that
Mumford discusses involves an account of causal processes in terms
of underlying powers or dispositions. This chapter surveys various
forms of this sort of “causal dispositionalism” in recent discussions in
philosophy of science and metaphysics. Whereas in the traditional
Humean view a cause is prior to and exists separately from its effect,
the new Aristotelian view emphasizes rather the simultaneity of cause
and effect as well as the continuity of causal processes. Proponents of
such a view do not progress in lockstep, and Mumford indicates some
important disagreements within this camp. However, he assumes
that since the alternatives he considers contrast markedly with more
Humean accounts of causation, and also bear strong affinities to Aris-
totle’s account of nature, there is sufficient warrant for speaking of a
new Aristotelian concept of causation.
3. Reflections
One distinctive feature of volumes in the OPC series is that they

include several short “Reflections” that are written by specialists in
areas other than philosophy. The intent here is to provide a broader
interdisciplinary perspective on the history of the target concept. The

current volume includes four Reflections that cover a period extending
from ancient to contemporary thought. The first Reflection follows
Tuozzo’s chapter on Aristotle, and can be considered as a companion
to the discussion of Aristotle’s concept of efficient causation. In par-
ticular, the classicist Tobias Myers considers the “prehistory” of the
Aristotelian concept, as represented in the discussion in Homer’s Iliad.
As Myers indicates, one issue in this text is whether Achilles’ inactivity,
as manifested in his refusal to fight due to his anger with Agamemnon,
is itself a primary cause of the massacre of the Achean warriors in the
Trojan War. But Myers also considers what is, in some respects, the more
fundamental issue of whether, or to what extent, Homer and his char-
acters are absolving human agents of responsibility when they attribute
their actions to the agency of the gods.
The second Reflection follows Richardson’s chapter on later medi-
eval thought, and it provides something of a bridge from the medieval
period to the modern era. In her essay, the music historian Anna Har-
well Celenza considers three different views of the causation of artistic
inspiration, as reflected in visual representations of three prominent
composers. The first, Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179), is presented in
her portrait as engulfed by flames while composing her work, indicat-
ing the pervasive influence of divine inspiration. Celenza notes that
the portrait of the later composer, Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750),
indicates no such divine influence. Rather, for Bach composition de-
rives from a rational process of “invention,” as indicated by the musical
formula on the sheet he is holding in his portrait. Celenza closes with
a consideration of a later view of musical inspiration that is reflected
in the portrait of Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827). Here we find
pictured not the measured method of Bach, but rather a kind of tran-
scendent creativity that serves as a secularized version of the divine
inspiration of Hildegard.
After Lin’s chapter on Spinoza and Leibniz, there is a third Reflection
that traces an issue raised in the work of Leibniz to a twentieth-century
18 introduction
debate over the creativity of the computer. In his essay, the historian of
science Matthew Jones starts with the manner in which Leibniz ex-
ploits the apparent rationality of his calculating machine to defend the
sufficiency of mechanistic causal explanations of material nature. Leib-
niz of course also insisted that the mechanisms of nature require a
divine organizer, and in this he was followed by other early modern
defenders of the new mechanical philosophy. However, Leibniz at
least introduced the thought that machines can exhibit genuine ra-
tionality through calculation, and Jones connects this thought to Alan
Turning’s response to the objection—which Lady Lovelace raised a
century earlier—that a mere machine is not capable of the sort of orig-
inality that is a distinctive feature of human thought.
Following Ehring’s chapter on contemporary discussions of (effi-
cient) causation, there is a fourth and final Reflection that serves as
something of an extension of Celenza’s Reflection on different histor-
ical conceptions of the causal contributions of the musical composer.
In particular, the art historian Tina Rivers considers the emphasis on
the abdication of artistic control in twentieth-century conceptions of
visual art. Rivers begins with the idea—for which the Renaissance
sculptor Michelangelo provides a notable model—that it is the artist
who determines the meaning of a work of art. Though this idea re-
mains popular in the art world, Rivers indicates that there is a kind of
contemporary revolt against it in more recent art theory. Such a revolt is
reflected, for instance, in the claim of Marcel Duchamp (1887–1968)—
in the context of a 1957 panel on “the creative act”—that events beyond
control of the artist determine what a visual work of art expresses.
Rivers emphasizes a radicalization of Duchamp’s views that culminate
in the attempts of Andy Warhol (1928–1987) during the 1960s and
’70s to use techniques such as silkscreen reproduction to disassociate
himself from his productions. But just as there is the question of
whether the intervention of the gods in the Iliad absolves mere mor-
tals of responsibility for the effects of their (in)actions, so there is the
question of whether Warhol’s machinations have succeeded in detach-

ing himself from his works in the way he desired.
These four reflections provide only a sample of the ways in which
the concept of efficient causation informs and enriches historical and
theoretical investigations outside of the discipline of philosophy. Indeed,
even with respect to the history of philosophy, there can be no claim
here to have told the complete story of the concept(s) of efficient cau-
sation. Nonetheless, what this volume does provide hopefully serves
to illustrate the fascinating complexity of the long life of this concept
(or concept-set) as well as its importance for our current understanding
of ourselves and our world.
part i
Ancient and Medieval

j
chapter one
Aristotle and the Discovery

of Efficient Causation
Thomas M. Tuozzo
Among Aristotle’s four causes, the efficient cause seems deceptively fa-
miliar. It is the cause that actually gets things done—presumably, one
might think, by pushing, pulling, and otherwise causing things to
move. An oft-told story explains this familiarity: the seventeenth-
century scientific revolution rejected Aristotelian final and formal
causes, leaving science with only efficient and material causes to deploy
in explaining natural phenomena. The mechanistic causes modern sci-
ence studies, of which the paradigm case is one billiard ball striking
another, are thus the lineal descendants of Aristotelian efficient causes.
Aristotelian efficient causes are in fact much less like modern mech-
anistic causes than this story would have it. Aristotle rarely mentions
causal interactions like one ball striking another; on one occasion
when he does so, it is to stress that such cases are derivative from other,
23
24 ancient and medieval
more fundamental kinds of efficient causation (MA 700b11-13/CWA

1:1091).1 Indeed, because a billiard ball continues to move when it is
no longer in contact with the ball that struck it, such an interaction
is, from an Aristotelian perspective, far from simple: it is a special
case of projectile motion and requires a complicated analysis as a suc-
cession of motions each of which has its own efficient cause in a
parcel of air moved by the parcel of air before it.2 The atomists Dem-
ocritus and Leucippus, on the other hand, did take something like
the billiard-ball model to be the most basic kind of causation. Far
from recognizing them as anticipating his own efficient cause,
Aristotle remarks that they “lazily neglected” the question of “how
motion will belong to beings” (Meta. 985b19-20/CWA 2:1558).3 Some-
times Aristotle goes so far as to say that none of his predecessors truly
grasped the nature of efficient causes: “all grasp it in a dreamlike way,
while none states it” (GC 335b8/CWA 1:549). But while he thus
claims to be the discoverer of the efficient cause, he does single out
one among his predecessors as an important precursor: “Therefore
Anaxagoras speaks correctly, saying that Mind is unaffected and un-
mixed, since he makes it the origin of motion (kinêseôs archên). For
only in this way could it cause motion while being motionless, and
could exert mastery, by being unmixed” (Phys. 256b24-27/CWA
1:429).4 Aristotle’s commendation of the unmixed nature of Anax-
agoras’ Mind is a clue to his own conception of the efficient cause: as
we shall see, there is a sense in which Aristotle’s efficient cause is rad-
ically distinct from that which it causes to move, in a way that finds
no parallel in the mechanistic picture.
1 CWA = Aristotle 1984.
2 See Phys. 266b27–267a20/CWA 1:445; and De Caelo 301b17–31/CWA 1:494.
3 Cf. Meta. 1075b34–35/CWA 2:1700. All translations (and any emphases) are my own, though I
have sometimes borrowed phrases from published translations, especially CWA.
4 Berti 2010, 379 also notes Aristotle’s approval of Anaxagoras’ conception of Mind as efficient cause
(citing Meta. 1078b8–10/CWA 2:1705).
aristotle and discovery of efficient causation 25
1. Mover and Moved
Aristotle introduces his canonical treatment5 of the theory of four

causes in Physics II 3 as follows:
Since our inquiry is for the sake of knowledge, and we do not think
we know a thing before we have grasped the “why”of it (which is to
grasp its primary cause), it is clear that we must do this also as re-
gards coming to be and passing away6 and every kind of natural
change. . . . (194b18-21/CWA 1:332)
All four causes, then, are, first and foremost, causes of (or, better, elements
responsible for) change. The material cause is responsible for change in
that it is the item that persists through and underlies the change; the
formal cause is the characteristic which the changing thing comes to pos-
sess; and the final cause is that for the sake of which the change occurs.
But in addition to these three something more is needed to account for
how the change actually comes to take place. Aristotle’s most character-
istic formulation for this fourth thing, which the tradition knows as the
efficient cause,7 is: “where the origin of the motion [comes] from” (hothen
hê archê tês kinêseôs, e.g., Meta. 984a27/CWA 2:1557). This formulation
makes prominent two features of Aristotle’s conception that the
traditional translation obscures: (1) the efficient cause is identified in di-
rectional terms: it is where the change comes from; and (2) the efficient
cause is importantly first: it is where the beginning of the change comes
from. This latter feature is even more strongly emphasized in a longer
Aristotelian formulation: “where the first beginning (hê archê . . . hê prôtê)
5 The same account, without the introduction here quoted, is repeated almost verbatim in Meta. V 2.
6 Cf. the parallel with Phaedo 95e10–96a1: “we must treat generally of the cause as regards coming to
be and passing away” (Plato 1961, 78).
7 “Efficient cause” derives from causa efficiens, the Latin translation of to poiêtikon aition, the Greek
phrase that had become standard in Aristotle’s commentators; see Philoponus and Simplicius on Phys.
194b29–30. Cicero seems to be the one who translated the philosophical use of poiêtikon as efficiens,
though in a Stoic context; see De Finibus 3.55, Topica 58. Aristotle himself tends to use to poiêtikon
specifically for the efficient cause of qualitative change; see GC I.7/CWA 1:529–31.
of the change or being at rest [comes] from” (e.g., Phys.194b29-30/CWA

1:332). Aristotle also uses other formulas for the efficient cause. Some of
these preserve both the directional aspect and the emphasis on beginning,
others preserve only one or the other, and some preserve neither.8 Now
because Aristotle introduces all four of his causes as (in some sense) the
causes or explanatory principles of motion, some of these shorter phrases
may on occasion refer to something other than the efficient cause. So at
MA 701b33 the expression “origin of motion” (archê tês kinêseôs) refers to
the final cause (CWA 1:1093), and at Phys. 243a33-34 Aristotle distin-
guishes between two senses of “what first moves [it]” (to prôton kinoun):
the final cause and the “where the origin of the motion [comes] from”
(CWA 1:409). But the expressions including the directional word “from
where” (hothen) seem always to refer to the efficient cause.9 The efficient
cause is where the motion first comes from.
Where the motion comes from is not to be confused with where the
motion takes place. For Aristotle, motion in general involves two ele-
ments: a cause of motion and a thing moved,10 and while the motion
comes from the former, it takes place in the latter. But motions in fact
frequently have a more elaborate structure:
For there must be three things—that which is moved [C], that which
causes motion [A], and that by which [the latter] moves [the former]
[B]. Now that which is moved [C] must be in motion, but it need
not cause anything else to move; that by which [the one] moves
8 Both: “that first thing from which the motion [arises]” (hothen prôton hê . . . kinêsis, DA 415b21–22/
CWA 1:661. Direction only: “whence the motion” (hothen hê kinêsis, Phys. 195a8/CWA 1:333). Begin-
ning only: “origin of motion (archê tês kinêseôs, Phys. 195a11/CWA 1:333), “that which moved it first”
(to prôton kinêsan, Phys. 198a33/CWA 1:338). Neither: “what moved [it]” (to kinêsan, Phys. 198a24/
CWA 1:338), “what moves [it]” (to kinoun, Phys. 201a24/CWA 1:343).
9 See Vlastos 1963, 246: “archê tês kinêseôs, without the hothen, can apply to any of the four causes,
except the material.” This is a little misleading; although archê tês kinêseôs can refer to the final cause
(as in does in MA701b33/CWA 1:1093), in the vast majority of cases it refers to the efficient cause. For
example, at Phys. 195a10–11 Aristotle thinks it is sufficient, to show that two causes are of different
types, to say that one is cause as telos and the other cause as archê tês kinêseôs (CWA 1:333).
10 See Phys. 200b31–32/CWA 1:342.
[the other] [B], must both cause motion and be itself in motion . . .
and that which causes motion [A], in such a way as not to be that by
which [something else] causes motion, must be unmoved. (Phys.
256b14-20/CWA 1:428-29; reference letters added)
Here Aristotle describes a case in which that which causes motion, A,

causes something, C, to move, by means of an intermediate thing, B,
which A causes to move and which moves C. Aristotle is, importantly,
not tempted to see this as a series of distinct motions: A moving B and
B moving C. That redescription would be natural under a mechanistic
view of causation, where A, B, and C may be conceived along the lines
of billiard balls.11 But Aristotelian changes or motions are not of this
sort; in general they have a certain self-containedness: in a given
motion there is something that is the initial cause of motion, A, and
there is the thing that this cause of motion is in the business, so to
speak, of moving, C; and then there may be an intermediary or inter-
mediaries, B, which are moved by the former as instruments whereby it
causes the latter to be in motion. The difference between this and a
simple series of motions is made clear by the example Aristotle typi-
cally uses in discussing this sort of case: that of a person moving a stone
with a stick. The stone (C) is what it is the business of the whole com-
plex to move; the stick, and the person’s hand, and possibly other parts
of the person’s body are intermediaries (B), both moved and causing
the stone to move; the initial cause of motion is, at least at one level of
analysis, the person herself (A).12 In complex motions of this sort the
intermediaries and the initial cause of motion may all be called
“movers” or “things that cause [something] to move” (ta kinounta),
and so may be called efficient causes in a broad sense. But there is
always one initial cause of motion, that from which the first beginning
11 Of course Aristotle’s conclusion that A must be unmoved shows that he cannot have something
like the billiard-ball picture in mind.
12 See Phys. 256a4–8/CWA 1:427. For a passage in which Aristotle continues the analysis of this ex-
ample to the more fundamental level, leading to the soul, see MA 702a32-b11/CWA 1:1093.
of the motion proceeds, and this is the efficient cause in the strict sense.
It is not always obvious, in a particular case of motion, what plays this
role; in some contexts Aristotle is content to consider as efficient cause
what a more exacting analysis would treat as an intermediate. None-
theless it is the first cause of motion that is the efficient cause in the
strict sense. And as the passage quoted suggests, the efficient cause in
the strict sense is, as such, necessarily unmoved—unmoved, that is to
say, with respect to the motion that it originates. (So, too, that which it
is in the business of moving, C, not only does not necessarily set any-
thing else in motion, it also necessarily does not set anything else in
motion—with respect, that is, to the motion that is caused in it by A.)
As we shall see, there are some cases in which the efficient cause in the
strict sense necessarily undergoes some motion, but in many other
cases, the efficient cause in the strict sense does not necessarily undergo
any motion at all. Unmoved movers, it turns out, are ubiquitous in
Aristotle’s physics.
2. The Simplest Sort of Efficient Cause
To see how the efficient cause gives rise to motion, we may start by
briefly considering Aristotle’s famous “definition” of motion,13 which
employs his central metaphysical notions of actuality and potentiality:
“the actuality (entelecheia) of that which is in potentiality, as such, is
motion” (Phys.201a10-11/CWA 1:343). Aristotle explicates “that which
is potentially” (tou dunamei ontos) in this formula as “that which can
be moved” (to kinêton; Phys. 201a29/CWA 1:343). Motion is the
actuality of a certain potentiality residing in the thing moved. Scholars
dispute whether this potentiality is to be identified with a potentiality
the thing has to be a certain way (e.g., the potentiality of a piece of
13 Because motion occurs in four distinct Aristotelian categories—substance, quality, quantity, and
place—there can be no univocal definition of it. The formula discussed here is rather a schema that
applies differently to the four different kinds of motion.
bronze to be a statue, or of a sick person to be healthy),14 or with its

potentiality to come to be that way.15 The first interpretation might be
expressed by saying that motion is an incomplete actuality of a poten-
tiality (to be), while on the second, motion is the actuality of an in-
complete potentiality (i.e., a potentiality to become). Aristotle in fact
uses both sorts of expression.16 Fortunately there is no need for us to
decide which is the best way to understand the potentiality of the
thing moved. For what we are concerned with is the efficient cause,
which turns out to be, in either case,that which brings the potentiality
in the thing moved into actuality.
We may begin with the simplest case of an efficient cause, for which
Aristotle sometimes uses the expression “that which causes motion in a
natural fashion” (to kinoun phusikôs; Phys. 201a24/CWA 1:343). This
case involves two substances: one that possesses in actuality a certain
natural quality, and another which, before the change, possesses that
quality only in potentiality. The former, in virtue of possessing the rel-
evant quality in actuality, can, by coming into contact with the latter,
bring its potentiality into actuality. So a hot stone placed in cold (but
potentially hot) water can produce the change which is the latter’s
being warmed up. Here the hot stone is an efficient cause, at least in the
broad sense, of the change in the water. And because it effects change
by contact, it also suffers change itself:
And everything that causes motion (pan to kinoun) also under-

goes motion, as has been said17—everything, that is, that is in
potentiality moveable. . . . For being active (to energein) towards this
[i.e., what is in potentiality moveable], as such, is just what causing
14 The dominant view; see Kosman 1969, Waterlow [Broadie] 1982, 112–21, Gill 1989, 184–94, Loux
1995, and Burnyeat 2002, 42.
15 See Charles 1984, 19–22, and Heinaman 1994.
16 Phys. 201b31–33/CWA 1:344.
17 Aristotle here refers to Phys. 201a23–25, where he said that “everything that causes motion in a
natural fashion is also such as to undergo motion” (CWA 1:343).
motion is. It does this by contact, so that at the same time it also
undergoes motion. . . . And that which causes motion (to kinoun)
will always bear18 some form (eidos), either a this [i.e., a substantial
form] or some quality or some quantity, which will be the origin and
cause of the motion, when it causes motion, as a human being19 in
actuality makes a human being out of that which is a human being
in potentiality. (Phys. 202a5-12/CWA 1:344)
An efficient cause of the sort Aristotle discusses here brings about

change by being active toward that which has the requisite potenti-
ality; a condition for the one’s being active toward the other is that
they touch. Because a body that is actually hot is also potentially cold,
and a body that is potentially hot is actually cold, when they touch two
distinct motions take place: the one grows warm, the other, cool.
At the end of the passage just quoted Aristotle distinguishes that
which causes motion (to kinoun) from the form that it bears, which he
calls “the origin (archê) and cause of the motion.” Both of these expres-
sions refer to efficient causes; the latter, in specifying the origin or be-
ginning of motion, would be the efficient cause in the strict sense, the
first cause of the change. So in our example we may identify the being
actually hot of the stone, a form in the category of quality, as the first
cause of motion and the efficient cause in the strict sense.
We have seen that the stone, the efficient cause in a broad sense, is
moved or changed when it warms up the water; and it is obvious that the
efficient cause in the strict sense, the stone’s heat, is also affected. Indeed,
the stone’s becoming cooler requires that the heat by which it is warming
up the water be diminished. As we shall see, it is only in cases like these—
where something causes motion “in the natural fashion”—that the
18 While oisetai is sometimes translated “will transmit” (as in CWA), this is not the most natural
translation of the word. What is more, that translation makes Aristotle say that the cause of change
always possesses the form that it causes the thing changed to possess—and while that is frequently the
case, it is not always so; cf. GC 320b17–21/CWA 1:524.
19 Of course the generation of one human being by another is not a case of an efficient cause that
“causes motion in a natural fashion” in the relevant sense discussed here.
e fficient cause in the strict sense is itself affected when it causes motion.
And it should be noted that this effect on the efficient cause—the
diminishment of the stone’s heat—is not itself a feature belonging to it
in virtue of its role in causing the water to get warm. Rather, it belongs to
the complex of elements involved in another change, that of the cooling
of the stone. It is the metaphysics of the physical qualities hot and cold,
not the metaphysics of change, that assures that every instance of A’s
heating B is accompanied by an instance of B’s cooling A. A’s heating B
does not in itself entail any change in A. This is made clear by a passage
in which Aristotle imagines a different metaphysics for heat:
Now fire contains the hot in matter; but if there were a separate hot
(chôriston thermon), this would not be affected. Perhaps, indeed, it is
impossible for it to be separate; but if there are things of this sort, what
we are saying would be true of them. (GC 324b18-22/CWA 1:530–31)
The implications of this thought experiment are extraordinary. For to

say that a separate hot would not be affected as it heats something else
is to say that it would not become cooler, which is to say that its power
to heat would be undiminished. It could heat one thing after another,
ad infinitum. It would appear, then, that primary origins of change, as
such, are one-way sources of change in the world. The mere fact of ef-
fecting change does not lessen their ability to effect such change—nor,
indeed, does it affect them in any other way. In this they are like the
Mind of Anaxagoras. When origins of change do lose their power when
they cause change, it is because they are present in what is reciprocally
acted on by that which they are causing to change.
3. Rational Powers
Efficient causes such as the hot are sources of change in a body distinct
from that in which they exist. The hot is thus an example of an Aristote-
lian “power” (dunamis), which Aristotle defines as “an origin of motion
or change [existing] in something other [than the thing moved], or

[existing] in [the thing moved], as something other [than the thing
moved]” (Meta.1019a15–16/CWA 2:1609).20 In addition to nonra-
tional powers such as the hot, Aristotle also recognizes rational powers,
such as the art of house building.21 Rational powers are thus efficient
causes in the strict sense; they are present in the soul of the craftsman
who is an efficient cause in a broad sense. Aristotle explicitly makes this
point in a well-known passage:
It is always necessary to seek the topmost (to akrotaton)22 cause of

each thing, [here] as in other cases, too. For example, a man builds a
house because he is a housebuilder, and the housebuilder does so in
accordance with the housebuilding art. This, then, is the prior cause;
and so in all cases. (Phys. 195b21-25/CWA 1:334)23
As present in a soul, rational powers have a different metaphysical rela-

tionship to the body that bears them from that of non-rational powers.
One important feature of this difference is that, while the bodies pos-
sessing nonrational powers are affected when they cause change in
something else, such that that power is diminished, the substances that
20 Cf. 1046a11/CWA 2:1651.That the above is the correct way of expanding Aristotle’s formula is
shown both by Aristotle’s example (“The medical art, being a power, could be in the one who is being
doctored, but not as being doctored,”1019a17–18/CWA 2:1609) and by the contrast with nature at De
Caelo 301b17–19/CWA 1:494. Renderings such as “origin of motion in another, or in itself qua other”
are misleading, insofar as they suggest that the “in” in Aristotle’s formulation refers to the location of
the motion. In fact it refers to the location of the origin of motion.
21 Aristotle distinguishes between nonrational and rational powers in Meta. IX.2 and IX.4. Aristo-
tle’s discussion at GC 324a24-b6 makes it clear that in the case of a doctor healing a patient it is the
medical art, not the doctor, that is the first efficient cause (CWA 1:530). See Menn 2002, 96.
22 Aristotle here uses akrotaton in the sense of the first item in any sort of explanatory series, much as
he uses the word of eudaimonia as first in the teleological series explaining the goodness of all other
human goods (e.g., NE 1095a16/CWA 2:1730).
23 Frede 1980, who drew attention to the importance of this passage, supposed that an abstract object,
the body of knowledge that constitutes house building, is the efficient cause of houses. Everson 1997
(44–55) rightly criticizes this interpretation, arguing that “It is the sculptor which is the efficient cause
of the statue and he is so in virtue of possessing the art of sculpture, of having the relevant hexis” (51).
Everson’s arguments against Frede’s position, however, do not undermine the claim that the art-as-
psychic-hexis is the efficient cause in the strict sense.
possess rational powers are not affected (qua possessing those powers)
when they effect change, nor is the relevant rational power diminished:
That which causes motion (to kinoun) is said in two ways. For that in
which the origin of motion [is located] seems to cause motion (for
the origin is the first of the causes), and again [so does] that which is
last with respect to the thing changed and to the generation. Simi-
larly also with respect to what causes alteration:24 for we say that
both the doctor and the wine restore to health. Now nothing pre-
vents the first thing that causes change from being unchanged
during the change (and in some cases it is even necessary), but the
last one always causes change while undergoing change.25 In the case
of causing alteration the first thing is unaffected, but the last is itself
also affected. For the things that do not have the same matter cause
alteration while being unaffected (for example the medical art; for
in producing health it is not affected by the thing being restored to
health, but the bread in causing alteration is itself also affected in
some way). . . . And while the medical art corresponds to the origin,
the bread corresponds to the thing that is last and that touches. (GC
324a26-b4/CWA 1:530)
Aristotle here distinguishes, on the one hand, the doctor from the
wine or bread that he administers to the patient, and, on the other, the
art of medicine from the doctor who possesses it. The bread is obvi-
ously what we called earlier an intermediate efficient cause; the doctor
may be identified with the first cause of motion on one level of analysis,
but on the more fundamental level, he, too, is intermediate, and the art
of medicine is the “first origin of the change.” Because it is not present in
24 So I (over-) translate to poioun throughout. “Agent,” the usual translation, does not adequately
convey that Aristotle is moving from change in general to alteration, one species of change.
25 Joachim (in CWA 1:530) wrongly translates: “the last mover always imparts motion by being itself
moved ” (my emphasis, Joachim’s emphasis omitted). Aristotle is not concerned with the fact that the
doctor moves the wine in applying it, but rather with the fact that the body of the patient causes a
change in (moves) the wine.
the same sort of matter as that which it changes (as the hot, by contrast,
is present directly in a body), it suffers no change at all when it produces
healing in the patient. Nor does the doctor, qua possessing the art of
medicine, undergo any change. But the doctor as intermediate, that is,
qua animal in motion, does undergo change: his desires and knowledge
bring about changes in the region around the heart that (ultimately)
move his hands as he administers the bread to the patient.
Although the doctor, qua possessor of the art of medicine, is not
affected in the act of curing, he does undergo a certain transition which
has no parallel in the causal functioning of the natural physical quali-
ties. This is clear from a passage in DA II 4: “The carpenter is not af-
fected by the timber, but the latter is affected by him. The carpenter
only changes into activity from a state of inactivity” (416b1-3/CWA
1:662). For the carpenter to have an effect on the timber, something
more is needed besides his being in contact with it; the carpenter must
become active with respect to his ability to do carpentry.26 Arts are
dispositions for activity of a certain sort; their possessors become
active with respect to them when they desire to use them.27 There is no
equivalent in the case of nonrational powers such as the hot. They are
already present in their substances in the way they need to be in order
to effect change; as soon as the body they are present in touches a suit-
able body in the appropriate way, the change begins.
The active state into which the possessor of a rational power must
change before she can cause change is not to be confused with the
change that she can thereby cause. Keeping the two distinct is not in-
consistent, as it might at first appear to be, with Aristotle’s doctrine
(argued for in Phys. III.3) that the activity of the efficient cause, as such,
is the same in number as, though different in being from, the activity of
26 Marmadoro 2007 captures something like this point when she writes, “Since the causal interac-
tion is the transmission of the form, at the time of transmission the causal form must be present in the
agent not only in actuality, but in a transmissible state” (215–16; her emphasis). I think it is more ap-
propriate to say, not that the form is in a different state, but that its possessor has become active with
respect to that form. The change is in the substance, not the form itself.
27 See Meta.1048a10–24/CWA 2:1655.
the thing changed—that is, with the change itself. In the case of nonra-
tional powers like the hot we may distinguish between the active state
of heat present in the hot body and the heating up it occasions in an-
other body, even though its activity as heating the latter up is the same
(in number) as the latter’s being heated up. A similar distinction is to
be made in the case of the rational powers, as we can see by examining
one of Aristotle’s illustrations, the case of teaching. In order for a
teacher to teach, she must not only possess the knowledge to be taught;
she must make active use of that knowledge (indeed, in a physical
way—by talking, drawing, etc.—so that the student may perceive her
active knowledge). But this active state of the teacher, though neces-
sary for teaching to take place, is not sufficient. Teaching only takes
place when learning takes place; they are, as it were, two sides of the
same change; and this change takes place in the learner. In order for
teaching/learning to occur, there must be, in addition to a teacher ex-
ercising her knowledge in the attempt to teach, a student present, and,
indeed, a student in a certain condition—minimally, paying attention.
The presence of the attentive student is analogous to the contact of a
cold body with something actually hot: it enables the active state of the
agent to be active toward that which is potentially changeable. The
presence or absence of the thing to be changed, and whether the ac-
tivity of the efficient cause causes change or does not, does not, as such,
affect the efficient cause. The teacher is no more affected when the stu-
dent is paying attention, and teaching/learning takes place, than when
the student is not and teaching/learning does not.28
4. Natures (I): Souls
Aristotle’s schematic analysis of change is most straight forwardly appli-

cable to cases where the efficient cause is a power, which, existing in one
28 Coope 2005 maintains that that “for an agent to act on a patient is for it to have a potential that is
(incompletely) fulfilled in the patient” (219). I see no reason to suppose that there is any potential in
the teacher that is only incompletely fulfilled.
substance, brings a certain potentiality in another substance into actuality.29

The most straightforward cases of such change are the production of an
artifact and the production of a natural qualitative change. But there is
another sort of efficient cause, which effects change in the substance in
which it exists: a nature, which Aristotle defines as “an origin of change
existing in the thing [changed] itself ” (De Caelo 301b17–18/CWA
1:494).30 A nature essentially belongs to that which it causes to change,
qua thing changed. Natures are, indeed, precisely the essences of the nat-
ural substances in which they are present and which they cause to move.
Natures, as a class of efficient causes,31 are of two distinct kinds: the
natures of living things—souls—and the natures of nonliving natural
bodies. In De Anima II 4 Aristotle tells us that the soul is the cause of
all three kinds of nonsubstantial change:
Further, the first thing from which change in place [proceeds] is

soul. This power, however, does not belong to all living things. But
alteration and increase are also due to the soul. For perception seems
to be a kind of alteration, and nothing perceives that does not have
a share in soul, and the case is similar also with increase and decrease.
For nothing decreases or increases naturally that is not nourished,
and nothing is nourished which does not share in life. (De Anima
415b21–28/CWA 1:661)32
In the first book of the De Anima Aristotle argues repeatedly (especially

against the atomists and Plato) that the soul is not moved;33 he there
29 Everson 1997, 53, supposes that all Aristotelian efficient causation takes place between one sub-
stance and another: “change occurs when there is contact between two substances which possess suit-
able capacities for agency and patiency.” Everson focuses on Aristotle discussion of powers in Meta.
IX.1–5; he neglects Aristotle’s remark, later in that book, that nature, as an origin of change, while not
the same as a power, is “in the same class” (1049b5–10/CWA 2:1657).
30 Cf. also Meta. 1049b8–10 and 1070a7–8/CWA 2:1657 and 1690.
31 In a different sense, the matter of a natural substance, on which the formal nature as efficient cause
acts, is also called by Aristotle a nature. On the relation of these two, see Lennox 1997.
32 See also Parts of Animals 641b5–8/CWA 1:998.
33 De Anima I.3; 408a31-b31/CWA 1:651; 411a26-b3/CWA 1:655. See Tweedale 1990.
refers to earlier arguments (presumably in the Physics) to the effect that

there can be things that cause motion or change without themselves
being reciprocally moved in the process.34 There can be no doubt that
Aristotle conceives of the soul as an efficient cause, in the strict sense, of
the changes of the living thing, an efficient cause that itself suffers no
change.35
Souls, as origins of change that themselves do not suffer reciprocal
change, are analogous to arts such as carpentry, which also are origins
of change that do not suffer reciprocal change. It will be useful to un-
derstand the way souls cause change by following out the differences
and similarities between the way they act and the way the arts do.
Aristotle himself compares the functioning of the nutritive soul in
causing growth36 to the operation of an art:
As the things that come to be by art come to be by means of tools—

rather it is truer to say that they come to be by means of their [i.e., the
tools’] motion, and this is the activity (energeia) of the art, and the art
is the form of things that come to be, [existing] in something else—so
in the case of the power of the nutritive soul. Just as later in the ani-
mals and plants themselves it produces their growth from food, using
heat and cold as tools (for its activity is in them, . . .)—so too from the
beginning it forms that which comes to be by nature. For the matter
by which [the thing] grows is the same as that from which it is formed
at first, so that the power that does this is the same as that [operative]
from the beginning. (GA 740b24–36/CWA 1:1140)
34 De Anima 406a3–4/CWA 1:647.

35 On the soul as efficient cause in Aristotle, see Code 1987, Lennox 1997, Menn 2002, Morel 2010.
On natures as efficient causes, see Code 2003.
36 While Aristotle recognizes changes in the category of quantity other than the growth of living
things, he seems to think of the latter as the primary form of quantitative change; the chapter on in-
crease in GC is mostly devoted to the growth of living things. The close connection between quanti-
tative change as such and the growth of living things is indicated by the fact that at Phys. 201a6
Aristotle identifies the form and privation involved in quantitative change as “the complete” and “the
incomplete” (CWA 1:343).
As we saw above, Aristotle holds that the activity of what causes change
and that of what gets changed are the same in number: the activity of
the builder is the same as the change in the timbers that is their being
built into a house. Here, for the purposes of casting light on the opera-
tions of a nature, Aristotle gives us a finer-grained analysis: the activity
of the art exists in the motion of the tools that the craftsman uses. This
is not inconsistent with the earlier point. A craftsman must become
active with respect to her art in order to produce change. The crafts-
man’s activity will generally involve using tools; these tools (and her
hands) are moved movers, that is, intermediaries, in the service of pro-
ducing the change in what is worked upon. The motions of these inter-
mediaries are necessary just because an art is a power, existing in some-
thing other than that which it causes to change. The activity of the art
can be said to be in the motions of the tools, even though those mo-
tions are not identical to the change the craftsman produces, and even
though, in suitably peculiar circumstances, they may occur without
producing the change in the material worked on.37 These motions are
what is involved in the craftsman’s being active with respect to the art;
whether any change takes place depends on the presence and suitable
condition of that upon which the art is to work.
There is no possibility of such a disengagement between activity and
change in the case of a soul’s causing motion in the body: the body is
always present to the soul,38 and the latter’s activity is immediately the
motion of the body. In the above passage Aristotle speaks of the hot and
the cold in the body as tools, and the food as the matter on which those
tools work. Elsewhere he calls the food, too, a tool that the nutritive soul
uses to add new flesh and the like to the body, which is considered that
on which the soul ultimately works.39 Since the soul is always present to
37 Cf. the teacher whose activity does not produce the desired change in the student.
38 The soul’s presence to the body must count as a form of “one-way contact” such as Aristotle recog-
nizes at GC 323a28–33/CWA 1:528–29. Hankinson 2009, 221, seems to have a relation of this sort in
mind when he speaks of Aristotelian natures “permeating” their matter.
39 See De Anima 417a20–29/CWA 1:664.
that upon which it works, the distinction between tool and thing
changed is not a hard and fast one in the case of living processes, and may
vary with the level of analysis. Indeed, insofar as the living processes pro-
duced by the soul are not for the sake of some ulterior product but are
their own end, Aristotle frequently considers the body as a whole to be a
tool of the soul; its use by the soul is comparable rather to the flautist’s
use of a flute than to the house builder’s use of a hammer.40
There is another, related difference between changes produced by
an art in some external material and those produced by a soul in the
body of which it is the nature. A craftsman is not always active with
respect to her art; she only becomes so when she desires to use it. There
is nothing comparable to desire in the case of a soul: it is always such as
to bring about the appropriate motion in the body. This is clearest in
the case of the nutritive soul: it only exists so long as it is active, and its
activity is nothing but the bodily motions which it causes and which
maintain the organism. But something similar holds for the sensitive
soul, too. Whenever the body is in the appropriate condition (and is
related to sense objects in the appropriate way), the sensitive soul
emerges into activity; and that activity is nothing but the perceptual
motions in the sense organs and the heart. When the body gets into a
state such that the sensitive soul cannot produce the motions that con-
stitute perception and consciousness, the animal sleeps. When the ap-
propriate conditions in the body are restored, the source of motion
that is the sensitive soul once again has its effect on the body, and the
animal wakes up.41
The above discussion has focused on the soul as cause of a living or-
ganism’s change in the category of quantity, that is, of its growth. Al-
though the role of the soul in causing motion in place in animals is
40 For the “instrumentalist” dimension of the relation of soul to body, see Menn 2002.
41 Aristotle’s views on perception and consciousness are the subject of great controversy; the view
suggested here is far from orthodox, though I do not think the details affect the overall account of
Aristotelian efficient causation. For an overview of the recent debate concerning the role of bodily
motions in Aristotelian sense-perception, see Caston 2004.
much more complicated, the fundamental analysis is the same.42

Moving from one place to another is a bodily change that is the activity
of the soul. That activity involves cognition (perceptual, phantastical,
or intellectual) of an object as good, which cognition is both a desire
and, as an activity of the soul, a change in the body that eventuates in
the motion of the animal towards the desired object.43 As Aristotle
notes, only the higher types of living things—animals, and not even all
of them—are capable of locomotion, and it is one of the last of the
abilities that they acquire in the course of their maturation. Aristotle
adduces these facts as an argument for the teleological priority of loco-
motion—one sense of its priority “in being.”44 But it should be noted
how complicated the relationship is between this sort of locomotion
and the schematic definition of change as “actuality of what exists in
potentiality, as such.” The potentiality involved in animal locomotion
would not seem to be the potentiality to be in the place where its
object of desire is located; rather, it is the potentiality of the body to
engage in various changes under the influence of the soul. Indeed, that
the potentiality for being in a different place does not play an impor-
tant role in the metaphysical analysis of this sort of locomotion seems
to provide the rationale for a second argument Aristotle gives for the
priority in being of locomotion: namely, that, unlike what happens in
alteration and growth, things engaged in locomotion “undergo no
change in their being” (Phys. 261a20-23/CWA 1:436). Yet, while this is
true of the teleologically highest kind of locomotion, that of animals,
there is an important sort of natural change in place of which this is
not true, that is, in which locomotion does involve a significant change
in the being of the thing moved. This is locomotion at the other end of
the Aristotelian scale of being, the movement of the four simple
bodies: earth, water, air, fire.
42 Aristotle’s analysis of animal locomotion can be found in MA and DA III.9–11.

43 On desire as a type of cognition, see Tuozzo 1994 and, more recently, Moss 2012.
44 See Phys. 261a13–20/CWA 1:382.
5. Natures (II): Natures of the Simple Bodies
While the application of Aristotle’s general definition of change to

animal locomotion is a complicated affair, Aristotle seems to envision a
more straightforward application of that definition to the case of the
motion of the four simple bodies. When, just prior to elaborating the
general definition in Physics III 1, Aristotle specifies the form and priva-
tion that serve as the termini of change in the four categories in which
change takes place, he gives those in the category of place as “up and
down, or light and heavy” (201a7-8/CWA 1:343). Air and fire are light,
and by nature move upward to their natural places in the cosmos (fire at
the circumference of the sublunar world, air just below fire); earth and
water are heavy, and by nature move downward (earth to the center of the
cosmos, water just above earth). Aristotle seems to have the motion of the
simple bodies in mind as he formulates his general definition of change.
Despite these indications that Aristotle’s definition of change
should apply in a straightforward fashion to the motion of the simple
bodies, the proper explanation of the latter is a matter of scholarly con-
troversy. Aristotle himself remarks, with regards to the natural move-
ments of heavy and light things: “the question ‘by what are they
moved?’ may pose a difficulty” (255a1–2/CWA 1:426). Aristotle re-
jects the solution that they are “moved by themselves.” For a thing to
move or change itself, as such, requires an internal division between a
moving and a moved element in the self-mover. This structure belongs
to living things, which are true self-movers: the soul is that which
moves, the body that which is moved.45 In living things, the body is
that which has the potentiality referred to in the definition of change,
and it is brought to actuality by the soul as efficient cause. The simple
bodies have no such internal structure.
45 The fact that souls move bodies only when certain (external and internal) conditions exist, and
that there are efficient causes that bring those conditions about, does not alter the fact that the soul is
the efficient cause of the motion of the living thing (pace Graham 1999, 86; see Sauvé Meyer 1994, 70).
The efficient causality exerted by perceptual objects on the body (see DA 417b20/CWA 1:664) is an
example of efficient causes bringing about necessary conditions for the activity of the soul.
Nonetheless, the simple bodies do have the source of their motion

in themselves; their natures are efficient causes. But their natures func-
tion as efficient causes in a different way than do the natures of animate
things or the powers to produce change in another thing. In both these
latter cases the efficient cause is distinct from that potentiality whose
actuality, qua potential, constitutes the change: the power of heat in
the fire warms the cold water that is potentially hot, the nutritive soul
actualizes the body’s potentiality to be larger than it is. In the simple
bodies there is no such distinction; the potentiality that is actualized
qua potential does not need a distinct efficient cause to bring it to ac-
tuality. It is rather itself the sole source of the body’s movement, and so
qualifies as its efficient cause. But because it does not operate by acting
on a distinct potentiality, Aristotle says that it is an origin of change in
a peculiar sense: it belongs to a thing not as an origin which brings
about change in anything (even itself ), but rather as an origin of the
thing’s undergoing something.46
The natures of the simple bodies, as potentialities that need no addi-
tional principle to emerge into actuality, are thus a different sort of
potentiality both from that operative in the motion of living things
and from that in things moved by powers. In fact, the failure to recog-
nize the different sorts of potentiality, Aristotle tells us, is the source of
the puzzles concerning the motions of the simple bodies.47 Aristotle
explains the peculiar sort of potentiality involved by the use of the ex-
ample of the potential to know. The potential to know possessed by a
normal but uneducated human being is in one way like the potential of
a cold stone to be hot: it requires a distinct active source of motion
(e.g., a teacher) to bring it to actuality. The result of such teaching—
the knowledge possessed by the successfully educated pupil—is, unlike
the result of heating the stone, itself still a potentiality, but a potenti-
ality of a different sort: it does not require any principle to bring it to
46 Phys. 255b30–31/CWA 1:427.

47 Phys. 255a30–32/CWA 1:426.
actuality. Rather, it automatically emerges into actuality, so long as

there is nothing to impede it.48
Aristotle applies this schema to the case of the simple body air. It is
the nature of air to be light; the full actuality of air’s being light is its
being at rest in its proper place beneath fire.49 Water, which is actually
heavy, has the potentiality to be light in the same way that the un-
taught human being has the potential to know: when a distinct active
element acts on it, it may actualize that potentiality, and become air
(and so light). When air has been generated out of water, then it is in a
state of potentiality comparable to that of the person who has learned:
it will now automatically enter into its state of activity, if nothing pre-
vents it (or when what prevents it is removed).50 As in the knowledge
case, there is no need of any external agent to bring this sort of poten-
tiality into actuality.
There is an important difference, however, between the way in
which the knowledgeable person emerges into her activity and the way
the air does. The transition from not using one’s knowledge to using it
is (more or less) instantaneous. Though Aristotle counts this as a tran-
sition in the category of quality, it is not an alteration in the usual
sense: there is no actuality of the potential qua potential, but only an
actuality. But when air in a stoppered wineskin51 under water is released,
its transition to actuality involves traveling the distance to the surface
of the water. This is a straightforward case of locomotion, and fits the
canonical definition of change: it is the actuality of the p otentiality of
48 In the De Anima Aristotle describes the educated person as being such that “whenever he wishes
he is capable of activelytheorizing” (417a27–28/CWA 2:664). This may suggest that desire plays a role
in actualizing the disposition of knowledge, as it does in the case of such rational powers as the med-
ical art.
49 There is disagreement about this point; some hold that the activity of the light is moving upward.
But Phys. 255b11 seems to me conclusive (CWA 1:427). See now Katayama 2011, which develops an
account of the motion of simple bodies similar to that developed here.
50 See Phys. 255b5–26/CWA 1:427. For the purposes of his argument in Physics VIII, Aristotle em-
phasizes that every case of a simple body’s moving is preceded either by the generation of the body or
the removal of an impediment to its motion, both of which require external efficient causes. This does
not conflict with the view that the nature of the body is the internal efficient cause of its motion.
51 See Phys. 255b26/CWA 1:427.
the air to be up, qua potential. Again, this actuality requires no agent
that is already actual prior to the motion; the only source of motion is
the nature of the air itself as light, which thus counts as the efficient
cause of the motion.
While the transition of a knower to the active use of her knowl-
edge is disanalogous to the natural locomotion of the simple bodies in
the way indicated, in Physics VIII 4 Aristotle offers another illustrative
example that does not exhibit that disanalogy. Several times in the
course of the discussion Aristotle says that the phenomenon he is
discussing—transitions without an active agent—occur not only in
the category of place, but also in those of quality and quantity.52 He
illustrates the case of quantity as follows: “That which is of a certain
quantity spreads out, unless something prevents it” (255b21–24/CWA
1:427). The case Aristotle has in mind is something like a sponge or
rubber ball that is first compressed, and then released. Prior to being
compressed, it is actually of a certain size; when compressed, it is that
size in potentiality, with the sort of potentiality possessed by the edu-
cated person or the air under water. When what is compressing it is
removed, the sponge or ball automatically expands, with no need of an
active agent.53
6. Conclusion: The Motion of the Celestial Spheres
So far we have examined the varieties of Aristotelian efficient causes

without addressing the most controversial question about Aristotle’s
theory: do the unmoved movers of the celestial spheres move them as
efficient causes, and if so, how do they do so? The language of Meta-
physics Lambda 7 has often been thought to show that these unmoved
movers serve only as final causes of the motions of the spheres; it is none-
theless also true that the discussion in Physics VIII gives no indication
52 See Phys. 255b12–13 and 21–24/CWA 1:427. Cf. also 255a25/CWA 1:426.
53 The existence of these kinds of motion apparently constitutes an exceptionto Aristotle’s claim that
what is changed is relative to what causes change (see Phys. 200b29–32/CWA 1:342).
that anything other than an efficient cause is meant, and one of the ar-
guments given there, which seems to presuppose that what is at stake is
efficient causation, reappears in Lambda.54 In what follows I shall not
argue for the efficient causality of the unmoved movers, or speculate
on the possible evolution of Aristotle’s views on celestial motion.
Rather, I shall assume for the sake of hypothesis that they are efficient
causes, and ask whether the foregoing analysis of the kinds of Aristote-
lian efficient causation can help us understand how they cause the ce-
lestial spheres to move. I look first at Physics VIII and then at Lambda.
Physics VIII argues that the eternal continuous circular locomotion
(presumably of the outermost sphere) requires an unmoved mover
with infinite power and so no magnitude. It argues that this mover
cannot be even incidentally moved by that which it causes to move;55
this rules out its being the soul of the sphere, since the souls of animals
are incidentally moved by the bodies they cause to move. As moving
something that it is not present in, the unmoved mover would have to
be a power, either a rational power such as an art or a nonrational
power such as the hot. For all Physics VIII tells us, it could well be a
nonrational power. If so, it would be like the “separate hot” imagined
in Aristotle’s thought experiment in GC I 7: fully active with its own
activity, which activity has the additional feature of causing motion in
its sphere, without itself being affected in any way. What the proper
activity of the unmoved mover would be, and how it gives rise to the
motion of the sphere, the discussion in Physics VIII does not indicate.
In Lambda things are different: Aristotle tells us that the unmoved
mover is the pure activity of thought thinking itself, and that “it causes
motion as being loved” (Meta.1072b3/CWA 2:1694). As this latter
passage (and the surrounding discussion) show, in Lambda Aristotle
54 See Meta.1073a5–11/CWA 2:1695, and Phys. 267b17–24/CWA 1:446 where Aristotle argues that
the first unmoved mover must possess “unlimited power” (dunamis apeiros). Both Judson 1994 and
Laks 2000 acknowledge the difficulties this passage presents for the view that the unmoved mover is
not straight forwardly an efficient cause.
55 Phys. 259b16–28/CWA 1:434.
conceives of the unmoved mover as a final cause56 of the sphere’s cir-

cular motion, a final cause that acts as an object of desire, and is able so
to act in virtue of being intellected as an object of desire57 by the outer-
most celestial sphere (evidently here conceived as ensouled).58 If the
unmoved mover acts as an efficient cause, it must do so as the cause of
the sphere’s intellection of it.59 Now as is well known, in De Anima III
5 Aristotle argues for the existence of a mind that is in its substance
activity, which serves as a productive cause of intellection, and whose
causality he compares to that of an art.60 These features strongly sug-
gest that this mind does serve as an efficient cause of intellection.
Whether or not we identify this active mind with the unmoved mover
of Lambda, it is reasonable to suppose that the latter brings about
intellection in the mind of the sphere in the same way that the active
mind brings about intellection in the human mind. How the latter
works, and why indeed Aristotle thinks it necessary to posit an effi-
cient cause of intellection in the first place, are controversial questions
that cannot be addressed here.61 Instead, we may end with a reflection
on Aristotle’s comparison of the active mind to an art. Arts are principles
of change in something other than that in which they exist; they them-
selves remain unaffected when they cause change. In human beings, an
art only causes change when a craftsman, through desire, becomes
active with respect to it. In the case of an active mind (such as we are
supposing an unmoved mover of a celestial sphere to be), we have
56 Among those who argue for the efficient causality of the unmoved mover, only Berti, to my knowl-
edge, denies that it is also a final cause. See Berti 2002 and Berti 2010.
57 The question of why the sphere should be inspired to circular motion when intellecting the un-
moved mover, which itself merely intellects, is a question shrouded in obscurity. There is no trace in
the text of the traditional view that in rotating, the sphere imitates the activity of the unmoved mover.
58 For an interpretation that does not distinguish the sphere’s soul from the unmoved mover, see
Broadie 1993.
59 On this see also Tuozzo 2011.
60 DA 430a10–18/CWA 1:684.
61 Another such question would be whether the notion that intellection needs an external efficient
cause is consistent with Aristotle’s account in Physics VIII of the way the potentiality to know of an
educated person automatically emerges into activity if nothing prevents it.
something like an art that does not exist in any matter or substance at
all; it is a fully actual substance. There is no need, then, for anything
like desire to put anything into the proper active condition. The active
mind is always such as to be able to cause intellection, whenever the mind
upon which it is to work is in the proper condition. And the mind of the
sphere of the stars, presumably, is always in that condition.
Reflection
representations of efficient causation
in the iliad
Tobias Myers
p
How to contextualize Aristotle’s work on efficient causation? One

might begin with Aristotle’s own list of his philosophical
predecessors,1 but many other ingredients mingled in the
intellectual and cultural ferment of classical Athens. Indeed, a deep
concern with issues related to efficient causation is apparent already
in the Iliad, which in Aristotle’s day had long been seen as the
foundation of Greek culture, and whose voice held unparalleled
influence in the milieu that gave birth to philosophy. What
constitutes an adequate account of a phenomenon’s causation? To
what extent does human action reflect human rather than divine
agency? To what extent is a human “agent” morally responsible for
his actions? The Iliad never poses these questions formally, but
nevertheless wrestles with them in fascinating ways. In this sense,
it could well be read as part of the “prehistory” of what would,
beginning with Aristotle, become the philosophical concept of
efficient causation. I will here attempt a very brief sketch of such
a reading.
The Iliad advertises its concern with causation from the
opening lines. Rather than launching straight into a sequential
narrative, Homer instead gives us two things: a vision of a
1 Metaphysics III/Aristotle 1984, 2:1572–84.
48
representations of efficient causation in the iliad 49
disastrous event—Achaeans being slaughtered at Troy—and

an invitation to consider that event’s causation from a variety
of standpoints.
Sing, goddess, the wrath of Peleus’ son Achilles—

the destructive wrath, which set countless woes on the Achaeans,
sent many noble souls of heroes to Hades,
made [the heroes] themselves feasts for dogs
and all birds—and the plan of Zeus was being accomplished. 5
[Sing] indeed from when the two first stood apart in strife—
Agamemon, lord of men, and bright Achilles.
Which of the gods set them to quarreling?
Apollo; for he had become angry with [Agamemnon],
and sent a terrible plague through the army, and the people were 10
dying.
For Agamemnon had dishonored the priest Chryses . . . 2
(Iliad, Book 1, 1–11)
The first five of these lines evoke a vivid tableau in a well-known

episode of the Trojan War: during the period of Achilles’
withdrawal from combat, numerous Achaean warriors are being
slain on the battlefield, their bodies left for carrion. What causes
these deaths? Trojan warriors would be an obvious answer: it is
the Trojans, after all, whose hands are driving the lethal bronze
into Achaean bodies. It is remarkable, then, that the Trojans are
not even mentioned in the passage, and won’t be for some time.
Achilles? But Achilles is inactive, of course—and that’s just the
point. The poet could hardly have begun “Sing, goddess, of
Achilles, who slew Achaean heroes and left their bodies for dogs
and birds,” for that would conjure an image of Achilles run amok,
2 Translations of the Greek are my own; for a standard English translation, see Homer 1990. I have
substituted familiar proper names for patronymics and periphrasis: “Agamemnon” for “the son of
Atreus.”
50 reflection
slaughtering his own allies with sword and spear. No, it is Achilles’
anger that slays them according to this account, his anger at a third
party.
How to interpret this unusual description? One implication
seems clear enough. Achilles’ wrath finds expression in his decision
not to fight. By spotlighting Achilles while omitting the Trojans,
the poet here posits, and privileges, a perspective from which
Achilles’ refusal to act is more truly the cause of these deaths than
the Trojans’ violence: inaction more consequential than action,
to the point that the action itself has become invisible in the
description. We have bodies, souls fleeing, but no blows.
Yet the language itself intimates another, eerier perspective on
the question of cause, for Achilles’ anger does not sound as though
it consists of inaction. Indeed, it is the subject of the verbs that
evoke death and desecration in lines 2-4. Achilles’ anger is directed
at Agamemnon (as Homeric audiences know perfectly well), not
the Achaeans. Yet from the Achaean perspective adopted in these
lines, that anger has been made to seem malevolent, rather than
indifferent, and even somehow extrahuman: “the wrath of
Achilles . . . that sent many noble souls . . . to Hades . . . and left [their
bodies] . . . for dogs and . . . birds.” While Achilles looms behind the
action, motionless, his emotion ranges murderous over the field.
The supernatural tenor to this description acquires new
significance with the following hemistiche: “and the plan of Zeus
was being accomplished.” Along with the frozen Achilles, the
invisible Trojans, and an eerily powerful emotion, we are told that
Zeus is somehow behind this carnage. The connector “and” is
vague, and compatible with various scenarios, including ones in
which Zeus’ plan either causes or is caused by Achilles’ wrath.3 To
take the first case: scholars have argued that Archaic Greeks
3 The interpretation of the “plan” or “will” (as it is sometimes translated) of Zeus in this passage is an
enormous and complicated issue. Engaging recent discussions include Allan 2008 and Clay 1999.
thought powerful emotions to originate outside a person, in the

realm of spirits and gods.4 In the present instance, we might
suppose that Zeus has caused Achilles’ anger—perhaps as part of a
larger plan to depopulate the earth.5 The wrath’s agency, its status as
killer, now crystallizes as a manifestation of Zeus’ vicious intentions.
Alternatively, “the plan of Zeus” might refer to Zeus’ promise to
bring honor to Achilles by ensuring that his withdrawal will entail
Trojan victories—a promise made at Achilles’ own request,
following his quarrel with Agamemnon.6 Achilles’ wrath in that case
is the cause of Zeus’ “plan.” Either reading anchors the wrath’s power
to kill in its relation to a particular kind of supernatural agency,
Zeus, while creating very different impressions of Achilles’ own
culpability. More will be said about the human and divine
motivations of the poem’s action in a moment.
The proem contains one final reflection on the nature of
causation. Having stated and described his theme, the wrath of
Achilles, the poet announces with all apparent confidence a specific
starting point for his account of it: “Sing, goddess, the wrath
of . . . Achilles. . . . [Sing] indeed from when the two first stood apart
in strife . . . ” (1.1, 6). Achilles’ anger at Agamemnon begins with a
quarrel, which we now expect to hear recounted. But instead of
proceeding to narrate from this “first” beginning, Homer perversely
strikes out backward, in an apparently open-ended search for the
quarrel’s origins.
“Which of the gods set them to quarreling?” (1.8)

“Apollo, for he had become angry with [Agamemnon]. . . . (1.9) . . .
“For Agamemnon had dishonored” the priest. . . . (1.12)
4 Dodds 1951 was influential and makes for good reading.

5 Mentioned in the Cypria, a later poem apparently based in some fashion on earlier material.
6 Iliad, Book 1.
52 reflection
With each step, the poet picks his way back along a tenuous causal
chain. Only then does the narrative begin in earnest, describing
Agamemnon’s harsh treatment of Chryses and working forward. The
wrath starts, once more, with Agamemnon, but now the starting
point has been made to seem arbitrary. Why not track further? By
eschewing sequential narrative in favor of this backward movement,
the poet elaborates his own decision-making as a narrator, thereby
offering not simply an account of Achilles’ wrath, but an inquiry into
what constitutes a beginning. Is there not some god behind
Agamemnon’s actions? That is precisely what Agamemnon himself
claims—about his harsh words to Achilles, at any rate—much later,
as Achilles formally ends their quarrel. “I am not aitios, but rather
Zeus, and Moira, and a mist-haunting Erinys [are aitioi], who put
wild folly in my wits. . . . ”7 Zeus again? Perhaps, but Agamemnon has
every reason to point his finger at the gods at this moment. In this
reading of the “prehistory” of a concept, it may be worth noting that
Agamemnon here uses the adjectival form of aitia, which Aristotle
will later appropriate to develop his theory of causation.
Is Agamemnon aitios or not? Is Achilles? The Greek world was
full of gods, and the relationship between divine and human
causation in Homer is a vexed question. A strange double vision
permeates much of the poem. From one perspective, Achilles is the
slayer of Hector: “Bright Achilles rushed at Hector and struck him
[in the throat] with his spear” (22.326). The wound is fatal, and
Achilles seems to have caused his death. Yet Zeus, moments earlier,
asks the other gods: “Shall we slay [Hector] now . . . at the hands
of Achilles (22.175–76)?” From Zeus’ perspective, Achilles is the
means through which the gods slay Hector.
Some critics have seen the gods as mere poetic dressing for an
essentially human drama. Thus, when Athena stops Achilles from
7 Iliad, 19.86–88. Achilles, formally setting aside his anger, will soon publicly accept Agamemnon’s
account of events, and add that Zeus apparently wanted many Achaeans to die (Iliad, 19.268–274).
killing Agamemnon in Book 1, this is a façon de parler—the poet’s

way of saying that Achilles’ better judgment held him back. Other
critics take the opposite view, and find in Homer a belief that all
human impulses have a divine origin.8 A third approach theorizes
that Homer conceives of many human actions as having both a
divine and a human motivation, which are two facets of a coin,
and there is much good evidence for this position.9 But the poem
seems to me to do more than present a particular conception or
conceptions of causation. It also attempts to come to terms with
the paradoxes they entail, and the ethical consequences of taking a
particular line in a given situation. Who is responsible for the
death of Patroclus, killed during Achilles’ withdrawal from battle?
“Hector . . . struck [Patroclus] with his spear / in the lowest part of
his flank—and he drove the bronze right through” (16.820-1). So
dies Patroclus. But in dying mockery he calls Hector only his “third
killer,” placing him after Zeus, Apollo, and fate on the one hand,
and the Trojan Euphorbus who wounded him first on the other. If
we have not forgotten the proem by now, we should perhaps push
Hector even further back to fourth place, after Achilles and his
wrath at Agamemnon. And behind the wrath is Zeus again, and
Apollo again, and Agamemnon. . . .
8 A succinct discussion of these issues can be found in the final chapter of Redfield 1994.
9 Lesky 1961.
chapter two
Efficient Causation in the

Stoic Tradition
R. J. Hankinson
1. Prologue
It is often said, and with some justice, that Aristotle’s causes are not
really causes as such at all.1 For one thing, the contexts they generate are
evidently not extensional (in the sense of being insensitive to how cause
and effect are described);2 and, pace Anscombe, causal contexts prop-
erly so called are.3 Even the category of efficient causation (the termi-
nology is not Aristotle’s, but it emerged fairly early in the tradition), at
1 See Hocutt 1974.

2 An exception for Aristotle is the case of “incidental causes,” or, more properly, causes incidentally
picked out: Phys 2.3, 195a33-b9/CWA 1:333.
3 Anscombe 1969, argues for the intensionality (sensitivity to how the causal item is picked out) of
causal contexts; but the example she gives (“the international crisis was caused by the fact that General
de Gaulle gave a speech—but not by the fact that the man with the largest nose in France made a
speech”) is explanatory, rather than purely causal. If de Gaulle caused the crisis, he did so no matter
how you pick him out, even if his legendary proboscis had nothing to do with it. See Mackie 1974,
ch. 10; Hankinson 1998a, 132–33.
54
efficient causation in the stoic tradition 55
first sight the best candidate for a genuine cause, more generally (and
properly) denotes an agent, and, moreover, an agent picked out under
some explanatorily perspicuous description: the efficient cause of the
sculpture is not, properly speaking, Polycleitus, but the sculptor (even if
they are one and the same), or more precisely the art of sculpture which
he exemplifies, and only incidentally that man over there (if such he be),
or to ape Anscombe, the man with the largest nose in Athens. And
while Aristotle characterizes his efficient cause as the origin of the
change (archê tês kinêseôs: Physics II.3, 194b23–35/CWA 1:332), such ori-
gins are not in general events, states of affairs, or processes.4
In his provocative (indeed provocatively titled) paper “The Original
Notion of Cause,”5 Michael Frede argued that, strictly speaking, it is the
Stoics who first gave an analysis of the notion of causation proper, causa-
tion, that is to say, in a more or less modern sense, as primarily involving
things that actually do things. So far as it goes, this bald characterization
is largely correct; but it needs qualification. Although the Stoics are con-
cerned with events and processes (as indeed Aristotle had been), in their
canonical definition, a cause is a body, which brings about in another a
body an incorporeal predicate. In this chapter I intend to investigate ex-
actly how the Stoics conceptualized causal activity and interaction, and
in particular how it related both to their materialism and their providen-
tialism, and to their compatibilist analysis of human action; and how
their contribution was taken up and adapted by the subsequent medical
(Galenic) tradition, an investigation complicated by the fact that our re-
mains of Stoicism itself are fragmentary, and usually mediated through
unfriendly, and sometimes actively hostile, sources.
2. Stoic Theology and Physics
While the Stoics certainly embraced teleological explanation, indeed

of a directed, providential kind, they carefully did not use the language
4 There are exceptions: cf. Post.An. II.11, 94a36-b1/CWA 1:155; the origin of a war of retaliation is the
original act of aggression.
5 Frede 1980.
of cause or explanation (aition, aitia) in such contexts, preferring to

talk directly of design, and by extension (since such was their theology:
Cicero, Nature of the Gods [ND] 2.75–76, 88/54J, LS) a designer. But
of course it is the designer who actually does the work; the plan he ex-
ecutes is not itself a cause.6 Indeed, it makes sense to start by saying
something about the Stoic notion of God, and more generally of their
physics (since theology for them was squarely a part of physics). The
Stoics were the most thorough-going of materialists; but unlike their
great materialist rivals the Epicureans, whose physics of a random dy-
namical interaction between an infinity of indestructible atoms in an
infinite void precluded the idea of there being any imposed order, they
felt no tension at all between their physics of material interaction and
providentialism. In their view the two were a natural fit, since their
God, the author of their providence, was an integral part of the mate-
rial structure of the universe, so much so that the Stoics sometimes
identified God with the universe, as its all-pervasive rational compo-
nent (Diogenes Laertius [DL] 7.137/44F LS).7 To see how this was
supposed to work we need to turn to their physics, in particular their
version of the by now canonical (outside atomistic circles that is) four-
element theory.
The Stoics’ version of element-theory is idiosyncratic in at least two
ways. First, unlike Aristotle (Generation and Destruction II.2, 329b17–
330a29/CWA 1:539–40), they associate each element with a single pri-
mary quality (rather than a pair of them). Thus for them fire is simply
hot (rather than hot and dry), air is simply cold (as opposed to being
cold and wet), while water is wet, and earth dry (DL 7.137/47B LS).
Moreover, fire and air are active principles (in virtue of the causal effi-
cacy of heat and cold), while earth and water are passive (Nemesius
6 This is not entirely accurate, since the plan itself will be a causally efficacious physical disposition of
the divine substance; but at all events the completed scheme as such is not to be described as being a
cause (as for instance the final cause of the animal’s growth for Aristotle is the fully realized mature
adult animal). See Frede 1980, 217–21.
7 See further below. On Stoic theology in general, see Agognostopoulos 2003.
164, 15–18/47D LS).8 This amounts (roughly) to saying that for the
Stoics, and in Aristotelian terms (terms which they are perfectly happy
to employ: cf. DL 7.134, Calcidius 293/44B, E LS), water and earth
fulfil the role of matter, fire and air that of form:
That which is acted upon is unqualified substance, i.e. matter, that

which acts is the reason [logos] in it, i.e. God, which since it is ever-
lasting, constructs every single thing throughout all matter. (1: DL
7.134 / 44B LS [part]; cf. 44C–E LS).9
So God is the ultimate artificer, but in a sense far stronger than that of
Plato’s Timaeus Demiurge. There is a literal sense in which God is re-
sponsible, and not just in some remote manner, for everything that
happens. Indeed, he is in a sense identical with the universe as a whole:
The Stoics use the term “ ‘world’ [kosmos] in three ways: of God him-
self, the peculiarly qualified individual10 consisting of all substance
[ousia],11 who is ungenerable and indestructible, since he is the man-
ufacturer of the world-order, at set periods consuming all substance
into himself and reproducing it again from himself;12 they also de-
scribe the world-order as “ ‘world’; and thirdly, what is composed
out of both. (2: DL 7.137 / SVF 2:526 [part] / 43F LS)
8 Aristotle had held that hot and cold were the active qualities, moist and dry forming the substrate:
Meteorology IV.1, 378b10–27/CWA 1:608. Galen thought them all active, even if heat and cold are
more so; all four directly affect things adjacent to them with their qualities, by contrast, e.g., with
smooth things, which do not make things they come into contact with smooth: Elements according to
Hippocrates, 1:483–86 Kühn.
9 Partly for this reason Frede 1980, 243 characterizes the Stoics’aition sunektikon as their equivalent
to the Aristotelian formal cause.
10 A Stoic technical term referring to the persistent individual thing, which they conceive of as being
an enduring set of basic qualifications of the parcel of underlying matter: cf. e.g. 28A, C–E, I, J–N LS;
and see note 11 below.
11 I.e., matter: the Stoics use Aristotelian language, but often in un-Aristotelian (or at most partially
Aristotelian) ways: for ousia meaning exclusively material substrate, see, e.g., 44B–E, 46H LS.
12 These are the theses of periodic total conflagration and eternal recurrence (46E-N LS; 52A–H
LS); see Long 1985; White 2003, 133–38.
God is what the world really is; in the language of Stoic metaphysics,
he is the peculiar qualification of the world considered as mere matter,
the form of the world. Equally we can think of the world as the union
of God with matter in the manner of an Aristotelian hylomorphic sub-
stance.13 But there are two crucial and related points of disanalogy
with the Aristotelian picture. Even if in some moods Aristotle seems to
make his god metaphysically basic, he is certainly not identical with
the cosmos as a whole. Equally certainly he is not material: which gets
us to the heart of the Stoic picture. Chrysippus14
says that divine power resides in reason and in the mind and intel-
lect of universal nature. God is the world itself, and the universal
pervasiveness of its mind; he is the world’s own ruling faculty,15
being located in intellect and reason; he is the common nature of all
things, universal and all-containing,16 and the force of fate and the
necessity of future events. In addition, he is fire; and the aether17 of
which I spoke earlier; also things in a natural state of flux and mo-
bility, like water, earth, air, moon and stars. (3: Cicero, Nature of the
Gods 1.39 / SVF 2:1077 [part] / 54B LS)
Similar views are expressed in DL 7.147 (54A LS), which emphasizes

God’s immortality and nonanthropomorphic nature, but also “that
part which pervades all things, which is called by many descriptions ac-
cording to his powers.” See also DL 7.135 (46B LS): “God, intelligence,
13 See Metaph. VII.3 for a preliminary investigation (CWA 2:1624–25).

14 The third head of the Stoa, after its founder, Zeno of Citium, and his successor Cleanthes. Chrys-
ippus was responsible for important advances in logic, as well as for the development of a strictly de-
terministic account of fate and human action (on which more below). But the details of the develop-
ment of the early Stoa are rendered dark by the paucity of the sources. For general accounts, see
Inwood 2003; and the relevant sections of Algra et al. 1999.
15 Hêgemonikon: the rational soul; but for the Stoics, unlike (in their different ways) both Plato and
Aristotle, there really is only one soul, and it is rational (see the texts collected in 54 LS).
16 Also with the implication of “all-sustaining”: cf. the containing (or sustaining) cause, aition sunek-
tikon, below.
17 Not the Aristotelian fifth celestial element of the same name (the Stoic heavenly bodies are made
of fire: 46D LS), but rather the clear upper air (its original sense): Cicero, Nature of the Gods 1.37.
fate, and Zeus are all one, and many other names are applied to him.” As
Gisela Striker pointed out, the Stoics have a penchant for strikingly
implausible identity-claims. Three things matter here. First is the com-
mitment to pantheism (indeed divine panpsychism): God is literally
everywhere, as the intelligent portion of things (even if many things
exhibit in their own right only a very low degree of this intelligence,
such that they are not, in themselves, independently intelligent). Second,
there is the idea of pervasiveness: God is entirely intermixed with the
grosser material parts of the world (cf. 45B LS). This through-and-through
mixture (di’ holou krasis) amounts to the literal spatial interpenetration
of physical bodies.18 Finally, God is a body, as is everything that really
exists (as opposed to merely subsisting).19 And the definitional charac-
teristic of body is that it is that which is capable of acting and being
acted upon (45A–C LS; cf. Sextus, Outlines of Pyrrhonism [PH] 3.38).
If God is to do anything, he must be corporeal (and the same goes for
individual souls such as yours and mine: 45C–D LS). Finally, there is
the identification of God with fate and necessity, the universal causal
ordering of things, to which, in good Stoic fashion, we will return.
3. The Nature and Analysis of Causation
Sextus remarks (PH 3.2) that “most of them have declared God to be a
most productive cause [drastikôtaton aition]”; and while the reference
is to Dogmatist philosophers in general, it is particularly appropriate
to the Stoics; in a sense, absolutely everything is done by their God, the
18 On Stoic views of mixture, see the texts collected in 48 LS. Alexander reports that Chrysippus
held there to be three types of mixture: mere physical juxtapositions of parts of the two substances;
through-and-through mixtures of substances and their qualities, such that the original substances no
longer survive but a new composition is created “as in the case of drugs”; and through-and-through
mixtures of substances and their qualities where their original identities and properties are retained in
spite of their complete fusion. It is only the latter (a distinctively Stoic concept, one which Galen
found to be of dubious intelligibility: Elements according to Hippocrates, 1:489–91 Kühn) which is
properly to be called “mixture” (krasis): On Mixture 216,14–218,6/SVF 2:473/48C LS. See White
2003, 146–49.
19 For this important distinction, see the texts collected in 27 LS and in note 27 below.
sum-total of the dynamic elements in things, but one which is also

endued with its own individuality as a whole. Even so, the world con-
tains very many other “peculiarly qualified individuals,” paradigmati-
cally individual animals, which are certainly capable of doing things on
their own. Indeed any persistent object, animal, plant, or brick, is held
together, literally, by the breath, or pneuma, which permeates them, in
the through-and-through manner outlined above (Galen, On the Doc-
trines of Hippocrates and Plato, 5:447 Kühn/47H LS), and not like re-
inforcing bars in concrete.20 Pneuma is a dynamical mixture of fire and
air, which is capable of a vibrating “tensile” motion, a constant expan-
sion (which is the specific effect of heat/fire) and contraction (the
effect of cold/air) (Alexander, On Mixture 224, 14–26/47I LS; cf.
47E–J LS).21 At its lowest level (which the Stoics called hexis or ten-
sion), it is simply responsible for the physical cohesion of solid objects;
then, in the form of nature (phusis) it maintains the self-regulating and
replicating nature of plants; finally, in the form of soul (psuchê) it pro-
duces the distinctively animal capacities, up to that of rationality itself
(47C, F–I, M–R LS).
The important thing is that the pneuma, in its most basic form, is
causally responsible for this cohesion, and is so as a result of its own
internal complex dynamism (47Q LS), even if opponents such as Al-
exander complained about the obscurity of the notion (On Mixture
224, 23–26/47I LS).22 In other words, it is a dynamic cause which is
constantly doing something, even if the end result is apparent stasis,
since if it weren’t operative, things would literally fall apart. They de-
scribed this cause as an aition sunektikon (or sunechon), a containing
20 Pneuma is (appropriately enough) a pervasive, if vague and malleable, concept in earlier Greek
physics and physiology; it plays a (literally) vital role in Aristotle’s embryology and general physi-
ology, as well as figuring prominently in Hippocratic medical writings. But there was no orthodoxy as
to what it actually was or did.
21 The generality of these causal principles for the Stoics is attested by the fact that they are put di-
rectly to work in their psychology: thus for example anger consists in a swelling within the soul, fear a
shrinking (Andronicus On Passions I/65B LS); and these physical phenomena are identical with (mis-
taken or exaggerated) judgments (cf. 65A–D, G LS).
22 For a more positive assessment, see Sambursky 1959, 22–40.
(or sustaining) cause.23 Galen objects that it is bizarre to make some-

thing as allegedly volatile and rarified as pneuma responsible for solidity
and resistance; and he alleges that the Stoic view invites an infinite
regress: if all bodies require an external cause for their cohesion, then
this will apply to the allegedly cohesive pneuma (and its constituents)
itself; then if strict materialism is true, what holds the pneuma together
will also be a body; and so on (On Containing Causes 6.1–7.3; cf. 1.1–
2.4/55F LS; and 47J LS). In Galen’s view, causes are required (in gen-
eral) only for generation and alteration, not for simple being itself.
Elsewhere Galen does allow that there are “preservative causes,” but
these are needed only when the status quo is itself naturally prone to
decay. The Stoics would have agreed, but they held that the passive ele-
ments are intrinsically so prone, whereas Galen thinks of them as nat-
urally persistent (albeit capable of being altered by force).24
No real regress threatens, since they explicitly hold pneuma to be
self-cohesive (Plutarch, On Common Conceptions 1085c-d/47G LS),
although the other objections no doubt carry some weight. The inward
movement (that of cold) causes unification, while the expansive, hot
movement produces “quantities and qualities” (Nemesius 70, 6–71,
4/47J LS). Thus the hot element is responsible for the “peculiar quali-
fication” that makes the thing what it is throughout its persistence,
as well as for its other more or less temporary dispositional states, its
being “somehow disposed” (pôs echon: 29A–F LS).25 But the Stoics
never shrink from the consequences of their materialism; even a dispo-
sitional state of the soul, such as virtue, or a particular virtue such as
prudence, is simply a suitable aggregation and arrangement of pneuma
(29A–C, E LS; cf. 28L LS; and see Seneca, Letters 117.2/60S LS).
23 The translation is a vexed issue. Long and Sedley prefer ‘sustaining’ which certainly has the virtue
of better rendering this original meaning; but it is less well adapted to later developments, as we shall
see. With misgivings, I retain the more usual (although semantically unhelpful) ‘containing’, by way
of the Latin ‘continens’.
24 For Galen’s physics, see Hankinson 2008; for his causal theory, see Hankinson 1994 and
Hankinson 2003.
25 On the Stoic “categories,” see Brunschwig 2003, 227–32; Sedley 1999, esp. 406–10.
The fifth-century doxographer Stobaeus summarizes Stoic causal

theory as follows:
(i) Zeno says that a cause is “that because of which [di ’ ho]” while that
of which it is a cause is an attribute; and that the cause is a body, while
that of which it is a cause is a predicate. (ii) He says that it is impos-
sible that the cause be present yet that of which it is the cause not
belong. (iii) This thesis has the following force. A cause is that be-
cause of which something occurs, as, for example, it is because of pru-
dence that being prudent occurs, because of soul that being alive
occurs . . . (iv) Chrysippus says that a cause is that because of which;
and that the cause is an existent or a body . . . (v) He says that an expla-
nation [aitia] is the statement of a cause, or the statement of a cause
qua cause. (4: Stobaeus I 138.14-139.4/SVF 1:89, 2:336/55A LS)
4 (i) recalls Plato’s Cratylus (413a): an aition is that because of which

something comes to be. But in what sense of because’?26 In Phaedo
(99a–c) Socrates ridicules the idea of mere physical causes, and holds
that goals and intentions are of far greater explanatory value. The
Stoics insisted that even these intentions must be physical, bodily
states, since if they weren’t they could have no causal efficacy. But while
Stoic causal theory is thoroughly materialistic, and applies to all (and
only) physical bodies, among the most important explananda are
human deliberate actions. Causes, then, are bodies; but they are the
causes not of bodies as such, but of their attributes, or even of predi-
cates, lekta.27 Moreover, on Zeno’s view, causes are sufficient for their
26 Sometimes Plato reserves the ‘because of which’ formula for efficient causes, anticipating Aristotle
in reserving ‘for the sake of which’ for ends or intentions: Lysis 219a–d (Plato 1961, 163); a division of
linguistic labor which itself anticipates the Stoics.
27 Stoic lekta fall into their category of incorporeal “somethings” (along with place, time, and void),
which do not exist as such, but rather subsist: 27A–G LS. Thus they cannot do anything; even so, they
play a role in the explanation of action. Both the translation and the precise interpretation of the term
are controversial. I adopt the cowardly route of simple transliteration; the sense ranges over proposi-
tions, predicates (“incomplete lekta”: 33F, G LS), and propositional contents; they “subsist in accord-
ance with thought” (33B LS) or “with rational impressions” (33C, F LS), and are intermediate between
thoughts and what they are thoughts of (33M LS). Even actions, what bodies do, can be described as
effects (4 (ii))—if the cause is instantiated, the effect cannot fail to be.
This is not yet determinism, although it is a necessary component of it.
The example in 4 (iii) is also significant, for all its apparent Molière-
esque triviality. For the Stoics, virtues are bodies (or more precisely
bodies disposed in a certain way: 29A, B, F; 60G LS); if they weren’t
they couldn’t cause anything. So to be in a state of virtue is to have your
psyche arranged in a certain way such as to produce, in the appropriate
circumstances, the appropriate actions.28 Finally, in 4 (v) Chrysippus is
said to have distinguished between an aitia, a causal account or expla-
nation, and the cause itself, the aition.29 This is a useful distinction, and
may well underlie the apparent indifference with which the Stoics
seem to switch between categorizing effects as attributes and as predi-
cates, lekta. This doctrine of 4 (i) receives the following elucidation
(and expansion) in Sextus:
The Stoics say that every cause is a body which becomes the cause to
a body of something incorporeal. For instance, the scalpel, a body,
becomes the cause to the flesh, a body, of the incorporeal predicate
“being cut.” And again, the fire, a body, becomes the cause to the
wood, a body, of the incorporeal predicate ‘being burnt’. (5: Sextus,
Against the Professors [M] 9.211/SVF 2:341/55B LS)
The following text develops the point:
Becoming and being cut (that of which the cause is a cause), being
activities, are incorporeal. . . . Causes are causes of predicates, or as
lekta (33E, J LS). Meanings are crucial when the impression is mediated by language: an utterance is
simply the moving of a body, the intervening air, which directly impinges on the auditory sense; but
speech is only significant if we understand its content, its lekta, and can thus respond to them: “the
ruling faculty is impressed in relation to them and not by them” (27E LS; note the prepositional formu-
lae; see 7, 8, 17, 21, and note 31 below). Thus characterized, meanings are attributes of bodies, but only
for those who learned the language (which in itself consists in having the ruling part of the soul organ-
ized in a certain way): 33A–B LSS.
28 I shall not discuss the Stoics’ thesis of the unity of the virtues, about which in any case they differed
among themselves: however, see further 29B, E LS; and text 8 (ii) below; and see Schofield 1984.
29 Elsewhere these terms are almost invariably interchangeable.
some say of lekta. . . . Or else, and preferably, that some are the cause
of predicates (e.g., of “is cut,” whose “case’30 is “ ‘being cut’), others of
propositions (e.g., of “ ‘a ship is built’), whose case is “ ‘a ship’s being
built’. (6: Clement, Miscellanies 8.9.26.3–4/55C LS)
Causes are not causes of bodies (even when, as in the case of the ship,
they are causes of something’s coming to be); rather they are causes to
bodies of certain attributes coming to hold of them; in the case of the
ship, the matter in question is the timber. Seneca generalizes:
There are two things . . . from which everything is produced. Matter

lies inert, ready for anything but destined to lie idle if nothing moves
it. Cause on the other hand, being identical with reason, shapes
matter and directs it wherever it wants, and from matter produces
its manifold creations. Hence a thing must be made from something
and by something; the latter is its cause, and the former is its matter.
(7: Seneca, Letters 65.2/55E LS)
Seneca is thinking of the cosmic cause, or God; but as this incorpo-

rates every particular cause, the point is generalizable to all causation.
7 glances toward the ubiquitous ancient material principle that noth-
ing can come to be from nothing; but it also suggests a further refine-
ment consistent with the earlier discussion: matter properly so called
consists of the grosser elements water and earth: they are what gets
shaped. What does the shaping (and also accounts for the nature of
the shape and for its persistence) is the pneuma, both that of the
external agent in virtue of which it is an agent, and the internal co-
hesive pneuma of the matter so affected. Thus “the Stoics call all
causes corporeal: for they are portions of pneuma” (Aëtius 1.11.5/SVF
2:340/55G LS).
30 I.e., grammatical form: see 33K, L, O LS.

Causes, then, are not actually the causes of linguistic items (lekta),
but of attributes that can be expressed as such. 5 suggests the following
general formulation:
(F1) a is a cause to b of F.
That may be more precisely glossed as
(F2) a is a cause to b of b’s being F.
But 7 and the brief subsequent discussion suggest a further modification:
(F3) a’s being G is a cause to b of b’s being F.
Such a formula is nowhere explicitly attributed to the Stoics.31 It is,

however, suggested by an obvious expansion of the examples of 5 and
6: it is the heat of the fire that causes the burning, the sharpness of the
scalpel that causes the cutting. Still, the Stoics have good reasons for
settling on the agent (rather than some specific attribute or disposition
of it) as the proper referent of the term ‘cause’: to be a cause in this
sense is to be responsible, and not merely causally, for what ensues; and
only agents can be that.
Another text expands on the “metaphysic of prepositions”:32
(i) Causes are not causes of each other, but they are causes to each
other. For the preexisting condition of the spleen is the cause, not of
the fever, but of the fever’s coming about; and the preexisting fever
is the cause, not of the spleen, but of its condition’s being intensified.
31 But see Sextus, PH 3.14: Dogmatists disagree about whether objects or their properties (the sun or
the sun’s heat) are causes, and about whether effects should be characterized as noun phrases (’the
melting of the wax’) or predicates (‘that the wax is melted’: cf. 6); see 8 (i) below; Barnes 1983a,
170–75, and Hankinson 1998a, 277–78.
32 The felicitous phrase is John Dillon’s (Dillon 1977, 138); see also Hankinson 1998a 337–79, and
note 29 above.
(ii) Similarly, virtues are causes to each other of not being separated,
owing to their inter-entailment, and the stones in the vault are
causes to each other of the predicate ‘remaining’, but they are not
causes of each other. . . . (iii) Things are . . . causes to each other some-
times of the same effects, as the merchant and the retailer are causes
to each other of making a profit; but sometimes of different effects,
as in the case of the knife and the flesh; for the knife is the cause to
the flesh of being cut, while the flesh is the cause to the knife of cut-
ting. (8: Clement, Miscellanies 8.9.30.1-3/SVF 2:349/55D LS)
8 (i) seems to rule out the possibility of a causal chain; but, as b

(ii) makes clear, the spleen’s condition causes the fever (or perhaps
rather the body to become feverish); and the fever (or the fevered
body) causes the spleen’s condition to worsen (see note 31 above). 8
is primarily concerned with varieties of reciprocal causation; but it
can be generalized to cover cases of causal sequentiality.33 Indeed,
“the Stoics describe fate as a sequence of causes, that is an ines-
capable ordering and connexion” (Aëtius 1.28.4/55J LS; cf. 55K, L,
N LS), which will become important later on. 8 (iii) allows that
there can be passive as well as active causes (or causal factors), which
seems to conflict with idea that causation is fundamentally a matter
of acting; as Sextus says, “in general it seems that in their [i.e., the
Dogmatists] view, a cause is that because of whose activity (di’ ho
energoun) an effect comes about” (PH 3.14); and while Sextus does
not specifically name the Stoics here, he certainly includes them.
Indeed Aenesidemus, the inaugurator of the Pyrrhonist revival of
the first century bc, made this distinction the basis of a skeptical
argument:
If some cause exists, either it is the complete cause of something,

using nothing but its own power, or it needs the matter affected as
33 Whether the ubiquitous metaphor of the chain is felicitous is another matter: see Hankinson 1996.
an auxiliary means to this, so that the effect must be thought of in

relation to the conjunction of both. And if its nature is to be a com-
plete agent by use of its own power, it should . . . produce the effect at
all times, and not in some cases but not in others. But if . . . it is not
absolute and independent, but relative . . . an even worse conse-
quence will follow. For if what acts and is affected are conceived in
conjunction with one another . . . the productive power will no more
in reside it than in the thing affected, since just as it cannot act
without the thing affected, so too the affected thing cannot be af-
fected without it. It follows that the power which produces the
effect no more exists objectively in it than in the thing affected. (9:
Sextus, M 9.237–40/72N LS)
That argument is more ingenious than effective. Aristotle had already

insisted that when a suitable agent and a suitable patient come into
contact, the requisite effect cannot fail to occur (Generation of Animals
2.4, 740b13–25); and similar points are made by numerous other theo-
rists, notably Galen. It becomes a central feature of Galen’s conception
of an antecedent cause, which itself has Stoic antecedents. The distinc-
tion between active and passive powers is a perfectly respectable,
indeed intuitive one. Fire burns; but not everything (not wood at the
bottom of the sea, for example).34 The suitability of the affected mate-
rial to be so affected is a critical component in any successful causal
interaction, but pace Aenesidemus, that does not threaten the coher-
ence of causal explanation. Even if one doubts the propriety of saying,
with 8 (iii), that the flesh causes the knife to cut, it is surely one of its
causal properties that it can be so cut.35
34 The Stoics use this sort of example in the course of developing their modal theory: wood is inflam-
mable (i.e., has the capacity to be burned) even when it is submerged, but of course it can’t be burned
while it is submerged: 38B LS). On Stoic modality, see Frede, 1974, 107–17; Bobzien 1986,
Bobzien 1996, Bobzien 1998, Bobzien 1999, and Bobzien 2003, 99–101.
35 See Hankinson 1998a, 277–85.
4. The Typology of Causes
Let us now turn to the issue of the relations between types of cause.
The issue is complicated by the fact that it is not always easy to deter-
mine whether the distinctions that one finds made in later writers
actually mirror those made by the Stoics themselves, or are rather de-
velopments out of them:
We were talking of the containing cause not in the strict sense but
loosely. For no-one prior to the Stoics spoke of . . . the containing
cause in the strict sense. And what have even before our time been
spoken of as containing have been causes of something’s coming to
be rather than of its being. (10: Galen, Synopsis on Pulses, 11:458
Kühn/SVF 2:356/55H LS; cf. Against Julian, 18-1:279–80 Kühn)
So Galen at least thinks that using the term to cover causes of things
occurring (rather than merely persisting) is an extension of the original
Stoic usage. This is probably right, but it does not mean that the exten-
sion was not itself a Stoic one, or one at least adopted by the Stoics.
Sextus, writing a generation or so after Galen, takes the usage as estab-
lished among the Dogmatists, and gives as an example of a containing
cause the noose, the tightening of which increases the effect, namely
strangulation (PH 3.15). Here the aition sunektikon is evidently an active
cause of an event or process, moreover one strongly functionally cor-
related and cotemporal with its effect: any increase (or decrease) in its
intensity is immediately followed by a corresponding alteration in
the intensity of the effect. This usage is mirrored in Galen, who de-
scribes the tightening of the choroid membrane as the aition sunek-
tikon of the dilation of the pupil (Differences of Symptoms, 7:93 Kühn).36
Galen talks of two other categories, aitia proêgoumena (preceding causes)
36 Pseudo-Galen Medical Definitions (19:393 Kühn) recalls Sextus: an aition sunektikon is one such
that “when increased the effect is increased, when diminished the effect is diminished” (cf. PH 3.15).
and aitia prokatarktika (antecedent causes).37 This threefold distinc-

tion he ascribes to the Pneumatist doctor Athenaeus of Attaleia, a
pupil of the Stoic Posidonius:
First there are containing causes, second preceding causes, and third
antecedent causes. They call the latter everything that exists outside
the body and harms it, bringing on illness, while those that work
within the body are called preceding causes, and the alterations of
the innate pneuma that are brought about by them and even by ex-
ternals such as the moistening, drying, cooling and heating of the
body he calls containing causes of diseases, since this pneuma per-
meates throughout the uniform parts, and alters them as it alters
itself. But frequently they say that containing causes are produced
directly by antecedent causes. For example, when one is thoroughly
heated by the sun, they say that our innate pneuma is of necessity
made warmer. (11: Galen, Containing Causes 2.2-3/55F LS [part])
The particular pathological theory (which in any case Galen does not
endorse) does not matter: what does are the relations between the
three types of cause. Discussing the nature and function of the pulse,
Galen writes:
Things that are external to a body and alter it in some way are called
antecedent causes, because they precede the dispositions (diatheseis)
of the body. Whenever these dispositions condition containing
causes, they are their preceding causes. For instance, external cold
brings about constriction of the skin, and as a result of that con-
striction normal exhalations are checked, which, being checked,
form a mass, causing a fever to take hold, which alters the function
of the pulse, which in turn changes the pulse itself. In this case the
37 There is no orthodoxy of translation: Long and Sedley use ‘antecedent’ for the former and ‘prelim-
inary’ for the latter.
antecedent cause is the external cold, while all the rest up to the al-
teration of the function of the pulse are preceding causes; and
through the mediation of the preceding causes, the antecedent cause
alters the function of the pulse, which is one of the containing
causes, and this in turn brings about a change in the pulses them-
selves, since it is not possible to bring about a change in some con-
taining cause and for what is brought to completion by it to remain
unchanged. But unless an alteration is effected in one of the con-
taining causes, it is impossible to bring about a change in the pulses.
For this reason these are the most important and most particular
and primary causes of the pulses, and all the others are causes because
of them. (12: Galen, Causes of Pulses, 9:2–3 Kühn)
The preceding causes, then, are the internal processes that in turn con-
dition the containing causes, producing alterations in them that then
directly affect the pulse itself; and those internal processes are them-
selves set in train by an external, antecedent cause. Antecedent causes
are, Galen insists elsewhere, not in themselves sufficient for their ef-
fects, but are so only in conjunction with a suitably affectable body,
and different bodies, in virtue of their different dispositions, are differ-
ently affectable. Thus, of a thousand people all exposed to the same hot
sunshine at the theater, only four may develop elevated temperatures,
and of those only one a full-blown fever—but that does not mean that
in those cases the heat was not the cause38 (compare 9 above).
All of this derives from a later, medical, tradition. How much is
Stoic? That is a difficult question. Here is Sextus’s account:
The majority of them [i.e., the Dogmatists] hold that of causes some
are containing [sunektika], some co-operative [sunaitia], and some
auxiliary [sunerga]. Causes are containing if, when they are present
the effect is present, when they are removed the effect is removed,
38 The case is discussed in Galen’s On Antecedent Causes; see Hankinson 1987 and Hankinson 1998b.
and when they are decreased the effect is decreased (thus they say
that the application of the noose is the cause of the strangling). A
co-operative cause is one that contributes a force equal to that of its
fellow cause to the occurrence of the effect (thus they say that each
of the oxen drawing the plough is a co-operative cause of the draw-
ing of the plough). An auxiliary cause is one that contributes a slight
force to the easy production of the effect, as for instance when two
men are lifting a heavy weight with difficulty, a third will lighten it.
(13: Sextus, PH 3 15)
Although different, indeed inconsistent, accounts of these relations are

given, the basic ideas seem simple enough. Two (or more) sunaitia are
the cooperative causes for an effect when they each contribute equally
to it,39 while a sunergon is characterized as that which intensifies an
outcome that would have come about anyway, but is not its genuine
cause, presumably in that it is neither necessary nor sufficient for it;
and this is supported by the testimony of Clement (Miscellany 8.9.33.1-9/
SVF 2:351/55I LS), who further tells us that when antecedent causes
are suppressed, their effect remains, although this is not true of the
containing cause (cf. 13 above), and that the terms ‘sunektikon’ and
‘autoteles’(perfect) are synonymous, and defined as “self-sufficiently
productive of the effect.” Clement also writes
Of causes, some are antecedent, some containing, some auxiliary,

some prerequisite [hôn ouk aneu]. Antecedent are those causes
which primarily provide the impulse towards the coming to be of
something, as beauty is to those intemperate in love; for when it is
seen by them it conditions the erotic disposition, but not however
39 “Equally” seems excessively restrictive (although generally attested: cf. ps.-Galen Medical Defini-
tions, 19:393 Kühn); the basic idea is that each of the sunaitia contributes something to the effect, even
though none of them could have produced it on their own: and even that is disputed (cf. ps.-Galen,
Introduction, 14:692 Kühn); one text even suggests that a sunergon might bring about an effect on its
own: Medical Definitions, 19:393 Kühn).
in such a way as to necessitate it. (14: Clement, Miscellany 8.9.25/SVF

2:345)
Clement here is probably not reproducing an original Stoic source,

although his account almost certainly, like that of Sextus, has direct
Stoic antecedents. Whether or not prerequisites should be counted
as causes is a vexed question; the term is used by Plato in the Phaedo
to downgrade such conditions as the structure and arrangement of
Socrates’ body in relation to the proper explanation of his remaining
in jail; Galen (On Antecedent Causes vii 76–90) treats prerequisites
as causes only incidentally (they include such items as location and
an empty intervening space between agent and patient, both of
which for the Stoics are incorporeal and hence cannot be causes).40
The antecedent cause plays a directly active role in the outcome, but
it is not sufficient for it. It is sufficient in the circumstances only if the
circumstances include specifications of the aptitude of the patient’s
structure to be affected by it (the erotic example in 12 may have a
Chrysippean origin; he certainly pointed to the differences in men’s
dispositions as accounting for their differential reactions to similar
stimuli).
5. Causation, Fate, and Determinism
Chrysippus used the concept of antecedent causation so characterized

in developing his idea of fate; which in turn relates to the Stoic notion
of universal causal determinism, and to their distinctive account of
human agency and responsibility. He defined fate as “an everlasting
ordering of the whole” (Gellius 7.2.3/SVF 2:1000[part]= 55K LS; cf.
55J LS). This ordering is explicitly deterministic:
40 See Hankinson 1998b. Cicero (Topics 58–59) distinguishes active and inactive prerequisites, the
former including antecedent causes, the latter “place, time, material, tools, etc.”; and cf. Seneca, Letters
65.11.
Fate . . . is an ordering and sequence of causes, since it is the con-

nection of cause to cause which out of itself produces any-
thing. . . . Consequently nothing has happened which was not
going to be, and likewise nothing is going to be of which nature
does not contain causes working to bring that thing about. This
makes it intelligible that fate is not the fate of superstition, but
that of physics, an everlasting cause of things, why past things
happened, why present things are now happening and why future
things will be. (15: Cicero, On Divination 1,125-26/SVF 2:921/
55L LS)
Striking is the rejection of the “fate of superstition” in favor of that of

physics, which is equivalent to determinism: fate just is the ineluctable
causal working out of events, rather than the “superstitious” view, that
no matter what you do, certain outcomes are predestined for you (call
that “fatalism”). This seems incompatible with a well-known image as-
cribed to both Zeno and Chrysippus:
They said that everything is fated, using the following model. When
a dog is tied to a cart, if it wants to follow it is pulled and follows,
making its spontaneous act coincide with necessity. But if it does
not want to follow it will be compelled to anyway. So it is with men;
even if they do not want to, they will be compelled anyway to follow
what is destined. (16: Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies 1.21/SVF
2:975/62A LS)
That looks a lot like fatalism: no matter what you do, the same result
will happen anyway; and it also makes it seem that human volitions are
impotent, albeit “spontaneous.” The best we can do is to acquiesce. The
Stoics certainly do see a virtue (indeed Virtue) in acquiescence with
the order of things: an oft-quoted slogan is that the goal is “living in
agreement with nature” (63A–C, 64A LS); and the good Stoic will
only desire an outcome which is in fact actually going to happen (58J
LS).41 However this does not entail that human decisions have no
power to affect that order. Indeed, they are an intrinsic part of it. The
Stoics were well aware that any doctrine of fate threatened to introduce
fatalism, and equally that determinism threatened to empty human
action of any real content. We will see in the next section how they
sought to evade those conclusions. For now, we need to analyze the
Stoic concept of determinism a little more thoroughly. A passage of
Alexander is worth quoting at length:
Things that happen first become causes to those which happen after
them.42 In this way all things are bound together, and neither does
anything happen in the world such that something else does not un-
conditionally follow from it and become causally attached to it, nor
can any of the later events be severed from the preceding events so as
not to follow from them. . . . For nothing in the world happens or
exists causelessly,43 for nothing in it is independent of or insulated
from everything that has happened before. For the world would . . . no
longer remain a unity, forever governed by a single ordering and
management, if an uncaused process were introduced. And un-
caused motion would be introduced were anything that exists not to
have preceding causes from which it necessarily follows. For some-
thing to happen causelessly is . . . as impossible as something’s coming
to be from what is not. . . . They list a swarm of causes, antecedent,
co-operative, containing, and others . . . but in spite of this plurality
of cause they say that it is equally true with regard to all of them that
it is impossible, where all the same circumstances obtain with re-
spect to the cause and that to which it is a cause, that a result which
does not ensue on one occasion should ensue on another, since if
41 Which is why a Stoic will typically hedge any expression of desire with an internal “God willing,”
their so-called reservation (hupexairesis); on this, see Stobaeus, 2.155–17/SVF 3:564/65W LS; cf. 58J
LS; Inwood 1985, 165–73; Donini 1999; Brennan 2003, 272–74.
42 Note again the precision of the language: see above, 5, 8, 15.
43 Note “happens or exists”: both events and objects are appropriate relata in causal relations.
this happened there would be an uncaused motion. (17: Alexander,

On Fate 192, 1-25/SVF 2:945/55N LS [part]; cf. 62K LS)
Nothing escapes the net of a universal causal determinism, and this is

true in spite of the differences in causal type the Stoics introduce. If
there were any elasticity in the causal structure of things, the organiza-
tion of the world would collapse and with it providence itself; and
there would be such elasticity if exactly the same circumstances could
produce different results on different occasions. This applies to human
decisions just as it does to everything else. The “spontaneity” of 16,
whatever it is, is not the spontaneity of causal freedom. This is empha-
sized in Cicero’s On Divination (1.127/SVF 2:955/55O LS): whoever
could see the connection of all causes could never be in error, and
would know everything that will occur, in the manner of the Laplacean
determinist, “for things that will be do not spring up spontaneously.”
Such causes must include those involved in human action: “the passage
of time is like the unwinding of a rope, bringing about nothing new
and unrolling each stage in its turn.”44 For all that, the “swarm of causes”
is put to good analytical use. Chrysippus insists that fate is identical
with the sequence of antecedent causes; Plutarch, typically, takes this to
be incoherent:
Anyone who says that Chrysippus did not make fate the complete45
cause of these things [i.e., right and wrong actions], but only their
antecedent cause, will reveal him once more in conflict with him-
self . . . since no state or process is to the least extent other than in
accordance with the rationale [logos]46 of Zeus, which he says is
identical with fate. Moreover, the antecedent cause is weaker than
the complete cause, and is insufficient when dominated by other
44 This recalls some contemporary four-dimensionalisms. I examine the rope metaphor in

Hankinson 1996.
45 Autoteles: see above, 9; see also above, 14.
46 A term frequently used in the Stoics’ characterization of fate: cf. 55M, N LS.
countervailing causes, yet he himself declares fate an invincible, un-

blockable, and inflexible cause. (18: Plutarch, Stoic Self-contradictions
1056b-c/SVF 2:977 [part]/55R LS)
Once again this criticism seems pointed. Fate is all-embracing and ine-
luctable; how then is it to be identified with the avowedly insufficient
antecedent causes? Another testimony from Cicero is relevant. After
distinguishing two early views, one holding that everything is necessi-
tated, including acts of assent,47 the other allowing for free “voluntary
motions of the mind,” Cicero describes Chrysippus as seeking a middle
way between them, although he too accuses Chrysippus of trying in-
consistently to have it both ways. The libertarians, he says,
argued as follows (i): “if all things come about through fate, all things
come about through an antecedent cause;48 and if impulses do this,
then so do things consequent upon impulse; therefore so do acts of
assent.49 But if the cause of impulse is not located in us, neither is
assent itself in our power. . . . Therefore actions are not in our power.
The result is that neither commendations nor reproofs nor honors nor
punishments are just.” Since this argument is unsound,50 they think it a
plausible inference that not all events come about through fate. (ii) But
Chrysippus, disapproving of necessity, but also wanting nothing to
happen without antecedent causes, distinguishes between kinds of
cause in order to escape necessity while retaining fate. “Of causes,” he
47 Cicero ascribes this view to “Democritus, Heraclitus, Empedocles and Aristotle,” somewhat ten-
dentiously.
48 Here the term is probably not intended in its technical sense.
49 The terminology of impulse and assent is Stoic: animal impulses (hormai) are directly condi-
tioned by impressions (phantasiai); but in human rational action, an act of assent (sunkatathesis) to
the motivational content of the impression intervenes (40O, 41A, 53O–Q). See further Inwood 1985
and Bobzien 1998.
50 Because it has a false conclusion; the argument was also propounded for skptical purposes by
Carneades: 70G LS. The Stoics run a negative version: fate exists; but it is not inconsistent with moral
ascription, and hence with praise, blame, honor and punishment: Alexander, On Fate 207, 5–21/SVF
2:1003/62J LS.
explains, “some are complete and primary, while others are auxiliary
and proximate. Hence when we say that all things come about through
fate by antecedent causes, we do not mean this to be understood as ‘by
complete and primary causes,’ but ‘by auxiliary and proximate causes.’ ”
(iii) He counters the argument expounded just now as follows: “if all
things come about through fate, it does follow that all things come
about by prior causes; but not by primary and complete causes, but by
auxiliary and proximate causes. If the latter are not in our power, it
does not follow that impulse is not in our power. . . .” (iv) Thus against
those who introduce fate in such a way as to import necessity, the ear-
lier argument will be sound; but it will not be against those who do
not treat the antecedent causes as complete or primary. (19: Cicero,
On Fate 40-1/SVF 2:974 [part]/62C LS [part])
The outlines of Chrysippus’s response to the claim that fate entails hard
determinism are clear enough. But how is it supposed to work in prac-
tice? Plutarch’s objection still seems pertinent. The Stoics distinguished
between something’s being necessary and its being necessitated. To be
necessary is to be unavoidable under any conceivable circumstances;
thus humans are necessarily animals. But all sorts of things may be ne-
cessitated without being necessary in this sense—it is not entailed by
my human status that I am concupiscent or a hopeless reprobate—but
it may for all that be causally determined (necessitated) that I am.51 But
how can this distinction, even if it can be defended, rescue human
agency and responsibility? We now turn to the account of agency itself.
6. Action and Responsibility
First a note about Chrysippus’s terminology in 19, as reported by

Cicero. The issue is in many ways puzzling.52 The crucial question
51 Chrysippius explicitly identifies what is fated with what is necessitated: Theodoretus 6.14/SVF
2:916; cf. Stobaeus 1.78. 4; Iustinus, Apol. 7/SVF 2:926); see Hankinson 1999b, 526–28.
52 For more detailed treatment, see Hankinson 1996, Hankinson 1999a, and Frede, 2003.
concerns the pairs of terms of 19 (ii), “perfect and primary” and “aux-
iliary and proximate”: do they name distinct causal types, or are they
equivalent? Certainly the Stoic predilection for making causal dis-
tinctions tells in favor of the former option, as does some of the ter-
minology (Cicero is writing in Latin, inventing Latin equivalences
for the Greek originals). “Perfect” clearly renders “autoteles,” a term
securely attributable to Chrysippus (18 above); and “auxiliary” natu-
rally corresponds to “sunergon.” The others are more problematic,
however. “Proximate” here must, I think, be equivalent to “pro-
katarktikon” (although there are difficulties with this: see my 1999a,
487–90); and if that is right, given that sunergon and prokatarktikon
are clearly distinct (pace Frede, 1980, 240–41), that strongly favors an
equivalent distinction in the first pair. But what, then, is the “pri-
mary cause”? Here I simply state my view that most likely it translates
“proêgoumenon, and that Chrysippus intends to signal a distinction
between types of cause here, albeit not precisely that of the medical
schools (above, 11-12).
So let us return to Chrysippus:
He thinks that he can easily explain how assent comes about by

prior causes; for although assent cannot occur unless prompted
by an impression, . . . it has that impression as its proximate rather
than primary cause. . . . Assent cannot occur without the stimulus
of some external force, since it must be prompted by an impression.
He resorts to his cylinder and spinning top. These cannot begin to
move without a push; but . . . thereafter it is through their own nature
that the cylinder rolls and the top spins. “Hence,” he says “just as the
person who pushed the cylinder give it its origin of motion, but
not its capacity for rolling, likewise, although the impression will
print . . . its appearance on the mind, assent will be in our power . . . ,
although prompted externally will thereafter move through its own
force and nature.”(20: Cicero, On Fate 41-42/SVF 2:974 [part]/62C
LS [part])
Thus the impression is the antecedent cause of the assent (and hence
the impulse); but it does not determine it. The cylinder is also attested
in Gellius (7.2.6–13/SVF 2:1000/62D LS), where Chrysippus points
out that individuals’ preferences and dispositions also play a crucial
role in whether an impression cashes out in action (compare the erotic
example of 14). The cylinder will not start rolling unless something
pushes it, but it continues to roll because of its own internal structure.
It is not simply that the cylinder wouldn’t roll unless it were round;
rather its roundness causes it to roll, and to keep on rolling, “through
its own force and nature”; it is that, rather than the initial impulse,
which is the primary explanation of its actually rolling, in the same way
as it is my greediness which is the real cause of my taking the last piece
of pie (or my prudence which is the cause of my not doing: cf. 4 (iii)).
In talking of “perfect” and “primary” causes in this context, Chrysip-
pus may well intend to distinguish between the persistent internal con-
dition in virtue of which the cylinder is primed to roll, and its actually
rolling as a result of a suitable stimulus.53 These features are also distin-
guishable in the case of human action:
They deny that man has the freedom to choose between opposite
actions, and say that it is what comes about through us that is in our
power. For, they say, of the things which exist and come to be, differ-
ent ones have different natures . . . and what each does accords with
its own nature, what a stone does accords with a stone’s nature . . . and
what an animal does accords with its nature. . . . Thus none of the
things that each of them does in accordance with its own nature can
be otherwise: everything they do, they do of necessity. But by “ ‘ne-
cessity’ here they mean not that due to compulsion, but that due to
the incapability of something of such a nature, given such circum-
stances, which are at the time incapable of not obtaining, to move
differently from how it does. For the stone, if released from a height
53 See Hankinson 1999a.

and not prevented, cannot fail to fall. Since it has weight, and weight
is the natural cause of this kind of motion, whenever the external
causes which encourage the stone’s natural motion are also present,
the stone moves with its natural motion . . . such a movement is
brought about by fate through the stone. Animals too have a certain
natural motion, namely motion in accordance with impulse . . . a
motion brought about by fate through the animal. These are “up to”54
the animals. (21: Alexander, On Fate 181,13–182,13/SVF 2:979/62G LS)
These latter motions are “up to” the animals, while the stone’s down-
ward motion is not, because animals are, in the appropriate sense, self-
movers, although it is rather harder to say just what this appropriate
sense amounts to if they are not sources of spontaneous motion.55
Certainly in the case of human action, the Stoics think that the greater
complexity introduced into the picture by the mechanisms of delib-
eration and assent is crucial. Even so, they render the outcome no less
determined, and in that sense outside the control of the agent to
affect. The first sentence of 21 roundly rejects the “Principle of Alter-
native Possibilities”; any relaxation of it would introduce uncaused
events (17; 62H LS); and other texts suggest that the sense in which
different courses of action are open to the rational agent just is that
in which nothing in the external circumstances is such as to restrict
those possibilities: the agent has the opportunity both to F and not
to F; but given his make up as it actually is, there can be only one
outcome.56
That position is coherent; whether it can rescue a strong account of
responsibility as the Stoics insist it can (cf. 62I-J LS/SVF 2:1002–03) is
54 Eph’ hêmin: the language is Aristotelian (Nic.Eth. III.1–5/CWA 2:1752–60), and was used by
Aristotle to indicate what was (genuinely) ascribable to the agent.
55 The concept is a difficult one: see the essays in Gill and Lennox 1995.
56 What I have elsewhere termed “species possibility” (Hankinson 1999b, 528) is also relevant, and
owes something to the influence of Aristotle (On Interpretation 9/CWA 1:28–30); this is the sense in
which wood is inflammable on the seabed: it is the sort of thing that ceteris paribus can be burned: see
note 34 above.
another matter.57 It also shows how misleading the implication of fa-

talism of 16 is, at least for Chrysippus’s developed view.58 He rebuts the
so-called lazy argument (since certain things are fated to occur, there is
no point in our trying to do anything): they are fated to occur, if they
are, through our agency. Thus it is fated that Oedipus kill his father,—
not of course if his father takes a vow of celibacy,—but Laius’s siring of
Oedipus on Jocasta is equally fated (Cicero, On Fate 28-30/55S LS). If
it is fated that the boxer Hegesarchus will not take a punch, it is not
that he will (or could) do so if he let his guard down; rather he is also
fated to keep up his guard (62F LS/SVF 2:998). Chrysippus describes
such outcomes as “cofated.”
Now we can see how Chrysippus identifies fate with the sequence of
antecedent causes (and why Plutarch’s criticism in 18 is misguided):
these are the occasions of natural processes, including human action.
Given the natures in question, this matrix of antecedent causes can
have only one set of outcomes, since their conjunction will amount to
a perfect cause; but that does not remove from the natures in question
(including human natures, virtuous and vicious alike) the causal re-
sponsibility for what it is they do as the result of such stimuli. Cicero is
again relevant: “there is a difference between whether something is
such that it cannot occur without it, or such that something must nec-
essarily be brought about because of it” (On Fate 36/SVF 2:987); the
former are antecedent causes and prerequisites, the latter complete,
containing causes. Indeed,
“ ‘Cause’ should not be understood to mean that what precedes

something is its cause, but only what precedes it effectively. The
cause of my playing ball was not my going down to the campus, nor
did Hecuba’s giving birth to Alexander make her the cause of the
57 See further Hankinson 1999b. 529–34; Sorabji 1980, 274.

58 One text has him say that “Socrates’ day of dying is fixed no matter what he may or may not do”
(Cicero On Fate 29/55S LS), which does seem to intrude a limited fatalism. It is not clear why Chrys-
ippus might have wanted to say this, if the report is accurate, and it spoils the clean lines of his theory.
death of Trojans. (22: Cicero, On Fate 34; cf. Clement, Miscellany

8.9.27)
How then to interpret the image of 16? As indicating, I think, a type of

progress: the animal at first resists, but then, realizing resistance is
futile, decides to go with the flow59and thus achieves a better life. The
same is true of human moral progress: as we come to form a deeper
understanding of what we can and cannot achieve, we will gradually
cease to strive after the unattainable. That is a process of evolution; it
involves decision-making and rational deliberation, complex processes
in which we are directly involved. But it is, for all that, thoroughly de-
terministic, and wholly determined. We are fated to become what we
become, even if our choices, and the characters which inform them,
even as they evolve as a result of external influences, are our own.
Abbreviations
cwa = Aristotle 1984
kühn = Galen 1964–65; “5:447 Kühn” is page 447 of volume 5
of Kühn
ls = Long and Sedley 1987; “54J LS” is text J in section 54 in
volume 1 of LS; volume 2 of LS prints the original texts
svf= Arnim 1903–1905
59 The image is Stoic: they valued the “smooth flow of life,” which comes from not fighting hopeless
battles against fate: 63A LS/SVF 3:16.
chapter three
Efficient Causation in Late Antiquity

and the Earlier Medieval Era
Ian Wilks
This chapter examines the understanding of efficient causation at work

in Western Europe through the historical era beginning in the heyday
of third-century Platonism and ending in the mid-twelfth century.
This is an extended phase of intellectual history, which incorporates
both late antiquity and the early medieval period, a phase that starts at
a time of massive infusion of Christian into pagan thought, and ends
at a time of accelerating reclamation of ancient source materials—a
massive infusion of pagan back into Christian thought. The Platoni-
cally inspired treatment of efficient causation in late antiquity is marked
not so much by the transformation of the notion as by its limitation,
on which it is understood as narrowly applicable only to the operation of
spiritual beings. The subsequent tradition of Christian speculation is
from the outset under the influence of this approach, but over time
begins to shake itself loose of that limitation. The aim here is to sketch
out some of this history, paying attention to a few notable contributors
83
along the way. Section 1 looks at the earlier tendency to restrict the
scope of efficient causation. Section 2 then examines some of the cir-
cumstances surrounding the reversal of that tendency, through which
efficient causation comes to find application more broadly within the
realm of nature itself.
1. Efficient Causation and the Soul
Plato’s theory of Forms implies a lowly status for individual material

things as dim representations of the higher realities they embody. This
hierarchical scheme sets the standard for discussion of material things
in the subsequent Platonic tradition. In the Enneads of Plotinus (ca.
204–270), we accordingly find the claim that objects of sense are never
substantial in nature, just “affections of substance” (Enneads II.6.1/P
2:181).1 Indeed anything that undergoes generation must fail to be
substantial, and is best approached as qualitative in character, like an
image in a mirror (Enneads III.6.13). Such a thing accordingly warrants
the name “substance” only in an ambiguous sense (Enneads VI.3.2); for
example, the rational form of a human is legitimately conceptualized as
something, but the human body, arising in imitation of this, can at best
be characterized only as something like (Enneads VI.3.15). So what does
this imply for the ability of physical objects to enter into causal rela-
tions with each other, in actions where they are, for example, subject to
being heated, cooled, pushed, weighed down, and so on (Enneads
IV.7.8[1])? The answer is that these effects are not brought about by the
objects themselves in acting thus, but by the “bodiless powers in them”
(Enneads IV.7.8[1]/P 4:365). If powers resided in the body itself, Ploti-
nus argues (Enneads IV.7.8[1]), then they would grow and shrink
proportionately to the size of the body, so that small bodies would
1 All references to primary texts cite generic numbering where possible (in the case of the Enneads,
for example, volume and section number); otherwise the citation will include a page reference to the
critical edition cited in the bibliography. References that additionally involve quotation will cite the
relevant translation by page number (in this case volume 2, page 181, of P).
efficient causation in late antiquity 85
never bear great powers. Of course we know this is not so, and must
conclude that powers reside in forms and souls; powers then express
themselves in the physical objects they underlie.
This outlook is neatly codified by Proclus (ca. 412–485) in Proposi-
tion 80 of his Elements of Theology, where he claims that “every body is
itself naturally such as to be acted upon, and every incorporeal thing
is such as to act, the one being in itself actionless, the other impassive”
(Barnes 1983b, 172).2 The distinction between bodies and incorporeal
things is in this way paired with the distinction between being the sort
of thing that is acted on and being the sort of thing that acts. A body is
by nature something to be acted on, a passive recipient of action. The
incorporeal, by contrast, is a source of action, something that by nature
acts. The last phrase of the above principle (“the one being in itself ac-
tionless, the other impassive”) augments these claims. The corporeal is
not just prone to be acted upon, but is actionless; by nature it is unable
to be the instigator of causal relations. The incorporeal is not only prone
to action but is itself “impassive” and of a nature not to be acted upon
by anything corporeal. And thus we find, stated as a matter of succinct
principle, the point that efficient causation has its sources only in the
incorporeal. The reasoning appealed to for this result focuses on the
indivisibility and noncompositeness of the incorporeal, which make it
immune to the alteration so natural for divisible and composite corpo-
reality.3 This rules out any causal relation extending from corporeal to
incorporeal, and implies that if there is any causal relation between the
two it will go in the opposite direction, from incorporeal to corporeal.
Hence Proclus asserts in the same Proposition that “either nothing will
be active or what is incorporeal will be” (Barnes 1983b, 172).
This doctrine is capable of holding great interest for Christian phi-
losophers. Christian doctrine requires clarity on God’s causal role in
2 I quote from the translation of this passage supplied by Barnes in section 2 of his paper. Translation
of Proclus’s entire Elements of Theology may be found in Proclus 1966.
3 Barnes 1983b, 177, distinguishes between being noncomposite and being indivisible into parts by
ascribing to the former “logical or conceptual simplicity.”
human evil—especially on the point that God is not the cause of the
evils engendered by humans. That view is enshrined in the Augustinian
precept that God is not the cause of the sinful movement of wills away
from himself (Confessions XII.11). Creatures in possession of those
wills must bear responsibility for such movement, and must therefore
be regarded as possessing causal status with respect to it. Christian phi-
losophers readily conform to this precept.4 It is Augustine (354–430)
who lays conceptual foundations for it within this tradition, and in the
process provides an analysis of the causal efficacy of the human soul.
A key text on this is found in Augustine’s City of God V.9-10, where
we find emphatically affirmed the coherence of accepting both that
humans are able to choose freely and that God has foreknowledge of
all events, including human choices. Cicero is the target on this point,
as he refuses to accept that freedom can operate where events are fated
and subject to divination.5 Augustine, of course, considers it possible
to align divine foreknowledge with human freedom, and therefore is at
pains to interpret the principle that “nothing happens unless preceded
by an efficient cause” accordingly (De civitate Dei V.9, 137/A 191). So
how is this alignment possible?
Cicero’s argument, says Augustine, involves a three-part distinction
among efficient causes which separates them into three varieties: the
fortuitous, the natural and the voluntary. One may think that at least
some causes, like the fortuitous, introduce elements of unpredictability
into the world. But Augustine disagrees. To begin with, the three-part
distinction is not even a real distinction because the fortuitous and the
natural are really just varieties of the voluntary. Natural causes simply
represent the voluntary, nature-sustaining activity of God, and fortu-
itous ones represent voluntary activity (whether divine or not) whose
provenance happens to be unknown to human observers. So that
4 This includes John Scotus Eriugena, the figure examined below as representative of Christian
Platonism; for his sensitivity to Augustinian influences on this point, see Periphyseon 944A–B, and
Steele 1994, 254.
5 See Cicero, De fato 10 and 17.
leaves voluntary causes as the only truly efficient ones, appearances per-
haps to the contrary; hence, says Augustine, “the only efficient causes of
events are voluntary causes” (De civitate Dei V.9, 139/A 193). It is intu-
itive to think of the physical world as a predictable order of efficient
causes, in which voluntary causes then arise as extraneous additions,
not fully sourced from within that order itself. But on Augustine’s
view, those voluntary causes, which include human wills, are the only
order of efficient causes there is, and they constitute it in its totality.
Once we leave the habit of thinking that they are extraneous addi-
tions to it, we are better prepared to grasp how they constitute, at least
from the divine perspective, a foreknowable order of causes, and thus
collectively form, in Augustine’s view, an “order of causes, which is, for
God, fixed, and is contained in his foreknowledge” (De civitate Dei
V.9, 139/A 192).
It is not likely that these steps would be regarded by many as a s olution
to the problem of divine foreknowledge, but they do convey well the
perspective from which Augustine surveys these matters. It is clearly a
perspective that descends from the views about efficient causation ex-
pressed by Proclus on behalf of the larger Platonic tradition to which he
adheres; Augustine puts these views into the service of Christian thought
in his treatment of human free will. And on this basis arises a related way
of classifying the sorts of beings involved in relations of efficient causa-
tion. First there is that unique cause which is only a cause and never an
effect (quae facit nec fit)—in other words, God. But there are other causes
that are not only causes but also effects: all created spirits and in particu-
lar all rational spirits (that is, non-animal spirits). The so-called corpo-
real causes, which are acted upon as opposed to active, are not properly
counted among efficient ones at all, since all they can achieve is what is
achieved through them by the wills of spirits (De civitate Dei V.9, 193/A
139). Within this classification, then, we have a cause that is always a
cause and never an effect (God); and at the other extreme we have phys-
ical objects, which can only be effects within this domain, never causes,
because they operate through the intervention of wills—especially, but
not exclusively, God’s. The intermediate status of created spirits between

these two extremes means that they exercise efficient causation in a qual-
ified sense only, since they only do so through some measure of depen-
dency on God. God is necessarily implicated in every event of willing
which finds expression in act because he has conferred upon spirits a
“power of achievement” (De civitate Dei V.9, 138/A 195) through which
that act is realized. Augustine does contemplate as a mere theoretical pos-
sibility the situation where created spirits may exist but not actually pos-
sess this power of achievement. He claims that in such a case they would
still be engaging in acts of will, but would be powerless to realize anything
so willed; wills constituted thus would have no agency in the domain of
efficient causes. Of course this p ossibility is not realized, and created
spirits do have some power of achievement, but because this power not
exercised independently of God, it is fair to say that these wills exercise a
sort of efficient causation that is real by comparison to physical objects,
but incomplete by comparison to God. These wills occupy some sort of
mid-point between the extremes of God and physical objects.6
So in the end the claim that nothing happens without an efficient
cause turns out to pose no hardship for the view that humans exercise
free will. Far from it: the claim helps emphasize the causal efficacy of
the human will in distinction from inanimate things. There are real,
even if only partial, sources of efficient causation that are distinct from
God’s operations, and this is a view informed by doctrine stemming
from the Platonic tradition, and further driven by the demands of a
doctrinally satisfactory Christian account of free will.
2. Efficient Causation in Nature
The restrictive proposition that only souls exercise efficient causation

inevitably gives rise to questions about the sort of causation at work in
6 This position ultimately seems to commit Augustine to a compatibilist position on human freedom—
a position imputed to him, for example, in Rogers 2004.
the natural world itself. What does that world even look like if its causal
properties are so understood? The need to reassert a role for e fficient
causation in natural explanation has clearly emerged as an important
theme in the twelfth century, by which time a tradition of empirical
observation of phenomena has become more rooted in Western scien-
tific thinking. This development represents a significant event in the
history of the notion of efficient causation, and it is best to understand
this development in relief against the prior views from which it flows—a
comparison that takes us back to the Platonic tradition again.
We begin with a dichotomy from Plato’s Timaeus, where, at 46c–e,
the divine agent of creation—the Demiurge—is identified as the actual
cause of the physical world; this actual cause is distinguished from the
sorts of cause that “make things cold or hot, compact or disperse them,
and produce all sorts of similar effects” (Timaeus 46d/Pl 35). These
latter are widely regarded “as the actual causes of things” (Timaeus
46d–e/Pl 35), but from the Platonic perspective this is an error of mis-
taking what is merely secondary and auxiliary for what is primary and
basic. Hence arises the principle articulated by Proclus (Proposition
75) that a cause in the primary sense must actually transcend its effect,
and neither be part of the effect nor have any dependency upon it. As
far as nature is concerned, the truly explanatory cause is the one that
operates upon the physical world, as opposed to operating within it.7 It
is productive of the whole physical world itself, as distinct from what
are grasped as the many and multifarious causes unfolding within it as
phases of its ongoing history.
With such an outlook, it becomes plausible to speak in Plotinian
fashion of natural change dominated by a Soul that pervades nature as
the animating principle of a body. That outlook appeals to “an order
which arranges things together, adapting them and bringing them
into due relation with each other, so that according to every figure of
the universal movement there is a different disposition of the things
7 See Steele 2003, 182 and Steele 2002, 180.

which it governs” (Enneads, IV.4.33/P 4:239). The highly integrated

unfolding of events in nature is compared to the ordered motions of
dance (Enneads, IV.4.33), which unfold according to preset designs of
the dancer and admit no randomness or independent motion of the
limbs. The resulting picture of the physical world is one where change
is dominated by a central agent, and where the causal inputs of that
agent so intertwine efficient and final causation that the notion of the
former is not analytically separable from the notion of the latter.8 Such
a picture is notable for the slightness of the role it ascribes to efficient
causation in its explanations of the natural world; on this approach,
the separate actions of the things in that domain display so high a
degree of finality in their behavior that trying to account for them as
a play of efficient causes within nature will yield a shallow, not a deep,
account of how those actions actually unfold.
That picture—passed down through intervening figures like Pseudo-
Dionysius and Maximus Confessor—forms a starting point for me-
dieval speculations about the natural world. With some adaptation
this Platonic account is readily superimposed on the Christian under-
standing of the relation between the divine and creation. A Christian
Platonist like John Scotus Eriugena (ca. 800–ca. 877)—the most con-
spicuous early medieval specimen of this approach—builds a whole
account of nature around the principle that “of everything which is
naturally in motion the one cause is the beginning and the end, namely
8 This approach is codified in the characteristic third-century Platonist notions of abiding, procession,
and reversion, offered as a means of grasping God’s creative action. For the role of these notions in dis-
cussion of efficient causation see Steele 1987. “Procession” denotes that part of the creative relation
where the cause brings about the effect as a lesser imitation of itself. “Reversion” denotes a parallel but
opposite part of the relation, where the imitation, under the guise of seeking the good, seeks a closer
relation of imitation to its cause. “Abiding” denotes a special feature of this relation: the constancy of
the proceeding cause throughout, and independently of, the process, such that it is not itself subjected
to change even while exerting its influence. On this picture the efficient causation at work in proceeding
is twinned with the final causation involved in reversion, and is credited with a further, distinctive
quality of impassibility in the attribution of abidingness. The abidingness of divine causation implies a
cause unchanged by the production of its effect. Since the divine is the only true efficient cause, this fact
colors the whole third-century Platonist notion of efficient causation; see Gersh 1978 on causation
more generally in this tradition, and Erismann 2002, 190, on Eriugena.
the Cause through which everything which exists is moved and has its
being” (Periphyseon 870C/JSE 535).9
Eriugena begins with the notion of a divine being that is unknowable
in itself, but whose presence is nonetheless evident via the order of cre-
ated beings arising from it. The fundamental causes operative within this
order are the so-called primordial causes, which are variously identified
as “primordial exemplars,” “predestinations,” “predefinitions,” “divine
volitions,” “species” and “forms” (Periphyseon 529A-B/JSE 128–29).10 The
linking idea behind these characterizations is the Christian Platonist
idea of exemplarism, which sees all of physical reality as emanating
from something like Platonic forms or exemplars, but further identifies
these with divine ideas. The whole order of created beings thus arises
in imitation of divine ideas, imitation which itself achieves greater or
lesser degrees of likeness to its source. The degrees of likeness to be
found in the material world are necessarily very limited; materiality
represents a diminished level of being, one far removed from the initi-
ating primordial causes. In fact, material beings derive their existence
from immaterial ones, “from the qualities and quantities of the simple,
invisible, and insensible bodies which are called elements for the reason
that from their concourse the investigators of nature say that all bodies
are composed, and into them are resolved, and in them are preserved”
(Periphyseon 664A/JSE 287). Quantities and qualities that are incor-
poreal in nature are brought together into formless matter; the product
so arising is brought, together with shapes and colors (also incorporeal
in nature), into the physical bodies of the natural world. The i ntelligible,
at the level of the primordial causes, suffices to ground the e xistence of
the corporeal at the level of physical nature; in this way bodies arise
from things that are themselves bodiless (Periphyseon 663A). The asso-
ciation of efficient causation with nonphysical beings is clearly at work
in these pronouncements.
9 This translation is based on Eriugena’s rendering of the passage from Maximus Confessor’s
Ambiguaad Joannem. Maximus Confessor 1988, 147, gives Eriugena’s Latin translation in context.
10 See Carabine 2000, 53–58.
Distinct from primordial causes are what Eriugena refers to as

“temporal causes”; these operate through time to modify physical
substances (Periphyseon 665C-D), and with these we may seem to
have arrived at the sort of efficient causation apparently operative in
our experience of nature. But have we? Well, the division of wisdom
that investigates these causes and effects is physics; but the aim of
physics is actually to uncover the reasons underlying these causes and
effects (Periphyseon 705B). At one point Eriugena does present the
causal landscape of nature as a domain where physics focuses on
something like efficient causes; here a qualitative form, like matter,
is in a state of ongoing change, and “receives increases and decreases
and succumbs to the many and various vicissitudes which come
upon it from without from the quality of places, airs, waters, victuals
and similar chances” (Periphyseon 702A/JSE 332). But it turns out
that physics is not chiefly a project of understanding this sort of sub-
ject matter at all. It is a project of understanding substantial forms
in general, taken as distinct from individuals bearing those forms.
Eriugena distinguishes the lesser way of regarding the world—
training the physical senses on physical masses with their character-
istic quantities and qualities—from the more insightful way of re-
garding “invisible substance and the proper species which subsist
in it” (Periphyseon 711C/JSE 342). He speaks of “seminal force”
(Periphyseon 704D) and “vital motion” (Periphyseon 728B); these
are familiar images of purposiveness, and bespeak a natural world in
which the influences shaping motion are, most deeply u nderstood,
finalistic in nature.11 So nature is not perspicuously understood as
a landscape of material objects entangled in causal relations. It is ul-
timately a landscape of forms. It is final, not efficient, causation to
11 Eriugena’s seminal force seems an echo of Augustine’s seminal reasons (rationes seminales). These
are understood on analogy with physical seeds in their ability to give rise to existing things and drive
forward a very specific, goal-directed sequence of growth and action. The seminal reasons function as
guiding principles to determine exact properties of size and form (De Trinitate III.8, 13). On this point
see also Augustine’s De Genesi ad litteram IX.17.32; Brady 1964; and Markus 1967, 400.
which p erspicuous grasp of the operations of the natural world must

make its appeal.12
This outlook represents a low-water mark for the employment of
efficient causation as a source of insight into the operations of nature.
So how does this picture get transformed to another on which this
notion actually finds employment in that domain? While God’s causal
input into nature is beyond question for medieval thinkers, what is
subject to variation and development is the understanding of how
concurrent and ongoing that input is. At one extreme, his causal inter-
vention is constant and ineliminable, and forms the impetus for every
change. At the other extreme, his causal intervention is limited to the
initial creative act, after which the events of nature are left to unfold
according to causal principles with which they are imbued. How an
account of natural change locates itself between these extremes will
bear directly on the sort of explanatory role it accords the idea of effi-
cient causation in grasping the events of nature. Platonic models range
themselves around the former extreme.13 But Christian speculation
pulls itself away from these models in its treatment of nature, and by
the twelfth century has evolved a view on which it becomes useful to
speak of efficient causation at work in the interactions of inanimate
beings. The interest of this era for a historical understanding of the idea
of efficient causation lies in observing this change in theory as it takes
early and inchoate forms.
Already in the eleventh century, in a text from St. Anselm (ca.
1033–1109), we find an account of the interactions of physical bodies
12 So when Erismann 2002, 193, sets out a general classification of Eriugena’s notions of causation, the
first heading (causa essentialis/causa principialis) incorporates as one both the efficient causation of
God’s creative act and the final causation operative in created beings.
13 These models are sometimes designated under other labels. (i) For example some authors speak of
“vertical causation,” i.e., causation via the beings which are atemporal and immutable (contrasted with
horizontal causation, which is sourced from beings which are material). See Wagner 1982, 56–58, for
the distinction. See also Rosemann 1996, 63–101. In discussing Augustine, Cary 2008, 6–8, speaks of
“downward causation,” and Bourke 1964, 128–29, speaks of “primary” as opposed to “proximate”
causes. (ii) To take another example, some authors apply the notion of “occasionalism” in this context.
See Marenbon 2009, 44–51, for a discussion of “the kalām occasionalist view that God alone acts”
(48) in Islamic thought. See also the discussion of Islamic occasionalism in chapter 4 of this volume.
that does not appear to hesitate over the issue of whether those rela-
tions manifest causal efficacy. To be sure, Anselm operates profoundly
within the tradition of Christian Platonism. His metaphysical bent is,
like Eriugena’s, shaped by the view that things have the key features
that they do—like goodness and even existence—through their imi-
tation of the divine. The goodness of all things has this dependence
on the goodness of God (Monologion 1–2), as does the existence of all
things upon the existence of God (Monologion 3–4). These sorts of
dependency relation, which stipulate how things are created with the
natures they have, and how those natures stand in the scale of inferior
to superior, are at the core of Anselmian metaphysics. But certain
texts in the unfinished “Lambeth Fragments”14 suggest another p icture
too, on which the operation of natural things subsequent to creation
appears to exercise a causation that is sourced within those things
themselves.
One distinction covered in this work is between causes that are
“called efficient causes” (“Fragments” 2, 338/An 23) and those not so
called. Of efficient causes, two examples are given: the craftsman who
makes the products of his work; and wisdom, which makes the person
who possesses it wise. The latter, of course, seems more obviously an
example of formal causation, but that heading does not appear in the
classification. Neither does final causation. Material causation is not
mentioned either, but is represented among examples of other obvi-
ously nonefficient causes: “the matter from which something is made,
and the place and time in which spatial and temporal things occur”
(“Fragments” 2, 338/An 23). So place and time are ranged alongside
matter in one grouping of causes, and formal causes are presented in
the same grouping as efficient ones. The general impression left by this
classificatory exercise is how far short it comes of rendering Aristotle’s
original set of headings, and how much insight into these matters still
needs to be reclaimed in Anselm’s time.
14 Southern and Schmitt describe the status of this text in Anselm 1969, 333–34.
Another distinction separates proximate from remote causes. Proxi-

mate causes operate per se, “with no other cause intervening between
them and the effect” (“Fragments” 2, 339/An 24). Remote causes, by
contrast, operate through at least one intervening or intermediary cause.
As an example Anselm speaks of a case where one man orders another to
set a fire, the man so ordered sets the fire, the fire happens, and b urning
results. The first three entries in the series (the first man, the second man,
fire) all cause the fourth (burning). But only the third, the fire, does so
without intervening cause, and so only it counts as proximate relative to
the fourth. This distinction is reprised for nonefficient causes too; iron
is the cause of the sword, and earth the cause of iron. So earth qualifies
as the remote cause of the sword, and iron as the proximate.
Anselm suggests that the proximate cause is the one which causes in
a more direct sense: “Some causes do through themselves that which
they are said to do, whereas others—because they are remote causes—do
something else which, nonetheless, produces the same effect” (“Frag-
ments” 2, 339/An 24–25). A fire does through itself what it is said to do
when described as causing the burning of something, but not the fireset-
ter, who, when so described, only bears this causal relation to the fire.
The firesetter only causes the burning through causing the fire. Obvi-
ously this distinction in practice is not that important (since the remote
cause ends up producing the same effect as the proximate one anyway).
But the analysis here suggests a telling comparison with the viewpoint
that only spirits exercise efficient causation, a claim which, as noted,
removes this kind of causation from the physical operation of nature.
On that view, it would only be the humans in the sequence who could
aptly be described as efficient causes of burning; the fire would not
count even improperly speaking as being that kind of cause. But here we
identify an efficient cause without working backward through the series
of causes until an ensouled one is encountered; the proximate cause, en-
souled or not, can count in some sense as an efficient cause itself.
We can see in this a change to the perceived utility of efficient causa-
tion as an explanatory tool of natural philosophy. Material things are
now described as exercising causal influence in this fashion (and not

only material things: even nonbeings can exercise some sort of causa-
tion, as when absence of learning in people is the cause of their doing
“evil things” (“Fragments” 2, 340/An 25)). Such receptivity to the idea
of efficient causation in nature is driven by the general theme of the
“Lambeth Fragments,” which is to propose an analysis of what it is for
something to bring about something ( facere aliquid esse). It is a discus-
sion of agency in its most general form, intended to apply very broadly,
and to this end it is useful to formulate a notion of facere that is not
restricted to rational or human agents.15 The way then lies open to a
notion of efficient causation that is not restricted to rational or human
agents. Unfortunately, this text is far from complete, and there is no
way of knowing how these insights might have been integrated into a
developed philosophy of nature. But we can at least discern a hint of
development toward later trends, when efficient causation acquires a
position of centrality in physical explanation among a number of twelfth
century figures.16
Adelard of Bath (b. ca. 1100) counts as a representative member of
this latter group, and his scientific speculations are an important wit-
ness to this development. His Questions on Natural Science ( Quaestio-
nes naturales) address a series of problems about nature, starting with
plant life and moving up the scale of being to celestial bodies. The data
to which he draws attention involve nongenerative causal relations be-
tween particulars, and he is in part proselytizing for the importance of
grasping such relations in the project of natural philosophy.
Adelard (presenting himself as responding to questions posed by his
nephew) appeals on a few occasions to the notion of efficacy (efficatia).
Horses do not need to chew their cud, he says, in part because they
have teeth that are more efficacious (efficatiores); sheep, by contrast,
lack this efficacy in their teeth, and therefore do need to chew their cud
15 Serene 1983, 143–44.

16 This twelfth-century trend is well known; see, for example, Gregory 1973, Courtenay 1984,
Burnett 1988, and Speer 1997.
( Quaestiones naturales 7). Efficacy is a relation between a cause and an

effect—here teeth and chewing, respectively—marking how much of
the effect the cause is able to bring about. “More” and “less,” Adelard
says earlier, can mark not only a difference in quantity but a difference
in efficacy; a cloak can have a greater quantity of greenness than an
emerald, but the greenness of emerald can have at the same time greater
efficacy than the greenness of the cloak ( Quaestiones naturales 2), in
that it may have greater effect on the behavior of onlookers. This
notion is linked elsewhere to causal necessity. When Adelard claims
that it is necessary for there to be thunderbolts when thunder sounds,
his nephew reminds him that sometimes there is thunder without the
ensuing flash. Adelard replies that “when I referred to ‘necessity,’ I did
not mean something applying universally, but I described the efficacy
of the cause of this event” ( Quaestiones naturales 64/AB 207). It is
“rarely or never” the case that thunder fails to produce thunderbolts; it
appears to fail only when the bolts, while struck off, are not “fiery.” The
necessity captured in the notion of efficacy seems to indicate the close-
ness of the relation between the thunder and the bolt, such that the
production of the latter so directly follows upon the former that at
most it can only seem not to follow. This may not be the most cogent
way of explaining physical necessity, but it serves to emphasize the
tightness of the link that must exist between events if there is to be a
genuine causal relation between them.
Of course, what Adelard is struggling to express in these examples is
the core notion of efficient causation, where one thing, by coming into
contact with another, exercises some efficacy upon it and registers a
change. General principles regulating this relation are enunciated in
other places. Anything that undergoes change is changed by someth
ing else ( Quaestiones naturales 60). Anything that changes something
else is itself changed in the process ( Quaestiones naturales 44). These
changes are causally linked in sequence; “the effects of things follow
from the preceding causes by a most subtle chain” ( Quaestiones natu-
rales 23/AB 137). And of course, at the head of the chain is God, the
efficient cause of everything that exists ( Quaestiones naturales 76).

These claims are scattered through the text, and Adelard cannot be said
to have developed them in a systematic way. Nonetheless, the ground is
laid for what could be a pretty systematic treatment of efficient cau-
sation in nature. Significantly, while God is present in this picture,
Adelard advocates placing limits on explanatory appeal to the divine.
One should always in the first instance appeal to natural causes “as far
as human knowledge can go; but in the case where human knowledge
completely fails, the matter should be referred to God” ( Quaestiones
naturales 4/AB 97 and 99). So explanatory reference to the divine
serves as a backup device when there is no obvious path to natural
explanation.
In discussing earthquakes Adelard is asked whether his explanation
will involve “some fabricated qualitative cause.” He answers no: “I call
the cause of this movement not its own quality, but the effect of the
container” ( Quaestiones naturales 50/AB 185)—in other words, the
effect of the air surrounding the earth. The point is not further devel-
oped, but appears to be a rejection of the formal cause as a helpful ex-
planatory device. Later, in discussing the moon’s mutability, we seem
to encounter an admonition against the use of material causes: “In
every process you should look rather at the efficient cause than the ma-
terial” ( Quaestiones naturales 69/AB 211). Adelard has a grasp of other
Aristotelian causes, then, and seems to believe that the key to explana-
tory adequacy is to not muddy the waters by appealing to them.
However, on the matter of avoiding appeal to final causes, Adelard
is, surprisingly, less forthcoming. Most of the explanations offered in
the Quaestiones naturales are unwavering in their recourse to efficient
causes: for example, the account of the death of plants in terms of the
dissolution of elemental parts ( Quaestiones naturales 4); the account
of sensation as “a significant mutation in an animate body caused by
contact with outside objects” ( Quaestiones naturales 13/AB 115); and
the account of joy as a state where “the soul, diffusing the natural heat
through the body, brings it up as far as the brain” ( Quaestiones naturales
32/AB 157). But this explanatory discipline seems to desert Adelard

when it comes time to account for the characteristic actions of the
elements, whereby earth tends to the lowest position among them,
fire the highest, and so on. There is a distinct element of finality in
the explanation that “what is heavy stays best in the lowest position.
Each thing loves what preserves its life. But it tends toward that
which it loves. Therefore it is necessary that every earthy thing tends
toward the lowest of all positions” ( Quaestiones naturales 48/AB
181). Fire, likewise, “flees what it does not love” ( Quaestiones natura-
les 49/AB 183). The four elements are described as being “so woven
together by natural love, since no one of them wishes to exist without
another, no place is, or can be, empty of them” ( Quaestiones naturales
58/AB 193). The interaction of elements is responsible for the varied
phenomena of the natural world, and taken thus far the picture seems
in harmony with Adelard’s explanatory aim. But if that interaction is
itself driven by internal tendencies not themselves the product of ef-
ficient causes, then the resulting body of theory seems at variance
with that aim.
Clearly there is a need to provide some insight into how the ele-
ments move to achieve their respective levels in the order of the uni-
verse, but not at the expense of littering the account with undesired
explanatory devices. This need does not go unnoticed. A slightly later
theorist, William of Conches (1085–ca. 1154), provides in his Drag-
maticon an account of the motion of elements that makes a better at-
tempt at citing nonfinalistic properties. The key explanatory notion
appealed to is heaviness: “All water in its natural state is heavy. It is even
heavier when it is frozen because it is closer to the nature of earth. The
motion proper to heavy things is toward the center. Therefore if there
were frozen waters above the ether, they would by their natural gravity
descend to the bottom” (Dragmaticon III.2.4/WC 39). Like Adelard,
William cites heaviness in explaining why earth and water descend,
but unlike him he does not attempt to get beyond the physical notion
of heaviness by citing a nonphysical notion like elemental love. W illiam’s
explanation may not be more complete, but it is more purged of ele-

ments extraneous to his program. The heaviness of water is increased
when it is frozen, and in general some kind of condensation effect will
yield this result for the lighter elements; fire, for example, turns into air
when condensed (Dragmaticon II.2.4). Rarefaction operates to the
opposite effect, and is able to convert a lower element to a higher one
(Dragmaticon II.6.2). An element under conversion one way or the
other will of course acquire different weight, and therefore tend to a
different position among the elements. And because we can explain
how condensation happens through efficient causes, we can likewise
explain how heaviness sets in, and therefore how earth descends.
A certain language presupposing the operation of final causes in
elemental motion is thereby avoided. Other language, explaining
the efficient causes working there, is supplied. Transformations be-
tween elements involve a number of different sub-processes: an ele-
ment, for example, may retain an amount of another, may digest it, or
may expel it (Dragmaticon II.2.5). With respect to the first of these
functions, William refers both to a “retentive effect” and, lines later, in
a phrase to be taken synonymously, to a “retentive force” (Dragmaticon
II.2.5/WC 24). “Force” (vis) appears to be William’s favored term for
expressing causal efficacy—in other words, his way of denoting re-
spects in which elements exercise efficient causation. As well as speak-
ing of an expulsive force (Dragmaticon II.2.5) among elements, he also
refers to “the attractive force of fire” and the “antagonism of forces”
between elements (Dragmaticon II.6.9/WC 35). Of course, this kind of
language is far from perspicuous too, but it is William’s way of bringing
efficient causation to the forefront in his explanations of elemental
movement—his way of maintaining the program of doing so for nat-
ural explanations generally on a point where it was apparently easy for
someone like Adelard to falter.
By now we see that the label “efficient causation” has been extended
thoroughly enough to cover any and all cases where one body acts on
another in such a way as to change it. This usage is clearly free of earlier
constraints on employment of the label, which would limit it to the cre-

ative activities of the divine or spirits. At the same time, we should note
that those constraints continue to exert a pressure on philosophical in-
quiry into the nature of causation. In a theistic belief system, it will go
without question that God represents efficient causation in a sense una-
chievable by lesser beings, and that humans, imitating God, imitate that
causal action in a sense unachievable by still lesser beings. So divine gen-
eration will be regarded as the prime instance of efficient causation, with
humanly sourced generation a secondary or derivative variant of this,
and with nongenerative efficient causation pushed into the background
of the classification. The tendency of the twelfth-century physicists is
not to disrupt the hierarchy implicit in this model, but simply to draw
new attention to its lowest stratum.17 Whatever diminished sense of ef-
ficient causation this model leaves for the mere interaction of bodies is
still capable of being put to good use, and d eserves an acknowledged
place under the general rubric of efficient causation. This, at least, is the
lesson implicit in the writings of the twelfth-century physicists.
Peter Abelard’s brief analysis of causation offers a contemporary wit-
ness to the continuing presence of that hierarchical model. Abelard
(1079–1142) is a contemporary of William, but rather less focused on
natural philosophy. His gaze is chiefly trained upon the upper strata of
that hierarchy, efficient causation in its generative form, whether divine
or human in its source. He offers an account of the four-part Aristote-
lian classification of causation in the Dialectica, beginning with the
efficient cause, which he defines as “that which moves and works where
something, the effect, is brought out” ( Dialectica III.2, 414).18 This is
17 For that reason a full account of twelfth-century physical speculation needs to take account of this
era’s special interest in cosmology, driven by Timaeus-based interpretations of the Genesis creation
story. The causal features of God’s initial act of generation retain centrality in physical speculation. But
even here, as Telford 1988, 317–18, points out, it is found acceptable to construe the stages of creation
as unfolding via physical causation.
18 The translations from Abelard are my own. King 2004, 103–105, discusses the account of causation
expressed in these passages. Abelard’s source material for the four-part Aristotelian distinction of
causes is Boethius’s De topicis differentiis. See Boethius 1969, 1189C–1190A.
indeed a suitably broad definition of efficient causation, but is sup-

ported by an example which tends to narrow it: the cutler who, while
fashioning a knife “by his activity provides motion in fitting the form
of the knife to the matter of the iron, so as to transfer it to the knife”
(Dialectica III.2, 414). In tandem, the definition and example suggest
generation, the creation of something which did not previously exist. So
the definition should be interpreted accordingly; the effect is “brought
out” in the sense that it is brought into existence. Abelard accepts a
parallel restriction to formal causation, allowing for such only where
the forms in question “are necessary for the creation of substance, and
the effect itself cannot exist without them” (Dialectica III.2, 416); the
whiteness of Socrates cannot be legitimately classed as a formal cause,
since, as accidental, it is not capable of playing a role in bringing Socrates
into existence (Dialectica III.2, 416).
This does not stop Abelard from introducing an example of nonge-
nerative causation into his discussion, which is taken from Boethius.19
Boethius, we are told, refers to the sun as “the efficient cause of the
day” (Dialectica III.2, 417), explaining the attribution as based on the
sun’s preceding the day in the order of nature (proprietate naturae),
and not based simply on the sun’s preceding the day in the order of
time. Abelard’s response is not to condemn this as an outright error,
but simply to identify it as a case of taking the label more widely or
loosely (largius). Subsequent commentary focuses on establishing the
proper sense of the label, and the point crucially appealed to in the
semantic analysis is in fact metaphysical. God creates substances,
whereas human conjoin substances.20 So what God creates is capable
19 See Boethius 1969, 1199A.

20 On the other hand humans do actually destroy substances, and therefore seem capable of produc-
ing substantial change in the negative sense of denaturing something, but not in the prior sense of
instilling the nature in the first place. Abelard is willing to accept this point, noting that, after all, it is
easier to destroy things than construct them, and that we are more able and ready to undertake evil
than to do good (Dialectica III.2, 421). See King 2004, 103. Marenbon 2009, 51–52, comments on the
significance of this Abelardian doctrine as a challenge to the standard medieval view that causes are
things.
of being one in nature, whereas what humans create is composite

(Dialectica III.2, 417). Both of these cases contrast with that of the
sun, which does not bring about (efficit) the day through operating on
and informing some kinds of material (Dialectica III.2, 417); there is
no conjunction of substance here, let alone creation of it. But there is
apparently enough of a likeness to the other two cases that Abelard
will countenance applying the label “efficient causation” more widely
or loosely to this third one. This application is less than optimal, and
so is said to be done in this wider or looser sense; but for all that it re-
tains an element of correctness, and accordingly the usage is imparted
a certain legitimacy on this analysis.
Thinking of divine creation as the defining case of efficient causa-
tion is as much an element of the twelfth-century outlook as it is of
earlier Platonically-inspired outlooks, and continues so through later
medieval speculation. But the door seems to be opening here to broader
application of the label, a change that appears increasingly e vident in
the above sequence of texts. The metaphysical classification of efficient
causation remains hierarchical, with nondivine and nongenerative in-
stances assigned to lower levels. But the speculations of natural scien-
tists find good use for an understanding of efficient causation stripped
of divine references and applicable to a domain of ongoing physical
processes, even if, from the metaphysical perspective, that is not the
deepest understanding of this kind of causal relation. Where these de-
velopments are ultimately headed is of course well-known: to a more
secular era some centuries to come in which divine generation is no
longer the defining case of efficient causation, just a special case (or
even not a case at all). The intent of this chapter has been to survey
some earlier stages of that transition.21
21 I am grateful to the participants of the “Efficient Causation” workshop, May 20–21, 2011, held at
the University of Michigan, for helpful comments and discussion pertaining to this chapter.
Abbreviations
A = Augustine 1972a
AB = Adelard of Bath 1998
An = Anselm 1976
JSE = John Scotus Eriugena 1987
P = Plotinus 1966–88
Pl = Plato 2000
WC = William of Conches 1997
chapter four
Efficient Causation
from ibn sīnā to ockham
Kara Richardson
Later Medieval philosophers typically recognize natural, rational, and

creative agents. This generous view of the scope of efficient causation
invites several debates about its character. Some of these focus on dif-
ferences between natural and creative efficient causes. Others have to
do with differences between natural and rational efficient causes. The
relationship between efficient causality and other types of causality, es-
pecially final causality, is also at issue. These debates contribute to the
development of several influential ideas related to efficient causation: the
definition of the efficient cause as a giver of being, the view that causal
necessity is akin to logical necessity, the identification of a self-moving
will as the source of free action, the view that the efficient cause de-
pends on the final cause for its causality, as well as various views on the
requirements for genuine end-directed action.
The development of these ideas was first shaped by the transmission
of Greek texts into Islamic centers of learning in the eighth to tenth
105
centuries, and by the advancement of the Greek philosophical tradi-

tion in the Islamic world.1 It was then shaped by the transmission of
Greek and Arabic texts into the Latin West in the twelfth and t hirteenth
centuries, and by the rise of the university.2 This chapter traces this de-
velopment in the work of several philosophers: Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna, d.
1037), Ghazālī (d. 1111), Ibn Rushd (Averroes, d. 1198), Thomas Aqui-
nas (d. 1274), Henry of Ghent (d. 1293), John Duns Scotus (d. 1308), and
William of Ockham (d. 1347). Their contributions to conceptions of
efficient causation are treated under four headings: Definitions and
Distinctions (§1); Causation and Necessitation (§2); Free Agents (§3);
and Agents and Ends (§4).
1. Definitions and Distinctions
Most philosophers in the Later Middle Ages agree with Aristotle that
the types of cause include “the primary source of the change or rest”
(Physics 194b30/CWA 1:332).3 They call this type the efficient cause
(al-‘illah al-fā‘ilah/causa efficiens) or agent (al-fā‘il/agens). But their ac-
counts of the efficient cause typically extend beyond its role as a prin-
ciple of change to include creative causality. This suggests that they
consider the causality of a primary source of change or rest and the
causality of a creator to be similar in character. The Islamic philosopher
Ibn Sīnā offers an important defense of this view.4
Ibn Sīnā discusses the character of the efficient cause in the Physics
and the Metaphysics of his Kitāb al-Shifā’. Both texts were translated
into Latin in Toledo in the twelfth century.5 In the Physics of the Shifā’,
Ibn Sīnā defines each of the four causes in relation to the subject
1 On the transmission of Greek texts into Islamic centers of learning, see Gutas 1998 and
D’Ancona 2005.
2 On this second transmission, see Burnett 2005.
3 See also Metaphysics 1013a30/CWA 2:1600.
4 See Gilson 1958, Gilson 1962, Kukkonen 2010, and Richardson 2013.
5 Burnett 2005.
efficient causation: from ibn sĪnĀ to ockham 107
studied in natural science: “the sensible body insofar as it is subject to

change” (STT 1.1.1). He defines the efficient cause or agent as follows:
“In natural things, agent is often said of the principle of another’s
motion insofar as it is other. By motion, we mean here whatever passes
from potency to act in a given matter” (STT 1.10.2). Following Aristotle,
Ibn Sīnā argues that motion occurs with respect to quality, quantity
and place (STT 2.3.7–20). And he denies that there is motion in the
category of substance (STT 2.3.2–6). Motion involves successive states,
whereas the generation and corruption of a substance is instantaneous:
“when the substantial nature corrupts and comes to be, it does so all at
once, and so there is no intermediate perfection between its absolute
potentiality and absolute actuality” (STT 2.3.2).6
Ibn Sīnā divides the principle of motion in another into four types:
preparers, perfecters, helpers or advisors. Aquinas also adopts this
fourfold division of the efficient cause (at Sententia Metaphysicae, lib. 5
l. 2 n. 3–7). Preparers and perfecters are understood in terms of the ter-
minus of motion: some form ϕ. A preparing (muhayyi’/praeparans or
disponens) principle disposes matter to receive ϕ, as the brickmaker
makes matter suitable for house building. A perfecting (mutammin/
perficiens) principle “gives”ϕ, as the builder arranges the bricks house-
wise (STT 1.10.3).
Helping and advising principles are contrasted with primary princi-
ples of motion. A helping (mu‘īn/adiutrix) principle helps a primary
principle attain her end by acting for its own end (STT 1.10.4). For
example, a day laborer helps a builder attain her end (shelter) by pur-
suing his own end (money). An advising (mushīr/consilians) principle
gives the form by which a primary principle of motion acts (STT
1.10.4). As such, it is an intermediate principle, or “the principle of a
principle” (STT 1.10.4). Ibn Sīnā identifies the advisee as a voluntary
agent, that is, as an agent whose acts involve cognition and desire. This
6 See McGinnis 2004. On later Medieval debates about the nature of motion or change, see Trifogli 2000,
Trifogli 2010, and Thijssen 2010.
suggests that the advisor gives the advisee information, as the strategist
informs the general about enemy terrain. Aquinas sees this type of cau-
sality at work in nature as well: at Sententia Metaphysicae, lib. 5 l. 2 n. 7,
he suggests that God is the advisor of natural agents because his crea-
tive activity is the cause of the forms through which they operate.
Ibn Sīnā considers his account of the efficient cause or agent as a
principle of another’s motion to be sufficient for the purposes of inves-
tigating nature. But it is not definitive. To offer a definitive account of
the causes belongs to the metaphysician, whose investigations tran-
scend the concerns of any of the special sciences, for example, natural
philosophy.7 In his Metaphysics, Ibn Sīnā defines each of the four causes
in relation to the subject studied in metaphysics: the existent qua ex-
istent. He defines the efficient cause or agent as that which gives or
bestows the existence of something distinct from it (SI 6.1.2). Ibn Sīnā
then distinguishes this definition from that of the natural philosopher:
Metaphysical philosophers do not mean by “agent” only the princi-

ple of motion, as the naturalists mean, but the principle and giver of
existence, as in the case of God with respect to the world. As for the
natural efficient cause, it does not bestow any existence other than
motion in one of the forms of motion. Thus, in the natural sciences,
that which bestows existence is a principle of motion. (SI 6.1.2)
Ibn Sīnā claims that his definition of the efficient cause as a giver of
existence encompasses God’s creative acts, as well as the acts of natural
efficient causes. Both are said to give existence to another; the latter are
said to give existence only in one of the forms of motion. In this way,
Ibn Sīnā supports his view that creators and principles of motion in
another are causes of the same type.
Ibn Sīnā’s metaphysical account of the efficient cause also introduces
an influential distinction between causes of origination (ḥudūth/incipiere)
7 Marmura 1980a.
and causes of being (wujūd/esse). Aquinas, Suarez and Descartes use

such a distinction to support divine conservation, and to distin-
guish God’s contribution to generation from that of creatures.8 Ibn
Sīnā introduces a distinction between causes of origination and causes
of being in arguing against the view that efficient causes temporally
precede their effects, and are needed only for origination (SI 6.1.11).
Against this view, Ibn Sīnā argues that anything originated needs a
cause of its existence so long as it exists. This conclusion relies in part
on a version of the principle of sufficient reason: any existent is either
necessary of existence in itself (wājib al-wujūd bi-dhātihi/necesse esse
per se), and thus needs no external cause, or possible of existence in
itself (mumkin al-wujūd bi-dhātihi/possible esse per se), and thus needs
an external cause (SI 1.6.1–6).9 Roughly speaking, Ibn Sīnā argues that
anything originated remains possible of existence in itself so long as it
exists, and thus needs an external cause so long as it exists (SI 6.1.12-13).
This shows his opponent’s view of efficient causality to be too narrow.
Ibn Sīnā’s argument that anything originated needs an external
cause so long as it exists seems to afford a distinction between two types
of efficient cause: causes of origination, which are temporally prior to
their effects, and causes of being, which coexist with their effects. But
Ibn Sīnā rejects this distinction in favor of a unified account of the ef-
ficient cause on which all agents coexist with their effects. He illus-
trates this view with the example of the builder:
[A]s for the builder, his movement is the cause of a certain motion.
Thereafter, his immobility and refraining from motion, or his ceas-
ing to move and affect transportation after having transported, con-
stitute a cause for the termination of that motion. [Now,] that very
act of transporting and the termination of this motion are a cause of
a certain combination, and that combination is a cause for a certain
8 See ST I q. 104 a. 1, and De Potentia, q. 5 a. 1; Suarez, Disputationes Metaphysicae, XXI.1.7; and

Descartes, Fifth Set of Replies, AT 7:369/CSM 2:254–55.
9 On Ibn Sīnā’s commitment to the Principle of Sufficient Reason, see Richardson, forthcoming.
shape taking place; and each of [the things] that constitutes a cause
coexists with its effect. (SI 6.2.2)
A builder is a cause of motion terminating in a certain combination:

bricks and mortar arranged housewise. The builder building is simulta-
neous with her effects. But these effects do not include the existence of
the house she builds. Ibn Sīnā describes the true (ḥaqīqah/vera) and
essential (bi-al-dhāti/essentialis) causes of the existence of the house as
follows:
[I]t must be believed that the cause of the building’s shape is combi-
nation, the cause of [the latter] being the natures of the things being
combined and their remaining in the way they are composed, the
cause of [these natures] being the separable cause that enacts the na-
tures. (SI 6.2.5)
The cause of the existence of a house is its material components ar-

ranged house-wise, and the efficient cause of those components. The
proximate efficient cause of the components of the house is the super-
lunary Giver of Forms or Agent Intellect and the ultimate efficient
cause of these components is God. Thus, the true and essential causes
coexist with the house. The builder is merely an accidental (bi-al-‘araḍ/
per accidens) or helping (mu‘īn/adiutrix) cause of the existence of the
house (SI 6.2.5).10
It is important to emphasize that the builder is a true and essential
efficient cause, even though she is not a true and essential efficient
cause of the existence of the house she builds. The primary difference
between true and essential efficient causes and accidental efficient
10 In Metaphysics 6.2, Ibn Sīnā initially contrasts accidental and helping causes with true causes, but
subsequently drops the phrase “true cause” in favor of the term “essential cause.” He describes an essen-
tial cause as follows: “the essential causes of things through which the existence of the essence of that
thing comes about in actuality must exist with it, not having that priority in existence whereby it
would cease to exist once the effect comes into being, and that this [latter priority] is possible in non-
essential or nonproximate causes” (SI 6.2.8).
causes is that the former coexist with their effects. A thing is a true and
essential efficient cause at all times during which it is producing the
existence of something distinct from it. Ibn Sīnā’s account of the
builder building states that she coexists with her proper effect: motion
in another. The builder is a true and essential efficient cause at all times
during which she is producing motion in another.
True and essential efficient causes differ from accidental ones in a
second way. An infinite series of the former is impossible, given the ex-
istence of the effect (SI 1.6.6, 6.2.6). But an infinite series of the latter is
necessary. As we have seen, accidental efficient causes are principles of
motion in another. A principle of motion in another is itself moved by
something distinct from it and so on: there can be no first principle of
motion in another (SI 6.2.6–8). Ibn Sīnā holds with Aristotle that
motion is eternal. He takes this point to be consistent with his conclu-
sion that a series of true or essential efficient causes is finite: Ibn Sīnā
holds that an eternal God is the first efficient cause of the existence of
an eternal world. His account of true and essential efficient causes fig-
ures in later arguments for the existence of God.11
Ibn Sīnā offers a unified account of efficient causality on which a
thing is an efficient cause at all times during which it is producing the
existence of something distinct from it. This account encompasses crea-
tive and natural agents. But Aquinas suggests that Ibn Sīnā advocates two
different kinds of agent: “According to Avicenna, the notion of agency
is twofold. There is the natural agent, which acts through motion, and
the divine agent, which gives being” (Super Sent., lib. 2 d. 1 q. 1 a. 2 ad 1).
The acts or effects of natural agents must be preceded temporally by
active and passive potencies, since motion is the actualization of a po-
tency. But divine acts or effects do not presuppose a passive potency,
since “something receives being from a divine agent without motion”
(Super Sent., lib. 2 d. 1 q. 1 a. 2 ad 1). In this text, Aquinas seems to e ndorse
11 See Menn 2003 for some aspects of Ibn Sīnā’s influence on later proofs for God’s existence, both in
the Islamic world and in the Christian West. Druart 2002 traces similarities between Ibn Sīnā’s and
Scotus’s proofs for God’s existence.
the view that God alone is a giver of being (which he mistakenly attri-
butes to Ibn Sīnā). But he offers a somewhat different view in Summa
Theologiae. There he suggests that no creature can produce any existent
absolutely (ens absolute), but a creature does cause being in a qualified
sense insofar as it contributes to the generation of a particular existent
(ST I q. 45 a. 5 ad 1).12 Aquinas seems to struggle with the question
whether the account of the efficient cause as a giver of being to another
can encompass both creative and natural agents. This threatens the
unity of his account of the efficient cause.
While Ibn Sīnā and Aquinas focus on the productive nature of the
efficient cause, William of Ockham might seem to depart from this
practice. He sometimes suggests that to know that Xs are efficient
causes of Ys, it is sufficient to observe that (i) whenever Xs are posited,
Ys are posited, or (ii) whenever Xs are not posited, Ys are not posited,
or both (i) and (ii).13 In other words, he sometimes suggests that effi-
cient causality can be analyzed in terms of observed correlations. But
in other texts, he rejects this view. For example, in Reportatio II, q. 3–4,
he argues that observed correlations do not prove causal connections:
God could have ordained that whenever fire comes into contact with a
suitable patient, the sun (rather than the fire) would cause the burn-
ing.14 Thus, he argues that what distinguishes a real efficient cause is its
having a power or potency for producing the effect (Reportatio IV, q. 1).15
On this basis, he rejects sine qua non causes as genuine causes.16
The notion of sine qua non causality was proposed as a solution to
the problem of sacramental causality in the thirteenth century.17 The
problem has to do with the causal contribution of the sacraments, such
12 See Wippel 2000.

13 Adams 1987, 746–47. Ockham, Ordinatio I d. 1 q. 3 (WO 1967-88 1:416–17), Ordinatio I d. 45 q.u.
(WO 1967–88, 4:664–65).
14 Adams 1987, 750. Ockham, Reportatio II, q. 3–4 (WO 1967–88, 5:72–73).
15 Adams 1987, 751; Goddu 1996.
16 Adams 1987, 751–72; Goddu 1996.
17 Courtenay 1972; Adams 2007.
as baptism, to the imparting of grace. Do the sacraments make genuine

causal contributions to the imparting of grace, for example as instru-
mental causes? Or are they merely signs or occasions of God’s gift of
grace? According to one solution, the sacraments are sine qua non
causes of grace: whenever a sacrament is received, God imparts grace,
but the sacraments are not active or productive in the imparting of
grace. Several major medieval philosophers reject sine qua non cau-
sality on the ground that genuine efficient causality requires activity or
productivity; insofar as a substance is an efficient cause, it is active or
productive.18 But some of those who accept sine qua non causality,
such as Gabriel Biel, use it to capture the contribution of creatures to
changes in nature: on this view, fire is a sine qua non cause of the burn-
ing of cotton, and the burning occurs through divine activity alone.19
This view is sometimes identified as occasionalist.20 This term might be
misleading insofar as proponents of sine qua non causality consider it
a genuine type of efficient causality. Thus they could deny that God is
the only true cause, in favor of the view that God is the only active or
productive cause.
2. Causation and Necessitation
Ibn Sīnā’s metaphysical discussions of causality tend to emphasize that

causes necessitate their effects. He argues that the existence of any-
thing possible in itself is due to an external cause; this cause renders
what is possible of existence in itself necessary of existence through
another (SI 1.6.5–6). And he sometimes describes change in terms of
successive necessitation: for example, he claims that “every originated
thing becomes necessary after not having been necessary by reason of
its cause becoming necessary at that moment . . . its cause being that
18 E.g., Aquinas, Super Sent. lib. 4 d. 1 q. 1 a. 4 qc. 1, Summa Theologiae III q. 62 a. 1. See Adams 2007
for additional sources.
19 Biel, Epitome et collectorium ex Occamo circa quatuor Sententiarum libros IV, d. 1 p. 1 q. 1.
20 Freddoso 1988.
which had also been necessary” (SI 6.2.6). Ibn Sīnā elaborates this view
in Metaphysics 4.1, where he defends the coexistence of cause and
effect:
One thing cannot rightly be a cause of another unless the other co-
exists with it. If a condition of its being a cause is its own existence,
then, as long as it exists, it is a ground and cause for the existence of
the other. But if the condition of its being the cause is not its own
existence, then by itself it is something from which it is possible for
a thing to be generated and for it not to be—neither alternative
having precedence over the other . . . But that whose relation is one
and the same to a thing’s existence and nonexistence has no greater
claim to be the cause than not to be the cause. Indeed, sound reason
necessitates that there should exist a state that differentiates be-
tween these two outcomes . . . The effect would then proceed neces-
sarily, regardless of whether [the differentiating state] is an act of
will, appetite, or anger, or something originated, natural or other-
wise, or some external thing . . . Hence, with the existence of the
cause, the existence of every effect is necessary; and the existence of
its cause necessitates the existence of the effect. (SI 4.1.8–11)
As this passage makes clear, Ibn Sīnā’s view that causes necessitate their
effects involves a version of the principle of sufficient reason. And Ibn
Sīnā seems fully to embrace the necessitarian implications of his com-
mitment to this principle, though such a view conflicts with the exist-
ence of miracles and the belief that God can do anything.21 Ghazālī’s
discussion of causality in the Incoherence of the Philosophers—an im-
portant text in the history of occasionalism—aims to safeguard these
aspects of Muslim doctrine: “it becomes necessary to plunge into this
question to affirm miracles and [to achieve] something else—namely,
21 Belo argues, “Avicenna’s system should be ranked alongside that of the Stoics and of Spinoza as a
paradigm of classical metaphysical determinism” (Belo 2007, 120).
to support what all Muslims agree on, to the effect that God has power
over all things” (TF 17.0.29).22
Ghazālī’s most famous argument against the “philosophers” (falāsifah)
contributes to the development of the view that causal connections are
logically necessary connections:
The connection between what is habitually believed to be a cause

and what is habitually believed to be an effect is not necessary, ac-
cording to us. But [with] any two things, where “this” is not “that”
and “that” is not “this” and where neither the affirmation of the one
entails the affirmation of the other nor the negation of the one en-
tails negation of the other, it is not a necessity of the existence of the
one that the other should exist, and it is not a necessity of the non-
existence of the one that the other should not exist. (TF 17.1)
When Ghazālī mentions “what is habitually believed to be a cause,”

he has in mind natural substances, such as fire. He assumes that the
philosophers believe that (i) natural substances, such as fire, are causes,
and (ii) that causal connections are necessary connections. He con-
tends that (i) and (ii) imply this view: (iii) the affirmation of contact
between fire and cotton entails the affirmation of the burning of the
cotton. In contemporary terms, Ghazālī attributes to his philosopher
opponents the view that causal necessity is akin to logical necessity.
Because (iii) is false, he concludes that the philosophers’ account of
causation in nature is incoherent.23
In the Incoherence of the Incoherence, Ibn Rushd challenges Ghazālī’s
portrayal of the philosophers’ account of causal necessity:
22 Frank 1992 argues that Ghazālī recognizes secondary causes. Marmura 1981 takes the opposite
view.
23 Ghazālī provides several additional arguments to undermine the philosophers’ view that natural
things have active power. He states that their sole evidence for this view is the observation of concom-
itance, which is not adequate proof of causality (TF 17.5). He also claims that bodies lack features
needed to ground active powers (TF 17.5).
[A]re the acts which proceed from all things absolutely necessary
for those in whose nature it lies to perform them, or are they only
performed in most cases or in half the cases? This is a question which
must be investigated, since one single action-and-passivity between
two existent things occurs only through one relation out of an infi-
nite number, and it happens often that one relation hinders another.
Therefore it is not absolutely certain that fire acts when it is brought
near a sensitive body, for surely it is not improbable that there should
be something which stands in such a relation to the sensitive thing
as to hinder the action of the fire, as is asserted of talc and other
things. But one need not therefore deny fire its burning power so
long as fire keeps its name and definition. (TT 521)24
Ibn Rushd agrees with Ghazālī that the burning of cotton upon con-
tact with fire is not “absolutely necessary,” nor “absolutely certain.” Fire
has the active power to burn, and cotton has the passive power to be
burnt. But contact between a particular agent with an active power
and a particular patient with a suitable passive power is not sufficient
for activity. A variety of other factors determine the outcome of any
particular event. Yet Ibn Rushd contends that this is no reason to deny
that fire has the active power to burn. Speaking on behalf of the phi-
losophers, he denies that causal connections are logically necessary
connections insofar as this means that the affirmation of contact be-
tween fire and cotton entails the affirmation of the burning of the
cotton. That is to say, he contends that Ghazālī’s “no necessary connec-
tion” argument simply misses its target. The adjudication of this dis-
pute depends in part on whether this contention is true.
Ghazālī’s main target is Ibn Sīnā. We have seen that Ibn Sīnā empha-
sizes that causes necessitate their effects: he states, “with the existence
of the cause, the existence of every effect is necessary; and the existence
of its cause necessitates the existence of the effect” (SI 4.1.11). But he
24 Ibn Rushd’s various arguments against Ghazālī are discussed in Kogan 1985.
also holds that being is sufficient for being a cause only in the case of
God.25 This aspect of divine causality makes it superior to the causality
of all other things, which are causes given certain states and condi-
tions.26 On this view, natural substances are causes even though their
existence does not entail the existence of their effects; for given certain
states and conditions, the effects of natural substances do occur neces-
sarily. So it seems that Ghazālī’s “no necessary connection” argument
really does miss its target. But perhaps he succeeds on another front.
Ghazālī maintains that God could prevent the burning of cotton
upon contact with fire, even if all natural factors required for the burn-
ing were present. This claim seems to conflict with Ibn Sīnā’s view that
a natural substance, such as fire, is a cause given certain states and con-
ditions. Ibn Sīnā can stand his ground by appeal to the idea that God’s
prevention of the burning is an impediment: thus a condition needed
for fire to act does not obtain. But this answer would be evasive. For in
fact he must deny that his philosopher’s God can prevent the burning:
Ibn Sīnā advocates an unchanging deity without knowledge of particu-
lars (SI 8.4).27 And Ibn Rushd faces a similar problem: for he abandons
the notion of a creative deity in favor of the view that God orders the
universe through final causality alone (Comm. Metaph., Book Lam
t. 36). Ghazālī succeeds insofar as he reveals that his philosopher op-
ponents hold views that are incompatible with the existence of mira-
cles and the belief that God can do anything.
Medieval Christian philosophers generally reject the occasionalist
view that God is the only true agent.28 But many of them agree with
Ghazālī that God could prevent the burning of cotton upon contact
with fire, even if all natural factors required for the burning were
25 Marmura 1984.
26 Marmura 1984, 181–82.
27 Marmura 1962.
28 Aquinas adduces a variety of arguments against Islamic occasionalism. See, e.g., Summa Contra
Gentiles lib. 3 cap. 69. But he also calls the view foolish, and suggests that it is a minority position not
worth much consideration (Freddoso 1988, 99). For extended discussion of occasionalism in medieval
philosophy, see Perler and Rudolph 2000.
p resent. Roughly speaking, they hold that fire is a cause given certain
conditions, which include God’s cooperation with their actions.29
Should God not cooperate with a created substance, he would prevent
it from causing, even if all natural factors required for causing were
present. This account of causation in nature is compatible with Ibn
Sīnā’s view of causal necessity (and does not fall prey to Ghazālī’s “no
necessary connection” argument). But many medieval Christian phi-
losophers also adopt a voluntarist position on divine freedom, accord-
ing to which God chooses in the absence of determining reasons. This
position conflicts with Ibn Sīnā’s argument for the view that causes
necessitate their effects, which assumes a version of the principle of
sufficient reason.
3. Free Agents
Ibn Sīnā’s views on efficient causality conflict with another important

Muslim doctrine: they entail the co-eternity of God and the world.
Ghazālī’s defense of creation in time contributes to the development of
the view that a self-determining will is the source of freedom. Ghazālī
contends that his philosopher opponents hold the following beliefs:
(i) creation in time would require that God choose to create the world
at one time rather than another, (ii) prior to creation, nothing could
distinguish one time from another, (iii) prior to creation, God could
have no reason for choosing that the world be created at one time
rather than another, (iv) the term “will” has a univocal meaning
whether used of God or human beings and (v) it is inconceivable that
the human will choose one thing over another for no reason. The fifth
claim finds support in the following example:
If in front of a thirsty person there are two glasses of water that are
similar in every respect in relation to his purpose [of wanting to
29 Freddoso 1991.
drink], it would be impossible for him to take either. Rather, he

would take that which he would deem better, lighter, closer to his
right side—if his habit was to move the right hand—or some such
cause, whether hidden or manifest. (TF 1.43)
Ghazālī rejects the fifth claim through his two-dates example. Suppose
a man loves dates more than any other food, is offered two dates, but is
unable to take them both. Ghazālī stipulates that distinguishing fac-
tors like beauty or nearness are absent. Surely the date lover will take
one of the dates, rather than leaving both. To think otherwise is to hold
that the man will remain forever hungry and perplexed, looking at the
dates without taking one of them. This, Ghazālī claims, is absurd (TF
1.46). It is important to notice that Ghazālī does not claim that the
date lover chooses for no reason. Indeed, his love of dates is a promi-
nent feature of the example. Ghazālī’s point is that his love of dates
cannot determine his choice, and that he can choose in the absence of
determining reasons.
Ibn Rushd is reluctant to engage in this discussion, since he rejects
the premise that there may be two individuals without any distin-
guishing factor: “each of two individuals is distinct from the other
by reason of a quality exclusive to it” (TT 41). But he proceeds to ex-
amine Ghazālī’s counterexample on the assumption that the date lover
has the same degree of desire for both dates. Ibn Rushd rejects Ghazālī’s
claim that his taking one of the two dates shows that he can choose
in the absence of determining reasons. As Ibn Rushd interprets the
case, the date lover “does not prefer the act of taking the one to the act
of taking the other, but he prefers the act of taking one of the two,
whichever it may be, and he gives a preference to the act of taking over
the act of leaving” (TT 40). Of course, this preference is insufficient to
determine which of the dates he will take; he must then flip a coin—
literally or figuratively—to determine his choice.
Islamic debates about the relationship between reason and choice
prefigure Christian debates about the contributions of intellect and
will to free acts. I will focus here on debates about human freedom.
Parties to these debates agree that human action involves two types of
power: the cognitive powers of intellect and reason, and the appetitive
power of will. Intellect and reason play final causal roles in human
action. Will plays an efficient causal role. Aquinas explains these differ-
ent causal roles as follows:
Something is said to move in two ways. In one way, a thing is said to

move in the manner of an end, as the end is said to move the efficient
cause. Intellect moves the will in this way, since the apprehended
good is the object of the will, and moves it as an end. In the second
way, a thing is said to move in the manner of an agent, as the altering
moves the altered and the impelling moves the impelled. Will moves
intellect and all the powers of the soul in this way. (ST I q. 82 a. 4)
Human action involves interplay between intellect and will. Through

intellect, I apprehend, for example, that health is good, and that exer-
cise is good insofar as it promotes health. As a result of these cognitive
acts, my will acquires an appetite for health and exercise. My apprehen-
sion that health and exercise are good suggests that deliberation about
the best way to get some exercise today is also good. As a result of this
cognitive act, my will develops an appetite for such deliberation. I thus
choose to deliberate about the best way to get some exercise today. If
reason concludes that going for a run right now is good, my will ac-
quires an appetite for running right now, and I choose to run. Given
no external impediments, this choice is sufficient to set my body in
motion. The interplay between intellect and will involves two ways of
moving. Intellect and reason move will in the manner of an end that
moves an efficient cause. Will moves intellect, reason and the body
in the manner of an efficient cause that produces motion or change in
another qua other.
As we have seen, Aquinas considers the will to be a moved mover.
Roughly speaking, the will wants what intellect or reason apprehends
as good, and the will’s appetite for an apprehended good moves intel-
lect, reason or the body. It is important to emphasize that (i) in order
for the will to move intellect, reason or the body, it must acquire an
appetite for something, and that (ii) its appetites arise from intellect’s
or reason’s apprehension of something as good. Thus, the will can move
reason to deliberate, to think about one thing rather than another, or
to stop thinking about something only if reason has determined that to
do so is good.30 Aquinas’s account of the will as a moved mover reflects
his more general view that every efficient cause acts for an end.
The view that the will is a moved mover became increasingly contro-
versial in the thirteenth century. The 1277 condemnations include the
following articles on the will:
163. That the will necessarily pursues what is firmly believed by reason
and that it cannot abstain from that which reason dictates. This ne-
cessitation, however, is not compulsion but the nature of the will.
164. That man’s will is necessitated by his cognition, like the appetite
of a beast.
165. That after a conclusion has been made about something to be

done, the will does not remain free; and that punishments are pro-
vided by the law only for the rebuke of ignorance and in order that
the rebuke be a source of knowledge for others.31
Why condemn the claim that the will follows reason? The claim that
the will follows reason suggests that the course of human action is de-
termined by our cognitive powers. Wrongdoing is thus a product of
cognitive error. But cognitive powers are not self-determining powers.
Their acts are influenced by upbringing and education, and are ideally
determined by states of affairs! Worries about cognitive determinism
30 Stump 1997.
31 Kent 1995, 77. Kent’s numbering follows Mandonnet 1908–11, 2:175–91. Mandonnet reorders the
text of the condemnation given in Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, 1889–97, 1:543–61.
encourage some medieval philosophers to emphasize the active nature of

the will, despite its apparent passivity in relation to intellect and reason.32
In doing so, they further develop the view that a self-determining will
is the source of freedom.
Henry of Ghent promotes an active conception of the will through
a deflationary account of the way intellect or reason moves the will:
Something is said to move in two senses. In one way, metaphorically,

by proposing and revealing an end toward which one should move.
Practical reason moves in this way, and in this way it moves the person
who wills; it does not, properly speaking, move the will, which is
moved by the person who wills. Nor does reason, properly speaking,
move in this sense; rather, it is the object that of itself moves reason to
know and, thereby, in revealing itself as good, it metaphorically moves
the person who wills to desire it. For the good as known moves the
person who wills, but reason itself as knowing does not move the will.
In another way, something is said to move another in the manner of an
agent and one impelling the other to act. In this way the will moves
the reason, and this is more truly to move (Quodlibet I q. 14 ad 2).33
According to Henry, the good as known moves metaphorically.34 But

will moves reason in the truest sense of “to move”: that is, in the manner
of an agent. While Aquinas suggests that the way an end moves and the
way an agent moves are two ways of doing the same thing, Henry sug-
gests that agents alone are genuine movers.
Henry also uses an analogy between the master-servant relationship
and the will-intellect relationship to support his view of the active
nature of the will:
32 I follow Hoffman 2010 in using the phrase “cognitive determinism” to describe the worry.
33 Henry of Ghent 1979–. English translations are taken from Henry of Ghent 1993.
34 As Brown 1987, 267 notes, Aristotle suggests that ends move metaphorically in On Generation and
Corruption: “The active power is a cause in the sense of that from which the process originates; but the
end, for the sake of which it takes place, is not active. That is why health is not active, except metaphor-
ically” (On Generation and Corruption 324b13–15/CWA 1:530).
[T]here is one who directs with authority, as a lord directs a servant;

he is the higher. In that way the will directs the intellect. Or, one
directs another by way of service, as a servant directs a master in car-
rying a light before him at night so that the master does not stumble.
Such a director is inferior, and in this way the intellect directs the
will (Quodlibet I q. 14 ad 5).
Henry claims that intellect, in presenting something as good to the

will, is akin to the servant who carries a light before his master. And
will is akin to the master who follows the path lit by his servant. But as
one who directs with authority, “the will can withdraw the intellect
from directing and knowing when it wills, as a master can withdraw a
servant” (Quodlibet I q. 14 ad 5). This view is in tension with Henry’s
later claim that knowledge must precede the action of the will: he
states, “that of which we have absolutely no knowledge—neither ge-
neric nor specific, neither by the senses nor by the intellect—can in no
way be an object for the will” (Quodlibet I q. 15).
Duns Scotus develops a more robust version of the view that freedom
is rooted in a self-determining will. One part of his view challenges
Aristotle’s account of the difference between rational and nonrational
powers. Aristotle claims that a rational power “is capable of contrary
effects, while one nonrational power produces one effect; e.g., the
hot is capable only of heating, but the medical art can produce both
disease and health” (Metaphysics 1046b 5-7/CWA 2:1652). Scotus
argues that the distinction Aristotle is trying to articulate is best under-
stood in terms of the two ways in which active powers can elicit their
operations:
Either the power of itself is determined to the thing to be done, so

that of itself (quantum est ex se), it cannot not act when it is not
impeded by anything extrinsic to it. Or the power is not of itself so
determined, but rather it can do this act or the opposite act, and also
it can act or not act at all. The first type of power is commonly called
a nature, the second is called a will (Quaestiones super libros Meta-

physicorum Aristotelis lib. 9 q. 15 a. 2).35
While Aristotle suggests that the power to bring about contrary effects
is rooted in intellect or reason, Scotus argues that an active power for
opposites is rooted in a self-determined will.
Scotus’s account of freedom also relies on Peter Olivi’s view that a
truly self-determined power must meet this criterion: at the moment
when the power elicits its act, it could elicit the opposite act.36 Scotus
argues that intellect fails to meet this criterion. For if a person who
knows that health is good learns that exercise brings about health, she
cannot but affirm that exercise is good. That is, at the moment when
she affirms that exercise is good, she cannot affirm that exercise is not
good: at that moment, she is determined to affirm that exercise is good,
given what she already knows and what she has just learned. Will, on
the other hand, is a truly self-determined power. For example, a health-
conscious person who habitually runs before breakfast can either run
or not run this morning. That is, at the moment when she chooses to
run, she has the power to choose not to run: she is not determined to
will herself to run by her knowledge of health and exercise, by her exer-
cise habits, or by any other factor that might inform her choice, such as
the weather.
Scotus’s account of will as a self-determined power conflicts with
the view that nothing moves itself. Scotus’s medieval predecessors held
self-motion to be impossible, at least in the physical world. Scotus de-
parts radically from this tradition by arguing that self-motion occurs in
both physical and non-physical causes.37 Scotus’s account of will as a
self-determined power seems to conflict with his view that the cau-
sality of the efficient cause depends on the causality of the final cause
35 Scotus, 1997–2006.
36 Dumont 1995.
37 King 1994, 227–78; Scotus, Quaestiones super libros Metaphysicorum Aristotelis lib. 9 q. 14.
(De Primo Principio 2.10–12/Scotus 1968 3: 215). For the will is the ef-
ficient cause of action, while intellect is its final cause in the sense that
it presents some thing or course of action as good: will chooses, but
intellect gives reasons for choice. It is important to note that Scotus
does not deny that the will chooses for reasons, but rather he denies
that the reasons presented by intellect fully determine the will.38 We
have seen that Islamic falāsifah such as Ibn Sīnā and Ibn Rushd deny
that the will can choose in the absence of determining reasons. But
Scotus holds that cognitive determinism is incompatible with free-
dom. He thus argues that genuine freedom, whose reality is not in
question, requires a self-determined will.
4. Agents and Ends
Ibn Sīnā holds that the efficient cause and the final cause (al-‘illah al-
ghā’iyyah/causa finis) are inextricably linked. He puts the point this
way in his Physics:
In a certain respect, the agent is a cause of the end; and how could it
be otherwise, when the agent is what makes the end exist? In an-
other respect, however, the end is a cause of the agent; and how
could it be otherwise, when the agent acts only for the sake of [the
end] and otherwise does not act? (STT 1.11.1)
For example, exercise is a cause of health and health of exercise. This way
of putting the point suggests that agents and ends are mutually de-
pendent. But it involves an ambiguity that Ibn Sīnā takes pains to clarify.
An agent is “a cause of the end’s essence existing concretely in particu-
lars” (STT 1.11.2). An agent is not “the cause of the end’s becoming an
end nor of the end’s essence in itself ” (STT 1.11.2). For example, exer-
cise is a cause of health existing concretely in my body. Exercise is not
38 Williams 2000.
the cause of health becoming my end, nor is exercise the cause of the
essence of health in itself. This clarification is important because it
shows that the dependence of agents on ends is asymmetrical in at least
one respect: “the end is a cause of the agent’s being an agent and so is a
cause of its being a cause, whereas the agent is not a cause of the end
with respect to its being a cause” (STT 1.11.2). Ibn Sīnā’s account of the
relationship between agents and ends shows that he considers every
agent to act for an end: “the agent acts only for the sake of [the end] and
otherwise does not act”(STT 1.11.1). He also holds that final causality
consists in being an end for an agent: “the end is a cause of the agent as
an agent, and a cause of the form and matter by means of its producing
motion in the agent that brings about the composite” (STT 1.11.3).
Although Aquinas holds that every agent acts for an end, he also holds
that final causality requires knowledge (cognoscere) or intelligence (intel-
ligens). This is shown by his frequent example of the arrow: “those things
which do not have cognition (cognitio) do not tend toward an end unless
directed by someone knowing and intelligent, as the arrow is directed by
the archer” (STI q. 2 a. 3). In this passage, and other similar ones, Aquinas
claims that end-directed action by noncognitive agents depends on their
being directed by someone knowing and intelligent. He uses this idea to
prove God’s existence and his providence (STI q. 2 a. 3 and q. 103, a. 1).
Aquinas elaborates his position on end-directed action by noncog-
nitive agents in discussion of the question whether acting for an end is
proper to a rational nature. Aquinas’s arrow example suggests that he
might give an affirmative answer to this question. But instead he holds
that “it is necessary that every agent act for an end” because “an agent
does not move anything unless it intends an end” (ST I–II q. 1 a. 2).
He supports this view as follows: “If an agent were not determined to
some effect, it would not do this particular thing rather than some
other thing. Since it produces a determinate effect, it is necessary that
it be determined to some certain thing, which is called the end” (ST
I–II q. 1 a. 2). Aquinas then distinguishes two ways in which “some-
thing tends to an end by its own action or motion”:
By moving itself to the end, as man does. And by being moved to

the end by another, as the arrow tends to a determinate end because
it is moved by the archer, who directs its action to the end. Rational
beings move themselves to the end, since they have dominion over
their actions through freedom of decision, which is a power [fac-
ultas] of will and reason. But nonrational beings tend toward an
end through a natural inclination, as if moved by another. For they
do not know the account [ratio] of the end, and so they can order
nothing to an end, but only are ordered to an end by another (ST
I–II, q. 1 a. 2).
In this passage, and in other similar ones, Aquinas distinguishes two

ways of acting for an end, only one of which requires rational appre-
hension of the end on the part of the agent.39 For Aquinas, the spider
that spins a web and the sunflower that turns toward the sun are
agents acting for ends; he does not restrict the scope of final causality
to intelligent agents. But he also holds that anything that acts for an
end is ordered to that end, and that to order oneself or something
else to an end requires knowledge of the account (ratio) of the end.
This means that only rational agents can order themselves to ends;
nonrational agents are ordered to their ends by an intelligent “di-
rector.” On this view, even animals who grasp their ends through
nonrational apprehensive faculties are directed toward them by God
in the way the arrow is directed toward the target by the archer (ST
I–II q. 1 a. 2). For Aquinas, final causality requires knowledge, but it
does not always involve knowledge on the part of the agent who acts
for an end.
Duns Scotus argues that every effect is ordered to an end, giving as
one of his reasons that the efficient cause effects something out of love
of the end:
39 See, for example, Summa Theologiae I q. 103 a. 1; Summa Contra Gentiles lib. 3 cap. 16; De veritate,
q. 22 a. 1.
The end is the first cause in causing. For that reason, Avicenna calls
it the cause of causes. This is also shown by reason. For it is because
the end moves metaphorically as something loved that the efficient
cause effects a form in matter. But the end does not move as some-
thing loved because some other cause causes it to do so. Therefore,
the end is the first cause in causing essentially (De Primo Principio
2.11/Scotus 1968 3:215).
Scotus’s account of the causality of the end differs from Aquinas’s:

Aquinas states that the agent moves due to its intention of the end, and
he considers this account to capture rational agents, who know their
ends, and natural agents, who tend toward ends without knowledge of
them, as animals and plants do. Scotus’s account of the causality of the
end seems to apply only to cognitive agents. For he claims that the
agent moves due to love of the end. And he also holds, along with other
Aristotelians, that to desire or love something requires cognition
(whether sensible or intellectual).
Scotus’s account of the causality of the end in chapter 2 of De Primo
Principio suggests that noncognitive agents cannot act for ends, yet
he also states in that chapter that natural agents act for the sake of an
end (De Primo Principio 2.10/Scotus 1968 3: 215). In chapter 4 of De
Primo Principio, Scotus discusses end-directedness in nature as fol-
lows: “Every natural agent, considered precisely as natural, would act
from necessity and in the same way, whether it were acting for an end,
or independently. Therefore, if it acts only on account of an end, this
is because it depends on an agent loving an end” (De Primo Principio
4.13/Scotus 1968 3: 238). In this passage, he suggests that the fact that
the natural agent qua natural acts from necessity is evidence against its
acting for an end; he also suggests that if natural agents do act for ends,
the end-directedness of their acts is to be explained in terms of their
dependence on a loving agent. The passage implies that Scotus follows
Aquinas and others in holding that end-directedness in nature de-
pends on God. On this type of view, the acts of natural agents are
e nd-directed because they proceed from natures created by God. Cre-

ated natures, and the active and passive causal powers that derive from
them, function for the sake of ends known and loved by God.
Ockham’s account of the causality of the end is similar to Scotus’s:
he holds that the causality of the end consists in “nothing other than its
being loved and desired efficaciously by an agent, so that the effect is
brought about because of the thing that is loved” (Quodlibet IV q. 1 a. 1).40
This suggests that Ockham also holds that acting for an end requires
love and cognition of an object of love. Ockham differs from Scotus by
denying that we can prove that every effect has a final cause. Interest-
ingly, one of his arguments overlaps with Scotus’s argument at DePrimo
Principio 4.13:
It cannot be sufficiently demonstrated or known [with certitude],

either through principles known per se or through experience, that
a thing that acts by a necessity of nature acts because of a final cause
fixed beforehand by a will. And this is because the action of such an
agent never varies without a change either in the agent or in the pa-
tient or in something that concurs with the action. Instead, the
action always follows in the same way. And so it cannot be proved
that such an agent acts because of an end (Quodlibet IV q. 2 a. 1).
Ockham seems to endorse Scotus’s suggestion that a natural agent

would act as it does whether its action were end-directed or not. While
Scotus infers from this premise that end-directedness in nature de-
pends on God, Ockham infers that end-directedness in nature cannot
be proved. Indeed, he argues that all of Aristotle’s arguments for final
causality apply only to free agents:
[T]he Philosopher’s arguments all apply just to an agent that is able

to fail and to fall short without any change at all in the concurring
40 William of Ockham 1980. English translations are taken from William of Ockham 1991.
agent or the patient or the other dispositions. The only sort of agent
like this is a free agent, which is able to fail and to fall short in its
own action even if everything else remains the same. (Quodlibet IV
q. 1 a. 2)
In Quodlibet IV, Ockham restricts final causality to free agents in the

sense that he holds that it can only be proved to obtain in free action.
In this sense, Ockham is a developer of a more modern view on which
efficient causality in nature is divorced from final causality, and only
rational agents act for ends.41 Ockham’s position is difficult to reconcile
with features of Aristotelian natural philosophy that seem inextricably
teleological, such as the definition of nature as an internal principle of
motion and coming to rest, and the definition of motion as the actu-
alization of the potential qua potential. Ockham addresses this issue
by suggesting that talk of natural ends refers to the effects that occur in
the absence of impediments.42 For example, to say that the end of re-
production is new life is to refer to the usual effect of reproduction.
Ockham’s temporal interpretation of the definition of motion is also in
line with his skepticism about ends in nature. He argues that what is
in motion is in actuality with respect to one thing, and is in potenti-
ality to something else of the same genus, which it lacks now, but will
acquire immediately afterward (Expositio in Physicorum III 3.1).43 Ap-
plied to the example of a sunflower’s motion to face the sun, this inter-
pretation of the definition of motion yields the following account: the
sunflower is in actuality with respect to its current position, and is in
potentiality with respect to facing the sun, which it lacks now but will
immediately acquire. This interpretation discounts the idea that the
sunflower moves in order to face the sun.
41 See Adams 1998 and Brown 1987.

42 Goddu 1999, 155.
43 Thijssen 2010, 284, and Adams 1987, 800–04.
Abbreviations
at = Descartes 1964–74
csm = Descartes 1984–85
si = Ibn Sīnā 1960; English translations and section numbers are
taken from Ibn Sīnā 2005
st = Thomas Aquinas 1964–81
stt = Ibn Sīnā 1983; English translations and section numbers are
taken from Ibn Sīnā 2009
tf = Ghazali 1927; English translations and section numbers are
taken from Ghazali 2000
tt = Ibn Rushd 1930; English translations are taken from Ibn
Rushd 2008
wo = William of Ockham 1967–88
Reflection
efficient causation and musical inspiration
Anna Harwell Celenza
p
Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story . . .
homer, first line of the Odyssey
What is the efficient causation of artistic inspiration? This question

is rarely posed in musicological and philosophical circles. Even for
scholars interested in aesthetics and the philosophy of music, the
cause of creative activity is generally viewed as a less preferable topic
for investigation than its effect (the musical composition itself, or
the quality of “genius” as displayed by the composer). Various
reasons for such a penchant within scholarship can be readily
proposed: Defining the efficient causation for artistic inspiration is
a futile pursuit, for there is no universal formula, no ideal model for
artistic inspiration upon which a theory can be built; inspiration is
a spiritual and/or sensory experience, unique to each composer and
consequently indefinable as a philosophical construct. Or, as the
philosopher of music Peter Kivey has explained: “Such a theory is
impossible. It is a way of suggesting that there is no explanation for
how someone ‘gets a bright idea.’ ”1
In this essay, I hope to show that even though scholars have
avoided the topic of efficient causation of artistic inspiration in
1 Kivey 2001, 1.
132
efficient causation and musical inspiration 133
discussions of music, the “idea” of artistic inspiration, as it is

displayed here in visual representations of three historically
prominent composers, has been pondered by musicians and their
audiences for centuries. Indeed, even Homer, the foundational
poet/musician of Western culture, began his Iliad and Odyssey
with musical visions of artistic inspiration:
“Sing, goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus . . .”2

(Illiad)
“Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story . . .”3

(Odyssey)
Homer sought assistance from the gods, and until the early modern
period, divine intervention was generally accepted as the efficient
causation of artistic inspiration in the realm of music.
Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) the Benedictine abbess,
visionary, writer and composer who produced, among other works,
an impressive array of liturgical songs and a morality play with
music, included a portrait of herself under the influence of divine
intervention (Figure 1) in the preface to her Scivias (1151), an
account of her mystic visions, which contains 14 lyric texts designed
to be set to music. Hildegard claimed that from the age of five,
she experienced visions that served as the source of her writings,
illustrations and music.4 In Hildegard’s portrait, flames of divine
inspiration engulf her head as she sits alone in her room, eyes raised
2 Homer 2008, 7.
3 Homer 1998, 1.
4 As Hildegard explained in the beginning of her autobiography, Hildegardis Bingensis 1995, the
works that flowed from her were the product of a mystical, divine intervention: “Wisdom teaches in
the light of love and bids me tell how I was initiated into this vision. And I do not say these words of
myself, but the true Wisdom says them of me and speaks thus to me: “Hear these words, O human,
and tell them not your way but my way, and taught by me, speak this way of yourself.” Cf. Newman
1998, 193.
134 reflection
toward heaven, notating her visions on a wax tablet. Her assistant

Volmar stands outside and, looking through a window, witnesses
the effect (Hildegard’s artistic output) of the divine intervention
that has seized her. She is not an active agent in the production of
her works. Rather, she is presented as a passive receptor, a conduit
for the voice of God.
Divine intervention remained the central explanation for artistic
inspiration prior to the eighteenth century, when new explanations
linked to education and science began to be offered for efficient
causation. Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750), though a devout
Lutheran and a prolific composer of sacred music, did not claim
divine inspiration as the source of his musical ideas. Instead, he
borrowed a term from contemporary rhetoric—“invention,” which
referred to the selection of topics to be treated, or arguments to
be used during the process of creation. In Bach’s day, “invention”
denoted not only the subject matter of a composition, but also
the mechanism, the process used for discovering artistic ideas.5
Bach described himself as a self-taught composer who spent
countless hours diligently studying and copying out the learned
counterpoint compositions of his predecessors. During his
formative years, the writing of canons and fugues, with their
elaborate codes and principles, was perceived as a carefully guarded
knowledge akin to alchemy. A popular anecdote about Bach’s
youth describes how, as a ten-year-old, he surreptitiously took his
older brother’s collection of Pachelbel canons from a locked cabinet
each night and copied it out by moonlight.6 At the end of six
months, he had mastered the secret art of counterpoint. I share
this anecdote because it reflects, I think, what Bach and many of
his contemporaries considered the efficient causation of artistic
inspiration: invention via the process of study and experimentation.
5 A thorough study of Bach’s reliance on the concept of invention is presented in Dreyface 1996. For
a study of the historical links between the arts of learned counterpoint and alchemy, see Yearsley 1998.
6 Gaines 2006, 45.
efficient causation and musical inspiration 135
Bach’s creativity was not the effect of passive divine intervention,

but rather the result of his active acquisition of knowledge.
Looking at the only surviving portrait of Bach painted during
his lifetime, we see this concept of efficient causation confirmed
(Figure 2). With his right hand, Bach shows the viewer a sheet
inscribed with three musical motives and the inscription “Canon
triplex à 6,” an encoded message, the musical contents of which
would challenge even the most highly trained musicians.7 The
presence of this musical formula, which when properly deciphered
reveals a triple canon (3 simultaneous two-voice canons, each
in contrary motion) is an emblem of Bach’s creative method.8
Like the flames of divine inspiration that appear in the
portrait of Hildegard, the “invention” included in the Bach
portrait symbolizes the efficient causation of his artistic
inspiration.
By the end of the eighteenth century, critical theory abandoned
rhetoric in favor of philosophy (aesthetics) as a model for
describing the artistic process, and the perfectible art of “invention”
associated with Bach was replaced with the concept of transcendent
creativity as an attribute of the sublime. Ludwig van Beethoven
(1770–1827) became the poster child for this point of view.
Beethoven lost his hearing at a relatively early age, and the absence of
this sense, considered by many to be indispensable for a composer,
fueled countless discussions about the source of Beethoven’s
miraculous ability. Space does not allow for an overview of
Beethoven iconography,9 so I will limit my comments to a single
illustration: Aimé de Lemud’s “Beethoven” (Figure 3), an engraving
awarded a medal at the Paris Salon of 1863. In this image, the
7 Wolff 2000, 391–92.
8 Canon triplex a 6 (BWV 1076). A fine performance of this piece by the Musica Antiqua Köln can
be heard on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOMdWpojv38, accessed July 29, 2011.
9 For an exhaustive survey of Beethoven imagery in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, see
Comini 1987.
136 reflection
efficient causation of the composer’s artistic inspiration is both

active (like Bach’s acquisition of knowledge) and passive (like
Hildegard’s reception of divine intervention). The instruments and
manuscript paper scattered across the floor in the bottom half of
the image serve as proof of Beethoven’s active engagement as a
composer, his human suffering and struggle against fate. Contrary
to this, the ethereal images in the upper half of the engraving
attest to Beethoven’s superhuman ability to absorb passively, via
a subconscious state, the essence of a metaphysical realm closed
to the rest of humanity. The efficient causation of Beethoven’s
artistic inspiration, as displayed in the engraving, involves both his
conscious activity within the physical world and his subconscious
interaction with an idealized, metaphysical domain.
part ii
Modern
j
chapter five
Efficient Causation
from suárez to descartes
Tad M. Schmaltz
According to a standard narrative concerning the history of philosophy,

René Descartes (1596–1650) set out on a new path by replacing the
four “causes” (aitiai)—perhaps better, “becauses”—that Aristotle in-
troduced in the second book of his Physics, and that were prominent in
scholastic natural philosophy, with the efficient causes required for his
new mechanistic physics.1 Drawing on the views of the early modern
scholastic Francisco Suárez (1548–1617), I attempt to show that Des-
cartes’s break with the scholastic past was less clean than this narra-
tive suggests. An initial point is that Descartes’s emphasis on efficient
causality did not emerge from history ex nihilo, but was anticipated in
scholastic reconceptualizations of causation that culminated in the
work of Suárez. Moreover, in some respects scholasticism provided
1 For more on Aristotle’s account of efficient causation, see chapter 1 in this volume; for more on
views of efficient causation during the High Middle Ages that provided the basis for later scholastic
discussions, see chapter 4 in this volume.
139
140 modern
the basic framework for Descartes’s account of efficient causation. This

is most evident in the case of two “axioms” that condition this account,
namely, that the cause must contain the reality of its effect “formally or
eminently,” and that conservation differs only “in reason” from crea-
tion. Finally, there are important connections to scholasticism in Des-
cartes’s discussions of causation in physics and of the causal relations
between mind and body.
1. Suárez
1.1. The Priority of Efficient Causes
Suárez’s Metaphysical Disputations (1597) includes a “mini-treatise” on

causality that spans disputations XII through XXVII and covers a
total of 590 pages in the Vivès edition, or about a third of the total
work. This treatise concerns the familiar quartet of Aristotelian causes:
material, formal, efficient and final. However, disputations XII through
XXVII, which cover a total of 263 pages, or close to half of the treatise
on causality, concern exclusively the case of efficient causes. This imbal-
ance reflects Suarez’s conclusion that material and formal causes are
called causes only “by analogy” to efficient causes, and that in compar-
ison with final causes the efficient cause is “better known, maximally
real, and itself touches most properly on the being it communicates to
the effect” (MD XXVII.1.10–11, 1:952).
Suárez’s account of material and formal causes—which he calls “in-
trinsic causes”—assumes the hylomorphic view basic to scholasticism,
according to which the fundamental elements for the composition of
bodies are prime matter and various substantial and accidental forms.
Prime matter is a material cause that is the recipient of change, whereas
forms are formal causes that are active principles of change. The claim
that these two are causes only “by analogy” must be understood in terms
of Suárez’s definition of a cause as that from which “being flows into
another” (MD XII.2.4, 1:384). What fits this definition best is a cause
that not only acts on another, but also produces a being distinct from
efficient causation: from suárez to descartes 141
its own. Matter and form satisfy this definition only in an attenuated
sense since they contribute their own being to an entity they compose
by means of a “formal and intrinsic union” (MD XV.6.7, 1:520). It is
only the cases of efficient and final causes—which Suárez calls “ex-
trinsic causes”—that straightforwardly involve the communication of
a being numerically distinct from the being of the cause.
In the case of the two extrinsic causes, there is an Aristotelian prece-
dent for treating final causes as primary. Indeed, Aristotle himself em-
phasizes in the Physics that one must appeal to causes that act for the
sake of an end in order to distinguish causation that occurs “by nature”
from the merely accidental effects of such causation.2 This emphasis on
the priority of final causes carries over to the scholastic tradition, as
reflected for instance in the claim in Thomas Aquinas that
the end is the cause of the causality of the efficient cause, because it
makes the efficient cause be an efficient cause. Similarly, it makes
matter be matter and form be form, since the matter would not re-
ceive a form except through an end and the form would not perfect
the matter except through an end. Hence, it is said that the end is
the cause of causes, since it is the cause of the causality of all the
causes.3
In line with this tradition, Suárez states that “a final cause is in a certain
way the foremost of all [the causes] and even prior to [the others].”
However, he adds that “its ratio of causing is, nevertheless, more obscure,”
which serves to explain his previously noted remark that efficient
causes are “better known.” Suárez’s claim concerning the obscurity of
final causality must be understood in terms of his view that the “cau-
sality of the final cause” consists in a “metaphorical motion” in virtue
2 Physics II.8, 198b10–199b30/CWA 1:339–41. In the background here is the denial in Empedocles of
any sort of finality in nature. For discussion of Aristotle’s view of the priority of final causes, see
Code 1987.
3 De principiis naturae IV, Latin text from http://www.corpusthomisticum.org.
142 modern
of which the will is moved by desire for a cognized end to pursue that
end (MD XXIII.4.8, 1:861). For Suárez, as for other scholastics, a motus
involves the actualization of a potentia. One can speak of a “motion” in
the intentional action of the will since the will by nature has the poten-
tial to desire any end that the intellect presents to it as good. However,
in this case the intellect does not actually act on the will, but merely
attracts it toward a real or apparent good; thus, the motion is merely
metaphorical. The only “physical” motion in this case is the volitional
act to pursue a good end that the will produces in itself as an efficient
cause. As Suárez himself indicates, efficient causation by means of
physical motion is “more maximally real” than final causation by means
of metaphorical motion.
The implication here that final causality is restricted to the inten-
tional action of the will is a deviation from Aristotle’s own view in the
Physics that agents can act for an end even though, as in the case of
plants and animals, they act neither by art nor after deliberation. Even
Thomas seems to allow that there can be final causality in cases where ac-
tions do not involve intellectual deliberation.4 As Dennis Des Chene has
noted, however, in later scholastic accounts of final causality there is
“a significant step away from Aristotle and toward Plato” (Des Chene
1996, 187). Just as in the Phaedo Socrates ties final causation to the de-
liberations of a mind,5 so in later scholasticism there is an emphasis on
the fact that such causation must involve some cognition of the ends
that are pursued.
In Suárez, in particular, there is an emphasis on the fact that in the
case of “natural beings,” that is, those beings that do not act intentionally
4 In his “fifth way” to prove the existence of God, Thomas appeals to the fact that things that lack
knowledge can act for an end. To be sure, he also emphasizes that such things must be directed toward
their end by God, as an arrow must be directed toward its end by the archer. However, this example
suggests that just as the arrow can act for its end once it has been directed by the archer, so something
that lacks knowledge can act for its end once God has directed it. See ST I.2.3. As we will discover,
Suárez denies that a natural agent can be even a derivative source of final causality.
5 In this dialogue, Socrates criticizes Anaxagoras for attempting to provide a causal explanation of
human action that does not appeal to the thought that this action is best (98c–99d, in Plato 1961,
80–81).
by means of will, “there is properly no final causality, but only an inclina-

tion toward a certain terminus” (MD XXIII.10.6, 1:887). To be sure,
Suárez continues to allow that the actions of natural agents can be di-
rected toward ends. Moreover, he holds that where there is direction to
an end, there must be final causality, and so some cognition of that end.
Nonetheless, he insists that final causality is grounded not in the natural
agents themselves, as Aristotle claimed, but rather in God. Thus, after
citing Aristotle’s view that “nature wants this or that on account of an
end,” Suárez adds that this “cannot be understood of nature, unless on
account of its author” (MD XXIII.10.5, 1:887). The actions of natural
agents can involve final causality only insofar as “their first principle is
the First Cause; and thus in the adequate principle of such actions is
included an intelligent cause intending their ends” (MD XXIII.10.6,
1:887). Since God has no potentiality, however, his action cannot involve
even a merely metaphorical motion. Any final causality in God must
be identified with his efficient causation of a physical effect by means of
his will (MD XXIII.9.9, 1:884). For Suárez, then, even the final causality
of natural agents must be rooted in God’s activity as efficient cause.6
Given this background, it is understandable that Suárez claims that
efficient causes are “better known” and “more maximally real” in com-
parison to final causes. Moreover, his comment that efficient causes
“touch most properly on the being they communicate to the effect”
reflects his account of efficient causation. According to this account,
an efficient cause is “a principle from which the effect flows forth, or on
which it depends, by means of an action” (principium a quo effectus
profluit seu pendet per actionem) (MD XVII.1.6, 1:582), where the
“action” is simply the causality of the efficient cause (MD XVIII.10.5,
1:681). An efficient cause is the clearest case of causation, defined as
that “from which being flows into another,” since this cause is precisely
that from which a distinct sort of being “flows forth.”
6 One implication of Suárez’s position is that there is a final causality that is distinct from efficient
causality only in the case of the intentional action of created intellectual agents.
144 modern
Admittedly, the claim that being flows forth—or, as Suárez put it

elsewhere, influit (MD XII.2.4, 1:384)—from an efficient cause may
seem to be less than entirely clear. Indeed, Leibniz complained in his
preface to a 1670 edition of Nizolius’s On the True Principles of Phi-
losophy that Suárez’s definition “is rather barbarous and obscure, . . .
more obscure than what it defines: I would hope to define cause more
easily than this term influxus taken so monstrously” (Leibniz 1978,
4:148). However, Suárez indicated that in a general sense influxus
means simply “giving or communicating being to another” (dandi vel
communicandi esse alteri) (MD XII.2.4, 1:384). Leibniz also had diffi-
culties with the notions of giving or communicating being, most of
which rested on the fact that he could not conceive of the literal transfer
of some feature of the cause to the effect.7 Yet when Suárez speaks of
the efficient cause as involving the flowing of an effect, he should not
be understood to claim that a feature of the cause is literally transferred
to the effect. His view in fact requires that an efficient cause is extrinsic
for the very reason that it does not communicate “its own proper
and (as I will put it) individual esse to the effect.” Rather, what occurs
in the case of efficient causality is “some other [being] really flowing
forth [profluens] and proceeding [manans] from [an efficient] cause by
means of an action” (MD XVII.1.6, 1:582). In either creating or educing
an effect, an efficient cause produces an esse that is distinct from,
though in some manner similar to, the esse that it possesses.
1.2. Kinds of Efficient Causation
In focusing his discussion of causation on the activity of efficient causes,

Suárez prepares the way for Descartes, who as we will see for the most
part restricts explanations of natural changes to such causes. Yet Suárez
7 In 1696 comments on his “New System of Nature,” for instance, Leibniz objected to “the way of
influence” on the grounds that “we can conceive neither material particles nor immaterial qualities or
species that can pass from one of these substances [viz., the soul and body] to the other” (Leibniz 1978,
4:499). For more on the background to Leibniz’s conception of “the way of influence,” or what he also
called, following Suárez (see MD XVII.2.6, 1:585), influxus physicus, see O’Neill 1993.
offers two further distinctions between different kinds of efficient

causes that turn out to be important for Descartes’s account of efficient
causation.
(1) The first distinction is between “instrumental” and “principal” effic
cient causes. Though Thomas spoke of creatures as instruments of God,
later scholastics were concerned to distinguish creaturely efficient causes
that are merely instrumental from those that are not. Suárez contributes
to this discussion by proposing that an instrumental cause is one that
“concurs in, or is elevated to, the production of something more noble
than itself ” (MD XVII.2.17, 1:590), whereas a principal cause is one that
produces its effect by means of “a power that is per se proportionate to
the effect and does not stand in need of any elevation” (MD XVII.2.18,
1:591).
The view that instrumental causes require “elevation” relies on the
general principle in Suárez that the total cause of an effect cannot be
less “noble” than that effect. In terms strikingly reminiscent of Des-
cartes, Suárez expresses this as the principle that
an effect cannot exceed in perfection all of its causes taken together.

It is proved that nothing of perfection is in the effect that it does not
have from its cause; therefore the effect can have nothing of perfec-
tion that does not preexist in any of its causes, either formally or
eminently, because causes cannot give what they in no way contain.
(MD XXVI.1.2, 1:916).
Instrumental causes are those that do not contain some perfection (that
is, some reality) in the effect, and so must be elevated by some other
cause that contains that perfection (or reality) “formally or eminently.”
In contrast, a principal cause is one that has a power that is “propor-
tionate to its effect,” that is to say, that contains this effect formally or
eminently.
For Suárez, efficient causes that contain their effects formally pro-
duce or elicit only the form of the effect, and not its matter. Such causes
146 modern
therefore contain something similar to this form—hence the notion

that they contain their effects “formally.” Efficient causes that contain
their effects eminently do not contain anything similar to what they
produce; rather, the effects are contained in a power that is “propor-
tionate” to these effects, and thus is able to produce them.
Suárez faces special problems in the case of the efficient causal rela-
tion between body and intellect. He accepted a pre-Cartesian form of
dualism, according to which purely spiritual substances, as well as the
rational souls that serve as the form of the human composite, are in-
corporeal entities that can or do exist apart from body. Moreover, he
embraced the Augustinian principle, common among the scholastics,
that such incorporeal entities are “more noble” than any material entity.
These features of Suárez’s system create difficulties for his under-
standing of the causal relation between the material “phantasms” that
he posited in the case of sensation and the “intelligible species” that he
took to be required for intellectual cognition. The difficulty in particu-
lar is that the phantasms can neither formally nor eminently contain
the species: not formally, since they do not contain them as intelligible,
but also not eminently, since they are less noble than intellect.
In light of Suárez’s distinction between instrumental and principal
efficient causes, one possible solution is to hold that the phantasms are
instrumental as opposed to principal causes of the intelligible species.
And indeed, this is a solution that Suárez offered in his Disputations,
where he claims that a phantasm “instrumentally attains to the produc-
tion of an intelligible species” (MD XVII.2.11, 1:586). However, he also
sometimes allows that the phantasm plays a less causally robust role, as
in his commentary on Aristotle’s On the Soul, where he describes the
phantasm as “only a prerequisite, or as the exciting occasion [occasio
excitans], or as exemplar, or at most, as instrument elevated by the spir-
itual light of the same soul” (Suárez 1866, 3:550).8 Though this passage
leaves open the possibility that the phantasm is an instrument for the
8 For a discussion of Suárez’s views of this relation, see Rozemond 1999, 440–44.

production of the intelligible species, the more dominant suggestion is

that it is merely an “exciting occasion” for this production. This sugges-
tion is particularly interesting in light of some of Descartes’s remarks
concerning the action of body on mind in sensation.
Given that immaterial intellects are more noble than bodies, the claim
that the former can act on the latter does not raise the concerns for Suárez
that are raised by the relation of phantasms to intelligible species. Even
so, he appeals at one point to the Aristotelian principle in Thomas that
nothing can act where it is not in support of the conclusion that in order
to act on a body as an efficient cause, a spiritual being must have “a real
and delimited presence in which it must be conjoined to a patient when
it acts on that patient” (MD XVIII.8.42, 1:666).9 Thus, for Suárez, an
immaterial entity can be a principal efficient cause of a change in a mate-
rial entity only if it has some sort of spatial position that puts it in prox-
imity to that on which it acts. This requirement holds even for God, and
indeed Suárez follows Thomas in claiming that since God can act an-
ywhere in the material world, he must be present everywhere.10 As we
will see, this is a line of argument that Descartes himself was forced to
accept.
(2) Suárez’s more general account of God’s activity as principal efficient
cause is informed by a distinction between two kinds of such causes, the first
of which “operates altogether independently,” and the second of which “is
dependent, even if it operates by means of a power that is principal and pro-
portionate” (MD XVII.2.20, 1:591). Only God can be an absolutely inde-
pendent “first cause.” However, in opposition to the “occasionalist” view that
God alone is a real cause, Suárez insists that creatures can be “secondary
causes” that produce their effects by a proportionate power that itself de-
pends ultimately on God as first cause.11
9 Suárez cites Thomas’s discussion in De Potentia q. 6, a. 7, as 12, and in De Malo q. 16, a. 1, ad 12.
10 Cf. Thomas’s discussion in ST I.8.1, and Suárez’s remarks at MD XXX.7.3, 2:95–96.
11 Suárez takes the falsity of occasionalism to be “not only absolutely evident to the senses and to
reason but also absolutely certain according to Catholic doctrine” (MD XVIII.1.5, 1:594). For discus-
sion of the historical background to occasionalism, see Perler and Rudolph 2000.
148 modern
Suárez distinguishes three ways in which God contributes as the

first efficient cause to the activity of secondary efficient causes. First,
God must create the natural world ex nihilo in order for there to be any
secondary causes at all. Secondly, God must conserve these causes at
each moment of their existence, since otherwise they would be annihi-
lated. Finally, God must concur in the actions of secondary causes in
order for these causes to be able to produce their effects.
There are two points concerning Suárez’s discussion of these three
forms of divine action that are noteworthy in the context of a consid-
eration of Descartes’s views. The first is that divine conservation is not
distinct in reality from God’s act of creation, but is merely the contin-
uation of that act. For Suárez, there is no more justification for saying
that God conserves by means of an act distinct from creation than
there is for saying that the sun continues to propagate light by means of
an act distinct from that by which it first propagated the light (MD
XXI.2.3, 1:791). In both cases, the agent is producing the very same
effect (created esse or propagated light) in the very same way (by crea-
tion ex nihilo or by propagation).
The second point that God must concur with secondary causes is set
against not only the occasionalist denial of secondary causality, but
also the “mere conservationist” position that divine creation/conserva-
tion exhausts God’s contribution to creaturely activity.12 Suárez argues
in response to the latter position that an effect of a secondary cause has
an esse that requires God’s immediate and per se causality as much for
its initial production as for its subsequent conservation. Nevertheless,
whereas on his view God immediately conserves an object at different
times by means of the same act, Suárez holds that God concurs in the
different operations of that object by means of different acts insofar as
the “concursus” by which God acts with that object “will vary accord-
ing to the variety of the actions” (MD XXII.4.8, 1:831). Thus, for
12 This position is most often identified with Durandus of Saint-Pourçain, a fourteenth-century
Dominican. For discussion of Durandus’s mere conservationism, see Schmaltz 2008a, 19–24.
Suárez, divine concurrence allows for a kind of inconstancy in the

effect that is not present in the case of divine conservation. We will
need to return to the implication here that concursus differs in kind
from conservation when considering the appeal in Descartes’s physics
to God’s “ordinary concursus.”
2. Descartes
In contrast to Suárez, Descartes did not bequeath to posterity an ex-

tended treatise on the nature of causality. Nevertheless, he did indicate
a decided preference for explanations that employ efficient causes.
Thus, in the Principles of Philosophy (1644) he asserts that in explaining
natural events in terms of “God or nature,” we should consider God “as
the efficient cause of all things” (AT 8-1:16/CSM 1:202).13 Moreover,
several major features of his system depend on a particular under-
standing of efficient causation. This is clear from the Third Meditation
(the Meditations were first published 1641), where Descartes claims
not only that an efficient cause must “contain” the reality of its effect,
but also that the act by which he is conserved in existence differs only
“in reason” from the act of his initial creation ex nihilo. It also is a cen-
tral thesis of his physics that efficient causal explanations of bodily
interactions are grounded in the immutability of God’s “ordinary con-
cursus.” Finally, the issue of efficient causality is obviously relevant to
what Bernard Williams has called “the scandal of Cartesian interac-
tionism,” which derives from the fact that there is “something deeply
mysterious about the interaction which Descartes’s theory required
between two items of totally disparate natures, the immaterial soul, and
the [pineal] gland or any other part of an extended body” (Williams
1978, 287). I consider in turn these three aspects of Descartes’s account
of efficient causation.
13 Although I cite standard translations, all translations in the text are my own.
150 modern
2.1. Causal Axioms
In the Second Replies (part of the Objections and Replies published

with the Meditations), Descartes draws attention to two “axioms or
common notions” that are central to his system. The first of these
axioms is that “whatever is of reality or perfection in something is for-
mally or eminently in the first and adequate cause of it,” whereas the
second is that “no less a cause is required to conserve a thing than to
produce it at first” (AT 7:165/CSM 2:116). I call the first the “contain-
ment axiom,” and the second the “conservation axiom.”
(1) The containment axiom is crucial for the two arguments in the
Third Meditation for the existence of God, both of which require that
the cause of our idea of God formally contain everything that is con-
tained “objectively” in this idea (AT 7:40-47, 48-51/CSM 2:29-32, 33-
35). However, it also is required for the argument for the material
world in the Sixth Meditation, which has as its conclusion that the
cause of the objective reality of our sensory ideas is not something
“more noble than body” that contains this reality only eminently,
but rather a body that formally contains this reality (AT 7:79–80/
CSM 2:55).
In order to understand the containment axiom, however, one must
first understand what it means for an efficient cause to contain its effect
“formally or eminently.” We have seen that Suárez invokes these same
notions, understanding formal containment to involve the existence in
the cause of the form of the effect, and eminent containment to be the
presence in a cause that does not contain the effect formally of a pro-
portionate power to produce that effect.14 However, Descartes offers a
somewhat different explication of these notions, holding that things
14 It is clear that Descartes had some knowledge of Suárez’s Disputations, since at one point in his
Fourth Replies he appealed to a passage from this text in support of his conception of “material fal-
sity” (AT 7:235/CSM 2:164). However, the scholastic principle that the cause must contain its effect
“formally or eminently” was not unique to Suárez, and it is possible that Descartes learned it from
some other scholastic source.
“are said to be formally in the objects of ideas, when they are such as we
perceive them [talia sunt in ipsis qualia illa percipimus], and eminently,
when they are not such [as we perceive], but so great that they can take
the place of such things [that are such as we perceive] [quando non
quidem talia sunt, sed tanta, ut talium vicem supplere possint]” (AT
7:161/CSM 2:114). But since this explication can hardly be said to be
transparent, we must turn to particular examples.
In the Third Meditation, Descartes illustrates the nature of formal con-
tainment by noting that heat cannot be induced in a subject “unless from a
cause of at least the same order of perfection as heat” (AT 7:41/CSM
2:28). Similarly, Suárez earlier used the case of “fire when generating
fire” as an example of a “univocal cause,” that is, one which “effects an effect
of the same kind” (efficit effectum ejusdem rationis) (MD XVII.2.21, 1:591).
Yet the specific accounts that Suárez and Descartes offer of the sort of
containment present in this particular case differ. Whereas Suárez held
that the heat of both the generating and generated fire is a real accident
that is distinct from the fire itself, Descartes rejects the containment of
any such accident in a purely material being. In Descartes’s view, the phys-
ical heat (as opposed to the sensation of heat) that the body contains
and produces can be only a certain kind of local motion of its parts.15
However, the difference between physical heat and the sensation of
heat seems to undermine the implication of the Sixth Meditation that
bodies formally contain the objective reality of our sensory ideas. For
it seems that in the case of heat, there is nothing in the body that is
“such as we perceive.” So how can it be said that the body formally
contains the objective reality of our sensation of heat? One option
here is to hold that this sensation has no objective reality. But without
the assumption that sensory ideas have an objective reality that re-
quires a cause, the argument in the Sixth Meditation could not even
get off the ground. Another option, however, is to hold that sensory
15 See, for instance, Descartes’s account of heat in his early work The World, at AT 11:7–10/CSM
1:83–84”si
152 modern
ideas are “such as” we perceive only in a very attenuated sense. In par-
ticular, the view could be that bodies formally contain what is in our
sensory ideas only in the sense that they possess the bodily qualities to
which the ideas direct the mind. Thus, in the case of heat, bodies pos-
sess the certain kind of local motion of parts that our sensation of heat
serves to pick out in the material world.16
According to Descartes, eminent containment covers cases where
the cause differs in nature from the effect, and so cannot contain this
effect “such as we perceive it.” However, contemporary critics such as
Dasie Radner have objected that Descartes in fact has no coherent
conception of eminent containment, and thus no clear explanation of
a case in which a cause produces an effect that differs in nature from it
(Radner 1985b, 232, 233–34). This objection is behind the charge in
Radner and others that Descartes’s containment axiom in fact pre-
cludes the causal interaction of objects with different natures. In par-
ticular, it precludes the interaction of mind and body given that, for
Descartes, the mind as a thinking thing differs in nature from the body
as an extended thing.17
It must be admitted that Descartes’s explication of eminent contain-
ment is unsatisfactory insofar as it fails to fit his own example of such
containment in the Sixth Meditation. There Descartes considers the
containment of the objective reality of our sensory ideas either in God
or in something “more noble than body,” namely, some finite thinking
thing.18 With respect to this example, it is not the case that what is emi-
nently contained in the object of our idea is something so great that it
can take the place of what we perceive in the object. For one thing, the
objects that contain the reality of our sensory ideas are neither God
nor things more noble than body, but rather bodies themselves. Bodily
16 See Schmaltz 2008a, 66–67.

17 See Radner 1985a. Cf. Gorham 2003. For the apologetic rejoinder that Descartes’s view of causa-
tion allows for the causal interaction of dissimilar objects, and thus for genuine mind-body interac-
tion, see Richardson 1982; Richardson 1985; Loeb 1985; and O’Neill 1987.
18 See, for instance, Descartes’s claim to Elisabeth that our soul “is much more noble [beaucoup plus
noble] than body” (AT 4:292/CSMK 265).
qualities are supposed to be eminently contained in some object that dif-

fers from the objects of our sensory ideas insofar as that object has fea-
tures that are “so great” that they can “take the place of ” such qualities.
Another option for Descartes is to follow Suárez in identifying em-
inent containment of an effect with containment in a “proportionate
power” to produce that effect.19 However, this option seems to conflict
with Descartes’s view in one of the rare texts from outside of the Medi-
tations in which he explicitly discusses eminent containment. This text
is from a 1641 exchange with his pseudonymous critic “Hyperaspistes.”
This critic objected that in Descartes’s view, “since a corporeal thing is
not more noble than the idea that the mind has of it, and mind con-
tains bodies eminently, it follows that all bodies, and thus the whole of
this visible world, can be produced by the human mind” (AT 3:404).
Such an implication is said to be problematic insofar as it undermines
our confidence that God alone created the visible world. In response,
Descartes does not dispute that our mind eminently contains the vis-
ible world, but only protests that we can produce “not, as objected, the
whole of this visible world, but the idea of the whole of things that are
in this visible world” (AT 3:428/CSMK 193). The suggestion here is
that the whole visible world is eminently contained in our mind in the
sense that we have the power to produce the idea of this world. In ap-
plying this suggestion to the example in the Sixth Meditation, we have
the view that minds can eminently contain bodily qualities in virtue
of the fact that they have the power to produce the reality present ob-
jectively in our sensory ideas of those qualities.20
(2) Descartes’s conservation axiom is crucial for his second argu-
ment for the existence of God in the Third Meditation, which relies on
the premise that he needs a cause of his existence at each moment at
which he exists. In support of this premise, Descartes claims:
19 For an analysis of eminent containment along these lines, see O’Neill 1987.
20 For further discussion of this understanding of eminent containment, see Schmaltz 2008a, 67–71.
154 modern
[S]ince the whole time of life can be divided into innumerable parts,
each single one of which depends in no way on the remaining, from
the fact that I was shortly before, it does not follow that I must be
now, unless some cause as it were creates me anew at this moment
[me quasi rursus creet ad hoc momentum], that is conserves me. For it
is perspicuous to those attending to the nature of time that entirely
the same force and action [eadem . . . vi et actione] plainly is needed
to conserve a thing at each single moment during which it endures,
as would be needed to create it anew, if it did not yet exist; to the
extent that conservation differing solely by reason from creation is
also one of those things that is manifest by the natural light. (AT
7:49 / CSM 2:33)
In the Fifth Objections, Gassendi challenges the appeal to the conser-

vation axiom in this passage by claiming that Descartes could have a
power to conserve himself that is not a power to create himself anew,
but rather a power “that suffices to guarantee that you are preserved
unless a corrupting cause intervenes” (AT 7:302/CSM 2:210). How-
ever, Descartes responds that the claim that conservation in existence
requires the “continual action of the original cause” is “something that all
Metaphysicians affirm as manifest.” Drawing on remarks from Thomas
Aquinas, he invokes the distinction between the causa secundum fieri,
or “cause of becoming,” and the causa secundum esse, or “cause of being.”
Whereas a house can continue to exist without the continuing activity
of the builder as its cause of becoming, light cannot continue to exist
without the continuing activity of the sun insofar as the latter serves as
its cause of being. Since God is the cause of the being of creatures, his
continuing activity is required for their continued conservation (AT
7:369/CSM 2:254–55).21
There is an established tradition of taking the Third Meditation pas-
sage to indicate that temporal duration is not continuous, but rather a
21 For this distinction in Thomas, see ST I.104.1.

discontinuous collection of indivisible moments, each of which God

needs to create anew.22 However, it is significant that Descartes claims
in the passage from the Third Meditation not that God re-creates the
world anew at each moment, but merely that he does so “as it were”
(quasi). In fact, the position here is only that the same level of power
needed to create a thing anew is required to conserve that thing in
existence. Moreover, it is significant that when Thomas discusses the
distinction Descartes cites between causes of becoming and causes
of being, he emphasizes that God conserves creatures in existence
“not by a new action, but by a continuation of that action whereby he
gives being” (ST I.104.1, ad 4). This position is of course connected to
Suárez’s insistence that there is only a “distinction of reason” between
God’s act of conserving a being in existence and his initial act of creat-
ing that thing.
There is evidence in Descartes—from texts both early and late—that
he understands his conservation axiom in this Suárezian manner. Thus
earlier, in the Discourse on the Method (1637), he endorses the “opinion
commonly received among the theologians” that “the action by which
[God] now conserves [the world] is entirely the same as [toute la mesme
que] that by which he has created it” (AT 6:45/CSM 1:133), and later, in
the Principles, he writes that “the world now continues to be conserved
by the same action [eadem actione] as created it then” (AT 8-1:66/CSM
1:243).23 When Descartes says in the Third Meditation that conservation
differs solely by reason from creation, then, he means just what Suárez
meant, namely, that these two acts are not merely similar in kind, but
rather token identical. As we will see, this understanding of Descartes’s
containment axiom has significant ramifications for his account in
physics of God’s activity as the primary efficient cause of motion.
22 Perhaps the classical source for this reading in the secondary literature is Smith 1902, 73–74. How-
ever, it has been picked up in the subsequent French and English literature. See, for instance,
Gilson 1925, 340–42; Gueroult 1953, 1:275; and Gabbey 1980, 302 n. 40. For a recent example of this
line of interpretation, see Machamer and McGuire 2009.
23 For a more complete defense of this reading of Descartes’s account of divine conservation, see
Schmaltz 2008a, 71–84.
156 modern
2.2. Causation in Physics
In his Principles, Descartes introduces the distinction in his physics be-

tween the “universal and primary cause” of motion, which he identifies
with God, and the “particular and secondary causes” of motion, which
he identifies with “rules or laws of nature” (AT 8-1:61-62/CSM 1:240).
The distinction indicated here is between God as general cause of the
total quantity of motion, which is the sum of the quantities of motions
in particular moving bodies, measured by the products of the vol-
umes of those bodies and the speeds of their motions, and particular
causes that produce changes in the distributions of that quantity.
Descartes also speaks of God as conserving the total quantity solely by
means of his “ordinary concursus,” and thus seems to accept a version
of the sort of concurrentism we find in Suárez.24
However, it turns out that Suárez’s account of divine conservation,
rather than his account of God’s concursus, is most relevant to Des-
cartes’s understanding of God’s activity as the primary cause of motion.
For in the Principles, Descartes indicates that God’s ordinary concur-
sus consists in the fact that he “now conserves the whole of this matter
in the same way and with the same plan [ratione] by which he first
created it” (AT 8-1:62/CSM 1:240). It is because the ordinary concur-
sus involves the conservation of not only the being of bodies, but also
the total quantity of their motion, that body–body interactions cannot
involve overall gains or losses of motion.
Descartes’s claim in the Principles that “rules or laws of nature” (re-
gulae sive leges naturae) are “particular and secondary causes” (AT
8-1:62/CSM 1:240) will perhaps strike one as odd. From a Humean
perspective that remains prominent today, such rules or laws are mere
empirical generalizations, hardly the sort of entity that could serve as
a cause. However, in Descartes’s first and third laws, which are most
relevant to changes in the distribution of the quantity of motion
24 There has been some attempt recently to read Descartes as endorsing a version of concurrentism.
See, for instance, Pessin 2003 and Hattab 2007.
among particular bodies, the indication seems to be that the source of

secondary causality is in the bodies themselves. For the third law ap-
peals to changes that are due to the “force for proceeding” in motion
(vis pergendum) and the “force for resisting” new motion (vis resisten-
dum) (AT 8-1:65/CSM 1:242). When he addresses the question of
the nature of these forces, Descartes appeals to his first law, accord-
ing to which everything “insofar as it is simple and undivided, always
perseveres in the same state, insofar as in it lies [quantum in se est], and
never changes except by external causes” (AT 8-1:62/CSM 1:240). By
the seventeenth century, there was a tradition of using the phrase
‘quantum in se est’ to indicate that which derives from the nature (ex
natura sua), internal force (sua vi) or spontaneity (sponte sua) of an ob-
ject.25 The first law thus suggests that causation in the material world
involves not only God’s immutable action, but also a certain nature in
a body that explains its tendency to persist in its same state quantum
in se est.
To be sure, there is the claim in the Principles that the third law is
due to the immutability of God’s conservation of the world (that is, his
ordinary concursus). It is certainly possible to read Descartes’s talk of
inherent forces and tendencies—as Daniel Garber, for instance, has
recently—as a mere façon de parler, a way of describing the changes
that God alone produces by means of his continuing conservation of
the material world (Garber 1992, 298).26 And there seems to be a clear
motivation for this sort of occasionalist reading. For on Descartes’s
official position in the Principles, “extension in length, breadth, and
depth constitutes the nature of corporeal substance,” and thus “every-
thing else that can be attributed to body presupposes extension, and
is merely a mode of an extended thing” (AT 8-1:25/CSM 1:210). It ap-
pears that whatever forces for persisting or resisting are, they cannot be
mere modes of extension akin to various shapes and motions.
25 See Cohen 1964, which traces the phrase back to Lucretius.

26 Cf. Hatfield 1979.
158 modern
However, one could take the first law to indicate that bodies have a
tendency to persist in their states of motion and rest if left to them-
selves. This persistence has varying strengths, which, in the case of
motion, depends on the quantity of the motion (measured by the
product of volume and speed). So what explains the fact that a moving
body gives to the body with which it collides a new motion is the fact
that the former has a tendency to persist in its state of motion that is
stronger than, and thus overcomes, the tendency of the latter to persist
in its state. This interpretation derives from a “causal realist” reading
of Descartes’s physics in the literature, which has provided the main
alternative to occasionalist readings of Descartes.27 On this nonocca-
sionalist reading, the claim that the laws are particular causes indicates
merely that the laws express features of bodies that themselves are the
causes of changes in motion. There is a presumption that God contin-
ues to conserve the same overall quantity of motion and rest, but the
changes derive directly from what each body possesses quantum in se est.
But even if one accepts a causal realist reading of Descartes’s physics,
Suárez’s discussion raises the further question of whether this physics re-
quires concurrentism or rather mere conservationism. Though Descartes’s
use of the notion of ordinary concursus may seem to settle the issue in
favor of the former option, we have seen that he does not clearly distin-
guish such a concursus from God’s conservation of bodies and the total
quantity of their motion. Moreover, it is perhaps significant here that one
of Descartes’s scholastic critics accused him of conflating God’s concursus
with his conservation. Thus Jacobus Revius, the author of Suarez repurga-
tus, takes issue this account when he announced in a 1650 text that
I am ashamed for the love of God, I am ashamed about your igno-

rance, Descartes. That such a great philosopher as yourself has not
learned to distinguish between conservation and concursus!28
27 This interpretation is found in Gueroult 1980 and Gabbey 1980. For an articulation of the inherent
tendencies in terms of the modes of the duration of bodies and their states, see Schmaltz 2008a, 116–21.
28 Cited in Ruler 1995, 276.
For Suárez, it was crucial to distinguish the action of divine conserva-

tion of a creature, which God brings about on his own, from his con-
cursus with that creature, which requires some causal contribution on
the creature’s part. But in identifying God’s ordinary concursus with
his conservation, and in identifying the latter with his act of creation,
Descartes seems to leave no room for the special sort of cooperative
action that Suárez’s concurrentism requires.29
2.3. Cartesian Interactionism
I have mentioned “the scandal of Cartesian interactionism,” the pur-

ported problem for mind–body interaction that derives from the fact
that mind and body have heterogeneous natures. It is sometimes
thought that this “heterogeneity problem” is central to the challenge to
Descartes in Princess Elisabeth’s famous correspondence with him
concerning mind–body interaction. However, in light of Suárez’s dis-
cussion of the causal relation between intellect and body, it is sig-
nificant that Elisabeth suggests two different problems for Cartesian
interaction. The first, which she introduces in her initial 1643 letter
to Descartes, is that it seems that the human soul cannot “determine
the bodily spirits” given that it is not in actual contact with body (AT
3:661). The second, which she offers in a later 1643 letter, is that it is
“very difficult to comprehend that the soul, as you have described it,
after having had the faculty and habit of reasoning well, can lose all
that by some vapors, and that, being able to subsist without the body
and having nothing in common with it, it is so ruled by it” (AT 3:684-
85). The claim that the soul has “nothing in common” with the body
that acts on it may seem to suggest the heterogeneity problem. How-
ever, the concern here is not so much that the soul and body have dif-
ferent natures, but rather that the soul has a power of reasoning that is
29 From another perspective, this point may seem to support an occasionalist reading of Descartes’s
physics: if God’s ordinary concursus brings about all effects of body–body interactions, and if this
concursus is something God must do on his own, then God is indeed the only real cause in physics.
160 modern
superior to bodily vapors, and thus should be unaffected by them.30

The heterogeneity problem is supposed to preclude the interaction of
any objects with heterogeneous natures, and so given Descartes’s du-
alism raises the same problem for interaction in each direction. But
whereas for Elisabeth the problem for mind-to-body action derives
from the fact that the mind cannot determine bodily spirits given that
it lacks extension, the problem she raises for body-to-mind action in
the passage just cited derives from the fact that the mind has a faculty
of reason that sets it above the body.
Descartes responds to the problem concerning mind-to-body action
by appealing to a distinction among three kinds of “primitive notions.”
The first is “the notion of extension, from which follows those of shape
and motion,” the second the notion “of thought, in which are included
the perceptions of the understanding and the inclinations of the will,”
and the third the notion of soul–body union, “on which depends that
of the force that the soul has to move the body, and the body to act
[d’agir] on the soul, in causing [causant] its sensations and passions”
(AT 3:665/CSMK 218). To illustrate the distinctive nature of the
notion of the union, Descartes appeals to the scholastic account of
heaviness in terms of the quality of weight (pesanteur). On that ac-
count, this quality consists simply in “the force to move the body in
which it is toward the center of the earth,” and even though the quality
is supposed to be something superadded to body, and so be distinct
from it, “we have no difficulty in conceiving how it moves this body
or how it is joined to it; and we never think that [motion] is made by
a real contact between two surfaces, because we experience in our-
selves that we have a particular notion to conceive it.” This notion is
simply that of the union, or more particularly of the force of the soul to
move the body. Descartes emphasizes that we misuse this notion when
we use it to conceive of the action of the scholastic quality of weight,
30 There is a further defense of this interpretation of Elisabeth’s challenge to Cartesian interac-
tionism in Schmaltz, forthcoming.
since this quality “is nothing really distinct from body, as I hope to
show in my Physics” (AT 3:667–68/CSMK 219). Even so, the point of
the analogy is to draw Elisabeth’s attention to the fact that the notion
provides a manner of conceiving of the action of the soul on body, de-
spite the fact that it is something that is really distinct from body.
It seems to be significant here that the scholastic quality of heaviness
is supposed to be located at the same place where the heavy body is.
Descartes’s analogy therefore suggests that we conceive the soul to be
co-located with the body to which it is united. Indeed, in response to
Elisabeth’s claim that “it would be easier for me to concede matter and
extension to the soul than to concede the capacity to move a body and
to be moved by it to an immaterial thing” (AT 3:685), Descartes re-
sponded that she should “feel free to attribute this matter and this ex-
tension to the soul,” keeping in mind however that “the extension of
this matter is of another nature than the extension of this thought,
in that the first is determined to a certain place, from which it excludes
all other bodies, and this is not the case with the second” (AT 3:694-
95/CSMK 228).
Descartes does not simply drop the claim in his correspondence
with Elisabeth that the soul can be conceived to have some kind of ex-
tension. This claim also plays a central role in his 1648–49 correspond-
ence with Henry More. More took exception to Descartes’s doctrine
that the nature of body consists in extension on the grounds that “God,
and an angel, truly any other thing subsisting per se, is a res extensa”
(AT 5:238). For More, anything that exists must be somewhere, and so
must have an extension. Whatever lacks extension can only be no-
where, and thus be nothing. This explains why More later charged that
those who follow Descartes in taking minds to lack extension are
“Nullibists”—literally, nowherists.31
Descartes does deny in his initial response to More that “real exten-
sion [veram extensionem], as commonly conceived by everyone, is found
31 More makes this charge in the 1671 Enchiridion Metaphysicum (More 1995, 27.2).
162 modern
either in God, or in angels, or in our mind, or in any substance that is

not a body” (AT 5:269–70/CSMK 361). The emphasis here is on the
fact that extension cannot be essential to immaterial substances since
such substances could exist even if there were no extension. However,
in a later letter he admits that even though minds do not have “an ex-
tension of substance” (extensio substantiae), nonetheless they do have
an “extension of power” (extensio potentiae), as shown by the fact that
“an angel can exercise its power now in a greater, now in a lesser part of
corporeal substance” (AT 5:342/CSMK 372–73). What may seem
strange, on a contemporary understanding of Descartes’s dualism, is
that he attributed any sort of extension to the mind. In light of Suárez’s
discussion, however, this attribution is not only not unusual, but also
understandable as a means of avoiding action at a distance, or at least
action without proximity, in the case of mind-to-body action.32
In his correspondence with Elisabeth, Descartes never did directly
address her suggestion, with respect to body-to-mind action, that the
soul is too noble to be ruled over by the body. However, it is signifi-
cant, particularly in light of occasionalist readings of his physics, that
Descartes told her that the body has the power to act on the soul and
to cause its sensory states. Yet Descartes also seems at times to weaken
the causal relation of body to mind in sensation. There is, for instance,
his striking remark in the Comments on a Certain Broadsheet (1648)
that motions in the brain do not transmit sensory ideas to the mind,
but merely “transmit something that gives occasion [dedit occasionem]
to itself [i.e., the mind] to form [the ideas], at this time rather than an-
other, by means of a faculty innate to it” (AT 8-2:359/CSM 1:304). The
question raised by Suárez’s discussion of the relation of phantasms to
intelligible species is whether the claim that brain motions merely
“give occasion” indicates that they are not real efficient causes of the
sensory ideas.
32 But cf. the view in Reid 2008 that on balance the evidence favors the view that Descartes took the
“extension of power” to require only a location for the effects of that power, and not for thing that has
that power.
Janet Broughton has argued that Descartes’s containment axiom in

fact requires that “the mind alone causes sensations” (Broughton 1986,
118). It is clear that bodies cannot eminently contain sensory ideas. But
Broughton takes the Comments passage to indicate that they cannot
formally contain them either. Given the containment axiom, then,
bodies cannot be real efficient causes of sensory ideas.
However, Descartes explicitly restricted the containment axiom
to “the first and adequate,” or, as he expressed the point elsewhere (see
AT 3:274/CSMK 166), the “efficient and total” cause. This restriction
seems to leave open the possibility that the bodily motions that merely
give occasion to the mind are partial efficient causes that act with the
mind to form sensory ideas. Of course, there is still the question of
whether these motions can contain anything in the mind formally
or eminently, and thus whether they can be efficient causes of any-
thing that is produced in sensation. Yet the indication in the Sixth
Meditation is that it is the motions, and ultimately the external bodily
features that give rise to them, that formally contain what is objectively
in the sensory ideas.
The fact that there is any problem at all in this case reflects the sig-
nificance of the scholastic influence on Descartes’s theory of causation.
Descartes could have held, in anticipation of Hume, that “any thing
may produce any thing,” and thus that there is nothing to preclude a
bodily event from being the cause of a mental event.33 However, Des-
cartes shared with the scholastics the non-Humean assumption that
(total or adequate) efficient causes must bear an intelligible relation to
their effects in virtue of “containing” them. Moreover, we have seen
that Descartes’s views on types of efficient causation other than that
involved in mind–body interaction—for instance, the type of causa-
tion involved in divine creation/conservation and body–body interac-
tions in physics—also rely on scholastic assumptions. Of course, this is
33 Treatise of Human Nature 1.3.15 (Hume 2007, 116). Cf. the claim in 1.4.5 that given the principle
that any thing may produce any thing, we can say that “motion may be, and actually is, the cause of
thought and perception” (Hume 2007, 162).
164 modern
not to deny that Descartes deviated from the scholastic line; indeed, I
have highlighted some of his significant departures from the account
of efficient causes in Suárez. Nevertheless, it remains true that the notion
of efficient causation that Descartes reformulated was in certain funda-
mental respects still a scholastic one.
Abbreviations
csmk = Descartes 1991
md = Suárez 2009, cited by disputation, section, paragraph, and
volume and page.
st = Thomas Aquinas 1964–81, cited by part, question, and article
chapter six
Efficient Causation in Spinoza

and Leibniz
Martin Lin
Early modern philosophers, nearly without exception, believe that

causes necessitate their effects. If the cause exists or occurs, then the
effect must also exist or occur. This “must” is understood by the early
moderns in the strongest possible sense. There are absolutely no pos-
sible circumstances, they believe, in which the cause exists or occurs
but the effect does not. We could say that, according to the early mod-
erns, the sense of necessity with which causes necessitate their effects is
absolute or logical necessity. This is the opinion of Hobbes,1 Descartes,2
Locke,3 Malebranche,4 Spinoza, and, I will argue, Leibniz. Even Hume,
who denied that the causal relation is a necessary connection, assumed
1 Hobbes 2011, II.9.3.
2 AT 7:70/CSM 2:48. I am here relying upon the reading of this text according to which the argu-
ment presupposes that causal connections are absolutely necessary sound; see Sleigh 1990, 176.
3 Locke 1975, IV.iii.25, 556.
4 OCM 2:316/LO 450.
165
166 modern
that, if it were, it would be absolutely or logically necessary.5 That they

thought so has struck many as mysterious.6 It might seem mysterious
to a contemporary philosopher because we are accustomed to seeing
causation not as a relation of absolute necessity but of dependence, or
probability raising, or some kind of necessity weaker than absolute.
And even the historically informed philosopher who conscientiously
endeavors to resist anachronism has reason to be surprised. The medi-
evals typically thought that causal necessity was weaker than logical or
absolute necessity, so there was a historical precedent for understand
ing causal necessity as a kind of necessity weaker than logical or abso-
lute necessity. Why did the early moderns think otherwise?
Before approaching this question, it will be worthwhile to consider
the reasons why many philosophers have thought that causal connec-
tions are not absolutely necessary. There are at least four reasons for think
ing so: (1) causes depend on background conditions, (2) causation is
probabilistic, (3) the laws of nature are not necessary, and (4) miracles.
Let us briefly consider each of these reasons.
DEPENDENCE: Causes appear to depend on background condi-
tions. Striking the match ignited it. But it wouldn’t have in a vacuum.
That there is oxygen in the environment is a background condition
upon which the causal connection depends. Because this condition is
merely contingent, there are possible circumstances in which the strik-
ing doesn’t ignite the match. Thus, there is no necessary connection
between the striking and the ignition. If the match hadn’t been struck,
however, the match would not have ignited. The ignition depends on
the striking, although it is not necessitated by it. For this reason, many
philosophers have concluded that causation is a relation of dependence
but not necessity. “Dependence” thus has a double meaning in this
context. First, causes depend on their background conditions. Conse-
quently, effects merely depend on their causes.
5 Hume 1978, 168. See Chapter 8 in this volume for more on Hume’s account of causation.
6 Such puzzlement is registered by Steven Nadler, for example, in Nadler 1996.
efficient causation in spinoza and leibniz 167
PROBABILISTIC CAUSATION: We could insist that the total

or complete cause necessitates and the striking was merely a partial
cause. On this view, the total cause includes what are, perhaps for
pragmatic reasons, pushed into the so-called background condi-
tions. Even so, there is reason to doubt that the laws that govern the
evolution of the world are deterministic. If the fundamental laws
are genuinely probabilistic, then causes can necessitate nothing more
than probability distributions. Paradigmatic effects are not them-
selves probability distributions. Rather it is possible effects over which
probabilities are distributed. Thus, such effects themselves are not ne-
cessitated.
CONTINGENT LAWS: If a contemporary philosopher still be-
lieves, despite these considerations, that causes necessitate their effects,
she likely also believes that the kind of necessity involved is something
far short of logical or absolute necessity. The force, energy, or power
encompassed by a given state of the world necessitates its future states,
but not with the same strength that the premises of a logically valid
argument entail its conclusion. For example, the direction that these
powers or forces push the world depends upon the laws of nature.
These laws, many believe, are themselves contingent. We can, it is al-
leged, conceive of the world as governed by different laws. We can, or
so Hume insisted, conceive of bread failing to nourish a man.7 We
might be inclined, therefore, to identify causal necessity with natural
necessity. Translated into the idiom of possible worlds, we could say
that causes necessitate their effects in the sense that, in every world in
which the laws are as they are in the actual world, the effect follows the
cause.
MIRACLES: Earlier philosophers had other reasons for doubting
that causation is an absolutely or logically necessary connection. The
medievals often believed that the natural powers of creatures could be
7 Hume 1999, §4.
168 modern
overridden by the miraculous intervention of God.8 The striking of the

match naturally causes it to ignite, but a miracle could block this nat-
ural consequence. Hence, it is not absolutely or logically necessary that
the striking causes the ignition.
Against this backdrop, the prevalence of the view that causes abso-
lutely necessitate their effects in the early modern period is surprising.
We are unaccustomed to regard the causal relation as absolutely neces-
sary, conditioned as we are by the arguments of more recent philoso-
phers to the contrary. And there were already historical precedents
that should have alerted the early moderns to the possibility that causal
necessity is not absolute. Once the option of less than absolute causal
necessity is on the table, how could a reasonable philosopher think
otherwise?
I will not attempt a completely general answer to this question here.
Instead I will focus on just two philosophers, Spinoza and Leibniz. Al-
though it is far more obvious in the case of Spinoza than Leibniz, I will
argue that both philosophers hold that causal necessity is absolute. I will
attempt further to find the reasons that stand behind their conviction. It
is reasonable to hope that once we understand the reasons why these two
philosophers believed that causal necessity is absolute, we will have a
better idea of why the idea was so widespread in the period. I am afraid,
however, that I must confess from the outset that some of my conclu-
sions will be disappointing. I will argue that the reasons of Spinoza and
Leibniz do not generalize, and so much of the mystery is left unsolved.
Before proceeding, it will be useful to say a few words about kinds
of necessity: logical, metaphysical, absolute, natural, causal, and so on.
If we are to answer the questions under discussion in this chapter, then
we need to have some clarity on the notion of kinds of necessity. Kinds
8 See, for example, Thomas Aquinas 1932–34, Qu. 1, art. 3–5. Walter Ott argues that it is a mistake to
read the medievals as holding that causal necessity is not absolute, because he thinks that miracles in-
volve a withdrawal of divine concurrence, which is a condition for causation (see Ott 2009). The
above-cited text of Aquinas, however, does not contain a discussion of divine concurrence, which
would be surprising if it were the key to his thought on miracles. So, at least some medievals did not
see the situation as Ott describes it.
of necessity can be thought of as what is necessary provided that some

condition is met. Natural necessity, for example, is sometimes thought
of as what is necessary given that the actual laws of nature hold. Causal
necessity would then be what is necessary given that the actual features
that ground causation hold. Whether or not causal and natural neces-
sity are the same turns on whether or not the laws of nature are all the
features that ground causation.
1. Spinoza
The notion of causation plays a central role in Spinoza’s philosophy. He

claims that God is self-caused as well as the efficient cause of both the
essences and existence of his creatures. He says that God is the cause of
himself in the same sense that he is the cause of his creatures, and so he
is the efficient cause of himself. He also says that the causal powers of
finite things are rooted in a striving for self-preservation. And, perhaps
most famously, he launches a ferocious attack on the notion of divine
providence and the notion of final causation that it involves.9 How
does Spinoza understand causation? In particular, how does he under-
stand causal necessity? I will begin by presenting the textual evidence
to support the view that Spinoza thought that causal necessity was ab-
solute. Next, I will consider the question of why Spinoza believes that
causal necessity is absolute by first exploring some promising but ulti-
mately failed attempts to explain it, and then by presenting my own
solution. Finally, I will argue that the considerations that lead other
philosophers to deny that causal necessity is absolute would not move
Spinoza due to his larger philosophical commitments.
The textual evidence that Spinoza thought that causal necessity is
absolute is unequivocal. In 1a3 of his Ethics, Spinoza writes: “From a
9 Whether or not Spinoza rejects all final causation is a controversial issue. Some commentators,
most notably Don Garrett, have argued that Spinoza’s conatus doctrine is teleological and hence that
Spinoza anticipates Leibniz in reintroducing final causation into early modern metaphysics. See
Garrett 1999.
170 modern
given determinate cause the effect follows necessarily; and conversely,

if there is no determinate cause, it is impossible for an effect to follow.”10
This indicates that Spinoza views causation as a necessary connection,
but it leaves unspecified the strength of the necessity involved. Other
texts, however, show that Spinoza thinks that the kind of necessity in-
volved is absolute or logical. In 1p16 Spinoza glides from the claim that
from the definition of God follows infinitely many things to the claim
that God is the efficient cause of infinitely many things. Nothing pre-
pares us for this transition, and he presents it without argument as if it
ought to be obvious. What is more, in the scholium to the very next
proposition, he directly compares the necessity of God’s efficient cau-
sality to logical or mathematical necessity. There he claims that it
would be equally absurd if God could bring it about that the interior
angles of a triangle are not equal to two right angles and if God could
bring it about that an effect didn’t follow from a given cause. It is
striking that he characterizes the scenario in which an effect wouldn’t
follow from its cause as absurd. This suggests that Spinoza would regard
such failure as not merely contrary to nature, but also contrary to reason.
And he explicitly asserts that the kind of necessity involved in causal
relations is the very same kind as is involved in logical or mathematical
relations. We can see plainly that Spinoza believed that causal necessity
is logical necessity. But why did he believe this?
Perhaps the answer can be found in Spinoza’s causal criteria for good
definitions. Spinoza thinks that good definitions must include, in case
of created things, the proximate causes of a thing.11 He also thinks that
good definitions are such that we can deduce all of the definiendum’s
properties from its definition.12 He goes on to offer a similar treatment
of the definitions of uncreated things (presumably what he will call
10 Does Spinoza here mean to restrict the axiom to “determinate” causes? Are there indeterminate
causes to which the axiom applies? I am not aware of any evidence that Spinoza believes the bizarre
proposition that there are indeterminate things. I read the axiom as meaning that from a specific cause
a specific effect follows.
11 TEdI 96, G 2:35/CWS 40.
12 G 2:35/CWS 40.
“self-caused” things in the Ethics.) The relevant conditions on such

things are:
That it should exclude every cause, that is, that the object should
require nothing else except its own being for its explanation [ . . . ] Fi-
nally (though it is not very necessary to note this) it is required that
all its properties be inferred from its definition. (TEdI 97, G 2:35 /
CWS 40)
In these texts we find Spinoza relating definitions to causes in two

ways. First, if a thing is created, then its definition must specify its
causes. This establishes a necessary connection between cause and
effect. Indeed, it specifies an absolutely necessary connection between
cause and effect. If, for example, it is part of the definition of human
beings that they are produced by other human beings, then it is no
more possible that a human being come from nonhuman animals or
from the swamp than that a bachelor could be married.
But there are two difficulties with this explanation of Spinoza’s
views. First, the necessity runs from effect to cause. If the cause is part
of the definition of the effect, then the definition of the effect entails or
necessitates the cause rather than the cause necessitating the effect.
Second, this condition is compatible with causes that don’t necessi-
tate.13 For example, suppose a thing is the result of a probabilistic cause.
Then, according to Spinoza, the cause must be included in the defini-
tion. It is thus true by definition that the definiendum has this cause
and, indeed, it would be an absolutely necessary truth that the defini-
endum has this cause. But, for all this, the cause did not absolutely ne-
cessitate the effect. For this reason, the condition that definitions must
include causes is not relevant to understanding Spinoza’s remarks in
E1p16c1 and E1p17s, where Spinoza is clearly discussing an entailment
from causes to effects.
13 I am indebted for this point to John Morrison.

172 modern
The other condition that Spinoza lays down for definitions is that a
proper definition is such that all the properties of the definiendum can
be inferred from it. This condition makes no explicit reference to cau-
sation. It does, however, resonate with Spinoza’s defense of the claim
that from the divine nature infinitely many things follow, in which he
asserts that the intellect infers the properties of a thing from its defini-
tion (E2p16d, G 2:104/CWS 463) and from which he concludes that
God is the efficient cause of all things (E1p16c1, G 2:60/CWS 425).
“Things following from a nature” appears to be identified with “prop-
erties following from a definition.” And both are compared to effects
following from an efficient cause.
The first puzzle that must be addressed here is why Spinoza identi-
fies things following from a nature with properties following from a
definition. The connection between natures and definitions is clear
enough. It’s common to think of a real definition as what specifies a
nature or essence. The more puzzling issue is why Spinoza identifies
things with properties. Is this not a conflation of metaphysical catego-
ries? This identification will seem less odd if we are mindful of Spino-
za’s own somewhat idiosyncratic account of the basic metaphysical
categories. For him, the central categories are substance, attribute, and
mode. Modes are both particular things (although not substances) and
ways that a substance exemplifies an attribute. In other words, they are
substances insofar as the substance in which they inhere exemplifies
some property. In this sense, a fist is a mode of a hand: a fist is a hand
insofar as it is closed. As such they are, in some sense, adjectival on sub-
stance. And so they cut across the categories of property and things.
The things that follow from the divine nature and the properties that
follow from God’s essence are, in both cases, the modes of God or the
ways that God exemplifies his attributes.
But is there a connection between properties or modes following
from the definition of a thing and the causal relations into which a
thing enters? There is one obvious way that there could be such a con-
nection. If all of the properties of a thing follow from its definition,
then all of the properties that relate to its causal relations follow from
it. For example, Brutus killed Caesar. So Brutus has the property of
killing Caesar. Thus the property of killing Caesar follows from
Brutus’ definition. But would Spinoza regard being such as to kill
Caesar as a property of Brutus? Contemporary philosophers often
think of properties as cheap and abundant, sometimes identifying
them with sets, but early moderns typically did not. Instead, they
thought of properties as metaphysically robust: properties are real
constituents of objects. That Spinoza shares this opinion can be seen
from the fact that in E1p16d he identifies properties with modes.
Mode is one of the ontological categories. So properties are in his fun-
damental ontology. Contrasts this with sets. Sets, even among those
who believe in them, are not typically thought to be part of the world’s
fundamental ontology. They are supervenient beings. They require no
special act of creation.
I suspect that Spinoza would not regard a putative property like
being such as to kill Brutus as a genuine property. Spinoza, like many
seventeenth-century philosophers, classifies relations as beings of reason
(KV X, G 1:49/CWS 92). We cannot turn a being of reason into a real
entity simply by saturating an argument place. That is, we cannot turn
a mere being of reason like the relation x kills y into a metaphysically
robust property by replacing y with Brutus.
What does explain Spinoza’s belief that causes necessitate their ef-
fects in an absolute or logical sense? It is very difficult to say. The claim
that causes necessitate their effects is introduced in the Ethics without
argument as an axiom: “From a given determinate cause the effect fol-
lows necessarily; and conversely, if there is no determinate cause, it is
impossible for an effect to follow” (EIa3, G 2:46/CWS 410). He does
not explicitly consider the question later in the Ethics or in any other
work. Indeed, one might conclude from its status as an axiom that Spi-
noza regards it as basic. But the inclusion of a claim among the axioms
of the Ethics does not mean that Spinoza thinks that it is impossible to
provide a deeper foundation for it. He regards EIp7, for example, as
174 modern
axiomatic and yet he presumes to give an argument for it. So, it is not
illegitimate by Spinoza’s lights to ask about the deeper intellectual
foundation for something introduced as an axiom. I conjecture that if
there is a deeper basis for Spinoza’s belief that causes absolutely neces-
sitate their effects, it can be found in his commitment to the Principle
of Sufficient Reason (PSR). The PSR says that there is a sufficient
reason for everything. Sufficient reasons necessitate the things they ex-
plain. If x is sufficient for y, then there are no possible circumstances in
which x occurs but not y. That is, x necessitates y. The specific version
of the PSR that Spinoza endorses says that each thing has a cause or
reason (causa sive ratio) (EIp11d, G 2:53/CWS 417-18). Sive means “or”
in the sense of “or in other words.” So the demand for a reason is tanta-
mount to a demand for a cause. Sufficient reasons are sufficient causes.
So causes must necessitate. I know of no text where Spinoza explicitly
reasons in this way, but he is committed to the PSR, and the PSR is
very congenial to the idea that causes necessitate.
This interpretation finds some confirmation when we consider why
Spinoza would not be moved by the considerations that lead other phi-
losophers to either reject causation as a necessary relation or to insist
that causal necessity is weaker than absolute necessity. I will argue that
in each case, Spinoza’s commitment to the PSR would lead him to dis-
count these considerations. Recall that among contemporary philoso-
phers, the denial that causation is a necessary connection of any sort,
let alone an absolute or necessary connection, is encouraged by two fac-
tors: DEPENDENCE: the observation that causes are dependent on
background conditions, which can vary; and PROBABILISTIC CAU-
SATION: the idea that the fundamental laws of nature might be proba-
bilistic. A third factor, CONTINGENT LAWS, leads philosophers to
believe that even if causation is a necessary connection, it is not an abso-
lutely necessary connection because the laws of nature are not absolutely
necessary. Among Spinoza’s medieval predecessors, the idea that causes do
not absolutely or logically necessitate their effects was promoted by MIR-
ACLES: the belief that God could defeat the natural causal powers of
things by means of a miracle. None of these factors have any role in

Spinoza’s philosophy due principally to his commitment to the PSR.
Consider first DEPENDENCE. The striking of the match caused it
to ignite. The ignition depends on the striking but it isn’t necessitated
by it since the ignition wouldn’t have occurred if there had been no
oxygen. In other words, effects depend on their causes but aren’t ne-
cessitated by them. But this picture is incompatible with the PSR.
There is, according to the PSR, a sufficient reason for everything, and
Spinoza treats “reason” as synonymous with “cause” in texts where the
PSR is under discussion (EIp11d, G 2:52-53/CWS 417-18). So causes
must be sufficient for their effects. This is incompatible with the idea
that causes operate in the context of background conditions, because
only the causes in conjunction with the background conditions are suf-
ficient for the effects. The main alternative to thinking that causes op-
erate in the context of background conditions is to see the alleged
cause as merely a partial cause and the alleged background conditions
as partial causes in their own right. So, in our example, the striking isn’t
the cause of the ignition. It is a cause or a partial cause. And so are the
presence of oxygen, etc. Spinoza speaks of partial causes but not back-
ground conditions.14 So presumably he would regard the striking of
the match as merely a partial cause. The total cause would be the strik-
ing in conjunction with the so-called background conditions. And this
total cause would be sufficient for the ignition. This fits well with his
commitment to the PSR, which requires causes or reasons to be suffi-
cient for their explananda.
Spinoza’s commitment to the PSR would also lead him to deny PROB-
ABILISTIC CAUSATION. Suppose there is an atom of uranium that
decays at time t. Suppose further that the laws that govern the decay of
atoms of uranium are probabilistic. That is, the law determines only a prob-
ability distribution for the time of the decay. For example, the law assigns a
probability p to the decay of the atom at t given the initial conditions.
14 See EIIIpd1, IIId2, IIIp1, and IVp2.

176 modern
So the initial conditions and the laws are not jointly a sufficient reason
for the decay. There are possible circumstances in which the initial con-
ditions and laws are what they are but the atom does not decay at t. But
this possibility contradicts the PSR, to which Spinoza is committed.
For this reason, Spinoza’s world must be strictly deterministic.
Spinoza’s commitment to the PSR also leads him to deny CON-
TINGENT LAWS. Spinoza speaks frequently of laws of nature, which
he appears to identify with what he calls the “laws of God's nature.”15
Moreover, he sometimes identifies the laws of God’s own nature with “the
necessity of the divine nature” (E Ip17d, G 2:61/CWS 425), and some-
times says that the laws of nature “follow from necessity and perfection of
the divine nature” (TTP 6.7). Both formulations strongly suggest that the
laws are necessary. Such necessity is congenial to the PSR. If the laws were
contingent, there would have to be a contingent cause or reason why they
were one way rather than another. Perhaps they are ordained by God’s
will. But if God’s will is contingent, what could be the sufficient reason for
it? By identifying the laws of nature with the necessity of God’s nature,
Spinoza forecloses such worrying questions.
Spinoza also denies MIRACLES because he doesn’t think that any-
thing, including miracles, violates the natural order. (TTP 6.7). Spi-
noza affirms that God does everything by the necessity of his own
nature. If God were to perform a miracle that violates the natural order,
then something would follow from God’s nature that contradicts
something that follows from his nature. On the assumption that God’s
nature is coherent, this is impossible. It is not hard to discern the appeal
of these views to someone who holds the PSR. Suppose that there are
miracles. These cannot follow from God’s absolute nature, since other-
wise they would be always and everywhere. The most natural alter-
native is that they follow from God’s free decisions. Then, of course,
Spinoza would have to give up his identification of the divine intellect
with the divine will. And so the divine will would require a sufficient
15 See EIp15, Ip17, Ip17d, appendix to part 1, the preface to part III, IIIp2d.
reason. It is very hard to see what such a reason could be without com-
promising divine freedom. By denying the possibility of miracles, the
adherent to the PSR avoids all of these awkward questions.
2. Leibniz
As it does in Spinoza’s, the notion of causation plays a central role in

the philosophy of Leibniz. In particular, Leibniz thinks that the new
philosophy of the seventeenth century has been too quick to discard
the substantial forms of the Aristotelians. He thinks this because he
believes that substances, the basic entities that constitute the funda-
mental level of reality, must be causally active, and that it is impossible
to explain causal activity without recourse to something analogous
to substantial forms. Given this picture, there is a question regarding
the way different varieties of causation (efficient, final, and formal) fit
together. I will largely ignore these questions. I will mainly speak of cau-
sation generically. If the variety of causation matters, I will take efficient
causation to be the default example.
The plan of this section will be as follows. First, I will review some of
the main points of Leibniz’s views on causation. Next, I will argue that
although some commentators, such as Robert Sleigh,16 have argued
that Leibniz does not think that causal necessity is absolute, Leibniz is
committed to this thesis by some of his views about causation and mo-
dality. I will then offer textual evidence that Leibniz is aware of this
commitment and accepts it. I will next explain why the considerations
that have led other philosophers to deny this would not move Leibniz,
paying special attention to the difficult issue of miracles.
But before dealing directly with question of causal necessity, it
will be worthwhile to first articulate some basic features of Leib-
niz’s thoughts about causality. This will provide the context for what
comes next.
16 Sleigh 1990, 171. This is also, as I read her, Margaret Wilson’s position in Wilson 1994.
178 modern
One of the main themes of Leibniz’s philosophy is the need for the
rehabilitation of substantial forms.17 Mechanical philosophers of the
seventeenth century had tended to disparage substantial forms as mys-
terious and attempted to explain natural changes by reference to size,
shape, and motion alone. Leibniz thought that size, shape, and motion
cannot explain change, and that something like force must be added
to the mix.18 Force, Leibniz thought, is like an internal principle of
change, and so akin to the substantial forms of the scholastics. He does
not view this internal principle as merely a formal cause, but also as an
efficient cause, and he describes the essence of a substance as its primi-
tive active force. The primitive active force is what causes the changes
in a substance. Also relevant to the changes that a substance undergoes
are its accidents: its perceptions and appetitions. Perceptions are the
qualities that inhere in a substance. Appetitions are the way that prim-
itive active force is manifested in the context of the perceptions of a
substance.19 In other words, a substance changes over time in virtue of
its perceptions and the appetitions that push it from one state to the
next. These are the only effects produced by a finite substance. Such
substances do not causally interact with each other. The appearance of
interaction is produced, rather, by a preestablished harmony preor-
dained by God, which ensures that all of a substances self-caused
changes appropriately correlate with the changes self-caused by every
other finite substance.
Since our topic is the necessity of the causal relation, we would do
well to examine Leibniz’s thoughts on necessity itself. Leibniz has dis-
tinctive views about the analysis of necessity. One way to begin our
inquiry is to try to formulate the issue of the necessity of the causal re-
lation in terms of Leibniz’s analysis of necessity. As is well known,
Leibniz has two main accounts of necessity. The most famous is the
17 DM 10, G 4:434–35/AG 42; A New System of Nature, G 4:478–79/AG 139; On Nature Itself, G
4:511/AG 162. For an excellent treatment of this issue, see Garber 2009, chs. 3 and 4.
18 A Specium of Dynamics, GM 6:236/AG 119; A New System of Nature, G 4:510–12/AG 161–63.
19 Mon 15, G 6:609.
account according to which a truth is necessary just in case it can be

demonstrated by analysis in a finite number of steps.20 This is an ac-
count of the necessity of truths and not an account of the necessity of
a relation between states or events. But it is natural to think the neces-
sity of such a relation can be represented by a necessary conditional
proposition. For example, if striking a match causes it to ignite and
causation is a necessary connection, then it is true that, necessarily, if
the match is struck, then it ignites. So, if causes necessitate in an abso-
lute or logical sense of necessity, then the truth of the conditional “If
the match is struck, then it ignites” can be demonstrated by analysis in
a finite number of steps.
Would Leibniz think that such causal statements can be so ana-
lyzed? It is exceedingly difficult to say. Leibniz’s discussions of neces-
sary truths typically presume that such truths have subject-predicate
form but, on at least one occasion, Leibniz tries to extend this account
to conditional statements by maintaining that a conditional is true if
the consequent is contained in the antecedent.21 It is not entirely clear
how to construe this. This containment relation is presumably the very
thing that analysis is supposed to reveal. Unfortunately, what Leibniz
says about analysis is extremely sketchy and metaphorical.22 Rather
than speculating on these matters, I propose that we instead investigate
Leibniz’s other main analysis of necessity.
In addition to analyzing necessity in terms of demonstrability by
analysis, Leibniz also analyzes in terms of essentiality. Although it is less
famous than the analysis in terms of infinite analysis, many commenta-
tors regard the doctrine of per se necessity as one of Leibniz’s most
cherished and firmly held doctrines.23 According to this account of
20 On Contingency, A VI.iv.1650/AG 28.

21 C 401.
22 For a sample of the wide varieties of interpretation of Leibnizian analysis see Adams 1994, 25f;
Carriero 1993.
23 See for example, Adams 1994, 12, and Lin 2011. For a dissenting view, see Sleigh’s editorial com-
ments in Leibniz 2005, 272f.
180 modern
ecessity, a substance is necessarily F just in case it is essentially F.24

n
Leibniz sometimes calls this per se necessity, and suggests that per
se necessity is the most basic and familiar modal notion. That is, per se
necessity is not a special variety of necessity. It is necessity in an un-
qualified sense.
Per se necessity is analyzed in terms of essences. What are essences
for Leibniz? If the analysis of necessity in terms of essence is to suc-
ceed, Leibniz must not be interpreted as a superessentialist, according
to whom all of a thing’s properties are essential to it. Rather, a mean-
ingful distinction between essence and accident must be assumed. I
have argued elsewhere that essences, for Leibniz, exclude all informa-
tion about other substances (see Lin 2011). The terminology of per se
necessity suggests as much, and Leibniz also says that the essences of
things give us no basis for a comparison with other things (Gr 289). If
a substance contained information about other substances, it is diffi-
cult to see how they could fail to be a basis for comparing things.
Now Leibniz often speaks as though the relata of causation are sub-
stances. If this so, then we should conclude that the causal relation is
not per se necessary, because causation relates substances, and the es-
sence of a substance doesn’t point to any substances outside of it. But
remember that Leibniz thinks that all genuine causation takes place
within a substance. Substances are the causes of their own future states.
So the essence of a substance does not have to point outside of itself in
order for a substance to be essentially (and hence necessarily) con-
nected to its effects. Causation would be instead a relation that relates
substances to themselves. What is more, Leibniz’s considered view
cannot be that the relata of causation are substances tout court. He
often says that perceptions are involved in causation. Perceptions are
not substances, but rather qualities or states of a substance. Moreover,
substances are causes in virtue of their primitive active power. Leibniz
writes: “Perception is the operation proper to the soul, and the nexus
24 A VI.iii.28; Leibniz 2005, 55.

of perceptions, according to which subsequent ones are derived from

the preceding ones” (GP 2:372/L 599). It would probably be more ac-
curate to say that, for Leibniz, the relata of causation are substances in
so far as they have certain essences and possess certain perceptions. An-
other way of putting this would be to say that the relata of causation are
modes of a substance or substances insofar as they are a certain way
(have a certain essence and have certain perceptions). Since the causal
relation only relates modes of a substance to modes of the same sub-
stance, all true causal statements will have the form x insofar as it is F
causes x insofar as it is G. The question of the necessity of such causal
statements will be determined by whether or not it is essential to x that
insofar as it is F it causes itself insofar as it is G.
I think that we can see that, for Leibniz, if a substance insofar as it is
F causes itself insofar as it is G, then it does so essentially. This is en-
tailed by Leibniz’s conception of essence or nature as primitive active
force, that is, as the ultimate explanation of why a substance undergoes
the changes that it does. Explaining why a substance insofar as it is F
becomes a substance insofar as it is G is the very role for a rehabilitated
notion of substantial form that Leibniz thinks is so indispensable. So,
on Leibniz’s account of per se necessity, the causal relation will be an
absolutely or logically necessary connection.
In the previous section, we saw that Spinoza denies that God has
free will. This denial both allows him to resist the conclusion that
causes do not absolutely necessitate their effects and stems from his
commitment to the PSR. It is worth noting that Leibniz’s analysis of
necessity in terms of essence allows him to hold the PSR while still
maintaining that God and other rational creatures have free will.
Leibniz holds that free action has three conditions: (1) contingency,
(2) intelligence, and (3) spontaneity (T 173). An action is sponta-
neous just in case it has its causal source from within the agent. A free
agent is not compelled by external forces. An action is intelligent just
in case the agent has considered possible alternatives and selected the
actual action on account of judging that it is the best. Of course, an
182 modern
agent cannot consider alternative possibilities unless there are alterna-

tive possibilities. And so intelligence is impossible without contin-
gency. Contingency is needed to secure alternatives over which the
agent can deliberate. Suppose that Brutus freely murders Caesar.
Brutus freely murders Caesar only if he deliberates over alternative
actions and selects murdering Caesar from those alternatives on ac-
count of judging it to be the best alternative. So, that Brutus murders
Caesar must not be necessary. That is, according to the per se possi-
bility account of modality, Brutus must not essentially murder Caesar.
But this is compatible with a state of Brutus, say the state that is the
output of his deliberations, necessitating that Brutus murders Caesar.
That is, it might be that Brutus essentially murders Caesar on the con-
dition that he is in that state, although Brutus does not essentially
murder Caesar.
To be sure, Leibniz often says that reasons incline without necessi-
tating and that the free acts of a free agent are only morally necessary
(DM 13), but I believe that such locutions as “inclines without neces-
sitating” and “moral necessity” are ways that Leibniz talks about states
that are the outcome of intelligent deliberation.25 Such states are
merely contingent because they are not essential to the substance in
which they inhere, but they are hypothetically necessary given the an-
tecedent states of the substance.26
25 See Adams 2005.

26 A complication is introduced by the fact that Leibniz accepts some version of divine concurrence
according to which both God and creatures are causally responsible for what happens in the natural
world. The concurrentist denies that this shared responsibility can be understood either as overdeter-
mination or as partial causation. The concurrentist denies over determination because if God with-
drew his concurrence, the creatures would not succeed in bringing about changes. The concurrentist
denies partial causation because God is causally sufficient all by himself. The mystery is what causal
role remains for creatures? It would appear that there is nothing left over for them to do. Although
there can be little doubt that Leibniz was committed to concurrentism, there is a great deal of contro-
versy among commentators over the content of Leibniz’s concurrentism, whether or not it is a co-
herent doctrine, and whether or not it creates difficulties for his rejection of occasionalism. I will not
try to address these interpretative difficulties here. Rather, I will follow the example of Leibniz him-
self, who generally relegates discussions of divine concurrence to theological and moral contexts.
When he discusses causation in the context of purely metaphysical or natural contexts, he generally
neglects the topic of divine concurrence. I will do the same.
Was Leibniz aware that his views on causation and modality entail
that causal necessity is absolute? There is no direct textual evidence
that he was, but I believe that there is some indirect evidence. Leibniz’s
objection to Malebranche’s occasionalism is that it makes God per-
form too many miracles. What is interesting about this objection given
our present concern is that it never occurs to Leibniz to challenge the
most substantial premise of the occasionalist’s argument: that if x
causes y, then it is inconceivable that x exists or occurs and that y does
not exist or occurs. That is, Leibniz never challenges the occasionalist’s
assumption that the causal relation is absolutely or logically necessary.
I am aware of only one text where Leibniz discusses Malebranche’s ar-
gument for occasionalism from the lack of a necessary connection
between finite things.27 There he calls that argument the strongest argu-
ment for occasionalism and does not directly question the requirement
that causes absolutely necessitate their effects. I think that the combi-
nation of the systematic grounds that commit Leibniz to the thesis to-
gether with his reluctance to criticize Malebranche for holding it
amount to compelling evidence that Leibniz was aware of and accepted
the commitment on some level.
We have seen that Leibniz is committed to holding that causal connec-
tions are absolutely or logically necessary. Can Leibniz respond to the kind
of pressures that have led many philosophers to deny that causal connec-
tions are absolutely necessary? Recall that many contemporary phi-
losophers deny the absolute necessity of the causal relation because they
endorse DEPENDENCE, PROBABILISTIC CAUSATION, or
CONTINGENT LAWS. And many medieval philosophers deny the
absolute necessity of the causal relation because they believe MIRACLES.
Let us first consider what Leibniz would make of DEPENDENCE.
In one sense, causal relations, according to Leibniz, do not depend upon
background conditions. Nothing external to the substance makes any
difference to evolution of the substance. If background conditions are
27 See Robinet 1955, 412.

184 modern
factors external to the cause upon which the causal relation depends,
then there are no background conditions in Leibniz’s world, because
nothing outside of a substance can influence it. Of course, individual
modes of a substance may have other modes of the same substance as
conditions for their causal efficacy. A perception as if of the match
being struck may only cause a perception as if of the match igniting on
the condition of a perception as if of oxygen in the atmosphere. But
Leibniz often speaks of the relata of the causal relation as total states of
a substance. He says things like, “the present state of each substance is
a natural result [consequence] of its preceding state” (GP 4:521). What
is “the state” of a substance? Presumably it is its total state. So the cause
of the state that includes a representation of a match igniting is a state
that includes a representation as if of a match being struck and a repre-
sentation as if of oxygen in the immediate atmosphere, etc. So the per-
ception of the striking of the match is a partial cause that only produces
its effect in conjunction with other partial causes such as the presence
of oxygen. In this, Leibniz resembles Spinoza. And, presumably, he is
attracted to the framework of partial and total causes by his commit-
ment to the PSR.
All of the other considerations that push toward a denial of the ab-
solute necessity of causal connections pertain to the laws of nature. We
will have to inquire into whether or not Leibniz holds that the laws are
deterministic and necessary and, if he does, whether or not he has
good reasons for this opinion. The issue of miracles also relates to the
laws of nature. If miracles can suppress the natural causal power of cre-
ated things then the laws of nature have exceptions. If they have excep-
tions, then they are neither deterministic nor necessary.
Let’s start with MIRACLES because, for many reasons, this is the
most pressing issue for Leibniz and his response to it will, to some extent,
control his responses to PROBABILISTIC CAUSATION and CON-
TINGENT LAWS. Christian orthodoxy requires miracles, and Leibniz
(unlike Spinoza) aspires to such orthodoxy. Indeed, Leibniz affirms that
“God can exempt creatures from the laws that he prescribed for them,
and produce in them that which their nature does not bear by per-
forming a miracle” (T 3). How can this be consistent with Leibniz’s per
se possibility account of modality, according to which causal connec-
tions are absolutely necessary? The existence of miracles also bears on
the issue of the modal status of the laws. If there are miraculous excep-
tions to the laws, then the laws are not necessary. Indeed, they are not
even true universal generalizations. But if they are not necessary, then
how can the causal connections that they subsume be necessary? In
order to answer this question, we must look more closely at Leibniz’s
conception of laws.
Leibniz distinguishes between two types of law: “the universal law
of the general order” and “subordinate maxims.” The universal law of
the general order is exceptionless. Even miracles, Leibniz explicitly af-
firms, conform to it. The universal law of the general order, however, is
beyond the comprehension of any finite mind. The subordinate
maxims express regularities in nature that are comprehensible to finite
minds, but they admit of exceptions. For Leibniz, the subordinate
maxims are laws of nature. Even though miracles conform to the uni-
versal law of the general order, they are violations of the subordinate
maxims. Since the subordinate maxims are the laws of nature, in this
sense, miracles are supernatural.
Leibniz relates substantial form or primitive active force to law. As
Leibniz writes to De Volder, primitive forces are “internal tendencies
of simple substances, by which according to a certain law of their
nature they pass from perception to perception” (GP 2:275/AG 181).
Moreover, the primitive force is not just governed by laws, it may even
be identified with them: “the primitive force is as it were the law of the
series” of successive perceptual states (GP 2:262/L 533).
The important question for our purposes is, does Leibniz identify the
law of the series with the universal law of the general order or with the
subordinate maxims? If he identifies the law of the series with the univer-
sal law of the general order, then, since they conform to the universal law,
miracles will be produced by the primitive active force of the substances
186 modern
in which they inhere. Thus, even miracles would be necessitated by the

states of the substance which precede them, although the law that sub-
sumes them will be incomprehensible to a finite mind. If Leibniz identi-
fies the law of the series with the subordinate maxims, then, since they
violate the subordinate maxims, miracles will not be produced by the
primitive active force of the substance in which they inhere.
There is some evidence that suggests that Leibniz identifies primi-
tive active force with the subordinate maxims. For example, he claims
that “strictly speaking God works a miracle when he does a thing that
surpasses the forces that he has given to creatures and conserves in
them” (L 93). Since Leibniz believes that God performs miracles, he
must also believe that some things surpass the created the forces pos-
sessed by creatures. Every substance expresses everything that happens.
So, if God performs a miracle, then some states of every creature are
not produced by the forces contained in them. How can primitive
active force produce every state of a creature if some of the creature’s
states are miraculous?
Robert Adams has persuasively argued that Leibniz often expresses
himself in a misleading fashion when it comes to miracles, and that by
“forces” and “powers” and “nature” Leibniz means, in the context of
discussions of miracles, only a portion of a creature’s primitive active
force.28 Part of Adams’ case rests on the following text:
If we include in our nature everything that it expresses, nothing is

supernatural to it, for it extends to everything, since an effect always
expresses its cause and God is the true cause of substances. But as
that which our nature expresses more perfectly belongs to it in a spe-
cial way, since it is in that that its power consists, and since [its
power] is limited, as I have just explained, there are plenty of things
that surpass the forces of our nature, and even those of all limited
natures. Consequently, in order to speak more clearly, I say that
28 Adams 1994, 89–94.

miracles and extraordinary concurrences of God have this peculi-

arity, that they cannot be foreseen by reasoning of any created mind,
however enlightened it might be, because the distinct comprehen-
sion of the general order surpasses them all.
The account of power and activity that Leibniz is here alluding to is the
one that he develops in order to “reconcile the language of metaphysics
with practice,” and it is an account of quasi-causation or the appear-
ance of causation.29 Consequently, it is also an account of quasi-action
and quasi-power. Leibniz sometimes spells out the view in epistemic
terms. He writes that a substance is “active insofar what is distinctly
known in it serves to give a reason for what happens in another, and
passive insofar as the reason for what happens in it is found in what is
distinctly known in another” (Mon. 52). So a substance’s power or
force, in this sense, is a function of what is distinctly known in it. This
is surely a relative notion. God knows everything distinctly. Only in
relation to finite minds are some things more distinctly known than
others. This suggests that what is in a substance’s power is relative to a
mind. What is in a substance’s power is what a finite mind can infer
about the substance’s future states from what it can understand of the
substance. This clearly relates the notion of power or force under dis-
cussion here to the subordinate maxims or laws of nature that finite
minds can grasp but that have exceptions. A miracle is something that
cannot be inferred from the nature of any finite substance. A miracle is
thus something for which there is no explanation simple enough for a
finite mind to grasp.
On this reading, the primitive active force of a substance is causally
responsible for all of its states. Finite minds, however, cannot grasp
29 Due to space limitations, I have not been able to discuss Leibniz’s theory of the preestablished
harmony in this chapter. On that theory, distinct created substances never causally interact. Instead,
the appearance of interaction results from the fact that God endows each created substance with a
primitive active force that is preprogrammed to harmonize with the primitive active force of every
other created substance so that the appearance of interaction obtains.
188 modern
how the primitive active force is responsible. At best, finite minds can
glean the subordinate maxims that describe the evolution of the sub-
stance, but these maxims do not fully capture the causal powers of sub-
stances. This is why there are exceptions to the subordinate maxims,
including miraculous ones. Miracles thus do not provide any reason to
think that causal connections are not absolutely necessary. If the strik-
ing of a match does not ignite it due to God’s miraculous intervention,
that just means that the subordinate maxims failed to determine the
match’s state on this occasion. The universal law of the general order
has not been violated, and the primitive active force of the substances
involved has not been suppressed.
Let us now consider PROBABILISTIC CAUSATION. Could
the laws encoded in primitive active force be probabilistic? No. This is
ruled out by Leibniz’s commitment to the PSR. Just like Spinoza, Leib-
niz thinks that every truth has a sufficient cause or reason. Moreover,
as Don Rutherford has argued, Leibniz is committed to the claim that
everything that exists or happens has a sufficient reason in the natural
order.30 Presumably, the sufficient reasons for natural effects are their
causes. So, by the PSR, their causes must be sufficient for them. In
other words, causes absolutely necessitate their effects.
Let us now consider CONTINGENT LAWS. As we saw earlier,
Leibniz distinguishes between two kinds of law: the universal law of
the general order and subordinate maxims, which Leibniz identifies
with the laws of nature. We have also seen that there are good reasons
to suppose that Leibniz thinks that the law that determines causal rela-
tions is the universal law of the general order and not the subordinate
maxims or laws of nature. The subordinate maxims do not really deter-
mine causal relations. They merely provide simple explanations such
that finite minds can grasp. The true engine of change in the world is
30 Rutherford 1992. Rutherford thinks that what he calls the Principle of Intelligibility, that every
thing in nature has a natural cause is stronger than the PSR. This is obviously correct, but I think that
its place in Leibniz’s system derives from the PSR in conjunction with assumptions about the divine
nature.
the universal law of the general order or, what is the same thing, the
primitive active force of substances.
The universal law of the general order could have been different.
Since the universal law of the general order is the law of the series or the
primitive active force of substances, if there had been different sub-
stances then there would likely have been different laws.31 But what is
impossible is that there are all the same substances but different laws.32
The laws, as Leibniz understands them, are not, as some contemporary
philosophers are inclined to think of them, independent of the sub-
stances which they govern. They cannot be varied independently of the
substances. If the laws were different, then the substances would have
been different. This being so, the contingency of the laws does not
threaten the absolute necessity of causal connections. It is not true that
if the laws had been different, then the striking of the match would not
have caused its ignition. There is no possible world in which the rele-
vant laws are different and yet the match is still struck. No world in
which the relevant laws are different includes the match in question.
3. Conclusion
We have looked at Spinoza and Leibniz’s commitment to the claim that

causal connections are absolutely necessary. We have also looked at the
reasons that might have motivated these philosophers to hold this
opinion. In the case of Leibniz, we saw that this opinion was entailed
by larger systematic commitments. In the case of Spinoza, although he ex-
plicitly endorses the absolute necessity of causal relations, larger system-
atic considerations that support it are difficult to identify. The closest
we came to deriving it from one of Spinoza’s most basic philosophical
31 If the universal law of the general order supervenes on the primitive active force of substances, then
it is possible that the substances differ without the laws differing due to the possibility that the general
law might be multiply realizable. Whether or not this is the case will depend on details that we are not
in a position to know.
32 See Adams 1994, 80.
190 modern
commitments was the argument that we considered from the PSR. But
Spinoza never offers such an argument, and so any such interpretation
remains speculative. This is, of itself, disappointing, but my results have
been disappointing in other respects as well. Earlier we noted that many
early modern philosophers believe that causal connections are abso-
lutely necessary, but remarked that it is mysterious that this belief is so
widespread. My findings in this chapter do little to solve this mystery.
Perhaps Spinoza was led by his commitment to the PSR to believe that
causal connections are absolutely necessary, but Hobbes, Descartes, and
Malebranche do not share Spinoza’s enthusiasm for the PSR and so,
even if such a consideration did motivate Spinoza, it does not explain
the prevalence of this conception of causation in the seventeenth cen-
tury. And we saw that Leibniz was committed to the absolute necessity
of causal connections by his rehabilitation of substantial form as primi-
tive active force and his per se possibility analysis of necessity. But these
doctrines are innovations introduced by Leibniz, not common currency
in the early modern period. As such they shed little light on this ques-
tion. The larger mystery remains unsolved.33
Abbreviations
For Leibniz:
a = Leibniz 1950–, cited by series, volume and page
ag = Leibniz 1989
c = Leibniz 1961
gp = Leibniz 1875–90, cited by volume and page
gr = Leibniz 1948
l = Leibniz 1969
t = Leibniz 1985
wf = Leibniz 1997
33 I am grateful to John Morrison, Tad Schmaltz, and the Modern Philosophy Research Group at the
University of Toronto for many helpful comments on this chapter.
For Spinoza:
cws = Spinoza 1985
e = Ethica (Ethics)
g = Spinoza 1925, cited by volume and page
kv = Korte Verhandeling (Short Treatise)
tdie = Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione (Treatise on the
Emendation of the Intellect)
ttp = Tractatus Theologico-Politicus (Theological-Political Treatise),
in Spinoza 2001
For Others:
lo = Malebranche 1980
ocm = Malebranche 1958–84
Reflection
reason, calculating machines,
and efficient causation
Matthew L. Jones
p
In an undated manuscript, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz reflected

upon some lessons his calculating machine could impart:
The machine . . . shows that the human mind can find the means of
transplanting itself in such a way into inanimate matter that it gives
to [matter] the power of doing more than it could have done by
itself: to convince using the senses those who have difficulty con-
ceiving how the Creator could house the appearance of a mind a
little more generally in the bodies of animals, however furnished
with many organs; since even brass can receive the imitation of an
operation of reason that concerns a particular or determinate truth,
but [also] more difficult ones, especially as the Pythagoreans be-
lieved one could distinguish human beings from animals using [the
ability to use numbers] and included within the definition [of man]
the faculty of using numbers.1
Leibniz cast the calculating machine as a palpable intervention in

the major early modern debate about what sorts of causes were
philosophically licit in explaining the creation and emergence of the
1 Gottfried-Wilhelm-Leibniz Bibliothek, Hanover, Leibniz-Handschriften 42, 1, f. 33r.
192
reason, calculating machines 193
ordinary phenomena of nature. The envisioned calculating machine

provided tangible evidence of what matter in locomotion, acting
entirely though efficient causality, could—and could not—achieve.
A goal-achieving artifice, the machine illustrated that matter in
motion, suitably well organized, could exhibit some mind-like
behaviors. Complex organized phenomena required neither some
immaterial soul or “plastic nature” directing the motion of matter,
nor the direct and particular concurrence of God himself. The
machine likewise suggested that matter in motion could never be so
well organized except through an initial, creative organizing activity
of a rational mind, human or divine. The appearance of intelligence
did not require the continuous activity of an intellective substance.
The creation of the appearance of intelligence in matter, on the other
hand, certainly did require the activity of an intellective substance.
Using the example of fetal development, Pierre Bayle argued,
in contrast, that explaining the phenomena of a complex being
requires more than an intelligent cause creating and organizing
its material form at the moment of creation. The production of
activity over time requires continuous regulation by an intelligent
cause: “in order for a little organized atom to become a chicken, a
dog, a calf, etc., it is necessary that an intelligent cause should direct
the movement of the matter that makes it grow.” This cause behind
the growth of fetus must have “an idea of the work and the means
of making it larger, as an Architect has the idea of a building and
of the means for making it larger. . . .”2 Organized growth required,
in this view, something capable of having an intentional cognitive
grasp of a plan for the growth; such a master plan for development
could not be created in a material system organized to grow
according to that plan by itself.
Robert Boyle had argued a few years earlier that the efficient
causation of matter in motion could not explain the initial
2 “Sennert,” rem. C, in Bayle 1820–24, 13:237, translated in Des Chene 2006, 225–26.

194 reflection
organization of matter, and yet we must have recourse to matter

in locomotion alone in understanding the movements and
development of organized things: “in this great Automaton the
World, (as in a Watch or Clock,) the Materials it consists of, being
left to themselves, could never at the first convene into so curious
an Engine: and yet, when the skilful Artist has once made and set
it a going, the Phænomena it exhibits are to be accounted for by
number, bignesse, proportion, shape, motion, (or endeavour,)
rest, coaptation, and other Mechanical Affections of the Spring,
Wheels, Pillars, and other parts it is made up of. . . .” Our difficulty
in understanding how organized matter in motion could possibly
produce certain effects should not lead to a precipitous turn to
non-mechanical forms of explanation: “and those effects of such a
Watch, that cannot this way be explicated, must, for ought I yet
know, be confess’d, not to be sufficiently understood” (Boyle 1999–
2000, 5:354). Appreciating the wisdom and skill of the divine artist
requires, on this view, humbly accepting the limits of human
understanding of divine mechanisms without committing the error
of positing alternative explanations using nonmechanical causes.
In offering a tangible analogy for God’s creative capacities in
ordering matter, the calculating machine made a mechanical
philosophy such as Boyle’s far more plausible. Leibniz worried
that appeals to the wrong sort of entities to explain everyday
phenomena would undermine a proper philosophy of nature and
appreciation of the divine. In a well-known letter to Damaris
Masham, Leibniz argued that, since human beings could produce a
machine that could calculate completely mechanically, who could
reject that God could similarly produce organic machines capable
of acting as if they possessed reason:
one can conceive that God has from the beginning given [matter] a
structure appropriate to produce over time actions conforming to
reason. And since our workmen, whose talents are so limited, can
give examples of [such things] in certain situations [rencontres], by

means of machines that imitate reason, it is easy to deem that
whatever is most beautiful in the artifice of men ought to be found
by the strongest reason in the works of God. . . . (Leibniz 1978, 3:374)
Once the structure and the principles of nature have been

established, matter can, without external intelligent cause, work to
reach its programmed goals. No additional entity with a cognitive
grasp of the plan is required.3 Leibniz demonstrated further the
everyday appearance of reasonable behavior without recourse to a
reasoning agent by relating the calculating machine to skilled human
behavior: “habitual actions (such as those one draws on in playing
the harpsichord, while not thinking at all about what one is doing)
confirm what I have just said, namely that the Machine is capable
of acting reasonably without knowing it” (Leibniz 1978, 3:374). So
skilled is God in design and construction that he can—and does—
easily set up matter to perform apparently intentional and goal
driven actions. The appearance of some kinds of reasoning does
not require reasoning, much less an intelligent supervising cause.
Leibniz insisted on the falsity of a metaphysics or natural
philosophy that maintained that matter in motion sufficed to
explain the ultimate causes and emergence of organized natural
things and their activity toward their various ends. Matter
operating according to the laws of motion alone could never
organize itself into structure capable of achieving ends: only the
organizing activity of an intelligent cause, be it God or human,
could create such a structure. Not accepting the difference between
the need for a nonmaterial creator and a nonmaterial supervisor
leads to error in natural philosophy, for it entails a failure to
recognize the scope of efficient causation. Anyone making this
error will likely fail to investigate sufficiently the domain of that
3 For Leibniz and “plastic natures,” see Smith 2011, 127–35.

196 reflection
causation on its own terms. Failing properly to investigate efficient

causes is to indict the creator.
If skilled human beings could provide machines appearing to be
capable of reasoning through efficient causation, why could God
not produce machines that in fact reason through matter in
motion? And if mindlike appearances could more or less be
implanted into well-structured matter, why could human minds
not themselves be material? John Locke’s infamous speculations
that thinking matter was not inconceivable soon found stronger
advocates among those who sought to defend the infinite artistry
and power of the creator. Omnipotence made a spiritual mind
unnecessary. “Man is a mere piece of Mechanism, a Curious Frame
of Clock-Work, and only a Reasoning Engine,” William Coward,
a major early English materialist, argued in 1702. Coward was no
atheist: the complexity of the mechanism necessary for thinking
indicates that only God could have fashioned it. Man “is such a
curious piece of mechanism, as shews only an almighty power
could be the first & sole artificer, viz. to make a reasoning engine
out of dead matter, a lump of insensible earth to live, to be able to
discourse; to pry and search into the very nature of heaven & earth”
(Coward 1702, 123–24).4 Materialists such as Coward claimed they
were in better position to defend God’s existence and distinctive
creativity than those positing non-materialist accounts of the
Universe: “it is rather a magnifying [of ] his Power, that is able to
make Accidents (to speak Philosophically) that is Life or Motion,
with Sensation to distinguish it from meer Motion, to execute such
Operations.” (Coward 1702, 101). The more skillful the God, the
less reason need be something immaterial. Well-structured matter
could think—and could itself create.
In 1843 Charles Babbage’s collaborator, Ada Lovelace denied the
possibility that their new machine could create something new:
4 See Thomson 2010, 28–33.

“The Analytical Engine has no pretensions whatever to originate

anything. It can do whatever we know how to order it to perform.”5
Calculating matter was not originating matter. A century later in
his epochal “Computing Machinery and Intelligence,” Alan Turing
labeled this claim “Lady Lovelace’s Objection” to the possibility of
a machine fully capable of original thinking. Turing avowed that
Lovelace and Babbage misunderstood the implications of what
they had wrought: “The Analytical Engine was a universal digital
computer, so that, if its storage capacity and speed were adequate, it
could by suitable programming be made to mimic the machine in
question. Probably this argument did not occur to the Countess or
to Babbage.” Turing noted that a variant of this claim “states that
a machine can ‘never do anything new’. ” His response was a knife
twisted in the hubris of the existence of originality without outside
causal influences: “Who can be certain that ‘original work’ that he
has done was not simply the growth of the seed planted in him by
teaching or the effect of following well-known general principles”
(Turing 1950, 450). More than overrated, originality might be a
mere figment of human pride, once again a mistaking of the scope
of matter in motion. Like much, if not all, reasoning, invention
might just be in fact be mechanical, something entirely
understandable within a materialist psychology.
5 Note G, http://www.fourmilab.ch/babbage/sketch.html, reprinted in Babbage 1889, 44. Italics in

original.
chapter seven
Efficient Causation in
Malebranche and Berkeley
Lisa Downing
In the early modern period, explicit consideration of how causation

itself should be understood and characterized is fairly rare, and this
despite the fact that questions about the causal structure of the world
are being asked with a new urgency and are receiving new answers.
Two figures who cannot entirely ignore this question, however, are
Nicolas Malebranche and George Berkeley. And this is for an obvious
and pressing reason: for both of them it is an important component
of their metaphysics that the domain of real causes is severely re-
stricted. More specifically, they both hold that, appearances to the
contrary, ordinary physical objects are not efficient causes. Note that
in doing so they are not just contravening what we might reason-
ably take to be common sense (though Berkeley will disagree). They
are maintaining that what was becoming a paradigmatic example of
efficient causation—body-body causation at impact—is in fact not
that at all.
198
efficient causation in malebranche and berkeley 199
On some prominent recent interpretations of each philosopher,

they accomplish this restriction by maintaining that only volitions, or
beings with wills, are legitimate candidates to be efficient causes. Al-
though these interpretations are well-motivated, it is a central concern
of this essay to argue against them. In doing so, we will arrive at a better
understanding of how each of their views of causation are and aren’t
inflected by their metaphysics of mind and body. I will argue that nei-
ther Malebranche nor Berkeley rules out corporeal causes by fiat. More
specifically, they do not rule out corporeal causes by simply appealing
to a notion of efficient causation that is inflected with finality and
which therefore allows only volitions to be causes. Other things being
equal, this is surely the more charitable interpretation: it ought not to
turn out to be a simple category mistake to suppose that bodies (par-
ticles, billiard balls) are genuine causes. To assume that it is would be to
ignore some of the most significant metaphysical issues raised by the
new science, with which both philosophers were actively engaged. In
fact, we will see that Malebranche sees impact as a serious challenge
(or, at any rate, he is brought to so see it by Fontenelle’s critique of
occasionalism), and is thoroughly engaged with it, though it turns out
to be a persistent trouble spot in his philosophy. Indeed, I will argue
that the seventh of the Dialogues on Metaphysics and Religion is pro-
ductively viewed as being built around the goal of disproving body-
body causation at impact.
Although Berkeley engages less with the question of the status of
impact, this is not because impact isn’t a candidate for causal efficacy, but
because he holds that his idealism can make short shrift of any such pre-
tensions on its behalf. Indeed, the more difficult problem for Berkeley’s
system is to expand the domain restricted by Malebranche so as to allow
that finite spirits may be causally efficacious. And the controversial inter-
pretive question is whether Berkeley rules in volitional causes by a kind of
fiat, declaring that (regular) sequences with volitions as antecedents are
causal. Although there is evidence that Berkeley formulates something
like this regularity-plus-volition view in his notebooks, I argue, contra
200 modern
Kenneth Winkler,1 that he does not retain this account in his published
works, and that on the whole this is a good thing. Rather, Berkeley’s
return to a more traditional conception of spirit as substance is accompa-
nied by a return to a more traditional conception of power, which thus
requires him to justify its application to finite spirits. However, Berkeley
diverges importantly from his predecessors when it comes to his treat-
ment of force or vis, a move which reflects his important engagement
with the Newtonian science of the early eighteenth-century.2
1. Malebranche
1.1 The Volitional/Cognitive Model
Why might one think that Malebranche restricts causation to the

domain of the minded or willed? We begin with an argument that has
been receiving considerable attention lately, despite a history of rela-
tive neglect. Let’s call it the Knowledge Argument.3
For how could we move our arms? To move them, it is necessary to

have animal spirits, to send them through certain nerves toward cer-
tain muscles in order to inflate and contract them, for it is thus that
the arm attached to them is moved. . . . Therefore, men will to move
their arms, and only God is able and knows how to move them. . . . There
is no man who knows what must be done to move one of his fingers
by means of animal spirits. How, then, could men move their arms?
(OCM 2:315/LO 449–50)
There are two obvious questions to ask about this argument: (1) What
is its intended scope? That is, how “local” is this argument?4 And (2)
1 Winkler 1989, 107.
2 An engagement which, as we will see, also helps to explain the absence of special concern with impact.
3 Ott 2008 calls it the epistemic argument; Lee 2008b calls it NK for “no knowledge”; Nadler does
not label it in the 1999 paper that deals centrally with it. See also OCM 7:148–51.
4 This use of the term is borrowed from Lee 2008a.
why does Malebranche take it to be a good argument? My focus will be

on the first, but addressing the second will help us with the first.
The argument as formulated applies against mind-body causation,
purporting to show that we could not be the causes of our own bodily
movements. Steven Nadler has made a case for the claim that Male-
branche may have intended the argument to have a wider scope5 and to
rule out corporeal causes on the grounds of their lack of knowledge,
for Geulincx and some Islamic occasionalists apply the argument more
broadly, and one passage from Malebranche’s Conversations Chré-
tiennes suggests this reading.6
But how could this principle, taken generally, be justified? That is,
why suppose that the cause must have knowledge of the effect? Nadler
suggests, as backing for this “epistemic condition,” the broad thesis that
Malebranche might take volitional agency as paradigmatic of causality
(1999, 270). Walter Ott has more recently taken a related line, but pushed
it harder.7 Ott views the knowledge argument as symptomatic of (and
rationalized by) a general principle that lies behind most of Male-
branche’s reasoning about causation. Malebranche, Ott argues, “accepts
the scholastic requirement of esse-ad” (2008, 181), that is, he holds that a
cause must be intrinsically directed at its effect. On Ott’s interpretation,
Malebranche holds that this esse-ad requirement amounts to requiring
intentionality, a feature only minds possess (2008, 167). Further, he
holds that the only way to satisfy this requirement is via the identity of
volitional content with effect.8 Ott sums up the import of this require-
ment as the “cognitive model of causation” (2009, 81).
This controversial and interesting interpretive claim is supposed to
be justified by its plausibility in the seventeenth-century context and
by the explanatory work it can do. Esse-ad is supposed to tie together
5 Nadler (1999, 267) characterizes this reading as “tempting” but notes that Malebranche’s texts do
not strongly support it.
6 Nadler 1999, 268; OCM 4:15–16.
7 In Ott 2008 and the stimulating and rich Ott 2009.
8 See also Ott 2009, 81–82, 97–100.
202 modern
and rationalize several of Malebranche’s arguments, explaining why

Malebranche is so quick to suppose that finite things, particularly
bodies, could not provide the right sort of connection. I will argue,
however, that the “volitional/cognitive model of causation” interpreta-
tion can in fact do very little of this explanatory work.9
Ott sets up a puzzle concerning Malebranche’s notorious No Neces-
sary Connection (NNC) argument,10 which is the centerpiece of his
defense of occasionalism in the Search after Truth. In 6.2.3, Malebranche
asserts that we can find a necessary connection only between God’s
(omnipotent) will and its effects, and concludes, on this basis, that only
God is a true cause (OCM 2:316/LO 450). Ott rightly asks: why does
Malebranche suppose that finite things could not ground necessary
connections? The answer, according to Ott, is that it is obvious because
it involves a kind of category mistake (2008, 178). This interpretation,
however, severely distorts the intended structure and standing of the
argument. If Ott were right about the assumptions grounding the argu-
ment, then NNC would not be a self-standing argument for occasion-
alism.11 For Ott’s esse-ad principle suggests that souls, unlike bodies, are
excellent candidates to be genuine causes!12 Thus, the argument would
require immediate supplementation in order to secure the conclusion
that God is the only true cause. Ott notes that finite minds, “lacking
omnipotence, cannot live up to the demands that Malebranche places
on causes” (2008, 167, 183; 2009, 81). An omnipotence requirement,
however, easily secures Malebranche’s occasionalist conclusion, leaving
esse-ad with no work to do in explaining/supporting the argument.13
9 Several of my criticisms here overlap with points made in Lee 2013. Our essays were developed and
written entirely independently, however.
10 I take the abbreviation from Lee 2008b and Ott 2008, both of whom cite Nadler 1996 for the
phrase.
11 Ott acknowledges this, somewhat obliquely, at 2008, 182. My objection here is related to Nadler’s
(2011, 185) point contra Ott that NNC and the epistemic argument are distinct arguments.
12 This issue is oddly ignored at Ott 2008, 181 (see also Ott 2009, 97).
13 This point is also made in Lee 2013, 112. Ott notes that the intentionality requirement is necessary
but not sufficient (2008, 103). But omnipotence is certainly sufficient. This leaves us with no interpre-
tive evidence here for the necessity of the intentionality requirement.
efficient causation in malebranche and berkeley 2 03
There is a general difficulty apparent here with Ott’s strategy. Ott

purports to explain why Malebranche thinks it simply makes no sense
to attribute power to creatures (2008, 181). But he can’t explain why
this should apply generally to creatures, as Malebranche emphasizes in
the Search (OCM 3:204/LO 658), rather than merely to bodies. This
reflects a structural problem with Ott’s interpretation if it is proffered
as a general key to Malebranche’ arguments: Esse-ad is asymmetrical in
its implications for mind and body, but Malebranche’s conclusions
about causal inertness are very often symmetrical: both mind and body
are to be shown to lack any causal power.
In addition, Ott’s principle offers no insight into the Knowledge Ar-
gument, as applied to minds. A traditional understanding of the Knowl-
edge Argument has Malebranche assuming, fueled by Cartesian du-
alism, that what a mind causes it causes by will. And the will cannot be
blind; that is, the agent must cognize relevantly: roughly, she must know
what she is willing.14 Thus, where we lack the required knowledge (of
nerves and muscles and animal spirits), we cannot cause by will. Ott
criticizes this interpretation of the argument, arguing that it cannot ex-
plain why this piece of ordinary knowledge isn’t sufficient to meet the
knowledge requirement: I know that what I want is for my arm to move.
In fact, to understand the epistemic argument we need to invoke the

point I have been pushing toward concerning NNC: Malebranche
requires that causes and effects be linked by the content of a voli-
tion. Now, in the case of chain volitions, the requisite link obviously
does not obtain. For what the physiology shows us is that the connec-
tion is not volition-arm moving, but volition-brain event x-etc.-arm
moving. And without including the brain event in the content of
the volition, that volition cannot be efficacious simply because the
p-volition and the alleged effect are not identical. (185)15
14 For a nice discussion of this doctrine, see Winkler 1989, 207–16.

15 See also Ott 2009, 99.
204 modern
But here it is the claim about what the physiology tells us about where
“the connection” lies that is doing all the work in supporting the argu-
ment. If Ott can hold that the content of the volition must include the
brain event, then the defender of the traditional interpretation can
equally well hold that the agent must know what is required to be
willed, namely the brain event.16 So we’ve been given here no reason to
prefer Ott’s esse-ad interpretation to the traditional one.
Further, Ott’s stress on esse-ad here threatens to leave Malebranche
without an argument against mind-mind causation. That is, it would
seem that when I will to imagine a unicorn, I can get the connection
between volitional content and world that, according to Ott’s inter-
pretation, is needed for causation.17 Here again we can find a general
moral to draw: The directedness being invoked as esse-ad is some sort
of aboutness. But when I will to imagine a unicorn, although there is
(arguably) an appropriate aboutness, we don’t have a causal connec-
tion, according to Malebranche, nor is it clear that we are any closer to
having a causal connection.
There is, admittedly, some remaining work that Ott’s thesis does
seem suited to do. A better motivation for the thesis is its ability to ex-
plain Malebranche’s peculiar “man of my armchair” argument:
Well, suppose then that this chair can move itself. In what direction
will it go, with what speed, and when will it decide to move itself ?
Give it then an intelligence as well, and a will capable of determining
itself. In other words, create a human being out of your armchair.
Otherwise this power of self-motion will be useless to it. (OCM
12:155 / SJ 110–111)
16 That is, Ott’s claim that the content of the volition must include the brain event is no better
supported than the traditional claim that the agent must know the brain event. Ott’s claim can be
challenged by asking: Why isn’t it enough that the content includes the movement? ( Just as the tradi-
tional claim can be challenged by asking: Why isn’t it enough that I know that I want my arm to
move?) The crucial and controversial assumption that both interpretations are making is that the
mind would have to cause the first item in the causal sequence on the side of body.
17 A similar point is made in Lee 2013, 114.
Ott’s interpretation here seems attractive, in that rather than supposing

that Malebranche is inappropriately assessing bodies with a mentalistic
paradigm, he has Malebranche instead relying on a deeper assumption,
one which was natural in the scholastic context. I submit, however, that
this interpretive strategy leaves Ott with a dilemma. Either (1) esse-ad is
itself a mentalistic paradigm, in which case employing it without real
argument simply begs the question against body-body causation,18 or,
(2), if not, that is, if the requirement is simply of a sort of topic-neutral
directedness that wills happen to exemplify, then argument would be
required to show that bodies could not have such directed powers. But
no such argument is forthcoming from Malebranche. This is to suggest
a way in which the esse-ad interpretation is uncharitable.
But perhaps the most serious problem with esse-ad is a plain textual
one: Malebranche never invokes the principle, nor argues for it, even
in the one context where it would be the most directly relevant, namely,
in arguing that bodies are not genuine causes at impact, an issue on
which he was directly challenged by Fontenelle.19 I turn back now to
the question of what Malebranche does say, during the course of which
we will return to the armchair argument.
1.2 Malebranche on Body-Body Causation and Impact
What does Malebranche have to say about impact? In the Search after
Truth, he often seems to be skirting the question. This is especially true
in 6.2.3, his official presentation of his occasionalism in the book. As al-
ready noted, Malebranche’s focus in the Search is on his NNC principle.
Before articulating that principle, he provides a remarkably quick setup:
It is clear that no body, large or small, has the power to move itself.
A mountain, a house, a rock, a grain of sand, in short, the tiniest
18 That (1) is what is true of the interpretation, rather than (2), is suggested by the label “the cognitive
model of causation.”
19 As Ott (2008, 182) acknowledges.
206 modern
or largest body conceivable does not have the power to move

itself. . . . Thus, since the idea we have of all bodies makes us aware
that they cannot move themselves, it must be concluded that it is
minds which move them.a But when we examine our idea of all
finite minds, we do not see any necessary connection between their
will and the motion of any body whatsoever.
aSee the seventh Dialogue on Metaphysics and the fifth of the Chris-
tian Meditations. (OCM 2:312–13/LO 448)
Malebranche trades here, as he often does, on the uncontroversial

point that a Cartesian body cannot set itself into motion, while ignor-
ing the more difficult and pressing question of whether such bodies
can move each other. He next observes that finite minds lack any nec-
essary connection to bodily motion. When we turn to God, we realize
that here and only here can we find the desired connection. Having
drawn the occasionalist conclusion from NNC, Malebranche then
amplifies it, and applies it briefly to the case of impact:
We must therefore say that only His will can move bodies if we wish to
state things as we conceive them and not as we sense them. The motor
force of bodies is therefore not in the bodies that are moved, for this
motor force is nothing other than the will of God. Thus, bodies have
no action; and when a body that is moved collides with and moves an-
other, it communicates to it nothing of its own, for it does not itself
have the force it communicates to it. (OCM 2:313/LO 448)
Finally, he calls on the knowledge argument in order to forestall any

backsliding in favor of causation by human minds.
We can gather from this section (and other places in the Search) that
Malebranche has a specific model for what would be required for one
body to efficiently cause the motion of another via impact. The first
body (A) would have to be the bearer of its moving force, and it would
have to transfer that moving force to body B at impact. This leaves us

with two questions: (1) What is moving force? (2) How do we know
that bodies can’t possess that moving force?
As for (1), a body’s moving force, for Malebranche, is the force/cause
responsible for its continued motion. That moving force, Malebranche
consistently holds throughout all his works, is God’s will. But how do
we know that bodies themselves can’t possess that moving force? In the
argument above from 6.2.3, the official answer is that we have already
concluded, from NNC, that God is the only true cause. (One might
think that Malebranche is tempted to answer (2) via the ambiguous
“no body has the power to move itself.” This would be unfortunate,
however, since, as just observed, only the principle—no body has the
power to set itself into motion—is uncontroversial, but this doesn’t
suffice to answer (2).)
At this point we can identify at least two deep problems with Mal-
ebranche’s treatment here, problems which were pressed by Male-
branche’s contemporaries. The first was powerfully made by Fontenelle,
in his Doutes sur le système physique des Causes occasionnelles, published
anonymously in Rotterdam in 1686. The core of Fontenelle’s case is an
attempt to use Malebranche’s NNC argument against him by locating
a necessary connection between impact and motion. He argues that
given the Cartesian premise, affirmed by Malebranche, that impen-
etrability belongs to the nature of body as a consequence of exten-
sion, Malebranche must admit a necessary connection between impact
and change of motion. Fontenelle constructs a thought experiment
in which two bodies in motion encounter each other before God has
made his decree about what he will do on the occasion of impact,
and demands: What then will happen, since the impenetrable bodies
cannot simply continue in their motion?20 Fontenelle’s challenge, then,
asserts that the nature of bodies can ground a necessary connection
between impact and change of motion. Thus, if causation is necessary
20 See OCF 1:619.

208 modern
connection, Malebranche must admit that bodies could be true causes

via impact.
A different and more basic worry might be raised by questioning
Malebranche’s moving force model: Why suppose that there is such a
thing as moving force? That is, Malebranche’s conception of moving
force seems to presuppose a misunderstanding or rejection of inertia.
That this is so seems undeniable from 6.2.9:
I conceive only that bodies in motion have a motor force [ force

mouvante], and that those at rest have no force for their state of rest,
because the relation of moving bodies to those around them is always
changing; and therefore there has to be a continuous force produc-
ing these continuous changes, for in effect it is these changes which
cause everything new that happens in nature. But there need be no
force to make nothing happen. (OCM 2:431 / LO 517)
Malebranche argues here that motion, unlike rest, is a continuous

change which requires a continuous force or cause. This goes against
a fully modern understanding of motion as an inertial state. But of
course this understanding was an achievement and, as is well-known,
Newton himself could not have agreed with a characterization of iner-
tial motion as motion under no forces, using, as he does, the notion of
a vis insita of matter.21 It is instructive to observe here Samuel Clarke’s
Newtonian presentation of Malebranche’s error as he understands it:
In reality, the Force or Tendency by which Bodies, whether in Motion

or at Rest, continue in the State in which they once are; is the mere
Inertia of Matter; and therefore if it could be, that God should forbear
willing at all; a Body that is once in Motion, would move on for ever,
as well as a Body at Rest, continue at Rest for ever. And the Effect of
this Inertia of Matter is this, that all Bodies resist in proportion to
21 Newton 1999, 404.

their Density, that is, to the Quantity of Matter contained in them;

and every Body striking upon another with a given Velocity, whether
that other be greater or less, moves it in proportion to the Density or
Quantity of Matter in the one, to the Density or Quantity of Matter
in the other. (Rohault 1987, 1:41-42)
Clarke holds that the mere inertia of matter grounds both its con-
tinued motion and causal interaction at impact.22
Malebranche became aware of the first problem, since Fontenelle
published it and Bayle publicized it. It’s not clear that he is ever aware
of the second. Nevertheless, in the end, Malebranche offers a deep met-
aphysical answer to both problems that serves to justify not just his
claim that bodies cannot possess motive force but also his more general
claim that only God can cause the motions of bodies.23 Malebranche’s
initial grapplings with Fontenelle’s problem can be found in his anon-
ymous Réflexions24 (attributed to Malebranche by the editors of his
Œuvres Complètes). I will argue, however, that his most considered re-
sponse is in Dialogue VII of his Dialogues on Metaphysics and Religion,
where, unlike in the Search, he highlights the problem of impact, as
well as discussing Fontenelle’s scenario.25
The core of his solution can in fact be discerned in the Search, in an
analysis of motion he gives in more than one place: God “puts [a body]
in motion by preserving it successively in several places through His
simple will” (OCM 2:428/LO 515), thus, the motive force of bodies
is always God’s will.26 In the Méditations chrétiennes et métaphysiques
22 Further, it is clear from Clarke 1738, 2:697, that Clarke holds that inertia is a power that derives
from matter’s passive nature.
23 This second claim is more general in that it doesn’t presuppose the motive force model.
24 Réflexions sur un livre impriméà Rotterdam 1686, intitulé, Doutes sur le système des causes occasion-
nelles, OCM 17-1.
25 There are good reasons to privilege Malebranche’s occasionalist arguments in the Dialogues: he
footnotes Dialogue VII in both the sixth edition of the Search (OCM 2:312–13/LO 448) and in the
Méditations chrétiennes (third and fourth editions, OCM 10:49). And, of course, unlike the Réflex-
ions, he attaches his name to it.
26 See also OCM 3:208/LO 660.
210 modern
(1683), this is broadened into a recognizable version of his well-known

argument from continued creation, which has as its consequence that
it is impossible for either bodies or minds to move bodies. In the anon-
ymous response to Fontenelle, Malebranche gestures at continued cre-
ation, rejecting Fontenelle’s supposition that bodies could be in motion
before the decree of God (OCM 17-1:580) and reminding him that
everything is a continual effect of God (OCM 17-1:580).27 But the ar-
gument is presented in its full force only in Dialogue VII. And in Dia-
logue VII the argument is targeted directly against impact; indeed, it is
easy to see the dialogue as being built around the task of replying defin-
itively to Fontenelle.
Malebranche begins by reinforcing the reader’s understanding of Car-
tesian body: It is extension alone, and so its properties “can consist only
in relations of distance” (OCM 12:150/SJ 106). This is first used as a basis
to argue against body-mind causation, via the claim that a power to act
on a mind could not be a relation of distance. Next we get the now-
familiar armchair argument. Here again, Malebranche is making a point
that few would challenge: bodies can’t initiate new motion, can’t put
themselves into motion. He drives home this thesis with the suggestion
that creating new motion, because we can see no other way for a particu-
lar result to be determined, would seem to require attributing something
like choice to the body, which would then require will and intellect.
Following this review, Malebranche has his character Aristes pointedly
raise the very issue that earlier treatments sought to finesse: “Remember,
Theodore, you have to prove there is a contradiction in bodies acting
upon one another.”28 Theodore (Malebranche’s spokesperson) immedi-
ately undertakes to demonstrate this very point, which leads straight to
an extended presentation of the argument from continuous creation.
27 Thus I disagree with Nadler’s assessment of Malebranche’s response as missing Fontenelle’s point
(and here I agree with Schmaltz 2008b). See Nadler 2000, 119. I hold, on the contrary, that Male-
branche is pointing to the right factor (continued dependence on God) in the Réflexions, and that he
fills out this line of argument effectively in Dialogue VII.
28 OCM 12:155/SJ 111, my emphasis.
There are two main parts to the argument: The first is to argue that
the correct conception of the continued dependence of the created
world on God establishes that that creation does not cease. Conserva-
tion/preservation is simply a continuous creation:
Let God no longer will there to be a world, and it is thereby annihi-

lated. For the world assuredly depends on the will of the creator. If
the world subsists, it is because God continues to will its existence.
Thus, the conservation of creatures is, on the part of God, nothing
but their continued creation. . . . [I]n God creation and conservation
are but a single volition which, consequently, is necessarily followed
by the same effects. (OCM 12:156–57/SJ 112)
Malebranche bolsters this account by arguing that the alternative

would make God incapable of annihilating the world, since it would
require him to positively will nothingness (rather than simply ceasing
to will existence), which is incompatible with his attributes.
The second half of the argument draws out the consequences for
finite causation in general and body-body causation in particular:
Creation does not pass, because the conservation of creatures

is—on God’s part—simply a continuous creation, a single volition
subsisting and operating continuously. Now, God can neither con-
ceive nor consequently will that a body exist nowhere, nor that it
does not stand in certain relations of distance to other bodies. Thus,
God cannot will that this armchair exist, and by this volition create
or conserve it, without situating it here, there, or elsewhere. It is a
contradiction, therefore, for one body to be able to move another.
Further, I claim, it is a contradiction for you to be able to move your
armchair. Nor is this enough; it is a contradiction for all the angels
and demons together to be able to move a wisp of straw. The proof
of this is clear. For no power, however great it be imagined, can sur-
pass or even equal the power of God. (OCM 12:160/SJ 115–16)
212 modern
It is clear that Malebranche intends this as a general argument that

nothing other than God himself can be an efficient cause of the motion
of a body. If all the angels and demons together cannot move the
second billiard ball, then the first billiard ball certainly cannot.
Nevertheless, Malebranche goes on to directly engage with Fon-
tenelle’s argument, and, in particular, to address the question of neces-
sary connection. The issue of necessity is raised twice:
[O]ne body cannot move another without communicating its

motive force to it. But the motive force of a moving body is simply
the will of the creator who conserves it successively in different places.
It is not a quality that belongs to this body. Nothing belongs to it
except its modalities, and modalities are inseparable from substances.
Therefore bodies cannot move each other, and their encounter
or impact is only an occasional cause of the distribution of their
motion. For as they are impenetrable, it is a kind of necessity that
God, whom I suppose to act always with the same efficacy or quan-
tity of motive force, as it were imparts to the body so struck the
motive force of the body which strikes it, in proportion to the mag-
nitude of the impact but according to the law that, when two bodies
collide with each other, the stronger one or the one transported
with the greater force must overcome the weaker one, and make it
rebound without receiving anything from it. (OCM 12:162/SJ 117)
And a few paragraphs later, Theotimus raises Fontenelle’s scenario, on

which body A moves into contact with body B, before God has estab-
lished the laws of the communication of motion:
Aristes: Wait a minute, Theotimus. What are you proving? Given

that bodies are impenetrable, it is necessary that at the moment of
impact, God determines His choice in the matter you have con-
fronted me with. That is all; I failed to note this. You do not prove
at all that a moving body can, by means of something belonging to
it, move another body which it encounters. If God had not yet es-
tablished the laws of the communication of motion, the nature of
bodies—their impenetrability—would oblige Him to make such
laws as He deemed appropriate. . . . But it is clear that impenetra-
bility has no efficacy of its own, and that it can merely provide God,
who treats things according to their nature, with an occasion to di-
versify His action without altering anything in His conduct. (OCM
12:164/SJ 118–19)
A correct understanding of the metaphysics of the created material

world is supposed to make clear to us that even if there is a necessary
connection between impact and change of motion, and even though
that necessary connection can be traced back to the impenetrable
nature of bodies, bodies still can’t be efficient causes of each other’s
motion. And that is because each body, in being conserved by God, is
continually created by God, which requires, as at the initial creation,
that the body be put in a particular place. But of course, if we specify
the locations of bodies over time, we have specified their motions as
well. If, following Fontenelle’s scenario, God had somehow brought
bodies into existence and set them in motion before determining the
laws of impact,29 then, as Malebranche states, all that follows is that he
would have to make a decision about what happens at impact.30
1.3 Implications of Continuous Creation
Like most commentators,31 I think that Conservation is but Contin-

uous Creation (CCC)32 is a powerful argument for occasionalism, if
29 Surely this could not happen, given that God does not change.
30 Thus, it doesn’t matter to this argument whether or not divine choice is involved in determining
the laws of impact. Even if impenetrability somehow dictated exactly one outcome, it would still be
the case that it is God giving location to every body at every time.
31 See Nadler 2000, 126; Pyle 2003, 111; Lee 2008a, 553. But see Winkler 2011, 300–302, and Mc-
Donough 2007, 50–53, among others, for arguments that the occasionalist conclusion need not
follow from the version of continuous creation actually held by Leibniz.
32 I borrow this abbreviation from Lee 2008b.
214 modern
one accepts the strong premise that conservation is not distinct from
creation. And this premise secured wide acceptance, at least verbally, in
Malebranche’s time.33 Further, I have argued that it is an effective re-
sponse to Fontenelle. What might we conclude from the fact that this
is the core of Malebranche’s response in the Dialogues?
First, Malebranche declines to extend or elaborate his only candi-
date for an analysis of efficient causation, that is, necessary connection.
He admits that “a kind of necessity” obtains in impact, but neglects to
say which kind, or to explicitly distinguish it from the necessity that
obtains between God’s will and its effects. Rather, he trumps such con-
siderations by bringing in the CCC.
If, despite Malebranche’s reticence, we seek to extend an analysis on
his behalf, we might conclude that Malebranche holds that a necessary
connection is necessary for a relation of efficient causation to obtain, but
not sufficient. As for what further is required, Malebranche gives us little
guidance, apart from this example: It is God who is efficacious here in
impact, God who is doing the work of causing motion; impenetrability
acts only as a constraint on his operation. Demoting necessary connec-
tion to a necessary condition, however, does not obviously threaten any-
thing that Malebranche actually cares about, as long as he can retain the
occasionalist result that God is the only true cause. He does not, after all,
actually claim to give an analysis of efficient causation.
Sukjae Lee (2008a) has suggested that there is a transition in Male-
branche between an earlier inclination to rely on the NNC argument,
and a later tendency to emphasize the C CC argument. I want to agree
with him, but to argue that there exists an explanation for this that is
considerably simpler than the one he offers.34 Malebranche holds that
Fontenelle’s case at least threatens to provide a counterexample to the
claim that we can see a necessary connection only between God’s will
33 Both Descartes and Leibniz affirm it, though Samuel Clarke explicitly dissents from it in his cor-
respondence with Leibniz. See Descartes’ Principles II.42 (AT 8:66), Leibniz’s Theodicy sects. 385–86
(Leibniz 1985, 355–56), and Clarke’s fourth reply to Leibniz, section 30 (Clarke 1738, 4:627).
34 Of course, there could be more than one explanation for this phenomenon.
and its effects. His response is not (primarily) to develop his account of
necessity, or of the causal relation, but to wheel out the CCC.
The strength and effectiveness of the CCC does, however, raise con-
cerns for two things that Malebranche clearly does care about: free-
dom and the status of created beings. The best way to raise the issue of
freedom is to raise a more basic question: What is the scope of applica-
tion of the CCC? It is noteworthy that its official intended application
is always to the motion of bodies: nothing other than God can move
bodies. Nevertheless, it seems obvious that the argument must be ap-
plicable to minds as well:35 For the motivating intuition behind the
argument, surely, is that creation must be fully determinate: in the case of
bodies this requires (at least) that their size, shape, and location be
settled; in the case of minds it must require that all the modes of these
substances be specified.
Malebranche explicitly considers this extension of the CCC in a
long passage added to the 1st Elucidation only in the sixth edition
(1712) of the Search:36
The most common and apparently strongest objection that can be

made against freedom is the following. Conservation, you will say,
is nothing but continued creation on God’s part, i.e., the same con-
stantly efficacious will. Thus, when we speak or walk, when we think
and will, God makes us such as we are—He creates us speaking, walk-
ing, thinking, willing. If a man perceives and tastes an object, God
creates him perceiving and tasting this object; and if he consents to
the impulse that is excited in him, if he rests with this object, God
creates him stopping at and resting with this object. God makes him
such as he is at that moment. He creates in him his consent in which
he has no greater role than do bodies in the motion that moves them.
35 As Pyle holds (2003, 111) and Nadler argues (1998, 222).
36 That the passage is a late addition, and thus surely responds to reactions to Malebranche’s response
to Fontenelle, is little remarked on. Nadler (2000), Schmaltz (2008b), and Lee (2008a, 554) do not
discuss it.
216 modern
I answer that God creates us, speaking, walking, thinking, will-

ing, that He causes in us our perceptions, sensations, impulses, in a
word, that He causes in us all that is real or material, as I have ex-
plained above. But I deny that God creates us as consenting pre-
cisely insofar as we are consenting or resting with a particular good,
whether true or apparent. God merely creates us as always being
able to stop at such a good, whether true or apparent. (OCM 3:30–
31/LO 554)
Malebranche responds to the concern that the CCC threatens free-

dom by maintaining that God creates us not stopping at a particular
good, but rather able to stop at it. However, this seems to create space
for Fontenelle to object that God, then, should be able to create bodies
not stopping or moving, but, rather, able to stop or move, depending
on the actions of other bodies. And, indeed, this seems to be just what
Fontenelle wants to maintain when he writes that creatures cannot
change a determined action of God but could change an “undeter-
mined, indifferent” one, “such as that by which he conserves so much
motion in each particular body” (OCF 1:636).
The different treatments accorded to the motion of bodies and the
consent of mind are supposed, of course, to hinge on the different sta-
tuses of motion and consent—consent is not a mode, is nothing phys-
ical or real, whereas motion is fixed by a sequence of locations, which
creation cannot leave undetermined. It is difficult, however, not to
worry that there is something stipulative in all of this.
A second concern about the implications of the CCC is harder to
formulate, but perhaps deeper. Given that bodies are continually gen-
erated by God, in a way that deprives them of any causal efficacy, do
they qualify as substances with natures at all? We could pin this worry
down further by asking about the status of impenetrability for Male-
branche: Andrew Pyle (2003, 127) has suggested that on the occasion-
alist account, “What it is for bodies to be impenetrable is simply for
God to have established certain rules for His continuous re-creation of
bodies and the re-distribution of the modes of local motion.” This does
not seem to have been Malebranche’s actual view, however, as Tad
Schmaltz (2008b, 306) has observed. Rather, Malebranche holds, as
Descartes did, that impenetrability follows from the extended nature
of bodies. It is unclear, however, how to make sense of this claim in the
context of the CCC, where the physical world is continually and
wholly dependent on God’s causal power, and, in particular, all facts
about position and motion are fixed by him. For a body to be impene-
trable by nature is for something about it to prevent other bodies from
spatially overlapping with it: surely this is to attribute an efficient
causal power to the body.37 Since we cannot be doing that on Male-
branche’s considered view, it would seem that Pyle’s account of impen-
etrability is the best available to Malebranche.38
I have argued (all too briefly) for the following theses: Malebranche
does not argue for occasionalism by presupposing that causation re-
quires volition or an intentional connection between cause and effect.
On the contrary, he engages directly with the question of the causal
status of impact. Body-body causation at impact is not a category mis-
take, but rather something that can be definitively ruled out only by
consideration of God’s role as continual generator of the physical
world. The metaphysics of the CCC establishes occasionalism. It also
supports Malebranche’s view that the moving force of bodies is always
the will of God, since there is always a cause of any body’s motion, and
that cause is God. However, this same metaphysics creates tensions for
37 While it is true to say that Malebranche views it as an eternal truth that whatever is extended is
impenetrable, this by itself does not suffice to solve the problem.
38 Though I argue above that CCC looks like an effective way to establish the causal impotence
of bodies, even if they are impenetrable in a way that grounds necessary connections. What this
suggests is that Malebranche could allow that bodies, qua impenetrable, have causal powers which
are never actualized. This would be to say that there is something about each body which would
prevent other bodies from overlapping with it, if, per impossibile, it were left to its own devices,
rather than being continuously created. It would remain true, though, that impenetrability is
never efficacious, as things are. I don’t think this suggestion eliminates all tensions, however, as (1) it
does not sound like a position that Malebranche would be happy with, and (2) there is the “per im-
possible” above to be reckoned with. Thanks to Walter Ott for provoking me to consider this issue
further.
218 modern
Malebranche that are clear to his contemporaries: difficulties allowing

scope for freedom and genuine substancehood.39
1.4 Causation, Law, and Force
One more thread should briefly be taken up here, because of its impor-
tance to post-Cartesian developments, including Berkeley and Hume.
As is well known, Malebranche seeks to reconcile the apparent conflict
between occasionalism and a straightforward view of the implications
of natural philosophy or science.
God can absolutely do all He pleases without finding dispositions in

the subjects on which He acts. But He cannot do so without a miracle, or
by natural ways, i.e., according to the general laws of the communication
of motion He has established, and according to which He almost always
acts. God does not multiply his volitions without reason; He always acts
through the simplest ways, and this is why he uses the collision of bodies
to move them, not because their impact is absolutely necessary for their
motion, as our senses tell us, but because with impact as the occasion for
the communication of motion, very few natural laws are needed to
produce all the admirable effects we see. (OCM 3:214–15/LO 663)
Thus, Malebranche highlights the importance to science of regularity or

law. As we know already, however, this does not affect his notion of effi-
cient causation, which includes necessary connection and applies only to
God’s will. Further, causal notions such as power or vis receive the same
treatment—they find application only in God. As we have seen, this ex-
tends to notions that might seem to belong to physics, such as a body’s
“moving force,” which gets glossed as the cause of a body’s motion,
which turns out again to be God or God’s will. But the situation is
more complex when we come to Berkeley.
39 As Pyle (2003, 126) observes, Leibniz is an acute critic of Malebranche’s difficulties in allowing for
created substances.
2. Berkeley
2.1 The Regularity-Plus-Volition Interpretation
Malebranche, of course, looms large among Berkeley’s influences, as has

been noticed by Berkeley’s readers, both early and late.40 This is especially
evident in his notebooks,41 not just in Berkeley’s explicit attempt to dis-
tance himself from Malebranche by declaring that “we move our Legs
our selves” (PC 548), but also in his use of the key notion of “occasion”:
S What means Cause as distinguish’d from Occasion? nothing but

a Being wch wills wn the Effect follows the volition. Those things
that happen from without we are not the Cause of therefore there is
some other Cause of them i.e. there is a being that wills these percep-
tions in us. (PC 499)
An occasion, as we know from Malebranche, is the first item in a se-

quence, which provides a sort of cue for God, acting according to general
laws, to produce (i.e., efficiently cause) the second item. For Malebranche,
this first item is not a true cause, but merely an “occasional cause.” Here
Berkeley seems to be suggesting, contra Malebranche, that the word
“cause” just means an occasion which is or involves a being with a will.
That Berkeley is here articulating something like an account of cau-
sation, rather than, say, just making skeptical observations about how
we use the word “cause,” is suggested by 699, where he seems to give an
(at least partial) account of power:
S There is a difference betwixt Power & Volition. There may be

volition without Power. But there can be no Power without Voli-
tion. Power implyeth volition & at the same time a Connotation of
the Effects following the Volition. (PC 699)
40 So much so that some of Berkeley’s early readers dismissed him as a “Malbranchiste de bonne foi”
(Bracken 1959, 17). Classic treatments here include Luce 1934 and McCracken 1983.
41 Berkeley’s notebooks, styled by Luce and Jessop as the “Philosophical Commentaries,” were gener-
ated in 1707–08 and represent a fascinating record of his early philosophical development, as well as
his responses to some of his predecessors and contemporaries.
220 modern
And this account of power appears to be a revision of 461, wherein

power is equated with the relation between cause and effect, with the
latter tied to sequences begun by volition or by impulse.
+ The simple idea call'd Power seems obscure or rather none at all.
but onely the relation ’twixt cause & Effect. Wn I ask whether A can
move B if A be an intelligent thing. I mean no more than whether
the volition of A that B move be attended with the motion of B, if A
be senseless whether the impulse of A against B be follow’d by ye
motion of B. (PC 461)
Kenneth Winkler42 takes 499 and 699 in their contexts and diagnoses
in them an account of causation that we might call “regularity plus vo-
lition”:
an event will count as a cause if and only if (a) it is followed by

another event (its effect); (b) events of the first type are regularly
followed by events of the second type; and (c) the first event is a vo-
lition. (Winkler 1989, 109–10)43
The notebook passages do suggest, I agree, that Berkeley is trying out

a deflationary account of causation/power, based on Malebranche’s
notion of occasional causation, which includes elements (a) and (c).
Condition (b), as Winkler admits, is not obvious from the note-
books. He justifies it (190) with the observation that in the published
works, Berkeley clearly holds that regularity is crucial to our ordinary
judgments about cause and effect.44
42 In the “Cause and effect” chapter of the terrific and influential Winkler 1989. See also Winkler
1985.
43 See Winkler (1989, 108) for a judicious treatment of Berkeley’s use of both thing-causes and event-
causes (an ambiguity that is typical of the period).
44 Note, however, these ordinary judgments are, according to Berkeley, mistaken judgments (PHK
32). A somewhat better support for (b), I suggest, is the fact that the notion of occasion for Male-
branche is thoroughly bound up with regularity, since God’s attributes dictate that he works in general
ways, according to general laws (e.g., OCM 12:160–61/SJ 116).
The most controversial question here is whether Berkeley adopts this

regularity-plus-volition view of causation and retains it in his published
works. Winkler holds that the answer is “yes”, and motivates his in-
terpretation in part by its being more attractive, more philosophically
charitable than a traditional interpretation of Berkeley. This traditional
interpretation of Berkeley, which, as Winkler (1989, 106–7) points out,
can be found prominently in J.S. Mill, portrays him as a kind of halfway
house to Hume, holding that our sensory or outer experience reveals no
necessary connections but supposing that our inner experience reveals
something more. (Hume, according to this narrative, then achieves the
further insight that Berkeley missed—that inner experience reveals only
sequence, just like outer experience.) On Winkler’s interpretation (1989,
112), however, Berkeley is not missing or denying the Humean insight.
Winkler’s interpretation also fits with and justifies the way in which
Berkeley, in his central discussion of causal power in PHK 28, seems to
suggest that causal activity can just be read off of our experience of cer-
tain kinds of sequences:
I find I can excite ideas in my mind at pleasure, and vary and shift
the scene as oft as I think fit. It is no more than willing, and straight
way this or that idea arises in my fancy: and by the same power it is
obliterated, and makes way for another. This making and unmaking
of ideas doth very properly denominate the mind active. Thus much
is certain, and grounded on experience: but when we talk of un-
thinking agents, or of exciting ideas exclusive of volition, we only
amuse our selves with words. (PHK 28)
That is, it looks like Berkeley here is merely reporting that we find that
appropriate ideas of imagination always follow volitions, and he wants
to restrict activity to the volitional, which fits with the regularity-
plus-volition view.
Another apparent virtue of the regularity-plus-volition interpretation
is that it promises to explain and justify Berkeley’s notorious contention
222 modern
that we move our limbs ourselves. The difficulty for this Berkeleyan doc-
trine, as many scholars have pointed out, is that, given Berkeley’s meta-
physical views, my arm’s moving can only consist in a collection of sensory
ideas, which would have to be caused in me by God, like all sensory ideas
(PHK 29, 30, 34). The regularity-plus-volition interpretation, however,
seems to readily allow that my will can be a cause of my arm’s moving.
The regularity-plus-volition interpretation thus has a significant tex-
tual basis and motivation. As an interpretation of Berkeley’s mature
views, however, its defects outweigh its advantages. To begin with, fur-
ther reflection on the question of my power over my own body shows
that the interpretation cannot evade the generalized problem here,
which is how to reconcile the causal claim about me and my will with
God’s causal role. Presumably, God has a relevant volition which is also
followed by a relevant idea/effect (and his volition-type is regularly fol-
lowed by that idea-type). Which volition is the cause of this effect? This
looks like a problematic sort of overdetermination. And this point in
turn helps to highlight the deeper problem here—no subtle response
can be given to this problem (along the lines, say, of concurrentism),
assuming that the interpretation proposes that regularity-plus is Berke-
ley’s analysis of causation.45 For if this is Berkeley’s analysis of causation,
as seems to be suggested in the notebooks, God’s power also can consist
only in this sort of regularity-plus-volition. This is a profoundly unfor-
tunate result for Berkeley, as it would have been for Malebranche.
A related, quite general, problem with regularity-plus-volition is
that it is too successful in making the movements of my body volun-
tary. For that result threatens to dislodge my body from the real world
and reclassify it as chimerical:
45 Winkler, however, officially offers regularity-plus-volition as Berkeley’s account of what it is to be

a finite cause (112). This neglects two crucial facts, however. (1) The only textual evidence in favor of
regularity-plus is evidence for it as a general account of causation, not as specific to finite as opposed
to infinite causes. (2) Berkeley must hold that our grasp of God’s causal power derives from our grasp
of our own causal power, as he holds generally that “all the notion I have of god, is obtained by re-
flecting on my own soul heightening its powers and removing its imperfections” (3D 231, see also PHK
140, 3D 231–33). Thus, this restriction to the finite cannot be justified.
The ideas imprinted on the senses by the Author of Nature are called
real things: and those excited in the imagination being less regular,
vivid and constant, are more properly termed ideas, or images of
things, which they copy and represent. But then our sensations, be
they never so vivid and distinct, are nevertheless ideas, that is, they
exist in the mind, or are perceived by it, as truly as the ideas of its
own framing. The ideas of sense are allowed to have more reality in
them, that is, to be more strong, orderly, and coherent than the crea-
tures of the mind; but this is no argument that they exist without
the mind. They are also less dependent on the spirit, or thinking sub-
stance which perceives them, in that they are excited by the will of
another and more powerful spirit. . . . (PHK 33)
As Sukjae Lee nicely argues (2012, 548), it is clear that involuntariness

is a necessary condition for reality, according to Berkeley’s canonical
account of the distinction between the real and the chimerical (PHK
29, 33, 34). If the motion of my arm is an idea efficiently caused directly
by me, rather than by God, then it will be classed with ideas of imagi-
nation as chimerical, rather than as part of the sensory, real, world.
A further philosophical problem is that requirement (c), that is, the
requirement that causes be volitions, seems to be arbitrary.46 Winkler
is well aware of this problem, and addresses it by suggesting that Berke-
ley held that volitions, because they give ends, confer intelligibility and
are thus qualified to be causes. (And here we should be reminded of
the “esse-ad” interpretation of Malebranche and its motivations.) We
ought not, however, to be satisfied by this defense against the arbitrar-
iness objection, for it, arguably, has Berkeley conflating efficient causa-
tion with final causation. Or, to put the point more charitably, it has
Berkeley assuming, without defense or notice (and in the eighteenth
century) that efficient causation requires teleology. A further difficulty
46 Moreover, there is evidence that this was salient to Berkeley: 461 allows for bodily causes. After
restricting causes to volitions in 499 and 699, Berkeley in 850 warns against the hazards of calling one
idea the cause of another that regularly follows it.
224 modern
with the defense is that Berkeley in fact holds that regularity in general
confers intelligibility, as is clear from PHK 104-105. So if intelligible
connection is all that is required, billiard balls in motion could be effi-
cient causes.47
And there are further interpretive difficulties with regularity-plus-
volition. Berkeley gives an extended, centrally placed argument that
bodies, since they are ideas, are inactive, and thus cannot cause our ideas:
All our ideas, sensations, or the things which we perceive, by what-

soever names they may be distinguished, are visibly inactive, there is
nothing of power or agency included in them. So that one idea or
object of thought cannot produce, or make any alteration in an-
other. To be satisfied of the truth of this, there is nothing else requi-
site but a bare observation of our ideas. For since they and every part
of them exist only in the mind, it follows that there is nothing in
them but what is perceived. But whoever shall attend to his ideas,
whether of sense or reflexion, will not perceive in them any power or
activity; there is therefore no such thing contained in them. A little
attention will discover to us that the very being of an idea implies
passiveness and inertness in it, insomuch that it is impossible for an
idea to do any thing, or, strictly speaking, to be the cause of any
thing: neither can it be the resemblance or pattern of any active
being, as is evident from Sect. 8. Whence it plainly follows that ex-
tension, figure and motion, cannot be the cause of our sensations. To
say therefore, that these are the effects of powers resulting from the
configuration, number, motion, and size of corpuscles, must cer-
tainly be false. (PHK 25)
But of course, such a proof is completely unnecessary on the regularity-

plus-volition view, since an idea is just the wrong category of thing to
be a cause. Worse, the argument makes no sense on that interpretation,
47 Winkler could, of course, respond by distinguishing between kinds of intelligibility.

since there is nothing for “active” to mean other than “is a volition of a
type regularly followed by a particular result”.48 Nor is this a unique
line of argument in Berkeley’s corpus.49 In De Motu (22, 29), Berkeley
argues that the sensed qualities of bodies are passive, that is, not effi-
cient causes.50 But again, this establishes that being active is not, for
Berkeley, just equivalent to being or having an appropriate volition, for
if that were true, no argument would be necessary.
2.2 Berkeley’s Mature View and Malebranche
If we take this as sufficient reason to abandon the volition-plus-regu-

larity interpretation, as I think we should, this of course leaves us with
the question of what to say about PHK 25, PHK 28, and Berkeley’s
considered view of causal activity. In PHK 25 Berkeley argues that be-
cause our ideas are ideal, they can have no qualities that they are not
perceived to have;51 they are not perceived to be active, therefore they
are not active. Note that this argument does not apply to spirits on
Berkeley considered view of spirits as substances. Thus, the possibility
48 Winkler sees that PHK 25 establishes that regularity-plus-volition is not “an analysis of the mean-
ing of the word ‘cause’” (114). His response to this problem is acute (116): “in his phenomenological
argument Berkeley records not only the absence of volition but also the absence of activity. When in
§28 he finds that he can excite ideas in his mind at pleasure, shifting the scene as often as he thinks fit,
he is aware that he is active—his belief in his own activity is, as he explains, ‘grounded on experi-
ence’—but his activity is not perceived, because it does not present itself as an object. The manner in
which volitions present themselves is difficult to clarify, but the phenomenological difference be-
tween volitions and sensations is undeniable. Our awareness of our own activity is immediate (Third
Dialogue, p.232).” But surely this is to read Berkeley as denying, in some subtle fashion, the Humean
point that inner experience reveals only sequence.
Here I think Winkler is ahead of Roberts, whose resourceful and original interpretation of Berke-
ley as an advocate for a sort of agent causation (2007, 2010) includes the view that causation is voli-
tion (2007, 91) and that “action,” “activity,” and “volition” are all equivalent terms (2007, 93). Again,
this seems to leave Berkeley ruling out corporeal causes simply by fiat. Roberts remarks that “the ma-
terialist’s conception of causation was eliminated along with matter. They were a package deal” (2007,
115). But this neglects the fact that Berkeley offers arguments against corporeal causes that are uncon-
nected to materialism. It is one thing to take agency as primitive. It is another to make it a category
mistake to treat anything else as a possible cause.
49 See also 3D 216.
50 For a discussion of this argument, see Downing 1995.
51 For an interesting discussion, see Cummins 1990.
226 modern
that spirits are active is not ruled out. Further, one might then take our
experience of readily imagining whatever we wish as obviously con-
firming that activity, which would be Berkeley’s point in PHK 28.
Of course, this doesn’t yet answer all of our questions. The words
“active” and “activity” have to mean something for Berkeley. Again we
should look to Berkeley’s defense of his mature view of spirits or minds.
I specify “mature view” because Berkeley’s notebook view of spirit,
like, I contend, his notebook view of causation, is quite different from
his published view. In the notebooks, Berkeley tries out an account of
spirits as mere bundles or collections of ideas and volitions. He later
abandons this account, perhaps because of concerns about how the
bundle, or the Will and the Understanding, is/are to be unified.52 In-
stead, the end of the notebooks suggests, and the beginning of the
Principles firmly states, a more traditional or Cartesian view of spirit/
mind as substance:53
A spirit is one simple, undivided, active being: as it perceives ideas,

it is called the understanding, and as it produces or otherwise oper-
ates about them, it is called the will. Hence there can be no idea
formed of a soul or spirit: for all ideas whatever, being passive and
inert, vide Sect. 25, they cannot represent unto us, by way of image or
likeness, that which acts. (PHK 27)
Notoriously, this leaves Berkeley with a serious epistemological problem:

if I can’t have an idea of spirit, how do I know that there are any, how is
the term “spirit” meaningful, and why is the positing of spirits legitimate
52 See PC 841, 848, 849, 850, and McCracken 1986. It is possible to read PC 848 as a decision to con-
ceal the bundle-theoretic account of spirit, as Muehlmann does (1992, 171,187). Whatever we say
about the notebooks, however, I think we must take the Principles and Dialogues at face value.
53 Thus I disagree strongly with Winkler’s (1989, 107) claim that “there is no reason to suppose that
he [Berkeley] later came to question” the regularity-plus-volition account of causation. There is good
reason to suppose that Berkeley changed his mind about spirit (as Winkler acknowledges) and that
his view of causal activity would have changed with it is quite unsurprising. (Furthermore, it is not
even clear that change of mind would have been required, since the occurrence of a view in the note-
books does not establish that Berkeley held the view.)
when the positing of matter is, purportedly, not? Berkeley endeavors to

answer all these questions by maintaining that we arrive at a notion of
ourselves as minds, as one, as substances, by turning inward, by reflec-
tion.54 This is to say that we know ourselves through conscious aware-
ness, and this allows us to use the word “spirit” meaningfully:
I say lastly, that I have a notion of spirit, though I have not, strictly
speaking, an idea of it. I do not perceive it as an idea or by means of
an idea, but know it by reflexion. . . . How often must I repeat, that I
know or am conscious of my own being; and that I my self am not
my ideas, but somewhat else, a thinking active principle that per-
ceives, knows, wills, and operates about ideas. (3D 233)
Such reflection, conscious awareness, must also be the source of our

notion of activity, which he is committed to us having.55 Contra Mill, the
Humean “truth” was not hidden from Berkeley by a mist of natural
prejudice (Winkler 1989, 107), but rather, it seems, thoughtfully denied.56
In defending his mature view of the causal activity of spirits, he is
also, of course, contradicting57 Malebranche’s contention that
54 Note that reflection for Berkeley, unlike Locke, does not supply us with more ideas.
55 In Siris (264, 290), Berkeley suggests that intellect, used in doing first philosophy, acquaints us
with spirits and their activity.
56 I take it that the reflections above supply an obvious motivation for Berkeley’s denial of the “Humean
truth,” i.e., Berkeley’s affirmation that we have cognitive access to a causal power that transcends regu-
larity in our own case. Without this affirmation, Berkeley has no route to “activity” meaning more than
mere regularity-plus-volition, which would leave him with no way to attribute real causal power to God.
That what we find in Berkeley is, in effect, thoughtful denial of “Humean truth” is a point made
beautifully by Ayers (in his introduction to Berkeley 1975, xxxvi) in relation to Berkeley’s treatment of
spirit.
57 I have left the question of whether Berkeley can, in the end, legitimately hold that we move our legs
ourselves hanging. I endorse what I take to be the mainstream view that although Berkeley can make
sense of our having control over and responsibility for our bodily actions, he cannot bill us as the effi-
cient causes of our bodily movements. It seems that Berkeley hints at this resolution himself at 3D 237.
See also Roberts’ (2010, 415) suggestion about how to understand PC 548. Berkeley takes our activity
with respect to ideas of imagination to be, it seems, the central example of our causal power, that
which properly denominates the mind as active (PHK 28) and which allows us to understand how
sensory ideas may be caused in us by an infinite spirit (3D 215). Unfortunately, space does not permit
further consideration of these difficult issues.
228 modern
not only are bodies incapable of being the true causes of whatever
exists: the most noble minds are in a similar state of impotence
(OCM 2:314/LO 449)58
On the topic of bodies’ causal inertness, however, they are in perfect

agreement, despite Malebranche’s apparent commitment to the mate-
rial world that Berkeley denies.59 And on the question of how to recon-
cile metaphysical truth with commonsense and scientific practice,
Berkeley often follows the path laid out by Malebranche, emphasizing
the importance of regularity to scientific explanation, and grounding
the existence of regularity in God:60
There are certain general laws that run through the whole chain of
natural effects: these are learned by the observation and study of
Nature, and are by men applied as well to the framing artificial
things for the use and ornament of life, as to the explaining the
various phenomena: which explication consists only in shewing
the conformity any particular phenomenon hath to the general
Laws of Nature, or, which is the same thing, in discovering the
uniformity there is in the production of natural effects; as will be
evident to whoever shall attend to the several instances, wherein
philosophers pretend to account for appearances. That there is a
great and conspicuous use in these regular constant methods of
working observed by the Supreme Agent, hath been shewn in Sect.
31. (PHK 62)61
58 Specifically, as was indicated above in the quotation from the 1st elucidation (OCM 3:30–31/LO
554), Malebranche holds that minds cannot efficiently cause anything real. All they can do is to direct
the general impulse toward the good that God gives them, which doesn’t amount to a power, but
merely an ability to stop or rest.
59 But see Downing 2005b, 209–12.
60 Though Berkeley emphasizes that regularity need not be perfect, and he grounds it in God’s good-
ness. For Malebranche, by contrast, God must act according to general volitions, and Malebranche
typically refers this to divine simplicity.
61 See also PHK 105.
Ultimately, however, Berkeley pushes this in a direction that is quite

un-Cartesian (and un-Malebranchean), arguing for a separation be-
tween natural philosophy and metaphysics:
In physics sense and experience which reach only to apparent effects

hold sway; in mechanics the abstract notions of mathematicians are
admitted. In first philosophy or metaphysics we are concerned with
incorporeal things, with causes, truth, and the existence of things. [. . .]
Only by meditation and reasoning can truly active causes be res-
cued from the surrounding darkness and be to some extent known.
To deal with them is the business of first philosophy or metaphysics.
Allot to each science its own province; assign its bounds; accurately
distinguish the principles and objects belonging to each. Thus it will
be possible to treat them with greater ease and clarity. (DM 71–72)
More specifically, although Berkeley agrees with Malebranche (for

nonhuman bodies at least), that there is a cause for all bodily motion
and that cause is always God, he does not accept Malebranche’s quick
conclusion that the motive force or vis pertaining to bodies is simply
God’s will. Berkeley, by contrast, recommends that “force” be treated
as a technical term in mechanics, divested of its problematic metaphys-
ical implications (DM 17, 29, 39).62 This allows him to leave Newto-
nian dynamics, not just unharmed but untampered with.63
Abbreviations
All references to Berkeley are to the Luce-Jessop edition of Berkeley’s

Works (Berkeley 1948–57). References use section numbers, except
62 For more detail, see Downing 2005a.

63 I would like to thank David Hilbert and Matthew McCall for comments on a draft of this mate-
rial. I also received much useful feedback from participants in the Workshop on Efficient Causation:
The History of the Concept, University of Michigan, May 2011, especially Tad Schmaltz. Thanks also
to Walter Ott for generous comments; I wish that time (and space) had permitted me to take fuller
advantage of them.
230 modern
for the Three Dialogues, which use page numbers. I use the follow-
ing abbreviations for Berkeley’s individual works.
pc = Philosophical Commentaries, that is, Berkeley’s notebooks;
references by section number
phk = The Principles of Human Knowledge; references by section
number
3d = Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous
dm = De Motu
s = Siris
ocf = Fontenelle 1968
lo = Malebranche 1980
ocm = Malebranche1958–84
sj = Malebranche 1997
chapter eight
Efficient Causation in Hume

P. J. E. Kail
1. Introduction
Toward the end of his discussion of the idea of necessary connection,

Hume offers two definitions of ‘cause’. Very approximately, the first of
these treats causation as a matter of the regular succession of objects,
the second of these our psychological reaction to regular succession.
Among the corollaries he draws from these definitions is that there is
no foundation for that distinction, which we sometimes make betwixt

efficient causes, and causes sine qua non; or betwixt efficient causes, and
formal, and material, and exemplary, and final causes. . . . [W]herever
[constant conjunction] is observ’d, the cause is efficient, and where it is
not, there can never be a cause of any kind. For the same reason we
must reject the distinction betwixt cause and occasion, when suppos’d
to signify any thing essentially different from each other. If constant
231
232 modern
conjunction be imply’d in what we call occasion, ’tis a real cause. If not,

’tis no relation at all, and cannot give rise to any argument or reasoning.
(THN 1.3.14.32/SBN 171)1
This pronouncement seems to signal the end of the subtle and complex
discussion of the metaphysics of causation with which this volume is con-
cerned. Goodbye to influxus, final causation, trope transfer, agency, and
all other attempts to articulate the metaphysics of causation. Hello to the
austere view that all causation is efficient causation, and efficacy is reduced
to constant conjunction. Causation is a matter of brute regularity.
This austere metaphysic is the dominant view of Hume’s position. It
is a conception of Hume that is undoubtedly influential and impor-
tant, and is the standard point of departure for contemporary discus-
sions of causation.2 Whether it is Hume’s own view is a separate and
controversial issue. For besides the expected disputes that concern
nitty-gritty details, commentators disagree on the very fundamentals of
Hume’s position and the import of his two definitions. According to
many, Hume’s two definitions of ‘cause’ are intended to circumscribe
jointly the nature of causation, so that, metaphysically speaking, causa-
tion just is regular succession. Anything else we seem to think about
the causal relation is merely a projection of our subjective responses.
For other commentators however, though the two definitions express
very severe restrictions on what we can understand of causation they
are not intended to capture its metaphysics. Hume thinks that the
metaphysics of causation is impenetrable, and that we must be content
with the understanding of it afforded by those definitions.
I will address this debate a little later, but note that on either reading
Hume is offering an extremely austere view. This represents a radical
break from the metaphysically richer accounts previously offered of ef-
ficient causation. The question then arises of just how such a break is
1 All italics original unless otherwise noted.

2 See, for example, the introduction to Sosa and Tooley 1993, and Psillos 2002, ch. 1.
efficient causation in hume 233
afforded, and the key to this is Hume’s distinctive approach to the

topic of causation. The approach is distinctive inasmuch as Hume ar-
rives at his conception of “cause” through investigating our inferential
faculties rather than by articulating a self-standing metaphysics of
causation. So the main aim of this chapter is to foreground Hume’s
distinctive approach and to consider its possible ramifications. In the
section 2, I shall discuss the relation between the standard reading of
Hume and his two definitions of cause, and then outline how he arrives
at those definitions. In the section 3, I look more closely at the details,
and, in section 4, I complete this discussion by narrowing the focus
further to consider Hume’s account of necessary connection. In section 5,
I return to the question of Hume’s fundamental attitude to causation
and identify what I shall call “modesty” and “immodesty” readings of
that attitude. Finally in section 6 I briefly discuss Thomas Reid’s cele-
brated reaction to Hume and Reid’s attempt to offer a positive concep-
tion of causation.
2. The Regularity Theory, the Two Definitions,

and Hume’s Naturalistic Approach
The standard regularity reading of Hume may be stated as follows: A

relation between tokens a and b is causal when (i) these tokens instan-
tiate a universal regularity or “constant conjunction” holding between
types A and B, (ii) a is temporarily prior to b, and (iii) where a and b
are contiguous.3 This is the metaphysics of causation that appears to be
captured in the first of Hume’s definitions of ‘cause’, where a ‘cause’ is
defined as an “object precedent and contiguous to another, and where
all the objects resembling the former are plac’d in like relations of pre-
cedency and contiguity to those objects, that resemble the latter”
(THN 1.3.14.31/SBN 170). The definition states the necessary and suf-
ficient conditions for “cause” and thereby articulates its metaphysics.
3 Cf. the discussion in chapter 10 of contemporary versions of a regularity theory of causation.

234 modern
But how is such a definition achieved? One route would be to under-

stand it as an analysis of our ordinary concept. However, as critics like
Thomas Reid were quick to point out, there is an evident mismatch
between this analysis of “cause” and its commonsense extension. The
relation of night following day appears to satisfy the definition but the
relation is not one we take to be causal. This objection does not show
that the metaphysical claim is incorrect, but it does show that it isn’t
a transparent consequence of our ordinary concept of cause. So some-
thing more must be said in defense of the claim that the definition is
the correct analysis of the concept.
Matters are further complicated by the fact that Hume offers an-
other definition of ‘cause’. Here the relations of contiguity and prece-
dency are supplemented by reference to the psychological effect that
the observation of objects satisfying the first definition have on the ob-
server. According to this definition, a “Cause is an object precedent
and contiguous to another, and so united with it, that the idea of the
one determines the one to form the idea of the other, and the impres-
sion of one, to form a more lively idea of the other” (THN 1.3.14.31/
SBN 170). The introduction of a second definition is evidently prob-
lematic because the two definitions appear not to be extensionally
equivalent, let alone intensionally so. So how can they be definitions of
the same thing?
This is an issue to which we shall return in section 5. Nevertheless, the
second definition relates to the apparent inadequacy in the first. Reid’s
complaint can be read as saying that there is more than regular succes-
sion to our concept of causation. What is missing in the first definition
is some more robust connection between cause and effect than mere
regularity. We understand ourselves as attributing to causes powers in
virtue of which causes bring about their effects. The second definition is
an attempt to respect this thought as much as possible. Hume recognizes
that there is more to our concept of cause than given in the first defi-
nition, but this extra content does not, and cannot, reflect some meta-
physical difference between causal and noncausal regularities. Power
is not something detectable between causally related objects, and our

idea of it has its origins in the psychological transition referred to in
the second definition. It is true that the first definition does not accord
with our naïve reflections on causation, but this additional content
reflects our tendency to project our psychological reactions onto the
world and does not reveal anything deep about the metaphysics of
causation.
Our propensity to project this subjective reaction encourages us
to think that there is more to causation than regularity. But, at least
on the standard reading, the first definition really captures the meta-
physics of causation because the thought of more to causation than
regularity is really no thought at all. Hume’s philosophy embodies an
empiricism about representation whereby all thoughts require ideas
and all ideas are derived from, and represent, sensory impressions.
Since, therefore, we “have establish’d it as a principle, that as all ideas
are deriv’d from impressions, or some precedent perceptions, ’tis impos-
sible we can have any idea of power and efficacy, unless some instances
can be produc’d, wherein this power is perceiv’d to exert itself ” (THN
1.3.14.10/SBN 160). But we have no such impression, and so no idea.
The regularity theory gains support, then, because we cannot conceive
or form a thought of any appropriate connection between causes and
effects over and above regular succession.
The details, consistency, and ramifications of these definitions will be
discussed later. There is, however, a prior question. How, precisely, does
Hume arrive at them? Neither is an obvious analysis of the concept
of “cause” and so just why Hume thinks they constitute definitions of
‘cause’ must be answered in order to find them at all plausible. There are
two relevant considerations. First, Hume’s interest in the idea of causa-
tion is not presented by him as a self-standing exercise in metaphysics,
but emerges from an interest in our reasoning faculties and causation’s
crucial role in inference. Causation is the only relation that “can be trac’d
beyond our senses, and informs us of existences and objects, which we
do not see or feel,” and so to understand the inference we make from the
236 modern
observed to the unobserved we must “endeavour to explain fully [the

causal relation] before we leave the subject of the understanding”
(THN 1.3.2.3/SBN 74). Essentially the same point is made in the En-
quiry, where Hume tells us that all “reasonings concerning matter of
fact seem to be founded on the relation of Cause and effect” (EHU 4.4/
NSB 26), and so in order to satisfy ourselves “concerning the nature of
that evidence, which assures us of matter of fact, we must enquire how
we arrive at the knowledge of cause and effect” (EHU 4.5/NSB 27).
Second, Hume tells us that he arrives at his definitions by the “seem-
ingly preposterous” method of “examining our inference from the rela-
tion before we had explain’d the relation itself ” (THU 1.3.14.31/SBN
169). That is to say, rather than beginning with a definition of causation
and then explaining our inferences in light of it, Hume seeks to under-
stand causation in light of causal inference, stating that he adopts this
approach because the “nature of the [causal] relation depends so much
on that of the inference” (THN 1.3.14.31/SBN 169). But this last state-
ment seems more preposterous than the methodology itself. How could
the relation of causation depend on causal inference?
What these two features of Hume’s approach indicate is that rather
than making assumptions about what we represent in thought about
causation, and building a metaphysic on them, Hume focuses on our
cognitive life and seeks to understand what is involved in the concept
of causation by illuminating the role it plays in the explanation of
human inferential faculties. Once we understand how causation figures
in inference we then grasp better what we represent by the concept. So
the definitions emerge from the account of the role causation plays in
our inferential lives rather than from a prior attempt to articulate a
metaphysics of causation.
In this Hume expresses his naturalism, and in particular what Huw
Price characterizes as a “subject” rather than an “object” naturalism.4
Object naturalism takes science to tell us the character of the natural
4 Price 2011.
world and, depending on that character, there are generated “placement

problems,” roughly problems concerning how we are to understand phe-
nomena whose status is somehow problematic on that conception of the
natural. So, for example, the early modern conception of the physical
world generates issues about how to understand consciousness in such a
world. It also generates problems about how to place active power in such
a world. For some (e.g., Malebranche) a nonnatural solution is the only
way out, but other contemporary responses to the placement problem
include reduction or elimination. At first blush, it might seem that Hume
is offering a reductionist approach to the problem of placing active power.
But his approach is not that of object naturalism (not least because he is
modest about the extent to which we can understand the natural world).
Instead, his science of the mind investigates our cognitive faculties and
approaches problematic concepts from its perspective. It is a form of
“subject naturalism” whereby science is exploited to explain our thought
and behavior. Any placement problems are also approached from this
perspective. Object naturalism asks: what is the nature of causation? Sub-
ject naturalism asks: why do we think in these terms? In explaining how
we acquire causal language and thought, it may turn out that certain as-
sumptions that motivate metaphysical worries are misplaced. To judge
this we must now turn to look at the details of Hume’s account.
3. Inferences, Relations and Definitions
The two definitions present “a different view of the same object . . .

making us consider it either as a philosophical or as a natural relation”
(THN 1.3.14.31/SBN 170). Both kinds of relation are involved in
causal inference. But what are philosophical and natural relations and
how do they figure in his account of causation?
Philosophical relations are the objects of intuition, perception, and
reason. These faculties are involved in comparing objects, and through
comparison the relevant relations are discovered to the mind. All such
relations reduce to seven kinds: identity, resemblance, degrees in any
238 modern
quality, relations in time and place, proportion in quantity and number,

contrariety, and cause and effect. A subset of these relations (propor-
tion in quantity and number and cause and effect) are the objects of
reasoning, and “[a]ll kinds of reasoning,” Hume says, “consist in noth-
ing but a comparison, and a discovery of those relations . . . which two or
more objects bear to each other” (THN 1.3.2.1/SBN 73). At first pass,
then, reasoning is an activity of comparison resulting in awareness of
relations, and, as we noted, Hume’s particular interest in causation lies
in the fact that it is the only relation that “can be trac’d beyond our
senses, and informs us of existences and objects which we do not see or
feel” (THN 1.3.2.3/SBN 74). He thus begins to unpack what aspects of
the relation can be discovered by comparison, and makes three imme-
diate observations. First, “whatever objects are consider’d as causes and
effects” are also contiguous (THN 1.3.2.6/SBN 75). Second, causes are
temporally prior to their effects. But contiguity and priority do not
jointly constitute a “compleat idea” of causation since an “object may
be contiguous and prior to another, without being consider’d as its
cause.” There is, thirdly, “a Necessary Connexion to be taken into con-
sideration; and that relation is of much greater importance” than pri-
ority and contiguity (THN 1.3.2.11/SBN 77). Contiguity and priority
will figure in the first definition of “cause,” and necessary connection in
the second. Hume postpones the discussion of necessary connection at
this stage, and we shall too. The third element in the first definition is
constant conjunction, which Hume introduces later at THN 1.3.6.
We will explain how these figure in causal inference presently, but
what are the grounds for including these three components? Hume
seems to view such claims as empirically based generalizations,5 arrived
at by examining with “the utmost accuracy those objects, which are
commonly denominated causes and effects” (THN 1.3.14.31/SBN 170).
For example, in introducing contiguity, he says that although “dis-
tant objects may sometimes seem productive of each other, they are
5 For a good discussion and defense, see Beebee 2006, 132–35.

c ommonly found upon examination to be link’d by a chain of causes,

which are contiguous among themselves, and to the distant objects”
(THN 1.3.2.6/SBN 75), thus suggesting that the claim is derived from
observation and contingent. Indeed, although he says contiguity is
“essential”6 to causation, he actually treats it as provisional, writing that
“at least [we] may suppose it such, according to the general opinion, till
we can find a more proper occasion to clear up this matter” (THN
1.3.2.6/SBN 75). Later on, we find that spatial contiguity is not included
in the special case of causation among non-spatial perceptions (THN
1.4.5).7 Spatiotemporal contiguity is included because it is generally as-
sociated with causation, and hence is typical of the idea as it typically
enters our reasoning processes. In the case of temporal priority Hume
again offers empirical support but also an a priori argument. He argues
that simultaneity of cause and effect would imply “the utter annihila-
tion of time” because it would render all objects coexistent and remove
the succession that is necessary for time (THN 1.3.2.7/SBN 76).8
Notice, however, that Hume is rather indifferent about the success or
otherwise of this argument. He writes that if “this argument appear sat-
isfactory, ’tis well. If not, I beg the reader to allow me the same liberty,
which I have us’d in the preceding case [i.e., contiguity], of supposing as
such. For he shall find, that the affair is of no great importance” (THN
1.3.2.8/SBN 76). Such insouciance makes sense in the context of his
approach to causation via our inferential faculties. The success or other-
wise of the argument makes no difference to the empirical account of
causal inference, since “experience in most instances seems to contra-
dict” the nonpriority of causes (THN 1.3.2.8/SBN 76).
6 I discuss the term ‘essential’ in section 4.

7 Contiguity is dropped entirely in the Enquiry account of causation.
8 The premise of this argument is the “establish’d maxim” that “an object, which exists for any time in
its full perfection without producing another, is not its sole cause; but is assisted by some other prin-
ciple, which pushes it from its state of inactivity, and makes it exert that energy, of which it was secretly
possest” (THN 1.3.2.7/SBN 76). So some other causal condition is required to determine the mani-
festation of an effect at some particular time. But if that were simultaneous with the cause, there
would be no succession. For discussion, see Beauchamp and Rosenberg 1981, 192–95.
240 modern
The inclusion of constant conjunction is again empirical, and exem-

plifies Hume’s method of approaching the causal relation via examin-
ing our inferential faculties. He writes that the “idea of cause and effect
is deriv’d from experience, which informs us, that such particular ob-
jects, in all past instances, have been constantly conjoin’d with each
other” (THN 1.3.6.7/SBN 89–90). This claim is made in the context
of his discussion of how experience acts so that we “infer the existence
of one object from that of another” (THN 1.3.6.1/SBN 87), noting
that the inference requires not merely assumptions about contiguity
and priority but that we “likewise call to mind their constant conjunc-
tion . . . Contiguity and succession are not sufficient to make us pro-
nounce any two objects to be cause and effect, unless we perceive, that
these two relations are preserv’d in several instances” (THN 1.3.6.3/
SBN 87). It is because memory of constant conjunction is required to
facilitate causal inference that constant conjunction is added to the
definition of ‘cause’. We have “insensibly discover’d,” Hume writes, the
relation of constant conjunction while discussing “another subject”
(THN 1.3.6.2/SBN 87).9
I shall discuss the bearing of Hume’s empirical approach on the
status of the first definition in section 5. But causation as a philosoph-
ical relation is not the end of his account of our causal inferences and
not the end of his account of causation. For although causation as a
philosophical relation presents a view of causation as an object of rea-
soning or comparison, it is not sufficient to explain how we draw causal
inferences. What is further required is an understanding of causation
as a natural relation. Natural relations are associative relations that
connect ideas in the mind, and comprise contiguity, resemblance, and
cause and effect (THN 1.1.4). In virtue of these general principles of
the imagination, ideas have a natural tendency to cluster together in
the mind independently of any reasoning or conscious activity. So, for
9 Again, as emphasized by Beebe, Hume’s references to constant conjunctions are almost all explicitly
or implicitly references to observed constant conjunctions from which the idea of causation as involv-
ing constant conjunction is derived.
example, if we experience relations of contiguity among objects A and

B, we acquire the disposition to token the idea A upon having the idea
B and vice versa.
With respect to causation, repeated experience of a and b standing
in the causal relation described in the first definition yields in the mind
of the observer an unreflective mental disposition to have the idea of b
when one has the idea of a, without any awareness that they stand in
the relation of causation qua philosophical relation. This is crucial to
the explanation of causal inference, and the key text here is THN 1.3.6,
“Of the inference from the impression to the idea.” The question that
concerns Hume in this section is whether “we are determin’d by reason
to make the transition, or by a certain association of ideas and relation
of perceptions?” (THN 1.3.6.4/SBN 88–89). Hume famously argues
that the inference cannot be caused by reason. Now, his argument here
is the subject of exegetical controversy, notably regarding whether it is
intended to establish a skeptical conclusion in the sense of offering a
negative evaluation of the epistemic standing of these inferences, but
for our purposes, the relevant point is simply the causal one. Our infer-
ences from causes to effects are not determined by reason, including
the activity of comparing ideas standing in the philosophical relation
of cause and effect. Instead, the experience of objects satisfying the
philosophical relation of causation causes us to associate the relevant
ideas in the mind and hence draw the inference unreflectively. Thus
Hume writes that “tho’ causation be a philosophical relation, as imply-
ing contiguity, succession, and constant conjunction, yet ’tis only so far
as it is a natural relation, and produces an union among our ideas, that
we are able to reason upon it, or draw any inference from it” (THN
1.3.6.16/SBN 94). This is why constant conjunction emerges as part of
our idea of causation, since it is necessary to forge the associative links
required for inference. The second definition emerges because causal
inferences involve the associational transition marked by causation as a
natural relation, and corresponds to how causation as a philosophical
relation affects the mind of the causal reasoner.
242 modern
4. Necessary Connection
We have seen how the two definitions of ‘cause’ emerge from Hume’s
interest in causal reasoning. The two definitions reflect the input to the
causal reasoning process—causation as a philosophical relation—and
the inferential process itself, namely causation as a natural relation. But
we have yet to discuss the idea of necessary connection and Hume’s
account of this idea is what embodies to the greatest extent his “seem-
ingly preposterous” method.
When he first mentions the idea of necessity as a component in
causal reasoning (THN 1.3.2), he tells us that since power is not ob-
servable he will “beat about all the neighbouring fields” in his search
for the origin of its idea, rather than directly examine the “nature of
that necessary connexion” (THN 1.3.2.13/SBN 78). Instead he poses a
pair of questions about the causal determinants of our judgments. He
asks why “we pronounce it necessary, that everything whose existence
has a beginning, shou’d also have a cause,” and, second, why we con-
clude that “such particular causes must necessarily have such particular
effects” (THN 1.3.2.15/SBN 78). In other words, he bypasses what
necessity or power is and examines why we think in terms of necessity.
I shall leave aside the question of the “causal maxim,” namely, every
event has a cause,10 and concentrate on the second question, namely,
why we why think that causes necessitate their effects.
Why do we think that particular causes necessarily have such par-
ticular effects? Hume considers, and rejects, an explanation that in-
volves our detecting in experience necessitation relations, and so
coming to think in terms of necessity in virtue of experiencing such
relations. Instead, Hume hints at what he takes to be the correct view
as early as THN 1.3.6 when he say that “[p]erhaps ’twill appear in the
end, that the necessary connexion depends on the inference, instead of
the inference’s depending on the necessary connexion” (THN 1.3.6.3/
10 However this is not to say that the causal maxim isn’t of the first importance for Hume in his cam-
paign against rational religion. On this see Russell 2008, ch. 10.
SBN 88). We don’t think that causes necessitate effects because we

grasp necessitation relations; we think in terms of necessitation be-
cause of the inferences we come to draw. To understand this claim, let
us consider the position that Hume rejects, namely that the inference
depends on the necessary connection. What does this mean? The re-
jected model, the one involving a genuine experience of necessary con-
nection, would enable us to infer, prior to the experience of any of its
manifestations just what effect such and such a cause must have, and
render it inconceivable that the effect fail to follow its cause. For example,
he writes
were the power or energy of any cause discoverable by the mind, we

could foresee the effect, even without experience; and might, at first,
pronounce with certainty concerning it, by the mere dint of thought
and reasoning. (EHU 7.7/NSB 63)
In the Treatise he writes that that the “true manner” of conceiving the
“real force or energy, by which such a particular effect necessarily re-
sults” involves one being “able to pronounce from a simple view of the
one, that it must be follow’d or preceded by the other” (THN 1.3.14.13/
SBN 161). A causal inference would depend on the necessary connec-
tion in the sense that a grasp of necessity would allow one simply to
read off what effect the cause must have, and, relatedly, would entail
that one couldn’t conceive of such and such a cause without its neces-
sitated effect.11 We cannot, however, grasp such relations, and so we
11 Millican tries to deflate this connection by suggesting that it is simply an artifact of Hume’s theory
of a priori knowledge, and so the emphasis is on connection discoverable a priori rather than necessity
a priori (Millican 2009, 647). We could infer an effect from a simple view of a cause not because this
is a detection of necessity, but because the inference is a priori. This doesn’t explain (and ignores)
Hume’s remark about an inference depending on the necessary connection. And more importantly it
does not at all explain why Hume talks of connections as necessary in the first place. Authors like
Malebranche connect necessary connections with an epistemology that involves the claim that the
cognition of necessary connection would render it inconceivable that the effect fail to follow cause,
and there is no reason to see Hume as doing anything other than participating in this tradition. For
more on the connection between necessary connection and causation in Malebranche, see chapter 7.
244 modern
cannot explain our inferences in terms of such a grasp. The ideas in-
volved in causal inference are “distinct.” Ideas that are distinct are sep-
arable, which means that it is always possible to conceive any putative
cause without its effect, and we cannot infer effect from cause by a
“simple view” of the cause.12 The inference therefore cannot depend on
the necessary connection.
Nevertheless, the position Hume rejects can help us to understand
his positive claim, namely that the necessary connection depends on
the inference. We noted that causal inference is a matter of association.
But repeated experience of b following a does more than simply cause
one to think of b when a occurs. The effect of repeated experience of
b following a mimics what a genuine impression would yield, namely
the capacity to “read off ” effect from cause and the inconceivability
of cause without effect. Subjects acquire by “long habit, such a turn of
mind, that, upon the appearance of the cause, they immediately expect
with assurance its usual attendant, and hardly conceive it possible that
any other event could result from it” (EHU 7.21/NSB 69, my emphasis).
Because “custom has render’d it difficult to separate the ideas, [people
are commonly] apt to fancy such a separation to be in itself impossible
and absurd” (THN 1.4.3.9/SBN 223). The immediacy of the inference
mimics the “reading off ” of an effect from cause, and the psychological
difficulty of thinking of the effect without its cause mimics the genuine
inconceivability or inseparability, mimic what a true grasp of necessity
would entail. This determination of the mind is then spread or pro-
jected on the objects comprising the philosophical relation of causa-
tion, so that the “generality of mankind . . . suppose that . . . they perceive
the very force of energy of the cause, by which it is connected to its
effect” (EHU 7.21/NSB 69).
The determination of the mind, then, is intelligible as an impression
of necessity, though not one that is a reflection of a genuine power in
12 “Distinctness” here is best read as a phenomenal notion, one that grounds the distinctness of con-
cepts. On this, see Kail 2007b, §4.3.6.
the object. It is this idea that figures in Hume’s second definition of

“cause.”13 This also allows us to understand the claim that the “nature
of the [causal] relation depends so much on that of the inference”
(THN 1.3.14.31/SBN 169). Necessity is held to be part of the nature
of causation, but when we really understand the nature of causal in-
ference we learn that the necessity component of our causal concept
reflects not a perception of a necessitation relation between causal
relata but instead reflects a change in the modal character of our in-
ferences, a change from thinking that b will follow a to thinking b
must follow a.
5. Definitions, Metaphysics, Modesty,

and Immodesty
We have seen how Hume’s two definitions emerge from his investiga-
tion of causal inference. Rather than beginning with a definition of
causation and explaining causal inference in its light, Hume extracts
the concept from our inferences. Causation is understood in terms of
its role in our inferential practices rather than in terms of an articula-
tion of its metaphysics.
We also know why there are two definitions. One is a view of cau-
sation considered as an input to inference and the other is a view of
causation as a kind of inference. The status as “definitions” is troubling
since they are neither extensionally nor intensionally equivalent. Two
recent discussions of this issue note that Hume’s discussion is bound up
with his discussion of inference. Don Garrett approaches matters by
way of Hume’s account of abstract ideas. For Hume a particular idea
serves as an abstract idea by coming to be associated with other in-
stances of the same, so that the mind is disposed to call up both relevant
13 Beebee (2006, 103) claims that for Hume the idea of necessary connection figures in neither defi-
nition. However, the phrase ‘determines the mind’ is in the second definition and Hume earlier states
that the “mind is determ’d . . . [and it this] determination, which affords me the idea of necessity”
(THN 1.3.14.1/SBN 156) Cf. Beauchamp and Rosenberg 1981, 12.
246 modern
ideas and those that act as counterexamples (its “revival set,” as Garret
puts it). Garrett then suggests in the case of causation there are two
ways in which such a revival can be effected, corresponding broadly to
whether it is considered a philosophical or a natural relation. The first
definition specifies objects as standing in resembling pairs of objects.
This revival set involves not merely the objects in the first definition,
but also the determination of the mind that figures in the second defi-
nition. The second definition works the other way round, whereby the
determination of the mind will revive not merely the associated ideas
but their objects. Although there can be a mismatch between the input
into the mind and our determination to infer might be mismatched
in an individual mind, the patterns of inference in an “ideal” mind—
someone who is not hasty or misinformed regarding whether the rele-
vant objects satisfy the first definition—would mirror those objects
satisfying the first definition.14 More recently, Helen Beebee15 has sug-
gested that the two definitions should not be considered as providing
an analysis of the representational content of “cause,” but instead two
descriptions of the circumstances governing causal judgments. Again,
their coextensiveness is achieved by matching the objects satisfying the
first definition with the inferences of an ideal mind. Each of these
views is supported by subtle readings of the text and often involves a
good deal of reconstruction, thus making it difficult to decide the
extent to which the view is Hume’s or the commentator’s.16 Rather
than pursue the issue of the co-extensiveness (or otherwise) of the two
definitions, let us turn to consider what the intended consequences of
the definitions might be.
One reading, which I shall call the modesty view, is that the two
definitions circumscribe very severely what we can understand by cau-
sation, and capture what causation is for us. Hume then (at least) allows
14 See, e.g., Garrett 1993.

15 Beebee 2006, ch. 4.
16 This is not meant as disguised criticism of Garrett and Beebee. All accounts must involve a good
deal of reconstruction given that we have little to go on directly, as it were.
that what causation consists in metaphysically speaking may outrun17

what we can understand of it. The immodesty view is that the defini-
tions capture entirely not merely what we can understand of causation,
but what causation itself must be. Hume is claiming that the meta-
physics of causation is one of regularities, some of which are deemed
causal by dint of the modal change in attitude that the impression of
necessity provides. The modest Hume does not move from what we
can and cannot conceive to what there is and is not; the immodest
Hume does. There are nests of complex reasons in favor of either read-
ing. I noted one reason in favor of the immodesty view in section two,
namely that since we have no impression of powers “in the objects,” we
have no idea, and so putative expressions referring to such powers
are meaningless. Second, the immodesty reading draws strength from
the fact that Hume sometimes says that the two definitions constitute
the “essence” of cause and effect.18 The modesty view, by contrast,
draws support from passages19 where Hume seems to refer to powers
and forces that lie beyond our comprehension. For example, he writes:
We are ignorant, it is true, of the manner in which bodies operate

on each other: Their force or energy is entirely incomprehensible.
(EHU 7.25/NSB 72)
These ultimate springs and principles are totally shut up from

human curiosity and enquiry. . . . The most perfect philosophy of the
natural kind only starves off our ignorance a little longer. (EHU
4.12/NSB 30–31)
17 Instances of the modesty reading are variously called “skeptical realism,” “causal realism” or the “New
Hume.” Though I have defended the modesty view in the past under the label of “realism,” I now think
that ‘realism’ is an unhelpful term since it tends to be read as having implications far stronger than a mod-
esty reading needs to be committed to. I take, for reasons having to do with the slippery term ‘realism,’
agnosticism to be a form of realism (see Kail 2007b), but for many the term ‘realism’ is incompatible with
agnosticism. The interest in the realist readings lies not Hume’s assumption of the existence of more to
causation that what is given in the two definitions, but the more modest claim that he does not move from
limitations of thought to a metaphysical position. Hence I think the term ‘modesty’ is the better one.
18 Millican 2009 makes much of this fact.
19 These are catalogued in Strawson 1989.
248 modern
It must certainly be allow’d, that nature has kept us at a great dis-

tance from all her secrets, . . . [and] conceals from us those powers
and principles upon which the influence of those objects entirely
depends. (EHU 4.16/NSB 33)
Such avowals, and in tandem with general readings of Hume’s overall

project and purposes, motivate the modesty reading. The outcome of
Hume’s investigation is not a reduction of causation to regularity, but an
awareness that our understanding of it is severely limited. What we un-
derstand of causation consists only in what is given in the two definitions.
It might seem that the dispute over modesty and immodesty turns
centrally on whether there is anything more to causation than regu-
larity, and that the first definition of ‘cause’ is unproblematic for
both parties. The only question is whether Hume thinks there are
powers underlying these regularities. We shall return to the question of
whether Hume thinks that there may be powers that outstrip regulari-
ties. However, matters are not straightforward with respect to the first
definition. We noted that the relations that enter into the first defini-
tion are derived empirically from instances that we typically deem
causal, and the rationale for their inclusion is that such relations enter
into the causation of causal judgments. However, it seems difficult to
see what would justify extrapolating from this to the conclusion that
causation consists in these relations (cf. Beebee (2006)). If, however,
the intention in giving the first definition is to capture what we can
know of causation, the extrapolation is justified. The grounds for such
judgments turn out to be contiguity, constant conjunction, and tem-
poral priority. The sense in which the first definition captures the “es-
sence” of causation is akin to a Lockean “nominal essence,” the definition
that captures how something shows itself to us as opposed to its real
constitution.20 So, for example, in discussing the relation between
matter and thought Hume writes that since the “constant conjunction
20 I owe this point to Stephen Buckle, who offers a sustained argument for it an unpublished paper.
of objects constitutes the very essence of cause and effect, matter and
motion may often be regarded as the causes of thought, so far as we have
any notion of that relation” (THN 1.4.5.33/SBN 250, my emphasis).
Such a reading is in line with Hume’s general approach of restricting
the extent of his claims to what we might call, in a vaguely Kantian way,
the phenomenal world.21 This approach is exemplified in his discussion
of space and time where among the issues at hand is that of the vacuum.
He claims that the “idea of space or extension is nothing but the idea of
visible or tangible points” and from this he draws the conclusion that
we can have no idea of vacuum (THN 1.2.5.1/SBN 53). He considers a
number of objections to this account, and one of his replies is particu-
larly telling. “’Twill probably be said, that my reasoning makes noth-
ing to the matter in hand, and that I explain only the manner in which
objects affect the senses, without endeavouring to account for their
real nature and operations” (THN 1.2.5.25/SBN 63). To this charge he
pleads guilty. Hume thinks we should be content with “knowing per-
fectly the manner in which objects affect [the] senses, and their con-
nexions with each other, as far as experience informs [us] of them. This
suffices for the conduct of life; and this also suffices for my philosophy,
which pretends only to explain the nature and causes of our perceptions, or
impressions and ideas” (THN 1.2.5.25/SBN 63, my emphasis). His in-
tention “never was to penetrate into the nature of bodies,” since, beside
the fact that it “belongs not to [Hume’s] present purpose,” it is an “en-
terprize [that] is beyond the reach of human understanding” (THN
1.2.5.26/SBN 64). We do not go wrong if “we confine our speculations
to the appearances of objects to our senses, without entering into disqui-
sitions concerning their real nature and operations” (THN 1.2.7.26n/
SBN 638).
It might be thought that at least Hume is committed to a claim about
the relata of causation inasmuch as he refers to “objects” in the definitions
(and sometimes “events” in the first Enquiry). It is these objects onto
21 Cf. the discussion in chapter 9 of the approach to causation in Kant himself.
250 modern
which the impression of necessity is projected. But the notion of an

“object” in Hume’s thought is again far from straightforward. Marjorie
Greene22 helpfully distinguishes three senses of ‘object’ that occur in
the Treatise. The first sense is the intentional object of an idea, which is
the object of conscious attention and knowledge. The second sense of
‘object’ is that of impression, and it is these that that are the intentional
objects of ideas. The intentional object of an idea is an impression (or pos-
sible impression). The third sense of ‘object’ is that of “external object,”
and Hume holds that our grasp of such things is extremely limited, as we
just saw. The relations that we discover are relations among these objects,
and what’s more cannot be known with certainty to apply to “external
objects.” For we suppose differences between impressions and objects
that, though inconceivable, mean that “any conclusion we form concern
ing the connexion and repugnance of impressions, will not be known cer-
tainly to apply to objects” (THN 1.4.5.20/SBN 241). It is easy to forget
this limitation since it is radical and Hume tends to refer to things in a
way that we naturally read as reference to a mind-independent world. For
example, talk of spatial contiguity makes us immediately think of physical
objects. But Hume tells us that the “table, which just now appears to
me, is only a perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception”
(THN 1.4.5.15/SBN 239), and that “impressions and ideas [are] really ex-
tended” (THN 1.4.5.16/SBN 240). The context of these claims is signifi-
cant as well. When Hume mentions the mind’s “great propensity to
spread itself on external objects” he refers us to “Of the immateriality of
the soul” which discusses the conjunction concerns nonextended percep-
tions and extended perceptions. Such projection is an instance of an “imag-
inary conjunction” between extended perceptions and nonextended per-
ceptions that exist “no where” (THN 1.3.14.35/SBN 167). We project a
nonspatial perception onto spatial perceptions.
The main source of the immodesty reading centers on the idea of
necessary connection. Our idea of power or necessity is derived from
22 Greene 1994.
the “customary transition.” Since meaning is tied to ideas, and ideas to

impressions, the term ‘power’ either means this internal impression or
nothing at all. Hence in THN 1.4.7, “Conclusion of this book,” Hume
writes
We would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with that

energy in the cause . . . that tie, which connects them together . . . .And
how must we be disappointed, when we learn, that this connexion,
tie or energy lies merely in ourselves . . . Such a discovery not only
cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even prevents our
very wishes, since it appears, that when we say we desire to know the
ultimate and operative principle, as something, which resides in the
external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk without a
meaning. (THN 1.4.7.5/SBN 266–67)
This looks straightforward. By ‘power’ we can either mean our subjec-

tive reaction to perceived regularities or we “talk without a meaning.”
There are no powers in the objects. The next sentence, however, ap-
pears a good deal more liberal. He writes that this “deficiency in our
ideas is not, indeed, perceiv’d in common life, nor are we sensible, that
in the most usual conjunctions of cause and effect, we are as ignorant
of the ultimate principle, which binds them together, as in the most
unusual and extraordinary” (THN 1.4.7.6/SBN 227). Of course, if the
talk of ignorance here, especially in this comparative formulation, were
a merely isolated reference it would do little to disturb the immodesty
reading. But as we noted, both the Treatise and, more extensively, the
first Enquiry contain a significant number of references to secret or
hidden powers, and associated talk of ignorance.
Hume’s talk of “meaninglessness,” on the one hand, and his refer-
ences to hidden powers, on the other hand, create what Galen Strawson
has called Hume’s “meaning tension.” One way to approach this tension
is to take the scope and force of “meaninglessness” to be so severe that
not even the remotest thought that would allow for reference to such
252 modern
hidden powers is possible. The putative references to hidden powers

and Hume’s talk of such powers being “incomprehensible” are then
read in ways that deflate their apparent referential force. Thus such
avowals could be references to microregularities, expressive of an in-
strumentalist approach or perhaps simply ironic. The alternative modest
approach takes such avowals as prima facie evidence that such the stric-
tures of Hume’s theory of ideas are not as severe as many have assumed
them to be. On this view, Hume holds that powers are unintelligible
in the sense of being unintelligible to us, and what we can understand of
causation, and what we can mean by it, is restricted to what is given in
the two definitions. Obviously, it is not possible here to comb the rele-
vant texts and consider the arguments for and against modesty or im-
modesty. Nevertheless, two remarks can be made. First, since no aspect
of any text is self-interpreting, what Hume means by “meaning” needs
to be explored in light of what the text as a whole says, and that requires
considering the force of such avowals. It may be that Hume’s claims
about meaning have the implications that some take them to have,
but that they do so cannot be assumed at the outset.23 Second, the at-
tempted deflationary strategies do not really address either the reasons
Hume adduces for our ignorance of power or the depth of the igno-
rance.24 For example, though he does say that there are “some springs
23 Nevertheless some make that assumption. See, e.g., the claim in Clatterbaugh 1999, 204, that “even to
think of such sentences as meaningful . . . would be to set aside the entire framework of his philosophy.”
But that is to assume an interpretation of meaning and meaningless at the outset. Peter Millican reminds
us that Hume talks about meaning by marshalling relevant quotations, but then states if we take the “core
texts at face value . . . then we have no option but to interpret his conclusion as denying any understanding
whatever of causal terms beyond [the two definitions] . . . [so that] we are not even able to think or refer
to [causal powers]” (2009, 657). There is no option on this interpretation of what Hume means by ‘mean-
ing’ and its implications, but the realist passages invite us to reconsider precisely this interpretation. Pace
Millican, the realist interpretation of what is meant by ‘meaning’ is not “defensive” (2009, 659) but part
of an overall interpretative picture that tries to take both aspects of the text in tandem. Millican adduces
further trenchant objections to realist readings, but I cannot address them here for reasons of space.
24 Millican argues it is “very implausible to insist” (2009, 653) that Hume’s references to power should
be understood as ontologically involving on the grounds that Berkeley is happy to refer to powers but
only instrumentally speaking and elsewhere assert that we should understand such references instru-
mentally (2007a, 240). But this suggestion, the only one Millican offers, is utterly inadequate since it
fails to account for the fact that many of such references are accompanied with claims about the in
principle unknowability of powers, a fact that is not amenable whatsover to an instrumentalist con-
strual. See Kail 2007a, §5.4.2, for a longer discussion of the inadequacies of the deflationary strategies.
and principles, which are hid, by reason of their minuteness or remote-

ness” (EHU 9.13/NSB 87), his principal reason adduced for our igno-
rance is the one rehearsed in the previous section, namely the one turn-
ing on our incapacity to infer a priori the causal effects of any object and
our capacity to conceive a cause being followed from something differ-
ent from its customary effect. Our ignorance of causation is not down
insufficiently powerful microscopes.
The modesty and immodesty readings inflect how one understands
Hume’s subsequent uses of the definitions in “Of the immateriality of
the soul” (THN 1.4.5) and his treatment of the issue of liberty and ne-
cessity (THN 2.3.1-2 and EHU 8). In both cases, something crucial in
these thorny issues hangs on causation, and Hume approaches matters
armed with his new definitions of cause. On the immodesty reading,
Hume has determined the metaphysic of causation, and so settles the
debates in the light of this fact. On the modesty reading, Hume has
settled the limits of what we can understand of causation, and fore-
closes on these disputes in light of this fact.
Embedded in Hume’s discussion of whether the soul is immaterial
is the question of whether matter can be the cause of thought. Those
who deny that matter can be such a cause maintain that none of the
different “shocks, and variations and mixtures” ever “affords us the idea
of thought of perception” (THN 1.4.5.30/SBN 256–57). There is no
manifestly intelligible connection between them, and so no causal re-
lation. Hume first points out that it certainly seems that changes in
bodies cause thought, and indeed the relation between matter and
thought satisfies the first definition of ‘cause’, and he concludes that
matter is the cause of thought. He offers those who deny this a di-
lemma. Either we “assert that nothing can be the cause of another, but
where the mind can perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects:
Or to maintain, that all objects, which we find constantly conjoined,
are upon that account to be regarded as cause and effects” (T1.4.5.31/
SBN 248). The first horn of the dilemma leads to the conclusion that
there are no causes or effects, since no such connection is perceivable.
The antimaterialist is therefore impaled on the other horn. Since “the
254 modern
constant conjunction of objects constitutes the very essence of cause

and effect, matter and motion may often be regarded as the causes of
thought, as far as we have any notion of that relation” (THN 1.4.5.33/
SBN 250). The modest reading will emphasize the epistemic qualifiers
such as “as far as we have any notion” and “may be regarded.” The claim
that matter is the cause of thought is supported by the fact that “’tis
only by our experience of constant conjunction, we can arrive at any
knowledge of this relation” (THN 1.4.5.30/SBN 247). The immodest
reading, by contrast, will emphasize the claim that matter is the cause
of thought to be dogmatic unless it were backed up by a claim that cau-
sation is constant conjunction.25
Hume’s most sustained application of his definitions lies in his treat-
ment of liberty and necessity. Briefly, Hume seeks to reconcile the ne-
cessitarian, who holds that the causes of motives and actions are of a
same kind as those operative in matter, and the libertarian who holds
that the causation of motives is not of the same kind in matter. Hume
argues that both kinds of relation are satisfied by the first definition,
and both satisfy the second definition that involves necessity. But the
necessity involved is only that of the customary transition of the mind,
and not the invidious kind of necessitation that is supposedly opera-
tive in material objects. Again, there are modest and immodest read-
ings. The immodest reading sees this as following from the fact that the
two definitions jointly constitute in what causation consists, whereas
the modest reading sees foreclosure on the dispute given that all we can
understand of causation is captured in these definitions.26
The debate between modesty and immodesty cannot be settled
here. But whichever view one takes of the metaphysical import of
Hume’s discussion, it is undeniable that it means that at best what we
25 Millican 2009, 692.

26 This issue has been the topic of a recent exchange in the literature. I defend the compatibility of
Hume’s discussion in “Of liberty and necessity” with the modesty interpretation in Kail 2007b,
whereas Millican 2007b argues that it supports immodesty. Beebee responds directly to Millican in
Beebee 2007. Millican 2010 argues against modesty readings.
can grasp of causation is a matter of perceived regularity, and that any

conceptual difference between causation and regularity depends on
the determination of the mind changing the modal character of our
attitudes to those regularities.
6. Thomas Reid
Thomas Reid, one of Hume’s most trenchant critics, mounted a

number of objections to what he perceived to be Hume’s account of
causation and offered his own. Here I shall offer a brief sketch of both
Reid’s criticisms and his own positive view.
Reid credits Hume with the view that “what we call a cause is only
something antecedent to, and always conjoined with the effect” and
then offers his now famous counterexample, namely that from this “we
may learn from it that night is the cause of day, and day the cause of
night” (EIP 503). Such an objection is, as I noted in §2, based on the
idea that the regularity theory fails to capture the intuitive extension of
“cause.” But this is hardly a knockdown objection, and what is more,
fails to take into account any role for Hume’s idea of necessity. How-
ever, the celebrated counterexample is really not much more than a
symptom of a more fundamental difference between the two Scots.
Reid repudiates Hume’s empiricism, arguing that the key principles
governing human thinking cannot be derived from experience. In-
stead there are “first principles or intuitive judgments,” which he also
calls “principles of common sense,” “common notions,” and “self-evident
truths” (EIP 452). These judgments insure us against the skepticism
generated by Hume’s empiricism, and the insurance extends to the prin-
ciple that all “that begins to exist, must have a cause which produced it”
(EIP 497). He takes this claim to be an a priori principle whose pres-
ence best explains “the universal belief of mankind” in its veracity (EIP
501), adding that “Mr. HUME might answer upon his own principles
that since many things may happen without a cause, this error and delu-
sion of men may be universal without any cause” (EIP 501). This last
256 modern
claim is rather unfair to Hume. Hume flatly denied that he asserted

“so absurd a proposition that anything might arise without a Cause:
I only maintain’d, that our Certainty of the Falsehood proceeded nei-
ther from Intuition nor Demonstration, but from another Source.”27
Reid further claims that the principle is supported on the grounds that
“the practices of life is grounded upon it . . . . and it is impossible to act
without common prudence if we set it aside” (EIP 501).
Reid sees another error in Hume, namely the equation of power with
necessity. For him, the paradigm instance of power is the exercise of
the will, which cannot be conceived in terms of necessitation. This
brings us to Reid’s positive view. Causation is not “an object of sense,”
and our only experience of it is “in the consciousness we have of exert-
ing some power in ordering our thoughts and actions” (EIP 499). This
last thought is developed more systematically in an essay, “Of power,”
written late in his life (1792) but only recently published. Our wills are
efficacious, and our conception of power emerges from our gradual
awareness of our voluntary control over action. In “finding by experi-
ence that such exertions are followed by such events, we learn to make
the exertion voluntarily . . . [and] we have the conception of power in
ourselves to produce that event” (OP 3). Our conception of power and
causation emerges from our agency. This notion of power allows us to
conceive of powers underpinning natural events even though we “see
innumerable changes or events, some constantly conjoined with a cer-
tain effect which succeeds; but we see no real connexion between them”
(OP 7). The manifest regularities are said to be causes in the sense that
they are laws of nature, but these are underwritten by an “agent that
puts the law into execution” (OP 7). This leads him to the view that of
“proper and efficient causes there are none in the universe but the Deity”
(OP 10). This seems in the end to lead to a version of occasionalism.28
27 1754 Letter to John Stewart in Hume 1932, 1:187.

28 Thanks to the audience at Ann Arbor, and in particular Louis Loeb, John Wright and Tad
Schmalz. Thanks also to Stephen Buckle for comments on an earlier draft, and to the Newberry Li-
brary Chicago for their generosity as hosts for a wonderful sabbatical year. Other thanks to Graeme
Swann, S. M. S. Pearsall and E. M. P. Kail.
Abbreviations
ehu = Hume 2006, cited by section and paragraph number

eip = Reid 2002, cited by page number
nsb = Hume 1975, cited by page number
op = Reid 2001, cited by page number
sbn = Hume 1978, cited by page number
thn = Hume 2007, cited by book, part, section, and paragraph
number
chapter nine
Efficient Causation in Kant

Eric Watkins
Kant’s views on causality are famous, and rightly so. Not only do they
include a strikingly novel account of causality that contrasts with both
the rationalist and empiricist positions of his predecessors, but they
also illustrate in a particularly intuitive way Kant’s revolutionary Crit-
ical philosophy. Specifically, in the Critique of Pure Reason’s Second
Analogy of Experience Kant argues that a causal principle according
to which every event has a cause that acts according to a law, cannot
be established through induction as a purely empirical claim, since it
would then lack necessity and strict universality. Nor can it be justified
simply on the basis of the principle of sufficient reason, since that prin-
ciple itself is dogmatic if it is simply asserted as a basic metaphysical
claim. Instead, Kant argues, this principle can be justified by showing
that it is required to account for the very possibility of experience, that
is, it must be presupposed if we are to have any experience at all, where
experience is understood to be empirical cognition had by beings
258
efficient causation in kant 259
endowed with distinctively human cognitive faculties. This novel kind

of justification is called “transcendental” since it is based on the condi-
tions of the possibility of experience as contrasted with more tradi-
tional purely metaphysical justifications, and Kant ends up using it to
construct much of his positive philosophical account of the world.
On the basis of innovative metaphilosophical reflections, Kant clas-
sifies the causal principle of the Second Analogy neither as synthetic a
posteriori (as empiricists maintain), nor as analytic a priori (as ratio-
nalists have it), but rather as synthetic a priori, because it is a substan-
tive or informative proposition about the world that can be known to
hold independently of any particular experience, or empirical evidence,
we might have. Kant argues further that synthetic a priori cognition is
possible only if one grants the truth of his boldest and most distinctive
doctrine, Transcendental Idealism, the view that the spatiotemporal
appearances we can know depend in some significant sense on us and
are distinct from things in themselves that we cannot know but only
think, and whose existence is independent of us. Since the principle
of causality is a prime instance of synthetic a priori cognition that (a) is
underwritten by a transcendental justification, (b) entails Transcen-
dental Idealism, and (c) distinguishes his view from the core positions
of his main predecessors, Kant’s principle of causality can be seen as
forming a central pillar of his Critical philosophy as a whole.
In this chapter, I begin (in section 1) by describing the basic frame-
work of Kant’s Critical philosophy, and by showing how the account
of causality embedded within it contrasts with the views of his ration-
alist and empiricist predecessors. I describe (in section 2) the specific
causal principles and main arguments that Kant develops for them in
the Second and Third Analogies of Experience. I then turn (in section 3)
to describing the model of causality that is entailed by these causal
principles, drawing on various remarks that he makes, seemingly in
passing, in the Second Analogy of Experience as well as on his position
in the Third Analogy. I also illustrate this model of causality with his
central examples of physical forces as expressed in the Metaphysical
260 modern
Foundations of Natural Science and show what implications it has for

understanding the basic contours of his reply to Hume. With this phil-
osophical structure in place, I focus (in section 4) on Kant’s account
of efficient causality in particular, especially as it is discussed in the
Critique of the Power of Judgment, where Kant contrasts mechanistic,
efficient causality with the kind of final causality that is found in or-
ganisms. Though Kant’s views on causality involve intriguing details
that have not been mentioned at all, I hope nevertheless to provide the
most basic structure of his account.
1. The Role of Causality within Kant’s

Critical Philosophy
Fundamental to Kant’s Critical philosophy as a whole is the distinc-

tion he draws between the faculties of the understanding and sensi-
bility. The understanding is an active faculty by means of which we
think objects through concepts, where concepts are representations
that can, at least in principle, refer mediately to a plurality of objects
(regardless of how many objects they happen to refer to). Sensibility,
by contrast, is a passive faculty by means of which objects are given
to us in intuition, where Kant understands intuitions to be repre-
sentations that necessarily refer immediately to singular or particular
objects. Kant famously maintains a strict difference in kind (and not of
degree) both between these faculties: One is active and fulfills one set
of functions, while the other is passive and satisfies a different set of
roles—and between the two kinds of representations for which they
are responsible—concepts (or thoughts) refer mediately to possibly
many objects, whereas intuitions refer immediately to singular objects.
At the same time, he claims that cognition is possible only if both kinds
of representations are involved in our judgments about the world. For
cognition is possible, Kant holds, only if two distinct epistemic condi-
tions are satisfied by the representations of two distinct faculties; either
one, on its own, is insufficient. As he puts it: “Without sensibility no
object would be given to us, and without understanding none would

be thought. Thoughts without content [i.e., intuitions] are empty, in-
tuitions without concepts are blind” (A51/B75).1 To put these points
in less Kantian terms, we must have direct cognitive access to objects
(in intuition), since otherwise it would never be clear which of the
many objects that might satisfy a certain general description we would
be talking about in any given case, which would leave our thoughts
“empty,” and we must attribute general descriptions to objects (in the
form of concepts used in judgments), since the mere presence of an
object in our mind does not amount to an epistemologically significant
claim (i.e., does not constitute a determinate assertion that could be
meaningful, much less true or false), which would render us “blind.”
Given Kant’s distinction between our faculties and representations
and his claim about the conditions of cognition, the basic structure and
content of the Critique of Pure Reason is readily intelligible. Much of the
first half of the Critique of Pure Reason is devoted to providing a positive
analysis of the distinctive contribution to cognition of (the respective
representations of ) sensibility and the understanding. The Transcen-
dental Aesthetic argues that space and time are nothing more than sub-
jective forms of sensibility’s intuitions, which underlie the possibility of
synthetic a priori cognition in geometry. The so-called Metaphysical
and Transcendental Deductions and Principles of Pure Understand
ing (including, most notably, the Analogies of Experience) attempt to
show (a) what the forms of our thought of objects are (i.e., what forms
of judgment and categories are essential to our understanding), (b) why
we must use them in our cognition of the world, and (c) how they are
used in particular contexts to make cognition of the world possible on
the condition that they are applied to objects given in sensibility.
In the Transcendental Dialectic, which constitutes much of the
second half of the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant then provides an analysis
1 Citations to Kant’s works, except for those to the Critique of Pure Reason, refer to the volume and
page number from Kant 1900–. Citations to the Critique of Pure Reason are to the standard (first) A
and (second) B editions of 1781 and 1787.
262 modern
of the mistakes that his predecessors have been led to make by trying
to obtain cognition without first distinguishing adequately between
our faculties and then using them properly. In the Paralogisms, Kant
provides an analysis of how the rationalists are guilty of attempting
to draw (empirically significant) inferences about the soul (and its
alleged immortality), based merely on an analysis of the proposition
“I think” (and thus independently of objects being given to us in sen-
sibility). In the Antinomies, Kant argues that both rationalists and
empiricists fall prey to contradictions (involving the world as a to-
tality and our freedom within it) by not distinguishing between ap-
pearances, which require the representations of both sensibility and
understanding, and things in themselves, which are understood in-
dependently of what is given to us in sensibility.2 In the Ideal of Pure
Reason, Kant mounts a powerful case that all three traditional the-
istic proofs, which draw conclusions about an object (God) that
cannot be given to us in intuition, cannot be successful. In this way,
Kant shows that one cannot attain cognition of the traditional ob-
jects of metaphysics—God, freedom, and the immortality of the
soul—since they all necessarily lie beyond the limits of our sensi-
bility. While Kant is thus highly critical of metaphysics insofar as it
promises theoretical cognition of the traditional objects of meta-
physics, in the Appendix to the Transcendental Dialectic he argues
(in a further twist) that such metaphysical objects are nonetheless es-
sential to the systematic cognition of nature insofar as they serve as
subjective, regulative principles (before then arguing, in the Critique
of Practical Reason, that belief in such objects is an indispensible pre-
supposition of our moral agency and the ends that we necessarily pursue
as a result).
Given the revolutionary status of Kant’s account of cognition in the
Critique of Pure Reason and the central role that causality plays in it, it is
no surprise that his account of causality contrasts with those offered by
2 In this way, the Antinomies provide an “indirect proof ” of Transcendental Idealism.

his empiricist and rationalist predecessors, such as Hume and Leibniz.

Hume holds that all of our knowledge is either of matters of fact, which
are known a posteriori, or relations of ideas, which are knowable a
priori. He also holds that knowledge of the former, which provides us
with information about the world, is based solely on our senses, while
knowledge of the latter, which involve only our mind’s ideas, provides
no significant information about the world. As a result, Hume holds
that our knowledge of instances of causality, matters of fact, must be
based on sensory impressions. However, when he looks for an imme-
diate sensory impression of causality, what he finds is that our knowl-
edge of causality is based not on a single sensory impression of any
necessary connection in the world, but rather on an impression of a
feeling of determination in our mind that occurs only after we have
experienced several constantly conjoined objects. In light of this,
Hume constructs an empiricist account of causality on the basis of per-
ceived constant conjunctions and a subjective habit of the mind to
expect one object upon seeing another with which it has been associ-
ated in the past. As far as our sensory impressions reach, there are thus
no truly necessary connections in the world, but rather only constant
conjunctions (regularities) in the past and subjective expectations for
the future, which Hume calls causality, though this is intended in a
deflationary sense.3
Leibniz, by contrast, holds that all our knowledge is based on two
primary truths: the principle of contradiction and the principle of suffi-
cient reason. As a result, our knowledge of causality must rest on one of
these two principles. Causality might be thought to rest on the princi-
ple of contradiction, because the properties that are true of any sub-
stance must be contained in what Leibniz sometimes calls the complete
concept of that substance. For if properties are contained in the com-
plete concept of a substance and complete concepts contain their prop-
erties by way of identity, then causality must be based on the principle
3 For more on Hume’s account of causation, see chapter 8.

264 modern
of contradiction.4 Alternatively, Leibniz may hold that if it is contin-

gent whether any particular instance of cause and effect occurs, and
contingent features of the world depend on God’s will and the principle
of sufficient reason, then causality rests on the principle of sufficient
reason. According to Leibniz, therefore, cognition of causality is ulti-
mately based on principles of reason, either that of contradiction or that
of sufficient reason, and in either case, causal necessitation ends up
being an instance of logical necessitation.5
Now Kant is critical of both Hume’s empiricist and Leibniz’s ration-
alist accounts of causality.6 Against Hume’s concept of causality, Kant
objects that it cannot account for the kind of necessity and strict uni-
versality that our concept of causality contains. Kant’s objection takes
two forms. First, Kant complains that Hume’s deflationary analysis of
the concept of causality does not capture the kind of objective neces-
sity that we associate with our notion of causality, according to which
causes necessarily bring about their effects for a reason, or in some way
that we find intelligible. As a result, Kant thinks it a deficiency of
Hume’s account that even when we are in possession of knowledge of
causality, according to Hume we can know only that something is in
fact the case and not why it must be so. By deriving the category of cau-
sality from the hypothetical form of judgment (as he does in the Met-
aphysical Deduction), Kant has reason to assert that his own concept
of causality does capture the sense of necessity and intelligibility that
we associate with causality. That is, there must, for Kant, be a reason
that necessitates the occurrence of any event, for if there were no reason
4 If viewed in this way, the distinction between necessary and contingent truths can be explained,
Leibniz seems to suggest, by the distinction between finite and infinite analysis of the relevant com-
plete concepts.
5 For a defense of the claim that Leibniz identifies causal and logical necessitation, see chapter 6.
6 In Leibniz’s case, the debate takes place in the context of three competing causal theories: physical
influx (which asserts that finite substances can act on each other), occasionalism (which denies that
finite substances can act at all), and pre established harmony (which denies that finite substances can
act on each other, but asserts that they can act on themselves and, in fact, that God has arranged sub-
stances in advance such that their states harmonize completely). For discussion of the reception of
these views in Germany prior to Kant’s time, see Watkins 1998.
that brought it about, one would lack an adequate justification for ever
claiming that it occurred. Second, Kant thinks that empirical induc-
tion cannot justify the kind of strict universality that causal claims con-
tain. Hume, in effect, embraces this conclusion by asserting that we
have neither reason nor empirical evidence to assume that the future
will resemble the past; insofar as we believe that it will, it is based solely
on habit or custom. Kant, by contrasts, thinks that we can establish
causal laws that will hold for the future just as much as they have for
the past.7
While Kant’s criticism of rationalist accounts of causality is both
less prevalent in the texts and more limited insofar as his own account
includes rationalist elements (e.g., the elements of necessity and intel-
ligibility missing from Hume’s account), he still has significant disagree-
ments with a purely rationalist position. First, insofar as rationalists
identify causal necessity with logical necessity,8 they are committed to
asserting that the existence of one state of affairs can logically entail the
existence of another state of affairs. Kant agrees with Hume, however,
that the existence of one state of affairs never logically entails the exist-
ence of another. To maintain the element of necessity that Hume’s ac-
count is lacking without collapsing back into the rationalist position,
Kant introduces a new kind of necessity, supported by what he calls
real grounds, which is not based on purely logical principles (such as
the principle of contradiction). In this way, he rejects the rationalists’
notion of logical necessitation in favor of something different, a kind of
real, physical, or metaphysical necessity, represented by the category
of causality. Second, at the level of justification, Kant rejects the ratio-
nalists’ assertions that causal claims can be justified either on the basis of
mere analysis and the principle of contradiction or by way of the prin-
ciple of sufficient reason alone. For either analysis using only the
principle of contradiction does not provide substantive information
7 This point of contrast holds even if Hume’s most basic interest is in particular causal laws, whereas
Kant’s primary focus, at least in the Critique of Pure Reason, is on the very idea of a causal law.
8 See Bennett 1984, 29–30, for one proponent of a rationalist interpretation of causality in Spinoza.
266 modern
about the world, just as Hume asserts of relations of ideas (which are
merely about our own mind), or the claim that the principle of suffi-
cient reason delivers cognition of the world itself stands in need of jus-
tification. Either way, the rationalists have not, Kant thinks, provided
a compelling justification for claiming to know that causal relations
actually obtain in the world. Again, though Kant rejects the rational-
ists’ justification of the causal principle, he does not despair of such a
justification. It is to Kant’s main causal principles and the distinctive
arguments that he presents in favor of them that we now turn.
2. Kant’s Account of Causality in the Second

and Third Analogies of Experience
The foundation of Kant’s positive account of causality is found in

the Second and Third Analogies of Experience. The principle of the
Second Analogy reads: “Everything that happens (begins to be) pre-
supposes something which it follows in accordance with a rule” (A188).
Put into somewhat more straightforward language, the claim of the
Second Analogy of Experience is that causality (a rule) is a condition
of the possibility of our experience of succession (what happens, or
begins to be). This claim is an especially important instance of his more
general claim in the Analogies that experience, in this case temporal
experience, is possible only if both of the intellectual and sensible con-
ditions described above are satisfied, more specifically, only if the cat-
egories, in this case that of causality, are applicable to what is given to
us through the senses, in this case, successive states of an object. Insofar
as the Second Analogy claims that causality is a condition of the possi-
bility of experience of objective succession, Kant is proposing a tran-
scendental argument.
In thinking about the central assertion of the Second Analogy, it is
useful to keep in mind that it actually involves two distinct claims.9 It
9 For a classic statement of this interpretive dispute, see Beck 1978.

asserts both that every event has a cause (every-event-some-cause) and

that every event is subject to a causal law (same-cause-same-effect).
Both claims are controversial in the historical context insofar as at least
Hume rejects both (on independent grounds). Though the second
claim is perhaps less obviously contained in the official statement of
the principle of the Second Analogy, it is clearly present in the main
body of the text, since Kant not only repeatedly refers to rules which
are general and thus cover, at least in principle, a plurality of cases, but,
most tellingly, also uses the words “inevitably” and “always” on several
occasions to describe how a cause brings about its effect, language that
would be incongruous if only the first claim were at issue.10
While it is uncontroversial that Kant’s argument in the Second
Analogy takes the form of a transcendental argument, there is disa-
greement about how the argument proceeds. A first issue concerns the
exact meaning of “experience of succession.” A first natural thought is
to identify “experience of succession” with some type of immediate
awareness, such as the succession of subjective representations in the
continuous stream of our mental states. If that were right, it would
then be natural to maintain that the argument is supposed to refute
one who is skeptical about the external world, since even such a skeptic
must grant the existence of changes in his or her own subjective mental
states. However, it is doubtful either that such an argument could suc-
ceed or that Kant intended it in precisely this form in the Second
Analogy. For even if one grants that the concept of succession presup-
poses the concept of causality, that is, that there is a certain conceptual
relation between succession and causality, such a skeptic can still deny
that this conceptual relation entails the existence of anything in the
world external to one’s thought. Further, if Kant were intent on refut-
ing such a skeptic, it would be more natural (though by no means com-
pulsory) to look to his argument in the Refutation of Idealism, which
10 I consider Kant’s argument for the stronger claim, concerning causal laws, in Watkins 2005, 216,
and 286–91.
268 modern
purports to show that even knowledge of our own inner states is pos-
sible only on the basis of knowledge of objects in space.
A second line of interpretation views “experience of succession” as
involving cognition, specifically, cognition of the successive states of an
object, and sees the argument as showing that such cognition is pos-
sible only by means of the application of the category of causality, since
causality is required to determine the states of an object as successive.
Though such an argument poses no threat to a skeptic about the ex-
ternal world, it is still not a trivial result, since one might doubt, as
Hume does, that cognition of succession requires any causally neces-
sary presuppositions at all. According to Hume, all that is required is
that one have first one sensory impression, then another. To show that
Hume is wrong about such a claim would thus still be a significant ac-
complishment.
If we adopt this second line of interpretation, we must still address
the central question that Kant’s position faces. What exactly is it that
entails the connection that the Second Analogy asserts between cau-
sality and succession? There are several tempting proposals for answer
ing this question. One might, for example, investigate the concept of
an event and show that the concept of causality is somehow implicitly
embedded within it.11 For if one defines an event (as Kant does) as a
change of state in an object, then one might think that this implicitly
presupposes a rule that determines the order of its states (A, then B),
given that a different order to the same states (B, then A) would consti-
tute a different event. If what we mean by a cause is simply whatever it
is that orders two states within an event, then it follows analytically
that the very notion of an event presupposes a causal rule, just as the
Second Analogy asserts. However, it is doubtful that the mere concept
of an event really analytically includes the notion of a causal rule, since
a causal rule ought to explain how a state (or event) is brought into
existence, not what the identity conditions of a state or event are.
11 See, for example, Bird 1962.

One might assert instead that the argument is based on what Paul
Guyer helpfully calls the problem of time-determination.12 The problem
of time-determination arises because, as Kant repeatedly remarks in
the course of his argument, we cannot perceive “time itself,” that is,
the objective temporal indices at which objects exemplify their var-
ious properties. Further, one must distinguish between “subjective” and
“objective” time, that is, between the times at which I apprehend a
given object and the times at which the object has certain properties.
Kant’s example of the ship and the house illustrates this distinction
nicely. In the case of a ship, our apprehension is successive (insofar as
we have first one representation, then another), just as the states of the
ship are (first downstream, then upstream). In the case of the house,
however, our apprehension is still successive (first a representation of
the door, then a representation of the roof ), while the states of the
object are not successive (since the door and the roof are simultaneous,
not successive). As a result, it is clearly invalid to infer immediately
from a succession in the representations by which we apprehend an
object to a succession of states in the object itself. In cases of objective
succession, such an inference might be tempting, but for cases of ob-
jective coexistence, it obviously is not. On this line of interpretation,
the Second Analogy proceeds by arguing that since the subjective order
of our representations cannot by itself account for our cognition of suc-
cession in the object (given the problem of time-determination), one
could appeal to our cognition of causality to explain why we are aware
that the states of an object occur in the order in which they do. How-
ever, this line of interpretation faces the problem that even if cognition
of causality is sufficient for cognition of succession, what is required is
that causality be necessary for such cognition and it is not clear that this
point has been established, since it has not been ruled out that one
could derive cognition of succession either from noncausal principles or
from something less than cognition of causal principles.
12 See Guyer 1987, 149–154.

270 modern
My own proposal for understanding the main argument of the

Second Analogy is along the following lines:
P1 Apprehension of objects (the subjective order of perceptions)

is always successive.
P2 There is a distinction between the subjective order of percep-
tions and the successive states of an object such that no imme-
diate inference from the former to the latter is possible.
C1 One cannot immediately infer objective succession from the
successive order of perceptions. (from P1 and P2)
P3 To have cognition of objective succession, the object’s states
must be subject to a rule that determines them as successive.
P4 Any rule that determines objective succession must include a
relation of condition to conditioned, i.e., that of the causal
dependence of successive states upon a cause.
C2 To have cognition of the successive states of an object, the
object’s successive states must be dependent upon a cause, i.e.,
must stand under a causal rule. (from P3, P4, and C1)13
The first step of the argument, embodied in P1, P2, and C1, is based on
the problem of time-determination and is, I take it, relatively uncon-
troversial (though Hume would object to P2). It differs from the first
line of interpretation mentioned above insofar as its focus is not on
a mere analysis of the concept of an event, but rather on what kind
of cognition (or experience) we do and do not have. The second step of
the argument, constituted by P3, P4, and C2, forges the link between
causality and cognition of succession, and is the most controversial
step of the argument. For one might either reject the idea that cogni-
tion of objective succession requires any rule, or admit that it does re-
quire a rule, but deny that the rule must be causal. However, in defense
13 This reconstruction is presented and discussed in further detail in Watkins 2005, ch. 3 (esp. 209–217).
of this step one can note that it is quite natural to ask why a certain
state of an object obtains at a certain moment in time when it did not
obtain previously, and it is certainly plausible, prima facie, to respond
that something must have caused it to be in that state at that time. (It is
for this reason that Kant speaks of causes determining the thereby de-
terminate states of objects; without causes, the states of objects could
not be temporally determinate.) As a result, it is intuitively plausible to
assert that only reference to a cause can explain why we should grant
that an object has changed its state.
The Third Analogy of Experience states: “All substances, insofar as
they are simultaneous, stand in thoroughgoing community (i.e., in-
teraction with one another)” (A211). It runs parallel to the Second
Analogy, both in its claim and in its argument, though with interesting
differences. Just as the Second Analogy asserts that causality is neces-
sary for experience (that is, empirical cognition) of succession, the Third
Analogy states that mutual interaction is necessary for experience of
coexistence.14 Moreover, the main argument of the Third Analogy can
be formally reconstructed parallel to that of the Second Analogy:
P1 Apprehension of substances (the subjective order of percep-

tions) is always successive.
P2 There is a distinction between the subjective order of percep-
tions and the temporal relations (of the states) of substances.
C1 One cannot immediately infer objective coexistence from the
successive order of perceptions. (from P1 and P2)
P3 To have cognition of objective coexistence, the substances’s states
must be subject to a rule that determines their states as coexistent.
P4 Any rule that characterizes objective coexistence must include
reciprocally conditioned conditions, that is, a relation of mutual
interaction.
14 In short, both Analogies assert that a relational category is necessary for experience of a certain
kind of temporal relation.
272 modern
C2 To have cognition of objective coexistence, substances must

stand in mutual interaction. (from C1, P3, and P4)
As was the case in the argument of the Second Analogy reconstructed

above, P1, P2, and C1 follow directly on the basis of the problem of
time determination, and P3, P4, and C2 are based on considerations
much like those that underlie P3, P4, and C2 in the Second Analogy.
If the arguments of the Second and Third Analogies run exactly par-
allel in this way, then why does the Third Analogy assert that com-
munity, or mutual interaction, which is a reciprocal causal relationship
between two substances, is necessary for experience of temporal rela-
tions (of coexistence) rather than “mere” causality? I would suggest
that the differences that obtain between the notions of causality and
mutual interaction derive from significant differences between succes-
sion and coexistence. Here, two features are especially noteworthy.
First, coexistence is a symmetrical temporal relation, whereas succes-
sion is not. Second, coexistence (as Kant discusses it here) involves (at
least) two substances, whereas succession need not, since succession, as
Kant considers it, occurs within a single substance. These differences
are directly relevant to explaining why coexistence requires mutual
interaction, since mutual interaction involves a symmetrical relation
between two distinct substances, just as coexistence does, whereas
(simple or mere) causality does not. Thus, only mutual interaction has
the complexity required to account for the distinctive features of our
experience of coexistence.
3. Kant’s Model of Causality
Though we have now seen Kant’s arguments for asserting two different
causal principles, one for cognition of objective succession, a second
for cognition of objective coexistence, we have not yet determined in
any detail what model of causality Kant has in mind in each case. The
Second Analogy specifies that the effect must be a change of state of an
object, which he refers to as a “coming to be” or as an event, but so far,

we have not seen what the cause must be and in virtue of which it can
accomplish the tasks that are required of it. Similarly, the Third Anal-
ogy’s notion of mutual interaction has not been specified in any detail
other than that (at least) two substances must be involved in some
kind of symmetrical causal relation. To understand Kant’s account of
efficient causation, we must now address these issues.
In the Second Analogy, Kant makes several remarks that provide
a clue as to what his fuller model of causality is. First, he notes that
“this causality leads to the concept of action, this to the concept of
force, and thereby to the concept of substance” and “where there is
action, consequently activity and force, there is also substance” (A204/
B249-250). These passages suggest that what brings about succession
in the states of an object is a substance acting by means of its force
to determine that effect. While Kant had argued earlier, in the First
Analogy of Experience, that permanent substances were conditions of
the possibility of experience of changing states, he now clarifies that
substances must also be active in exercising their causal powers or forces.
This point of clarification is helpful, since otherwise it can seem diffi-
cult to identify what is a substance from what we immediately sense,
given that we do not perceive anything immediately as permanent (but
rather at best as only having existed up until now), and it is plausible to
think that we have a better chance of identifying what acts in the world
than what might be permanent.
Second, in a crucial and much-neglected passage located a few lines
later in the Second Analogy, Kant connects activity and persistence as
follows:
Now since all effect consists in that which happens, consequently in

the changeable, which indicates succession in time, the ultimate sub-
ject of the changeable is therefore that which persists, as the sub-
stratum of everything that changes, i.e., the substance. For according
to the principle of causality actions are always the primary ground of
274 modern
all change of appearances, and therefore cannot lie in a subject that

itself changes, since otherwise further actions and another subject,
which determines this change, would be required. (A205/B250)
Not only does Kant state here that actions are the “primary ground” of
the succession that we experience and that such actions require sub-
stances as persisting substrata of change, but he also argues that the
actions themselves cannot change when they bring about change, be-
cause such a supposition would entail an infinite regress. In other words,
Kant explicitly acknowledges that the cause of change is not an event
that changes and that the unchanging activity of a substance is the
explanatory bedrock of change. This contrasts with a widely held as-
sumption about Kant’s model of causality, according to which events
are caused by prior events (ad infinitum or at least ad indefinitum).
Reflection on the Third Analogy of Experience confirms the basic
model that Kant relies on in the Second Analogy, but also extends it
quite a bit further. The first point to note is that the Third Analogy is
inconsistent with an event-event model of causality, and strongly sug-
gests the kind of model that involves substances acting by way of their
causal powers or forces. Not only does Kant refer in the Third Analogy
to substances (rather than events) being simultaneous, but it would
also be contradictory to assert that two events (or determinate states)
stand in mutual interaction. For if mutual interaction were to obtain
between two events, it would entail that the first event causes the
second event at the same time that the second event causes the first
event. That, however, is a manifest contradiction, certainly if a cause is
supposed to precede its effect. In fact, it is a contradiction even if one
does not insist on the temporal priority of the cause, because a cause, as
Kant understands it, is supposed to have a metaphysical priority over
its effect, which is impossible for a symmetrical and reciprocal causal
bond (as is the case in mutual interaction). Instead, what Kant’s posi-
tion in the Third Analogy requires is a distinction between the event
that is the effect and the activity of the cause that brings the effect
about, since only such a distinction makes it possible to attribute the

ontological priority of the cause to something distinct (i.e., activity of
substance) from what is brought about as the effect (i.e., succession in
the substance).
The second point to note is that the model of mutual interaction
entailed by the Third Analogy reveals not only that the actions of the
substances that stand in mutual interaction are not changing, but also
that they are not temporally determinate at all (in contrast with events,
whose terminal states are, by definition, temporally determinate). For if
one were to say, for example, that the activity of one substance by means
of which the change of state in the other is determined occurs at the
same time as the activity of the second substance, which causes a change
of state in the first substance, then Kant’s argument in the Third Analogy
would be viciously circular. Mutual interaction is supposed to make
experience of objective coexistence possible, but if one had to know that
the activities of the substances are simultaneous to know that mutual
interaction is present, then one would have to know simultaneity in
order to infer simultaneity. Instead, Kant’s argument requires that
the activities of the substances be temporally indeterminate and
that the activities of both of the substances must be taken jointly
(such that the activity of the one is not independent of the activity of
the other).15 That is, they necessarily act together, but there is no state at
any determinate moment in time at which it can be said that they are
bringing about change. This model of causality may sound strange, es-
pecially when stated so abstractly, but in addition to these straight-
forward philosophical considerations, there is textual evidence for it in
the Second Analogy when Kant refers to a “uniform” and “continuous
action of causality” that makes alteration possible (A208/B254).
Further, when one considers Kant’s commitments in physics, one of
the prime instances of causality that he hopes to be able to account for, it
is clear that the model described above represents a genuine attempt on
15 For more detailed discussion of Kant’s model of causality, see Watkins 2005, ch. 4.
276 modern
his part to do justice to the kinds of causal interactions that he, as a New-
tonian, finds in the world. In the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural
Science, Kant argues that attractive and repulsive forces are responsible
both for matter filling a determinate region of space and for the commu-
nication of motion according to three Laws of Mechanics. As a result,
in the case of bodies occupying space, one body occupies a certain region
of space because it repulses other bodies from that region, just as those
other bodies repulse it out of the regions of space that they occupy such
that the bodies are in contact with each other at a point that forms the
outer edge of the regions that they occupy. Similarly, with respect to the
communication of motion, one body imparts motion to another by
means of its attractive or repulsive force, but due to the equality of action
and reaction, the second body attracts the first by means of its attrac-
tive or repulsive force to precisely the same degree such that, in a simple
collision of two bodies, the one necessarily accelerates just as much
as the other decelerates just as, in a simple gravitational context, one
body accelerates toward the other to an equal degree. What we have
in both cases are clear instances of mutual interaction, since in both cases
two bodies act jointly so as to determine an effect that is relevant to
both—whether it be the point of contact that marks the outer edge of
the determinate region of space that each body occupies or the degree
of acceleration or deceleration that each body undergoes.
What is especially striking about these instances of mutual inter-
action, however, is that they exhibit significant differences between
(a) the events that are their effects—the point of contact and thus the
determinate region of space each body occupies and the respective
changes of motion—and (b) the activities of the bodies that bring these
effects about—the exercise of the attractive or repulsive forces, which
are the activities of substances endowed with causal powers. The former
kind of events are cognizable in a straightforward sense—these are
precisely the experiences that mutual interaction makes possible if
Kant’s transcendental argument is successful. The latter, by contrast,
are neither directly observable nor temporally determinate. For we do
not know how one body, such as the sun, attracts another body, such as
the earth, what its attractive pull looks like and how its strength could
be measured independently of the effects that it brings about; we
cannot know these causal activities in the way in which we can know
that the earth changes its rectilinear motion at determinate times such
that they can be calculated with precision. Thus, Kant’s initially odd-
sounding distinction between the temporal indeterminacy of the activity
of the cause and the temporal determinacy of the states that consti-
tute its effect is illustrated quite naturally by Kant’s straightforward
Newtonian examples of attraction and repulsion (in the cases of filling
a space and communicating motion).
These detailed specifications of Kant’s model of causality, which
stem directly from the Second and Third Analogies of Experience and
the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science, also reveal that Kant’s
reply to Hume is different from what is often alleged. Typically, it has
been held that Kant intends to refute Hume’s position (e.g., in the
Second Analogy of Experience). That is, Kant is alleged to have an argu-
ment (specifically, a transcendental argument) that starts with premises
Hume would accept (cognition of successive states) and leads in a phil-
osophically rigorous way to a conclusion that Hume rejects (causality
taken in the sense of a necessary connection in the world). What the
discussion above shows, however, is that Kant’s reply to Hume cannot
take the form of a straightforward refutation. For as we have seen, Kant’s
model of causality presupposes an ontology that Hume not only does
not accept, but also explicitly argues against. Kant assumes substances
endowed with causal powers that are exercised through continuous
activities that bring about changes of state, while Hume rejects sub-
stances, causal powers, the exercise of causal powers, and any activities
that would necessarily bring about effects in favor of objects (or, for
Humeans, events) that stand in contingent relations of constant con-
junction. Given the radical differences in their ontologies, Hume would
never accept the premises to Kant’s argument and no direct refutation
is possible that would not simply beg the question at the very start.
278 modern
To deny that Kant is trying to refute Hume in the Second Analogy

is not at all, however, to say that he has no reply to Hume. It does entail
that his reply is much less direct and much more complicated than has
been appreciated. One option that is suggested by the interpretation of
Kant’s account of causality provided above is that Kant views Hume’s
position as a rival position, a competitor to his own, one that cannot
be shown to be inconsistent, but that can be shown to be unable to ac-
count for certain features of our experience that either have deep roots
in common sense—the sense of necessity and intelligibility found in
our conception of causality or the distinction between “subjective”
and “objective” time—or are inherent in our scientific practices—for
example, the distinction between forces and the exercises thereof. On
this reading, Kant is forcing Hume to bite certain philosophical bul-
lets to be able to retain his empiricist principles, and though he does
not charge Hume with inconsistency, he can point out that the costs
that Hume accepts into the bargain are not unavoidable insofar as his
own philosophical position is able to account for features that Hume’s
cannot. In this way, it is possible to attribute to Kant a reply to Hume
that is neither too strong (by attributing an inconsistency to Hume that
present-day Humeans can show him to be innocent of ) nor too weak
(by asserting that the differences between their positions are so radical
as to entail that Kant has to simply talk past Hume), but rather is based
on fundamental differences in their overall philosophical approaches
and outlooks.
4. Kant’s Distinction between Efficient

and Final Causality
Further features of Kant’s understanding of efficient causality can be

found in the second part of The Critique of the Power of Judgment,
where Kant draws an explicit distinction between efficient and final
causality, though without invoking substantial forms, as medieval
Aristotelians were wont to do. Kant introduces the distinction by
noting that efficient causality consists of a series of causes that is “always

descending,” where a series of causes that proceed from a to b to c and
so on cannot be reversed such that c also causes b, which in turn causes
a. Final causality, by contrast, involves “descending as well as ascending
dependency” (5:372). Unfortunately, however, this initial description of
the distinction between efficient and final causality cannot be exactly
right, if interpreted straightforwardly. For if it were an adequate descrip-
tion of Kant’s position, it would follow that the Second Analogy is
about efficient causation and the Third Analogy is about final causation,
which is clearly not correct. As we have already seen, Kant’s primary
examples in physics—attractive and repulsive forces that are respon-
sible for bodies occupying determinate regions in space and commu-
nicating motion—are cases of efficient causation that also illustrate
mutual interaction.
Fortunately, Kant’s detailed analysis of organisms provides resources
with which to clarify his understanding of the distinction between
efficient and final causality. In mechanical, efficient causality, Kant
insists, the understanding (the faculty that is able to cognize this kind
of causality) is first given various parts and then considers how the
whole emerges from, or is determined by those parts. When two bodies
attract each other, for example, the masses and motions of both bodies
determine what their accelerations will be, where, given the Third Law
of Mechanics, their accelerations must turn out to be equal and oppo-
site. That is, the effect, the equal and opposite accelerations, is a whole
(consisting of the accelerations of both bodies) that is determined by
the parts, the exercises of the attractive forces of each of the bodies,
which precede the effect as its efficient cause. In short, in the case of
efficient mechanical causation, the parts necessarily precede the whole.
Natural ends, by contrast, instantiate the special kind of causal
structure had by final causes. For in the case of natural ends, the parts
depend essentially on the whole in a way that the understanding cannot
cognize in an objective way. Specifically, natural ends must satisfy two
conditions. First, “the parts (according to their existence and form) are
280 modern
possible only through their relation to the whole” (5:373). This condi-
tion obviously contrasts with efficient causation, according to which,
as we saw above, the parts are possible independently of, or prior to,
their relation to the whole. Second, “its parts must be combined into a
whole by being reciprocally the cause and effect of their form” (5:373).
Now this second condition requires further clarification if it is to dis-
tinguish the final causation of natural ends from the efficient causation
of mechanical processes. Kant specifies that the reciprocal causation
involved in this second condition is not simply between the parts, but
also between the whole and its parts. As he clarifies, “each part is con-
ceived as if it exists only through all the others, thus as if existing for the
sake of the others and on account of the whole” (5:373). There are,
however, two kinds of final causality. First, there is the final causality of
intentional agents, where it is the idea of the whole that is the cause
of the parts. In that case, it is the idea of the whole (in the agent) that
causes the parts that then work together to form the whole (as the effect).
Second, there is the apparent, but also problematic, final causality of
natural ends, where the whole itself, rather than any idea thereof in an
agent, is somehow supposed to be the cause.
This distinctive kind of reciprocal causation of the parts and the
whole can be illustrated by the special features of organisms, which are
natural ends endowed with the powers of growth, reproduction, and
self-maintenance. These powers of the whole organism are possible
only if the parts exist and have the functions that they do only because
of both the other parts and the whole of which they are all parts. That
is, in an organism, one part, such as the heart, can exist and perform its
causal function (i.e., contribute to the life of the organism) only if the
other parts, the lungs and brain and other organs, exist and act in coor-
dination with all of the other parts, which is possible only if there is
a whole, the animal, which organizes all of the parts and for which
reason all of the parts are there. That is, the parts can be what they are
and contribute causally to the whole only because of the whole. At
the same time, the whole, the animal, can be what it is and do what it
characteristically does (i.e., grow, reproduce, and preserve itself ), only

due to all of the parts, the various organs. This is the sense of Kant’s
insisting that organisms, as a kind of natural end, display reciprocal
causality between the parts and the whole. The whole contributes to all
of the parts, but the parts also all contribute to the whole. In this sense,
organisms are not only organized, but, as Kant remarks, self-organized,
which distinguishes them from machines and efficient, mechanistic
causality. But it also illustrates the distinctive kind of reciprocal causa-
tion of parts and whole that takes place in natural organisms displaying
final causality. The parts and the whole reciprocally contribute to each
other’s existence such that it would be appropriate to say, as Kant did
(somewhat misleadingly at first) in his initial characterization of the
distinction between efficient and final causality, that the latter case in-
volves both ascending (from the parts to the whole) and descending
(from the whole to its parts) dependencies.
5. Conclusion
What we thus see in Kant’s views on efficient causality is the articula-

tion of a novel and far-reaching account of efficient causation. His basic
causal principles—expressed in the Second and Third Analogies of
Experience—are supported by a radically new kind of argument (tran-
scendental argument) that focuses on the condition of the possibility of
experience (specifically, of cognition of succession and coexistence for
these two Analogies). But he also develops his account along a number
of dimensions that extend the scope of causality well beyond those of
his successors (Leibniz and Hume). For he focuses not simply on suc-
cession, like Leibniz (within a monad) and Hume (between objects),
but also on coexistence and on the distinctive causal model that must be
presupposed if experience of it is to be possible, a model that involves
the joint exercise of causal powers within at least two substances. More-
over, he also develops a broadly Newtonian physics that illustrates and
extends this rather abstract metaphysical account of causality further
282 modern
insofar as one can see how notions such as action, force, the exercise of
causal powers, and mutual interaction (as well as the equality of action
and reaction) can be instantiated in relatively simple and straightfor-
ward examples in physics (e.g., in bodies filling determinate regions in
space and in the accelerations and decelerations of billiard balls in colli-
sions). Finally, we also see Kant developing a clear line of demarcation
between efficient causation and final causation, which is required for
proper characterizations of physics and the life sciences.
part iii
Contemporary
j
chapter ten
Contemporary Efficient Causation

humean themes
Douglas Ehring
A number of questions divide contemporary theories of causation into

competing camps. Are laws required for causation, and if so what role
do the laws play? Must causation be deterministic? Does causation
require a physical connection between cause and effect? Must causes
make a difference to their effects or raise the probability of their ef-
fects? Things are made even more complicated by disagreement over
what sorts of cases involve genuine causation. For example, can an ab-
sence constitute a cause, as when my failing to take my medicine causes
my heart condition? If so, various intuitive theories are inadequate.
My goal in this chapter is to provide a brief tour through the main cat-
alogue of contemporary theories of causation or, more precisely, non-
Aristotelian or non–disposition-based theories of causation—what
might be called Humean theories in a broad sense, but which include
nonreductionist accounts. I will focus on two of the main questions
that a theory of causation should answer: (1) What makes it true that
285
286 contemporary
c causes e? (2) What kinds of things can be causes and effects, the causal
relata? I will concentrate primarily on the causal relation and second-
arily on causal relata.1
1. The Causal Connection

1.1. Regularity Theory
Regularity theory was once the dominant philosophical account of

causation, but it began to fade as a central player in the philosophical
literature in the 1970s. More recently, interest has revived as its chief
rivals, counterfactual theory and probabilistic theory, have declined in
favor (see, for example, Clendinnen 1992; Psillos 2002 and 2009;
Baumgartner 2008; Hall and Paul 2013). The starting point for regu-
larity theory is the observation that causal sequences are grounded in
laws. For most regularity theorists, that means that a sequence is causal
just in case it falls under a lawful regularity. The traditional formula-
tion, modified significantly in the second half of the 20th century, ran
approximately as follows: c causes e just in case c is spatiotemporally
contiguous with e (or connected by a chain of contiguous events), c
precedes e, and it is a law of nature that events similar to c are followed
by events similar to e (Hume 2009, Section VII). Davidson and Mackie
provide important revisions. Davidson’s revisions address objections
to the traditional formulation grounded in the vagueness of “similar”
and in the worry that we rarely know the details of the specific law or
laws that cover a sequence c-e even when we know that c causes e. Under
Davidson’s reformulation, which eliminates any reference to “similar,”c
causes e, roughly, if only if c precedes e and there are suitable descrip-
tions of c and e, “C ” and “E,” such that there is law of nature connect-
ing c and e under those descriptions (Davidson, 1980a). What follows
from “c causes e” is only that there exists some subsuming law and there
1 The main contemporary theories tend to be theories of token level causation (“John’s smoking
caused his cancer”) rather than type level causation (“smoking causes cancer”). They also tend to be
reductionist, either conceptually or metaphysically.
humean themes 287
exist some relevant law-linking descriptions for c and e. Knowing that “c

causes e” requires at most that we know that there is some law or other
under which c and e fall, relative to some descriptions of c and e, even if
we don’t know the specifics of the law or the law-linking descriptions.
Mackie’s primary revision addresses the problem of irregularities
under determinism, a problem that arises if the lawful regularities are
of the form “every C-type event is followed by an E-type event” and “C ”
and “E ” pick out these events without reference to accompanying cir-
cumstances. My striking the match caused it to light, but strikings are
not always followed by lightings. Mackie’s argues that the regularities
that ground causation are more complex (Mackie 1965; Mackie 1974).2
Mackie bases his revision on the observation that effects generally can
be caused by different causes, themselves conjunctions of factors, and
that each factor in such a conjunction is generally not by itself enough
to bring about the effect (Mackie 1974, 86). The regularities relevant to
causation take the following complex form:
For some factor-types, X and Y, (which may, however, be null), when-

ever an event that is either of the type (A & X) or the type Y occurs an
E-type event follows and whenever an E-type event occurs it is pre-
ceded by an event that is either (A & X) or Y. (Mackie 1974, 63)3
Each of the conjunctions is sufficient for E. If none of the conjunctions

is instantiated, then E does not occur. Each individual factor, such as A
in (A & X ) is an insufficient but non redundant part of an unnecessary
but sufficient condition—an INUS condition—for E. A cause is an in-
stance of at least an INUS condition for a type instanced by the effect.
Match lightings do follow invariably upon a complex of factors includ
ing a striking, the presence of oxygen and the dryness of the match, even
though not every striking is followed by a lighting. The problem of
2 Mackie also thinks that regularities are not “the whole of what constitutes causation in the objects”
(Mackie 1974, 83).
3 I leave out Mackie’s reference to a causal field “F.”
288 contemporary
irrelevant factors is also solved by Mackie-style regularities. Striking a

match in combination with oxygen and the match’s dryness is regularly
followed by match lightings, but so is that combination plus the smiling
of the person who is lighting the match; still smiling is not a cause of the
lighting since it is redundant to the sufficiency of this set of factors.
Although the Davidsonian“covering law” formulation is wide-
spread, there is an alternative formulation of regularity theory. The
alternative idea is that a cause, c, in combination with other condi-
tions is lawfully sufficient for its effect, e, whether or not there is a law
under which the c-e sequence specifically falls. Hall and Paul suggest
the following:
C is a cause of E just in case, for some time t earlier than E, C belongs

to a set of events occurring at t that nonredundantly suffices for
E. (Hall and Paul 2013)
A set of events S suffices at t for a (later) event e just in case in any nom-
ologically possible world in which all and only the members of S occur
at t, e occurs later (Hall and Paul 2013). Causation is a matter of laws,
but not necessarily a matter of being an instance of a law. The advan-
tage of this formulation over the covering law model is that in cases of
macro-level causation there may not be any such suitable covering law,
although macro-level causal sequences still involve nomological suffi-
ciency (Hall and Paul 2013).
One problem for a regularity theory, if there is no temporal priority
condition built in, is the Problem of Effects (Lewis 1986a). An effect
may belong to a set of contemporaneous events that is nomologically
minimally sufficient for its cause. But effects don’t cause their causes.
The standard remedy requires that causes precede their effects. However,
this requirement is unacceptable if either (a) simultaneous causation is
actual or possible, (b) backward causation is possible, or (c) temporal
priority itself is explained by causal priority, not the other way around
(Psillos 2009, 153).
humean themes 289
A second problem is the Problem of Joint Effects. Joint effects of a

common cause may be regularly associated together by law, but other-
wise causally unrelated (Lewis 1986a, 160; Mackie 1974, 83-84). Suppose
that the barometer reading is lawfully sufficient for the earlier atmos-
pheric conditions, given the absence of other possible causes of that
reading. Also, suppose that those atmospheric conditions were law-
fully sufficient in the circumstances for the rainstorm, which occurs just
after the barometer reading. The barometer reading belongs to a set of
contemporaneous events that is nomologically minimally sufficient for
the rainstorm. But the barometer reading does not cause the rainstorm.
Some proponents of regularity theory have responded by refining
the nomic connection requirement. For example, Horwich requires
that a cause c’s nomic determination of its direct effect, e, not be ex-
plained by any further event in addition to c and e (Horwich 1987,
134–35). Since the barometer reading’s nomic determination of the
storm is explained by the barometer reading’s nomic determination
of the earlier atmospheric conditions, the barometer reading does not
directly cause the storm. But, then, the barometer reading does not cause
the storm at all since the barometer reading does not indirectly cause the
storm by causing the earlier atmospheric conditions insofar as that would
involve backward causation.4
A third problem comes from cases of Preemption (Lewis 1986a, 160).
A preempted cause may satisfy the conditions of regularity theory
with respect to its would-be effect. Suppose that Oswald’s bullet kills
John F. Kennedy, but Backup Assassin fires immediately after Oswald
fires. The circumstances and laws may be such that the Backup Assas-
sin’s firing lawfully guarantees JFK’s death. Backup Assassin’s firing is a
part of a nomologically minimally sufficient condition for the death,
but the Backup Assassin does not cause the death.
4 See also Clendinnen’s response, which involves more or less direct nomic connections (1992, 351–53).
See also Mackie’s revisions, which rely on the notion of causal priority (1974, 85). See also Hall and
Paul’s defense that appeals to the alleged fact that in such cases had joint effect e occurred alone, e' would
not have occurred (Hall and Paul 2013).
290 contemporary
Fourth, there is the problem of Indeterministic Causation, perhaps

the problem most responsible for the diminished status in philoso-
phy of the regularity theory (for a recent discussion. see Baumgartner
2008). The Regularity Theory is incompatible with the possibility and
actuality of indeterministic causation. If there are irreducibly probabi-
listic causes—as appears to be the case given contemporary physics—
then causes need not be members of sets that are minimally sufficient
for their effects, given the laws. Neither must there be an exceptionless
Mackie-like regularity under which the sequence falls.
1.2. Counterfactual Theory
In the 1970s, counterfactual theory begins to displace regularity theory

as the most influential philosophical theory of causation. This shift in
focus was due largely to David Lewis, who combined a possible world
semantics for counterfactuals with a counterfactual theory of causa-
tion (other efforts to develop a detailed counterfactual theory include
Lyon 1967 and Mackie 1965 and 1974). In contrast to regularity theo-
rists, counterfactual theorists do not start from the lawful character of
causation. They begin with the observation that causes are difference-
makers—had the cause not occurred, neither would have its effects
occurred, at least in many cases. A counterfactual-based account tries
to turn this observation into a general theory. Lewis’s 1973 formulation
is built on notion of causal dependence (Lewis 1986b, 166-67).
Where c and e are actual and distinct events, e causally depends on c

just in case if c had not occurred, e would not have occurred.5
The theory’s reductionist character is supposed to be guaranteed by the

fact that the truth conditions for the counterfactual on the right side
5 A counterfactual definition of causation can be found in Hume. “We may define a cause to be an
object followed by another, and where all the objects, similar to the first, are followed by objects similar to
the second. Or, in other words, where, if the first object had not been, the second never had existed ” (2009,
Section VII).
humean themes 291
do not involve causation. The counterfactual on the right is true for

actual events c and e just in case there is some world in which both c
and e fail to occur that is more similar to the actual world than any
world in which c fails to occur, but e occurs.6 However, although causal
dependence/counterfactual dependence between actual and distinct
events is sufficient for causation, it is not necessary since some causes
have backups. What is required and sufficient is a chain of counterfac-
tually dependent events.
The sufficiency of stepwise counterfactual dependence for causation
provides a basis for handling some backup causes and for guaranteeing
that causation is transitive. In cases of “early preemption,” the backup
line is interrupted prior to the time of the final effect. For example, sup-
pose that there was a Backup Assassin ready to fire his rifle and kill JFK
had Oswald failed to fire. Backup Assassin packs up his rifle and goes
home as soon as he sees Oswald pull his trigger. For Lewis there is a
chain of dependence in the Oswald-Death sequence: (1) had Oswald
not pulled the trigger, his bullet would not have been on course an in-
stant later at t´, and (2) had his bullet not been on course an instant
later, JFK would not have died since Backup Assassin is out of the pic-
ture by the time Oswald’s bullet is on course. But, the claim that there
is stepwise counterfactual dependence in the preempting line—from
Oswald to the death—is plausible only if the following backtracking
counterfactual is false: had Oswald’s bullet not been on course, then
Oswald would not have pulled the trigger earlier, the event that deters
Backup Assassin. Backtracking counterfactuals, including this one,
are generally false in the actual world and in worlds with similar laws,
according to Lewis (but not in all worlds, allowing for the possibility
of backward causation). Under determinism, to get rid of the event of
the bullet’s being on course at t´ with the least overall departure from
actuality we introduce a small “divergence miracle” just before t´ that
eliminates that event, but maintains a perfect match with the history
6 However, see Kvart (1986) who challenges this claim that counterfactuals do not involve causation.
292 contemporary
of the actual world until shortly before t´ (including Oswald’s firing).

Diverging sooner rather than later will not help to avoid violations of
the actual laws. And if the laws were held constant, getting rid of the
bullet’s being on course would require that all of the past be different,
but such a world would not be as close to the actual world as is some
world in which there is a small divergence miracle just before t´. The
closeness of one world, w1, as compared to another world, w2, to the
actual world is determined by weighting the following factors in order
of descending importance: w1 includes fewer widespread violations of
the laws of the actual world than does w2, w1 has a greater spatiotem-
poral region of perfect factual match than does w2, w1 has fewer small
miracles than does w2, and w1 has a greater spatiotemporal region of
approximate factual match than does w2.
Lewis argues that counterfactual theory marks an improvement over
regularity theory. First, preempted causes come out as nongenuine under
counterfactual theory, but not under regularity theory.7 Second, given the
ban on backtracking counterfactuals, although some causes in the actual
world appear to depend counterfactually on their effects, that is not so
(Lewis 1986a).8 Third, although one joint effect, e´, might in some case
appear to depend counterfactually on a distinct joint effect, e, of the same
common cause, c, that appearance is sustainable only if c would not have
occurred had e not occurred, but that backtracking counterfactual is false,
according to Lewis. Nevertheless, Lewis eventually divests himself of his
7 In cases of overdetermination, multiple events are separately causally sufficient for an effect, but each
overdeterminer has an equal claim to causing that effect. If individual overdeterminers are causes of
the overdetermined effect, the 1973 account is false since the effect does not counterfactually depend
stepwise on the individual overdeterminers. In response, Lewis argues that since we lack firm convic-
tions about the causal status of individual overdeterminers, the theory of causation that is otherwise
the best should get to rule on their causal status (“spoils to the victor”). In response to the fact that
overdetermined effects are caused, he suggests that the mereological sum of those overdeterminers
causes the overdetermined effect, not the individual overdeterminers themselves. However, as Schaf-
fer argues, it is hard to see how the mereological sum could be efficacious if the individual overdeter-
miners are not (Schaffer 2003).
8 Lewis, however, does allow that in some worlds causes don’t precede their effects and some back-
tracking counterfactuals are true. But see Elga (2000) for an argument against the claim that this ban
applies to our world.
humean themes 293
1973 theory because of indeterministic causation and late preemption, in

which the backup line is not interrupted until the time of the final effect.
For an example of the latter, suppose that our Backup Assassin remains
ready to fire up to the last minute, standing down only after he confirms
the death at Parkland Hospital. Stepwise dependence fails in the pre-
empting line. For instance, had Oswald’s bullet not been on course imme-
diately after Oswald fired, the death would still have occurred, albeit a bit
later. One could argue that what would have been caused—had Oswald
not fired or had Oswald’s bullet not been on course—would have been a
different death, but that involves the claim that all events have their times
essentially. Lewis argues that a uniform standard of extreme temporal fra-
gility has counterintuitive results in combination with a counterfactual
theory of causation.9 In addition, Lewis and other philosophers have
argued that maximal temporal fragility for events does not help in pre-
emption cases in which stepwise dependence fails but in which the time of
the effect would have been the same had it been brought about by the pre-
empted cause (Ehring 1997; Schaffer 2000a). For illustration, consider
one of Schaffer’s trumping cases.
A major and a sergeant shout the order “Advance” to a corporal. The

corporal is trained to follow the superior officer’s command so their
advance is caused by the Major’s command, not the sergeant’s com-
mand. The former trumps the latter. But had the Major not issued
his order, the effect would still have occurred at the same time
(Schaffer 2000a, 175).10
As for indeterministic causation, Lewis describes a form of such causa-

tion that is incompatible with his 1973 account. Suppose that e has
9 If the doctor’s administration of a drug slows the course of a fatal disease this combination would
generate the false verdict that the doctor’s action is a cause of the eventual death of the patient
(Lewis 1986b, 250).
10 Also, if there can be causal action at a temporal distance, then the stepwise approach will not work
(Hall and Paul 2013).
294 contemporary
small chance of occurring without c, but that c raises the chance of e to

a much higher level. Both c and e occur, and e is caused by c, but e is not
counterfactually dependent on c nor is there a chain of stepwise coun-
terfactual dependence from e to c (Lewis 1986a, 176). In response to
indeterministic causation, Lewis offers a probabilistic version of coun-
terfactual theory: e is causally dependent on c if and only if had c not
occurred, the probability of e’s occurrence would have been much less
than it actually was just after the time of c’s occurrence. Causation con-
sists in stepwise probabilistic causal dependence. In the example, had c
not occurred, the chance of e would have been much less, even though
e had some small chance of occurring uncaused.
Lewis revises counterfactual theory more than once in response to
late preemption. One revision brings into play the notion of quasi-
dependence. The idea is that a preempting cause c of e, in a case of late
preemption, is a cause of e by proxy. It is the case that c and e are such
that the intrinsic character of the processes connecting those events is
the same as the intrinsic character of processes in other regions, in
worlds with the same laws, such that the great majority of those pro-
cesses do exhibit stepwise counterfactual dependence (since in most
cases there is no backup cause). If so, e “quasi-depends” on c. c causes e
if and only if there is a chain of events from c to e with either depend-
ence or quasi-dependence at each step (Lewis 1986a, 206). The pre-
empting cause-effect sequence, in cases of late preemption, does satisfy
this condition, but the preempted cause-effect sequence does not be-
cause the other-regional processes in which the alternative line runs to
completion are intrinsically distinguishable from the actual preempted
line (since those other-regional processes include events missing from
the actual preempted line).11 However, Lewis eventually rejects this
approach because (1) it entails the efficacy of trumped causes, since in
the trumped line there are no missing intermediary events, and (2) the
principle that causal relations supervene on the intrinsic, noncausal
11 Individual overdeterminers also come out as causes under this revision.
humean themes 295
character of the processes connecting those events, keeping the laws

fixed, fails, he says, for double prevention causation and for some cases
of absence causation.12
There are a number of other attempts in the literature to revise
counterfactual theory to make it compatible with late preemption (in-
cluding “Structural Equations” theory (Hitchcock 2001 and 2007;
Woodward 2003)). Some of these alternative formulations also focus
on missing intermediary events in the preempted line, and others rely
on the assumption that events have their times of occurrence essen-
tially. As an example of the former, consider Ramachandran’s “M-set”
variation (Ramachandran 1997 and 1998). Ramachandran makes use
of two apparent facts about preemption cases plus an apparent asym-
metry: where c is a preempting cause and c´ is a preempted cause of e it
is true that had neither c nor c´ occurred, e would not have occurred,
and typically preempted lines are missing intermediary events. The
asymmetry he notes is that whereas we can substitute a non-actual
event, specifically, a missing intermediary event from the preempted
line—call it “i,” say, the non-actual event of the Backup Assassin’s bul-
let’s being on course—for c´ in this counterfactual—“had neither c nor
i occurred, e would not have occurred”—while maintaining truth, we
cannot substitute a non-actual event for c in this counterfactual and
preserve truth. More precisely, but still roughly, c causes e just in case c
is a member of a set (an M-set) that does not include e such that had
none of the members of that set occurred, e would not have occurred
and c cannot be replaced by a non-actual event with the result that had
no members of that new set occurred, e would not have occurred.
However, as with the quasi-dependence revision, this modification of
12 Lewis’s final version of a counterfactual-based theory is Influence Theory (2000). Roughly stated, c
influences e just in case whether, how and when c occurs depends on whether, how and when c occurs
to a significant degree. e is an effect of c just in case c stands in the ancestral of the influence relation to
e. In cases of early/late/trumping preemption, there is an influence relation between the preempting
cause and the effect but not between the preempted cause and the effect. In the late preemption case,
had Assassin fired earlier, the death would have occurred earlier (when-when influence). Or, in the
trumping preemption case, had the Major shouted “Retreat” rather than “Advance” the troops would
have retreated (how-how influence). For criticisms see Schaffer 2001b and Strevens 2003.
296 contemporary
counterfactual theory will not work for trumping preemption or for

other variants of preemption (Ehring 2004).
1.3. Probabilistic Theory
The basic idea of a probabilistic theory of causation is that causes raise

the probability of their effects (Reichenbach 1956; Good 1961 and 1962;
Suppes 1970). (This does not mean tweaking Regularity Theory by
replacing “constant conjunction” with “frequent conjunction” since
probabilistic effects may still only infrequently follow their causes (Dowe
2000, 29).) Proponents of a probabilistic theory of causation, how-
ever, disagree both about the scope of a probabilistic theory—whether
it covers singular causation (“John’s smoking caused his cancer”) or
general causation (“smoking causes cancer”) and about its nature—
whether it is reductive or not.13 There is also disagreement as to the
very idea of probability increasing, with two interpretations on offer,
one in terms of conditional probabilities (for example, Suppes 1970)
and the other in terms of counterfactual probabilities (Lewis 1986a;
Noordhof 1999; Ramachandran 1997). A naïve probabilistic theory
based on conditional probability says that in the case of two actual and
distinct events c and e, c is a cause of e just in case:
P(E | C) > P(E | ~C) (where “C ”and “E ”state that c and e, respec-
tively, occurred).
This simple theory immediately faces two problems. (1) Joint Effects:
Suppose that e and e´ are independent effects of a common cause, c. The
probability of e´ conditional on e may be higher than the probability of
e´ conditional on the nonoccurrence of e. So this simple theory wrongly
counts one effect as a cause of the other effect. (2) The Problem of Effects:
Generally, if e is an effect of c then the probability of c conditional on
13 Suppes (1970) supports a single theory for both singular and general causation, but Eells argues for
different accounts (Eells 1991).
humean themes 297
the occurrence of e is higher than the probability of c conditional on the

nonoccurrence of e, but e does not cause c.
The simple theory must be made more complicated. The Problem of
Effects is dealt with by requiring that causes precede their effects or that
causes be “causally prior” to their effects, where “causally prior” is given
a nontemporal account. The Problem of Joint Effects is handled by qual-
ifying the “probability-raising” condition: causes raise the probability
of their effects holding certain factors/background conditions fixed
(Hitchcock 2004b, 139). Suppes’s idea, for example, is that c causes e
just in case, roughly, c raises the probability of e, and c is not “screened
off ” from e by events earlier than c. In the joint effects case, e is screened
off from e´ by the earlier common cause c, that is, P(E´/E & C ) =
P(E´/C ). What that means is that when we hold fixed c, the common
cause, e does not make the other joint effect, e´, more likely. (On Lew-
is’s counterfactual-based probabilistic theory, probability raising is a
matter of counterfactual probabilities, not conditional probabilities.
The Problem of Joint Effects and the Problem of Effects are handled by
reference to Lewis’s ban on backtracking counterfactuals, as they are
for the nonprobabilistic version of counterfactual theory.14)
There are two kinds of putative counterexamples to probabilistic
theory: (a) non–probability-raising causes, and (b) probability-raising
noncauses. Here is a sample of the best-known cases of the former type.
1. Golfer Case: A mediocre golfer’s ball hits a tree branch after he slices
the ball off the tee. The result is that the ball rolls into the hole. The
ball’s being sliced/the ball’s hitting the branch cause the ball to go
into the cup, but the probability of the ball going into the cup given
that the golfer slices the ball/ball hits a branch is lower than the
14 In the joint effects case, we should hold fixed the occurrence of the earlier cause, c, when evaluating
what would have been the chances of e' in the absence of e. In that case, the chance of e' would have
been the same in the absence of joint effect e. The Problem of Effects also gets resolved in the same way.
Had the later event e not occurred, the chance of the earlier c would have been the same, not lower,
since we hold it and its chance fixed, given the ban on backtrackers.
298 contemporary
probability of the ball going into the cup given that it is not sliced/
does not hit a tree branch (Rosen 1978).
2. Preemption Case: An assassin uses a weak poison to kill the king.
The poison gives a 30 percent chance of death. However, if the king
had not taken the weak poison, another would-be assassin would
have given the king a stronger poison with a 70 percent chance of
death. Although the first assassin caused the death, he lowered the
chance of death from 70 percent to 30 percent (Hitchcock 2010,
variation on case from Menzies 1989a and 1996).
3. Decay: An atom occupies the fourth energy level and there is more
than one way for that atom to decay to the first energy level. The
probabilities that an atom at one level will decay directly to a further
specified level are as follows:
P(4−3) = 3/4 P(3−1) = 3/4

P(4−2) = 1/4 P(2−1) = 1/4 P(3−2) = 0
Suppose that the atom occupies the fourth, then the second, and then
the first. Occupation of the second level is negatively relevant to occu-
pation of the first level. If it occupies the second level on its way then
its probability of occupying the first level is ¼. However, it is plausible
that its occupation of the second level is a cause of its occupying the
first level (Salmon 1984, 200–01).
Various responses to putative examples of probability-lowering
causes have been suggested.
(1) One response involves specifying the cause (or the effect) more pre-
cisely (Rosen 1978, 606). For example, one might claim that given
the precise way in which the ball hit the tree, the hitting of the tree
does raise the probability of the hole-in-one. This approach, how-
ever, does not work in the Decay case (Salmon 1984, 196). Nor
does it work for probabilistic trumping preemption in which the
trumped cause raises the probability of the effect more than does
humean themes 299
the trumping cause or in other cases of preemption in which the

preempted cause raises the probability of the effect to the same
level as does the preempting cause (Schaffer 2007; Ehring 1997).
(2) Another suggestion is to require only stepwise probability raising
(Salmon 1984, 196). The golf slice raises the probability of the ball
traveling toward the tree, and the latter raises the probability of the
ball hitting the tree, which raises the probability of the ball going in
the hole given that it is traveling toward the tree. But this response
fails in the Decay case, which involves direct probability-lowering
causation, and in cases of probabilistic trumping preemption and
other variants of preemption (Schaffer 2000b; Ehring 1997). In
addition, this response requires that causation be transitive, a claim
that has come under attack (for discussions, see McDermott 1995;
Hall 2004; Kvart 1991; Ehring 1987a and 1997).
(3) Another approach is to find a “route” from event c to event e and,
then determine whether or not, had c not occurred, the chance of
e would been lower, holding fixed events not on this route.15 Hold-
ing fixed the fact that the backup poisoner did not add his poison
to the king’s drink, the preempting poisoner did raise the proba-
bility of the king’s death (Hitchcock 2004b; Dowe 2004).
(4) Another defense involves the idea that the preempting cause
would have raised the probability of the effect had it operated in
the absence of the preempted line. In the absence of the second
poisoner’s actions, the first poisoner’s actions would have raised
the probability of the effect and the death would not have proba-
bilistically depended on any nonactual event in that scenario.
However, although the second poisoner’s actions would have also
raised the chance of death in the absence of the first poisoner, the
15 A “route” is defined by reference to Structural Equations Theory. Roughly, a route from variable
C to variable E—which can take, say, the values of 1 or 0 depending on whether c or e occurs, respec-
tively—is an ordered series of variables such that each of these variables appears in the same, appro-
priate causal model and, according to the equations of that model, each variable determines, in part,
the value of its successor.
300 contemporary
death would then have probabilistically depended on some non-

actual events including the presence of the second poisoner’s
poison in the drink (Noordhof 1999 and 2004; see Ehring 2009a
for objections).
(5) Some philosophers claim that probability-lowering events are not
causes of the events the probability of which they lower—the
latter are not caused by the former, but occur despite the former
(Mellor 1995, 67–68).
The second type of supposed counterexample involves probability-

raising noncauses.
(1) Probability-Raising Preempted Cause: Oswald and Backup Assas-

sin both fire their rifles but Backup Assassin is more likely to suc-
ceed in killing JFK since he is a better marksman. Nevertheless,
Oswald’s bullet kills JFK. Backup Assassin’s action raises the prob-
ability of the death, but it did not cause the death (Menzies 1989a
and 1996).
(2) Overlap: An atom of U-238 and an atom of Ra-226 are placed in a
box. The former has a certain chance of producing Th-234 and an
alpha particle and the latter has a chance of producing Rn-222 and
an alpha particle. Subsequently the box contains an atom of Th-
234, an alpha particle, and an atom of Ra-226. “Now the presence
of Ra-226 is not a cause of there being an alpha particle (rather the
U-238 produced the alpha particle independently), but is by law a
probability-raiser of it” (Schaffer 2000b, 41).
In response to the first type of case, Menzies at one point suggests a

requirement of temporally continuous chains of probability raising so
as to disqualify the preempted cause as genuine (1989a). This require-
ment, however, does not help with probabilistic trumping preemp-
tion or in the Overlap case. This requirement may also be inconsistent
with absence causation and causation involving prevention (Hitchcock
humean themes 301
2004a, 411). (Menzies later abandons this requirement because it ex-

cludes action at a temporal distance (1996, 94).)
1.4. Process Theories
On a process theory, causation is grounded in a physical connection

involving something that persists. Process theories differ as to what
persists: (1) persisting quantities of energy or momentum (Aronson
1971; Fair 1979; Castañeda 1984), (2) persisting structures (Salmon
1984), (3) persisting objects that possess conserved quantities (Dowe
2000; Salmon 1994 and 1998), and (4) enduring tropes (Ehring, 1997;
Kistler 1998).16 For purposes of illustration, I focus on Dowe’s con-
served quantity theory. The two main notions in Dowe’s account are
that of a causal process and an interaction. A causal process is a world
line—a worm in space-time—of an object that possesses a quantity
that is universally conserved, for example, energy. A noncausal or pseu-
doprocess is the world line of an object that fails to possess a conserved
quantity, for example, a shadow. A causal interaction is an intersection
of world lines that involves an exchange of a conserved quantity, ex-
changes being governed by a conservation law. Exchanges occur when
at least one incoming and at least one outgoing process undergo a
change in the value of the conserved quantity. On a naïve formulation
of conserved quantity theory (Dowe’s formulation is more sophisti-
cated), any events linked by a line of causal processes and interactions
are causally connected.
There are two main sorts of problem cases for process theories: cau-
sation without processes and processes without causation.
Causation without Processes: Cases of absence causation are putative

(1)
counterexamples to process theories: (a) The gardener’s failure to
water the plant caused its death but there are no causal processes/
16 See also Mackie 1974 on the role of qualitative persistence in causation.

302 contemporary
interactions linking the former to the latter (Schaffer 2000b;

Hall 2004); (b) I grab your arm preventing you from preventing
Jones from raising his arm thereby causally contributing to Jones’s
arm raising without a process running from my action to that arm
raising (double prevention); or (c) Sally’s release of the catch on the
catapult causes the window to shatter by bringing about the failure
of the catch to be attached to the catapult, although there is no con-
necting physical process (Ehring 1986; Schaffer 2007).
(2) Processes without Causation: Putting a chalk mark on a white pool
ball is linked by a causal process to the black ball’s falling in a
pocket subsequent to being struck by the white ball. But the chalk
marking does not cause the black ball’s falling into the pocket
(Woodward 2003, 351).
In response to cases involving “absence causation,” some defenders

of process theories deny that absences can be causes or effects (Dowe
2000, 123–24). Alternately, some defenders modify process theory to
allow for causation in which there is no linking process (Fair 1979,
246–47). In response to cases involving processes without causation,
some process theorists aim to make processes, including the causal
relata, sufficiently fine-grained so as to provide a basis for denying that
there is a process connecting, for example, the chalking to the sinking
(Dowe 2000; Ehring 1997; for discussion, see Schaffer 2007).17
1.5. Manipulability Theory
In many cases, by bringing about a cause we can bring about its effect.
Manipulability theorists try to turn this observation into a general
account of causation. Roughly, the idea is that c causes e just in case an
agent could bring about e by bringing about c. Every cause could serve,
17 One worry for Dowe’s version of process theory is that if conserved quantities are defined in terms
a “closed system” and the latter is defined as a system that does not causally interact with anything
external to itself, then conserved quantity theory will be circular. (See, for example, Choi’s attempts to
avoid such circularity (2003).)
humean themes 303
even if it doesn’t, as an effective means for an agent to bring about its

effect (Collingwood 1940; Gasking 1955; von Wright 1993 Menzies
and Price 1993; Woodward 2003 Pearl 2000; and Spirtes et al. 1993).
(Some manipulability theorists, however, allow for the possibility of
nonhuman/non–agency-based manipulation; see Woodward 2003.)
The two main objections to manipulability theory are the following.
(1) Circularity: Manipulation or bringing about just means causing
something in a certain way. (2) Nonmanipulable Causation: There are
causal sequences that cannot be manipulated or controlled by human
agents. For example, the 2011 Japanese earthquake was caused by fric-
tion between continental plates; no human agent is able to manipulate
continental plates.
Responses to the circularity objection vary depending upon whether
manipulability theory is taken to be reductionist or not. The nonre-
ductionist grants that account’s circularity, but claims that manipula-
bility theory is still informative and useful (Woodward 2003). For the
reductionist response consider the representative response of Menzies
and Price for whom an event c is a cause of a distinct event e just in case
the probability of e given that an agent brings about c by a free action
is greater than the unconditional probability of e (1993). They argue
that the notion of free agency is demonstratively not a causal notion
since the concept of agency is generally acquired in childhood prior to
acquiring the concept of causation. Hence, the concept of bringing
about is more basic than that of causation and there is no circularity.
What about the nonmanipulable causation? Consider, again, Menzies
and Price: such sequences gain their causal status by resemblance, with
respect to intrinsic features, to manipulable causal sequences. In the
Japanese earthquake example, the causal claim is made true by the fact
that scientists can produce scale models of earthquakes (1993).18
The nonreductionist manipulability theorist has an alternative reply
to nonmanipulable causation. Woodward suggests that “intervention”
18 Woodward worries that this appeal will lead to circularity (2009).
304 contemporary
(which he substitutes for “manipulation”) should be characterized

causally—knowingly making the theory circular—in such a way that
there can be nonhuman/nonagent interventions (one such condition
is that an intervention must break the causal connection between a
putative cause and its causes). Earthquakes are caused by plate friction
since a nonhuman intervention meeting these causal conditions on the
plate variable would mean changes for the earthquake variable (Wood-
ward 2009).19
1.6. Singularism
Nonsingularist theories make causation depend in some way on laws of

nature. Singularists reject any such law dependence. The fact that c
causes e entails neither any particular law under which c and e fall, nor
even that there exists some covering law applicable to c and e, nor even
that there are any laws. Causation is possible in a lawless world. Singu-
larism can be developed either within a reductionist or nonreductionist
framework. In the former case, “c causes e ” is made true by noncausal
facts that do not include laws of nature. For a nonreductionist singula-
rist, causation cannot be explained in terms of anything else. Nor do
causal relations require the existence of laws. Anscombe appears to be
a nonreductivist singularist (1975). Causation is a matter of “deriving
from or arising of,” and that relation does not seem to implicate in any
way laws of nature. Tooley also may be read as a nonreductionist singu-
larist. For Tooley causal relations are theoretical relations that are not
reducible to noncausal facts, and “events could still be causally related
without falling under any relevant law” (Tooley 1990, 293). Ducasse,
on the other hand, is a reductive singularist: roughly, the cause is the
only change in the circumstances immediately preceding the effect
(1968, 3-4). One line of objection to singularism is based on the fact
19 The Problem of Joint Effects is handled thus: E fails to be a cause of E ' because when E is brought
about by an intervention, I, the E-E ' correlation does not persist since I breaks the causal connection
of E with C, the common cause of E and E '.
humean themes 305
that we revise our causal judgments about particular cases based on the
how events of the same type unfold elsewhere and elsewhen, which
seems to implicate type-level relations, including laws, into the truth
conditions for individual causal sequences.
1.7. Antireductionism
Metaphysical antireductionists about causation deny that causal facts

are reducible to facts about noncausal properties of, and noncausal re-
lations between, particulars and facts about the laws of nature, where
the laws of nature are understood to be reducible to noncausal facts
(Carroll 2009, 281). There are three main arguments for antireduction-
ism. (1) The absence of a generally acceptable reductive account of cau-
sation despite many efforts lends support to the nonreductivist thesis
(Carroll 2009). (2) Most concepts, such as temporal priority, counter-
factuals and laws, that are candidates for a role in a reductive account
themselves, it is argued, have causal commitments, giving rise to circu-
larity (for discussion, see Schaffer 2007). (3) The strongest argument
for antireductionism involves cases meant to show that causal facts fail
to supervene on noncausal facts, as required by a reductive account.
These “underdetermination” cases involve worlds that putatively differ
causally, but not noncausally. Here is an example:
c1 raises the probability of e and so does c2. Together they raise the
chance of e to a level higher than either would have separately. Both c1
and c2 occur, as does e. There are three causal possibilities, worlds that
agree noncausally, but differ causally: (1) in w1, c1, not c2, causes e, (2) in
w2, c2, not c1, causes e and (3) in w3, both c1 and c2 cause e. In the first
two worlds, there is fizzling of either of c1 or c2, but in w3 there is no
fizzling. (Carroll 2009, 289; Tooley 1990, 225–8; Armstrong 1997, 203)
There are three main arguments against antireductionism. First, some

philosophers claim that if causation were not reducible, we would have
306 contemporary
no basis for causal knowledge. Various antireductionists respond either

by claiming that (1) we have direct, or almost direct, perceptual access
to the nonreducible relation of causation (Anscombe 1993), (2) we have
direct introspective access to causation, through the experience of will-
ing or body pressure (Anscombe 1993 Armstrong 1997; Fales 1990),
or (3) we have indirect access to causation based on inference to the
best explanation (Tooley 1987).20 The second main argument against
antireductionism involves challenging the strongest arguments for
anti-reductionism, the “underdetermination” cases, by claiming that
for each case, despite initial appearances, there is really only one pos-
sible world at issue. For example, in the case above, it is claimed that
there is one only world being described, a world in which it is indeter-
minate ontologically as to whether c1 causes e and it is indeterminate
ontologically as to whether c2 causes e (or both do) although it is true
that either or both c1 or c2 causes e (Schaffer 2008, 89). The third argu-
ment is that antireductionism is inconsistent with the fact that modal
properties supervene on nonmodal properties, positing as the anti-
reductionists does a non-reducible modal feature of the world that de-
termines whether, for example, in our case, c1 or c2 is the cause of e
(Schaffer 2007).
2. Causal Relata
I will now briefly review contempoary treatments of causal relata. The

most popular contemporary candidates for the causal relata are events
and facts, but there are alternatives including tropes, exemplifications
of universals, and objects.
Event views: Event views are divided primarily along the dimension
of event individuation. Accounts vary from coarse-grained to fine-
grained.
20 Carroll insists that the demand for direct access as a condition of knowledge will lead to skeptical
worries no matter the area and, hence, antireductionism about causation does not face a special
problem (Carroll 2009, 291).
humean themes 307
The Coarse-Grained Event View: Causal relata are events and events
are individual, concrete occurrences, spatiotemporally located particu-
lars, with an indefinite number of properties. There are two main pro-
posals for indivduating events in a coarse-grained manner, causally and
spatiotemporally. Under the first proposal, events e and e´ are identical
just in case they have the same causes and effects (Davidson 1980b,
179). Under the second, events are individuated by their spatiotem-
poral locations (Quine 1985; Davidson 1985, 175).
The Kimian Fine-Grained Event View: Causal relata are events and
events are exemplifications of universals (including n-adic universals)
by a concrete object (or n-tuples of concrete objects) at a time (Kim
1973a and 1976). In the monadic case, events c and c´ are identical just
in case their constitutive properties/objects/times are identical. An
event’s causal relations are determined by the property the exemplifica-
tion of which by its constitutive object is the event.
The Lewisian Fine-Grained Event View: All causal relata are events,
but events have essences—conditions that must be satisfied for that
event to occur—and events that differ in their essential or accidental
properties are not identical (Lewis 1986b, 245). John’s saying “Hello”
loudly might involve at least two coinciding events. One is essentially a
saying “Hello” loudly and the other is a saying “Hello” loudly but not
essentially. (Lewis argues we need to distinguish between these events
because they differ causally (1986b, 255).)
Property Instance View: Causal relata are property instances, which
may or may not include events, with some taking property instances to
be exemplifications of universals at a time by a particular (or particu-
lars) and others taking them to be tropes (for discussions, see Dretske
1977; Sanford 1985; Ehring 1997; Paul 2000).
Fact View: Causes/effects are facts understood as true propostions,
not whatever extra-propositional entities make true propositions true
(Mackie 1974; Bennett 1988, 1995; Mellor 1995, 2004).
Objects/Persons: Some philosophers hold that at least some objects
can be causes, although not effects, and that object causation is not
308 contemporary
r educible to causation involving only nonobject relata such as events or

facts (Chisolm 1966; Taylor 1966).
The case for causal-relata-as-events consists, in part, in the claim
that this view provides the basis for an account of the logical form of
causal statements, including the various inferential relations among causal
statements (Davidson 1980a). The event view also fits nicely with the
apparent fact that causes are concrete and located in space and time
(Schaffer 2007).
The case for fact-causation consists in citing causal phenomena that
supposedly can be handled only if causal relata are facts. Some philoso-
phers argue that overdetermination is incompatible with event views
of causal relata, coarse-grained or otherwise, but not with the fact view
(Bennett 1988, 140). If e is overdetermined by f and f´, then e is not
caused by those individual overdeterminers, nor are there other viable
event candidates, it is argued, but there is a viable fact candidate: it is
the fact that at least one of the firings, f or f´, occurred. Event-propo-
nents respond either by citing the event that is the mereological sum of
the individual overdeterminers, f and f´, as the cause (Lewis 1986b, 212)
or by arguing that the individual overdeterminers are causes of the
death (Schaffer 2003). The second phenomenon is absence causation. If
gardener Jones’s failure to water the plant on Tuesday caused the death
of the plant, it is the nonexistence of any event of a certain type—a wa-
tering-of-the-plant-on-Tuesday-by-Jones type event—that is said to
have a certain effect rather than an event. But, absence causation can be
accomodated if causes are facts/true propositions. The cause is the fact
that Jones did not water the plant (Bennett 1988, 140-41; Mellor 1995,
134). Some events-only proponents have responded by denying that
there is absence causation (Beebee 2004).
There are primarily three arguments against facts as causal relata.
Interaction: Causes interact, exert force and transmit energy, but facts/
propositions do not (Bennett 1988, 22). Spatial and Temporal Location:
Causes and effects are dated/located, but facts/propositions are not
dated/located (Ehring 2009b; Menzies 1989b, 61; Hausman 1998, 23).
humean themes 309
The Slingshot Argument: This argument purports to show—given the

substitutability of co-referring singular terms and of logically equiva-
lent sentences without a change of truth-value into causal contexts—
that if some facts cause some facts, then all facts cause all facts, and
since the latter is false, no facts cause any facts (Davidson 1980a,
152–3).21
There are two main arguments for a fine-grained, nonfact alterna-
tive to coarse-grained events. Argument from Emphasis: Causal con-
texts are referentially transparent, but “Socrates’s drinking hemlock at
dusk causes his death” may be false while “Socrates’s drinking hemlock
at dusk causes his death”may be true. Hence, these differently empha-
sized expressions in the cause role refer to different event aspects, not
events, according to Dretske (Dretske 1977; for responses, see Achin-
stein 1983; Boer 1979, 294; and Ehring 1987b).
Argument from Transitivity: Consider the following scenario on the
assumption that causal relata are coarse-grained events:
The event of Davidson’s putting potassium salts into the fireplace

occurs just as Jenny puts a lighted match into the fireplace. A
moment later, there is a purple fire in the fireplace, a purple fire that
then causes Elvis’s death. If coarse-grained events are the causal
relata, putting potassium salts into the fireplace is a cause of the
purple fire. Given the transitivity of causation, it follows that put-
ting potassium salts in the fireplace is a cause of the death. But that
is not correct. Intuitively, putting potassium salts into the fireplace
has nothing to do with the death (for example, had no salts been
introduced the death would have occurred anyway). (Ehring 1987a;
Ehring 1997; for similar examples, see Paul 2000 and Hausman 1992)
If causal relata are fine-grained, however—say, Kimian events or property

instances—then transitivity can be saved in this case. The instantiation
21 For a fuller discussion and references, see Neale 2001.

310 contemporary
of the property of adding salts causes the instantiation by the fire of the
property of being purple, but not the instantiation of the property of
having a high temperture, which causes the death. (But for discussion
of challenges to the transitivity of causation, see McDermott 1995;
Hall 2004; and Kvart 1991.)
There are two main arguments for tropes as causal relata. The first is
that causal relata are property instances—perhaps because of either the
Argument from Emphasis or the Argument from Transitivity—but since
properties are tropes, causal relata are tropes or trope-based (Camp-
bell 1990, 23). Second, since causation typically involves some form of
qualitative persistence, causal relata must be trope-based rather than
universals-based since only tropes are capable of the right kind of qual-
itative persistence (Ehring 1997).
Reflection
efficient causation in art
Tina Rivers Ryan
p
All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings
the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner
qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.
—duchamp 19571
Giorgio Vasari, the first biographer to record the lives of famous

artists, reserved his highest praise for his contemporary, the sculptor
Michelangelo. According to Vasari, Michelangelo was literally a gift
from God, as “the most benevolent Ruler of Heaven” had “decided . . .
to send to Earth a spirit who, working alone, was able to demonstrate
in every art and profession the meaning of perfection.”2 Though he
famously toiled for long hours, Michelangelo promoted this idea
that his talent was innate: He is reported to have snidely observed
that his rival Raphael “did not come by his art naturally”—like
Michelangelo himself, presumably—but “through long study.”3
As this comment indicates, Michelangelo was not merely a gifted
artist, but also a bit of a character, infamous in his own time for his
terribilità, connoting both the thrilling inventiveness of his art and
the frustrating perversity of his personality (see Figure 4).
1 From “The Creative Act,” a lecture at the Convention of the American Federation of Arts in Hous-
ton, Texas, April 1957.
2 Vasari 1991, 414.
3 Condivi 1999, 106.
311
312 reflection
Over time, the legend of Michelangelo helped propagate a

certain idea, now endemic in Western culture, about what it means
to be an artist and to make a work of art. Whereas Raphael, like
most artists of the period, executed his works with the help of
assistants, the mercurial Michelangelo insisted on “working
alone,” as Vasari would have it, ensuring that his products were
expressions of his singular vision. Consequently, Michelangelo
informed a growing perception of artists as innate geniuses who
seem to be the sole efficient cause of their works (that is, if we put
aside the question of “divine” inspiration). Because the solitary
artist directly controls the work from conception through creation,
his or her name can be invoked to guarantee the work’s quality, and
what we know about the artist can inform our interpretation of the
work’s meaning. In other words, the work is seen as a sign that
points to its absent referent—namely, its cause, the artist—who
in turn stabilizes the work’s signification (and significance). This
a trenchant idea; one of the foundational ideas of the field of
art history is that works of art are not only conduits for the
visions of artists, but also ciphers for the ideas of their time, and
yet books on art still tend toward the model of the hagiographic
monograph.4
In his well-known essay of 1968, “The Death of the Author,”
Roland Barthes presented a poststructuralist challenge to the
longstanding notion of author (and by extension, artist) as efficient
cause.5 The so-called death of the author, Barthes writes, is at the
same time the birth of the reader: works are no longer to be
approached as hermetic expressions of their authors, but as
permeable texts open to, and in fact constituted by, acts of
4 This model of interpreting art has been critiqued by Rosalind Krauss, who in her famous essay “In
the Name of Picasso” employs structural linguistics to counter the reduction of Picasso’s works to
mere autobiography by “an art history of the proper name.” See Krauss 1985.
5 See Barthes 1977. Barthes’s essay was preceded by Martin Heidegger’s “The Origin of the Work of
Art,” which similarly examines the designation of the artist as efficient cause. See Heidegger 2008.
efficient causation in art 313
interpretation. Just as Barthes identifies earlier persons who

foreshadowed the transition “from work to text” (to borrow the
title of another of his essays), one finds precursors of this paradigm
shift in the visual arts, most notably in the objects and writings of
Marcel Duchamp, the godfather of conceptual art. Though most
of his major works were made earlier in the twentieth century,
Duchamp had a delayed reception in the art world; notoriously,
his first retrospective was only mounted in 1963, at the Pasadena
Art Museum. It was in the context of this revival that he was
invited to contribute to a 1957 panel on the “creative act,”
delivering a speech that was published almost immediately in
ARTnews magazine and subsequently in many other places, and
that influenced a generation of artists. Duchamp protests the idea
that the artist is the sole efficient cause of a work of art; rather,
the viewer (or “reader,” in Barthes’s formulation) collaborates
with the artist in producing the work’s meaning. The “gap”
between what the artist intended to communicate and what the
viewer sees is what Duchamp famously dubbed the “art coefficient,”
which is “an arithmetical relation between the unexpressed
but intended and the unintentionally expressed” (see Figure 5).
By accepting that the meaning of a work of art is thus always
already out of the artist’s hands, Duchamp paved the way for
artists to relinquish control over their creative processes. Perhaps
the most astute reader of Duchamp in this regard was the
composer John Cage, who explored Duchamp’s ideas in his own
work from the 1940s onward, employing aleatory operations
(such as the rolling of dice) to liberate his compositions from the
constraints of personal taste.6 Cage had a huge impact on the
visual artists who came into contact with him, and it may have
been through the work of his Neo-Dada friends Jasper Johns and
6 The literature on Duchamp, Cage, and Cage’s relationship to the visual arts is voluminous; one
recent example is Robinson 2009.
314 reflection
Robert Rauschenberg that his ideas (and Duchamp’s) came to

influence the young Andy Warhol (see Figure 6).
As early as 1963—only months after traveling out west to see the
Duchamp retrospective—Warhol gave an interview on the new Pop
fad to ARTnews, claiming, “I think somebody should be able to do
all my paintings for me. . . . I think it would be so great if more
people took up silkscreens so that no one would know whether my
picture was mine or somebody else’s.”7 The idea of the silkscreen
is central here; previously, paintings were thought to inevitably
evidence the “artist’s hand” (or a group of artists’ hands), but to
produce a silkscreen painting, the hand merely squeegees paint
through a series of industrially cut screens, leaving no discernible
trace. Asked if his aim was to “turn art history upside down” (that
is, by challenging the basic assumption that the artist is the efficient
cause of his or her work), Warhol somewhat disingenuously replied,
“No. The reason I’m painting this way is that I want to be a
machine, and I feel that whatever I do and do machine-like is what
I want to do.”8
Thus, while Duchamp claimed that a work of art is only partially
determined by an artist’s vision, Warhol claimed there was no artist
at all behind his work. The efficient cause of his paintings is merely
a machine, which is to say, his infamous “Factory,” comprising
interchangeable operators (mostly drug-addled hangers-on) who
performed perfunctory acts of image duplication. Warhol therefore
does not simply return to the Renaissance model by which entire
studios collaborated on works of art: while the contributions of
Renaissance assistants often can be identified through the markings
of individual style, Warhol’s works bear few, if any, discernible
traces of their respective producers. The cool “blankness” of his
paintings—seen in the inexpressive use of line, color, and
7 Warhol 2003, 748.

8 Warhol 2003, 748.
efficient causation in art 315
brushwork, and the blatant use of other peoples’ photographs—

reminds us that they are like any other factory-made product, and
are therefore opposed to the “expressionist” works of the previous
generation of American art. Of course, Warhol is a master ironist,
and his words and works betray a considered perspective that belies
his claim to want to renounce authority over his art; and yet the
degree to which he complicated his position as “author” of his
works is indicated by the never-ending series of lawsuits attempting
to validate his works’ authenticity.9 Legal complications aside,
Warhol’s critique of the myth of the individual genius is ultimately
a powerful retort to Cold War–era anti-Communist rhetoric and,
simultaneously, a reflection of America’s nascent consumer culture:
the 1963 interview opens with his ironic claim, “I want everybody
to think alike. . . . Russia is doing it under government. It’s
happening here all by itself without being under a strict
government. . . . Everybody looks alike and acts alike, and we’re
getting more and more that way.”10
Looking both backward and forward in time through the
lens of Warhol and Duchamp at midcentury, one recognizes that
the artist’s abdication of total control over his or her work is one of
the major trends of twentieth-century art. Aside from these two
cases, one could consider the chance games of the Surrealists;
Moholy-Nagy’s “telephone paintings,” ordered from a nearby
factory; open-ended Fluxus scores for the realization of quotidian
or impossible events; Conceptualist confrontations with
unsuspecting strangers, such as Adrian Piper’s Catalysis Series from
the 1970s; the “appropriations” of popular culture by artists such as
Richard Prince in the 1980s; and, more recently, works of
9 The irony of trying to establish which works are “authentic” Warhols, when Warhol’s goal was pre-
cisely to undermine the idea of the work of art as an authentic expression of an individual agent, seems
to have been lost on most of the litigators.
10 Warhol 2003, 747. For more on Warhol’s relationship to mass production, see, to cite only one
example, Jones 1996.
316 reflection
“relational aesthetics,” which create situations that encourage

spontaneous social interaction. That said, despite a century of
challenges to the paradigm promoted by the near-deification of
Michelangelo, the art market—built on the premise that behind
almost every major work stands a solitary genius who served as its
efficient cause—has proven remarkably adept at continuously
reviving the power of the author function. Hence the common
elision: one does not buy a painting that happens to be by Warhol;
one buys a Warhol.
figure 1. hildegard of bingen, Portrait in Scivias, 1151
Formerly at the Hessische Landesbibliothek, Wiesbaden
figure 2. elias
gottlob haussman,
Portrait of Johann
Sebastian Bach, 1746
Altes Rathaus, Leipzig
figure 3. françois joseph aimé de lemud, Beethoven inspiré, 1863

Library of Congress, Washington, DC
figure 4. giorgio ghisi after michelangelo, The Prophet Jeremiah, early 1570s.
Engraving laid on paper, plate: 56 × 43 cm; sheet: 59.9 × 44.8 cm. National Gallery of
Art (Washington, DC), Alisa Mellon Bruce Fund.
This engraving—produced within a century of Michelangelo’s Sistine Ceiling, from which
this image is reproduced—represents the almost immediate apotheosis of Michelangelo.
The artist used a medium of mechanical reproduction to copy Michelangelo’s painted
self-portrait (as the moody figure of Jeremiah), helping to spread the legend of his terri
bilità to a wide audience.
figure 5. marcel duchamp, Three Standard Stoppages, 1913-14; Schwarz Edition,
1964. Thread, canvas, glass, and wood in a wooden box, 28.2 × 129 × 22.7 cm. Yale
University Art Gallery, Katherine Ordway Fund. © Succession Marcel Duchamp/
ADAGP, Paris/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 2013.
To produce Three Standard Stoppages, Duchamp dropped three one-meter strings onto
three canvases, using the lines they happened to form as outlines for a new set of totally
idiosyncratic wooden rulers. A sly take on the adoption of the French meter as a
“universal” standard, this work reminds us that our seemingly sacred, rational conventions
are just that—that is to say, randomly derived social constructions or forces of habits,
rather than absolute truths.
figure 6. andy warhol, Marilyn Monroe,

1967. Screenprint (green, yellow, red, violet),
92.71 × 92.71 cm. Yale University Art Gal
lery, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore E. Stebbins,
Jr., B.A. 1960, Contemporary Print Fund.
©2013 The Andy Warhol Foundation for
the Visual Arts, Inc./Artists Rights Soci
ety (ARS), New York.
The source photograph (here, a publicity
still from one of Monroe’s films) lurking
within the planes of color reminds us that
this is not a portrait of a person who sat
for him, but an image of an image, or a
copy of a copy. The overall flatness of the
image (which eschews painting’s traditional techniques of creating illusory depth, such
as shading, in favor of broad fields of printed color) reminds us of the “flatness” of the
invented persona of Marilyn Monroe and, beyond that, of the “flattening” of subjectivity
through consumerism: as Warhol observed, we, the President, and Liz Taylor all drink
the same Coke.
chapter eleven
Contemporary Efficient Causation

aristotelian themes
Stephen Mumford
1. Humeanism and Its Alternative
While counterfactual dependence views of causation remain popular

due to the influence of David Lewis’s (1986b) work, and there are still
those who defend regularity views (Psillos 2002), there is nevertheless
a rival to these broadly Humean approaches.1 The rival view can be
described as neo-Aristotelian, though not because its proponents ex-
plicitly endorse or even cite Aristotle’s work—for few of them do—but
because of the similarities between these contemporary theories and
Aristotle’s philosophy of nature. We may characterize Humean theo-
ries as those that accept the world to be a mosaic of unconnected events
in which we find some pattern of regularity (Lewis 1986d, ix). Such
theories say causal relations are supervenient upon such patterns
1 See chapter 10 for some contemporary Humean approaches, and chapter 8 for Hume’s own view.
317
318 contemporary
within the mosaic. The neo-Aristotelian view, however, depicts the

world as connected and integrated, active and powerful. It emphasizes
a number of features of causation that are found in Aristotle’s work in
the Metaphysics and Physics. The key ideas that characterize the view
are potentialities and natures; there being a source of change within
things (the powers); some form of “conditional” necessity; processes,
continuous change rather than discontinuity; mutual manifestations;
simultaneity and contiguity of cause and effect, and powers that have
to be held back rather than stimulated. There is no common name for
these neo-Aristotelian views. Some think of themselves as disposition-
alists, or that they are developing a power ontology, but a similar view
has also been called the new essentialism (Ellis 2001). If we are talking
about powers or dispositions as a basis for efficient causation, however,
the term causal dispositionalism seems most apt.
In this chapter, I will describe some of the characteristics of causal
dispositionalism. I will not outline all the claims made by dispositional-
ists because some of these do not relate specifically to causation. But
most do. The dispositional view is primarily motivated by accounting
for change, though in a non-Humean way. Indeed, many dispositional-
ists find Humeanism inadequate precisely because it does not account
adequately for change. There is a feeling that the Humean superve-
nience doctrine—that causal relations depend on the regular patterns
of events—gets the direction of explanation the wrong way round. The
dispositionalist thinks that there is something that explains the pattern:
that brings the regularity about. Hence, the patterns of regularity would
be causally produced by the real dispositions or powers. Water is regu-
larly conjoined with the extinguishing of fire, for instance, because it is
in the nature of water, and fire, that this occurs when they meet. Simi-
larly, it is in the nature of bread that it nourishes, but also because there
is a reciprocal nature in humans to be nourished by bread. The Humean
view instructs us to start from the regularities and explain causation in
terms of them. The neo-Aristotelian view starts with the natures of
things—their causal powers—and by them explains the regularities.
aristotelian themes 319
2. Contemporary Dispositionalism
There are two recent traditions that have seen the development of the
causal dispositionalist view. The first is in philosophy of science. There
are those who think that science requires real dispositions to explain
the production of change. This tradition is exemplified in the work of
Harré and Madden (1975) who use the term “causal powers.” Bhaskar
(1975) instead speaks of “generative mechanisms,” while Cartwright
(1989 and 1999) uses terms such as “capacity” and “nomological ma-
chine.” There were a number of other contributions to this tradition,
such as Thompson (1988) and Molnar (1999) for example. There are
clear similarities in these views, despite the differences in terminology.
On the other hand, there is a separate strand of thought to be found in
metaphysics that arrives at the same ontology but from a different set
of considerations. The initiators of this tradition are likely to have been
C. B. Martin and Molnar, who delivered seminars on causation in the
1960s. Armstrong (1968, 85–89) took up the discussion, as did Prior
(1985), before we saw more out-and-out endorsement of real disposi-
tions in Mumford 1998, Molnar 2003, Bird 2007, and Martin 2008.
The two traditions developed largely in isolation, rarely citing work
from the other approach, until more recent work that shows awareness
of both traditions and often tries to bring them together. This can be
found in Ellis 2001, Mumford 2004, and Handfield 2009. It may be
thought satisfying that two distinct lines of thought have converged
on the same ideas—a factor that might be thought to add weight to
the view.
There are many differences in points of detail between the above
named authors even though they can all be classed as dispositionalists
but the aim of this chapter is not to catalogue those differences. Nor
will there be an attempt to explore Aristotle’s view of efficient causa-
tion in any depth as that has been done already.2 And neither is there
2 See chapter 1.
320 contemporary
an attempt to prove the Aristotelian credentials of contemporary dis-

positionalism. Indeed, many of the authors who have recently pro-
moted a dispositional ontology appear unaware of their Aristotelian
heritage. It may simply be that good ideas are resilient and will always
resurface, even after centuries in which varieties of empiricism have
kept them down. The aim here will instead be to explain and explore
the key themes of this neo-Aristotelian view. And as there is variety, it
cannot be claimed that every dispositionalist will accept all the theses
that are presented. There will also be an attempt to develop a relatively
strong version of the dispositional ontology and its account of causa-
tion, if for no other reason than to offer a clear and radical alternative
to Humeanism. Perhaps it would be possible to combine some form of
dispositionalism with Lewis’s counterfactual dependence view of cau-
sation. But the dispositionalism developed here is one intended to be
strongly anti-Humean in its acceptance of a thoroughgoing realism
about dispositions.
3. Powers or Dispositions
The first commitment of this view is to the existence of powers or dis-

positions. I will use these two terms interchangeably. Powers seem to
be what Aristotle means by natures, potentialities or principles of
change (for example, Metaphysics IX.1/CWA 2:1651–52)3 that reside
within substances. What exactly powers are has been a matter of ex-
tended discussion in recent decades. The realist accepts that they are as
much a part of reality as anything else. They are property-like in that
they are to be found in substances and the type-token distinction
applies to them. There is the type, fragility, for instance, but also token
instances of the type to be found in individual fragile things. One may
interpret the type as a universal and the tokens as modes, tropes or
property instances. A reason one might say that powers are only
3 CWA = Aristotle 1984.
p roperty-like, rather than accepting them as regular properties, is that

according to one dispositionalist theory, a powers ontology delivers a
reductive account of what properties are. Shoemaker (2003 takes prop-
erties to be clusters of causal powers, thus explaining the close connec-
tion between the properties of a thing and its causal role. Hence, a
sharp object has the power to cut, there being a close connection be-
tween the property of sharpness and the disposition.
A realist about dispositions does not accept that they can be re-
duced away in nondispositional terms. There are two ways in which
this has been proposed. One is a semantic reduction, usually articu-
lated in terms of a conditional analysis of disposition ascription.4
When we use disposition terms—such as solubility, fragility, and elas-
ticity—it is alleged that they can be replaced without loss of meaning
by conditional statements whose antecedents and consequents name
only occurrent, nondispositional terms. When we say something is sol-
uble, for instance, it is alleged that we mean nothing more than that if
the thing is in liquid then it dissolves. It might further be suggested
that the antecedent of such a conditional names the stimulus condi-
tion of the disposition and the consequent names the response. The
dispositionalist will reject this account for two reasons. One is that if
they follow the aforementioned Shoemaker account of properties,
they may be skeptical that any properties are really nondispositional.
The proposed reduction works only if the reducing stimulus and
response terms are themselves nondispositional. Another reason for
rejecting the view is that the analysis often fails insofar as soluble things
can be in liquid without dissolving and fragile things can be dropped
without breaking. The antecedent stimulus doesn’t guarantee the con-
sequent response because other factors can interfere. This problem has
generated a vast literature with many attempted solutions.5 We might,
for instance, try to qualify the conditional with a ceteris paribus clause.
4 Ryle 1949 comes closest to this.

5 Choi 2008 is a good recent example, as is Lewis 1997.
322 contemporary
But a reason will be given in section 4 why this problem could never be
resolved to the realist’s satisfaction and why the proposed reduction
could never succeed.
A second kind of proposed reduction, which is also rejected by the
realist about dispositions, is what we could call an ontological reduc-
tion. This view tells us that science shows that wherever we think we
have a disposition, we actually have some non-dispositional structure
that is playing the causal role for the disposition (Armstrong 1968 and
Prior et al. 1982). This substructure is often called categorical. Again,
dispositionalists can identify a number of problems with this approach.
One is skepticism that there are such structures that are disposition-
free or categorical. Might we simply be moving from one disposition
to a lower-level disposition? And there seems also to be evidence, ad-
mittedly contentious, that the most fundamental properties are dispo-
sitional even though they have no substructure (see Molnar 1999 and
Mumford 2006).
Powers are accepted, then, as an irreducible part of reality. But
what exactly are they? Aristotle’s notion of a principle of change
might serve us here. Powers are in some sense “for” a certain outcome.
They are directed toward their manifestations in a way that Molnar
(2003, ch. 3) thinks to be literally the case, subscribing to a thesis of
physical intentionality. More conservatively, such directedness may
be metaphorical only, as we may think that there are no final causes or
teleology in nature, rejecting another view that is also associated with
Aristotle. Objects and substances evidently dispose toward the pro-
duction of certain types of effect, usually in certain types of circum-
stance, and this may allow us to speak, also in a metaphorical sense, of
them having a purpose. It may not be possible to spell out the relation
between a disposition and its manifestation in nondispositional
terms: the disposition just tends to produce a certain sort of effect,
and the connection between the two may be primitive. It is hard for
us to specify exactly what dispositions are, therefore, because of this
primitive aspect. We can say that they are property-like features found
in substances that tend to produce certain kinds of effect, where the

notion of tendency is irreducibly dispositional. We may also claim
that we know of powers through our bodily experiences (Mumford
and Anjum 2011, ch. 9).
4. The Exercise of a Power 1: Modality
We can, however, say something more about the circumstances in which

a disposition reveals itself. Since the presentation of various empiricist
accounts, it has become common to think of dispositions as standing in
need of stimuli. They are depicted as capable of doing nothing on their
own and producing their manifestation only when compelled to do so
from without. The conditional analysis of dispositions, indeed, reflects
this stimulus-response structure. There is, though, something that is
problematic about this as an account of the activation of a power. It sug-
gests that the power is entirely passive in its operation. Intrinsically, it is
causally inert, requiring to be acted upon from some external agent.
Such a power looks, therefore, relatively powerless.
In contrast, the stimulus is relatively active. It does the causal work:
prodding the power into life. Stimulate is of course a causal and dis-
positional notion. The stimulus-response account seems, therefore, to
reverse the pretheoretical order of explanation. The power has been
disempowered and, instead, all its active nature transferred to the so-
called stimulus. Ellis (2001) has a diagnosis of this, which he attributes
to the empiricist philosophy of passivism. In contrast, Harré and
Madden (1973) have urged us to think of powers as having to be held
back and sometimes released. They will act unless otherwise prevented.
As Martin and Heil (1998) say, they are “ready to go.” This kind of
active nature is an Aristotelian idea. In Metaphysics IX.7, he tells us that
potentialities do not need stimulating but, rather, they come to be real-
ized if nothing prevents them (CWA 2:1656–57).
It is typical that powers are not manifest all the time, however, but
only some of the time. Some profess to find this difficult to u nderstand,
324 contemporary
and it is perhaps to account for this that the notion of stimulus condi-
tion was introduced. But if we decide that stimulus is a confused and
confusing idea, for the reasons given above, with what do we replace it?
There are some alternatives on offer in the contemporary literature,
and again we find them presaged in Aristotle.
We saw that one of the problems of the conditional analysis of dis-
positions was that even if the stimulus condition occurs, there might
also be the presence of interfering factors that prevent the manifesta-
tion from occurring. A response that might be offered to this problem
is to say that when the stimulus condition occurs, the manifestation
will occur, ceteris paribus, or all else being equal. The difficulty with
this response is spelling out exactly what the ceteris paribus clause
means (Lipton 1999), and we will see shortly that this problem may be
revealing of a very important point. But in Metaphysics IX.5, Aristotle
suggests another approach. He says that potentialities will be realized
when they are placed in propitious circumstances: and with this notion
we don’t need to add a ceteris paribus clause (CWA 2:1654–55). Such
propitious circumstances are echoed in Mumford’s notion of ideal
conditions (Mumford 1998, 88–92). We cannot, the realist claims, re-
ductively analyze a disposition ascription into a conditional, even a ce-
teris paribus qualified conditional. But given that we know that some
powers do manifest themselves—in fact it’s happening all the time—
then we know that there are circumstances in which they do so.
Knowing that there are such circumstances that permit manifesta-
tion does not allow us to reduce our dispositional notions away. There’s
a technical reason why this is so. For a reduction to work, whenever the
disposition was placed in those circumstances (strictly, when the par-
ticular that bore that disposition was in those circumstances), the dis-
position would have to manifest itself. But this is not the case. We may
have conditions C—perhaps some complex consisting of particular fac-
tors c1, c2, c3, and c4—that in one case are propitious for the manifesta-
tion M of power P. But we cannot assume that whenever we have condi-
tions C, P will manifest M. We could have all those circumstances again,
c1, c2, c3, and c4, but this time accompanied by some further circumstance
ci that prevents P manifesting M even though C. What this shows is that
it is characteristic of dispositions that they only dispose or tend toward
their manifestations, they do not necessitate them (Mumford and
Anjum 2010). Even if we have power P in circumstances C, which in
many other cases has led to M, it still cannot guarantee M. The reason
we say this, is that for P and C to necessitate M, then whenever we had
P and C, we would have to have M. But we know that dispositions do
not behave that way, nor does causation generally. There are possible
preventers for any power or causal process (Schrenk 2010). Each can be
stopped or set off-course if it comes up against the “right” preventer.
This is a kind of antecedent strengthening test against necessity. For if
A necessitates B, then whenever A, B; and even if A plus ϕ, for any ϕ,
then still B. Interestingly, in Physics II.9, Aristotle uses a notional of
“conditional” necessity (CWA 1:341–42; see also Shoemaker 2003
212), which may be an attempt to grapple with this problem. But “con-
ditional” would appear to remove with one hand what “necessity” of-
fered with the other. It looks inadequate to understand dispositional-
ity as any brand of necessity.
As we have seen, however, the realist is also committed to powers as
the genuine principle of change. They dispose toward certain kinds of
outcome even if they never necessitate them. The connection between
a disposition and its manifestation is something, therefore, that can
be captured by notions neither of necessity nor of pure contingency.
To opt for the latter would be to return to Humeanism, which the
dispositionalist is keen to deny. It seems that there is a dispositional
modality involved in causation that we cannot reductively analyze
(Mumford and Anjum 2011). We could see dispositionality as an irre-
ducible modal value in its own right. Aquinas developed Aristotle this
way (see Geach 1961), understanding nature in terms of tendencies.
It is this that explains why the conditional analysis fails. The con-
nection between a stimulus and response cannot be as simple as a
conditional, for that would suggest the response always followed the
326 contemporary
s timulus. And no matter how much additional detail we put in, speci-
fying all the conditions, we would never get a conditional whose ante-
cedent guaranteed the consequent. We have seen many conditional
analyses that have faced counterexamples and have been revised only
to face further counterexamples, but if the above argument is correct,
we have a systematic reason why no conditional analysis can ever suc-
ceed. Either the analysis would offer a conditional whose connective
were nondispositional, and it would then fail for the reason of permit-
ting counterexamples merely by the addition of an interferer, or the
conditional would allow that it is a dispositional connection between
the antecedent stimulus and consequent response. But then the “anal-
ysis” would fail because it would not have reduced away disposition-
ality. It would fall foul of triviality (which it may do in other ways
besides, of course). Similarly, it can be argued (Lipton 1999, and
Mumford, forthcoming) that the ceteris paribus amendment to a
conditional analysis fails for the same reason. It too is caught between
the twin perils of triviality or falsehood. The best sense that can be made
of the clause is that we understand the antecedent as disposing, and
nothing more, toward its consequent, and this is no use in reducing
dispositions away.
5. The Exercise of a Power 2: Mutual

Manifestation Processes
We can now return to the crucial matter of an alternative to the stimulus-

response model. We need an account that takes us away from the pas-
sivist view of powers and allows that when powers do their work, there is
an irreducible tendency toward their effect. Although there are again a
variety of views, Martin’s notion of mutual manifestation partnerships
looks the most likely to give us all that we want, though with the amend
ments outlined by Mumford and Anjum (2011).
We said above that bread nourishes—but only when it meets an
organism capable of being nourished by it. Water can extinguish
something—if that thing is capable of being extinguished. Many other

examples seem to be of this kind. They involve what Martin calls recip-
rocal disposition partners, or mutual manifestation partnerships. The
idea is that an effect or manifestation occurs when two or more powers
are brought together that are partners for that effect. Typically, neither
of the partners could have produced that effect alone. But since the
process of production is depicted as an equal partnership, the view jet-
tisons the Aristotelian idea that one partner is passive and the other
active (a view that the stimulus-response model retains). Ice, for in-
stance, has a power to cool a drink. But what is active and what is pas-
sive when the drink also has the power to melt the ice cube? Active and
passive seems relative to one’s perspective. The reciprocal partners
view, instead, tells us that the ice and the drink, when they come to-
gether, begin an effect—one which takes time—and runs its course in
a natural process. This process may be interrupted at any time and,
indeed, there may be some further factor present that prevents any
kind of effect occurring. But if there is no interferer, then the ice and
drink can produce something together—a cool drink—that neither
would have produced alone. Something like this mutual partnering ap-
pears in Aristotle’s Metaphysics IX.1, though with an unnecessary active-
passive distinction.
This may seem to be only a modest amendment to the stimulus-
response model, but we will see that it has quite radical consequences.
But the first is a simple one: that if the response (the effect, the manifes-
tation) is produced by the partners working together, and neither could
have acted alone, then we have a more equal and symmetrical relation-
ship. It would be misleading, therefore, to label one partner the dispo-
sition and another partner the stimulus. In a way, each power is the
other’s stimulus, so which is the disposition and which is the stimulus
is entirely relative to their perspectives. We therefore should dispense
with stimulus talk as misleading.
Another feature that would follow from the acceptance of this
model is that the partners will produce their effect as soon as they are
328 contemporary
brought together, again with the proviso, which we can now take as
read, that a preventer could stop this. If we take the example of sugar
being placed in tea, the manifestation of dissolving will commence as
soon as the soluble sugar is in contact with the solvent tea. There is no
time gap between the partners being together and their effect com-
mencing. We have, therefore, what looks like simultaneity of cause and
effect. This goes against one of the central pillars of the Humean anal-
ysis of causation. For Hume, cause and effect are constantly conjoined
and the way in which they are distinguished is that the cause occurs
prior to the effect (Hume 2007, 1.3.2). Aristotle (Physics VII.1/CWA
1:407–09), in contrast, allows that causes and effects can be simulta-
neous (as does Kant 1929, A203). The mutual manifestation model
certainly favors Aristotle’s view over Hume’s.
The cause of an effect or manifestation, on Martin’s account, is that
mutual manifestation partners are together. How we spell out the
notion of being together is not stated exactly, but it seems to involve
some notion of them being in close-enough spatiotemporal proximity
to begin their interaction. That might not involve actual contact for it
may be enough if two powerful particulars are within the same region.
Two heaters on opposite sides of a room could act together on the tem-
perature of that room, for instance. If partnered powers are the cause,
then we can see that their effect begins straight away, for this partner-
ing is our account of causal production. If the effect did not begin
straight away, then there must be something missing from the account.
There is a problem unless we grant this conclusion. Where mutual
manifestation powers are together, we should say either that they pro-
duce their effect immediately or after an interval of time. But if we opt
for the latter, we would have to give a further explanation of why the
effect occurred after that interval of time and not straightaway. There
may, of course, be cases where something extra is indeed missing. We
might find that two partners are together and do not produce an effect
because they require the addition of some further factor—let us call it
a catalyst—to get the process underway. But then our two original
powers were not really complete partners for the effect in question.
They were incapable of producing it alone. The proper partnership for
that effect must, therefore, be the three partners being together (again
with the caveat that even these three do not guarantee the production
of their effect if an interferer is also present). Suppose, then, we have all
our partners assembled; it seems that we have to say again either that the
effect occurs immediately or after some time gap. But, if the latter, then
we have to say either that the time gap is inexplicable or we allow
that there was some further power missing and, once it was in place,
the effect followed immediately.
Some might think there is a further option for one who wishes to
grant neither that the effect is caused immediately nor that there is an
inexplicable time gap. This is the claim that in the nature of spacetime,
there can be no immediate action at a distance. It would seem, there-
fore, that it has to take time for causation to travel over a distance, by
the necessity of the laws of nature. But the causal dispositionalist need
not and should not deny this. The chief examples that have been in-
voked do not concern immediate action over a distance but immediate
action at a location. The sugar lump is in the tea, the bread is in the
stomach, the water is on the fire, and so on. What of cases where causa-
tion does not involve a single location: for instance where a heater
warms a person on the other side of the room? Won’t the causation
take time to spread over space? It will, but in the next two sections we
will see that this is no problem to the theory.
6. Simultaneity
Causation taking time to spend itself does not undermine a commit-

ment to simultaneity of cause and effect. What Martin’s mutual man-
ifestation model suggests is that causation begins as soon as all the
reciprocal power partners are assembled. To go from there to the claim
that causes and effects are simultaneous, we would have to show that
the cause exists as long as the effect exists. That sounds counterintuitive.
330 contemporary
As Hume showed, many effects seem to outlive their causes. So the

object ball keeps rolling—to take Hume’s “perfect instance”—long
after the cue ball, which was its cause, has ceased rolling. Nevertheless,
the causal dispositionalist can indeed argue that the cause exists as long
as the effect.
If we consider again the case of the sugar in the tea, we see that the
cause of dissolving is all the powers being together, and this dissolving,
it was said, begins immediately. But the causation is also over as soon as
this process has run its course, assuming it is allowed to. Thus, as soon
as all the sugar has dissolved, then the causation has been and gone. As
long as there is still some solid in the liquid, it continues; but once all
solid is gone, the causation is exhausted. And at this point when the
effect is completed, its causes are all spent. We have a process in which
the cause gradually becomes the effect. We start with a solid sugar cube
in liquid that gradually dissolves, more and more, until that causation
has run its course when the last grain goes into solution. The notion
of processes becomes crucial, which is why some dispositionalists have
an interest in Whitehead’s (1929) process metaphysics. We find also a
process view in Aristotle, for instance in Physics V.1. This process view
of the world helps us to understand simultaneity of cause and effect
better.
It may be thought that there are some cases of causation that occur
at a moment and do not fit easily into the process model. Humeans, for
instance, prefer to think of causation as a relation in which the relata
are events, which might have only a fleeting existence, as we get with
the property-exemplification model (Kim 1973a and Lewis 1986c) in
which an event is a particular bearing a property at a time. But even
cases of cause and effect that look fleeting can be understood in a pro-
cess way, which is usually backed by contemporary understandings of
physics. In the case of Hume’s billiard balls, again, we can claim that all
the causation occurs when the two ball are touching. The cause is not
the rolling of the cue ball, for it could have been stopped any time
before it met the object ball and the causation in question would never
have occurred. Not until they touch does the causation begin, for this
is when the hardness, weight and momentum meet the weight and in-
ertia of the object ball. Similarly, once the two balls go their separate
ways, this particular case of causation in question has already been
completed. The cue ball has passed on its momentum and, with respect
to that, it does not matter how far the object ball subsequently rolls.
It may have the momentum to roll very far but can easily be prevented
from doing so. Whether it does so or not can hardly make it false that
the cue ball caused it to move. The causation between the two balls is
occurring only when the balls touch, therefore. Now this looks to be a
momentary event but we now have empirical reasons to believe that
what occurs when the balls touch is a temporally extended process.
No object is perfectly rigid, so even though it is not visible to the naked
eye, our two balls deform and squash slightly into each other. Forces
build up until the object ball springs away. We have a case, therefore,
that matches the dissolving sugar case. Our two mutual manifestation
partners are together, in contact, and the causation is occurring while
ever they are together, at the end of which the two balls go their sepa-
rate ways, their trajectories altered in a way that they would not have
been without that interaction.
7. Continuity
As well as simultaneity, there is also tendency toward a metaphysics of

continuity. The Humean view depicts causation as a relation that ties
together discrete, distinct, and separate cause and effect. It suggests
almost as if we pass straight from one to the other. But causation usu-
ally involves a continuous process. Consider, for instance, the burning
down of a barn. We may think the cause to be the ignition of some
gasoline and the effect a burnt-out shell of timbers. But there is much
in between. There is a spark, and then a flame, and heating of wood,
and further ignition through heat. The flames rise to a peak and then
die away, smoldering until all the flammable elements have been burnt.
332 contemporary
The powers view suggests instead that this is a continuous, seamless

process. The Humean might try to break this process down into smaller
events or chunks, but the view would still be that these events are
discrete but with causal relations tying them together. At its core,
Humeanism must remain a metaphysics of discreta, available for free
recombination.6 But the powers view lends itself to a metaphysics of
continua, with gradual unfolding processes. The elements of causal dis-
positionalism cannot be discrete in the way Humeanism described, for
they are not available for free recombination. What determines the es-
sence of these elements is their causal role. Solubility is the power that
causes (with a solvent) dissolving. We could not have this property
connected with any other manifestation and still be the property that
it is (Black 2000). We cannot, therefore, rearrange the cause and effect,
nor any part of the process, and still have the same particular elements
with which we started. Aristotle himself makes a pertinent point on
the metaphysics of change (Physics V.4/CWA 1:396-97). Change has
to be continuous, for such continuity is exactly how we enumerate
changes. If there were a pause, when nothing happened, it would mean
that one change had ended and then a new change begun. Humeanism
would seem to have a similar problem and, of course, Humeans indeed
tend to prefer a perdurantist account of change, in which there is a
succession of unchanging temporal parts instead of continuous change.7
Arguably, the dispositionalist is more likely to favor endurantist accounts
of change (Mumford 2009).
A commitment to continuity also explains why it matters not that
it can take time for an effect to travel through space. If we start to heat
an iron bar at one end, it will be some time before that heat reaches
the opposite end. To uphold simultaneity, however, all we need is that
the continuous process begins as soon as the manifestation partners are
together, even if it takes time for that process to unfold through space
6 This generates the plurality of worlds in Lewis 1986a.

7 See, for instance, Lewis 1986a: 202–205, Hawley 2001, and Sider 2001.
and time. Some causation that appears simultaneous to us, such as

one’s hand lifting an apple, we are told is not. It takes a small time for
the forces to do their work and no causal connection can travel faster
across space than the speed of light. That is granted. But once those
partners are together, those forces begin exercising as the first part of
the process.
8. Is Causation Genuinely Transformative?
What is the nature of the alteration produced in causation? Is it that

the disposition partners become the effect, or do they in another way
produce it?
Martin offers us an image of causation in terms of two triangles
forming a square. He says:
You should not think of disposition partners jointly causing the

manifestation. Instead, the coming together of the disposition part-
ners is the mutual manifestation: the partnering and the manifesta-
tion are identical. This partnering-manifestation identity is seen
most clearly with cases such as the following. You have two triangle-
shaped slips of paper that, when placed together appropriately, form
a square. It is not that the partnering of the triangles causes the man-
ifestation of the square, but rather that the partnering is the manifes-
tation. (Martin 2008, 51)
It has been argued that this account of mutual manifestation as the

addition of the constituent powers is inadequate on three grounds
(Mumford and Anjum 2011). In the first place, Martin says that the two
triangles, as soon as they touch, become the square. This suggests that
a manifestation is an immediate and instantaneous matter. We can
agree that the manifestation begins immediately when the two dispo-
sition partners meet, but not that it will also be complete at that point.
Rather, we saw that a manifestation can take time to develop. It is a
334 contemporary
process that can run a course. In Martin’s example, however, the sug-
gestion is that the manifestation is also complete at the moment the
partners are together. This is certainly misleading for the example of
the sugar in the tea and we have also seen that it is misleading for cases
that might look to be momentary. Even when the billiard balls touch,
it will take some time for the process to occur in which the momentum
is transferred from one to the other. If we were to amend Martin’s
model for manifestation, therefore, we would have to say that the
triangles would typically take time to become a square.
The second way in which Martin’s example could be misleading is
that it suggests that all composition of causes is linear. In linear cases,
the component powers would simply add up. Composition could then
be explained simply in mereological terms. Perhaps forces add in this
way. But there are many other cases of causation that do not seem to be
linear. The output or resultant power is not simply the sum of the added
component powers but, rather, could be described in a nonlinear func-
tion that would have to be plotted as a curve rather than straight line on
a graph. If we consider the way that noise levels add, for instance, we
find a clear case of nonlinear composition. Two noises of 100 decibels
(dB), if they occur together, make a louder noise but not twice as loud.
We would have to amend Martin’s example again, therefore. The area of
his resultant square is indeed exactly the area of the two component
triangles added together. But there are many nonlinear cases of causa-
tion where we would need something different. This would amount to
saying that the area of the resultant square could be either greater than
or less than the sum areas of the component triangles. When the two
triangles come together, in other words, they change the size of the re-
sulting square. We cannot rule out the possibility that nonlinear causa-
tion is the norm. When we plot factors against each other, we may
more often get a curve rather than a straight line. Our interventions
may also be about trying to reach the right place on that curve. A good
example is that of dosages in medicine. Some medicines are health-
restoring or, viewed another way, illness-preventing. But to gain that
effect, the right dosage has to be found. The reason, of course, is that
too small a dosage may produce no effect, whereas too high a dosage
may be damaging to health. The dosage has to be calculated, therefore,
that is as high as possible while still producing health benefits. Over-
doses can have serious, sometimes fatal, consequences.
But there is a final amendment that we ought to be prepared to
make to Martin’s model of mutual manifestation. The two triangular
pieces of paper make a square but, if we wanted a model for how causa-
tion works, we ought to allow that two triangles could come together
to make a circle or some other shape. Why should we say this? The
reason is that powers do not seem simply to add in the way Martin’s
model suggests. If they did, it would tell us that if we added something
with the power of being spontaneously combustible to something with
the power of being highly poisonous, we would get something that was
highly dangerous: both combustible and poisonous. But this does not
happen (Rothschild 2006, 153). Sodium is highly combustible and
chlorine highly poisonous but when we combine them in a certain
way, to form sodium chloride, we get common salt. There are of course
reasons why salt is neither combustible nor poisonous, due to its other
properties and their interaction, but that doesn’t detract from the
point the case makes: powers do not simply add. And as we are taking
causes to be powers, we can say the same. Causation typically will involve
some genuine transformation or change. And similarly to Aristotle, the
reason we are really interested in causation is because we want to be able
to explain change. The nature and extent of that change is inadequately
represented if we stick to Martin’s model.
Why is Martin’s account wrong in these major respects? He had
tried to offer us a dispositionalism that was an alternative to causation.
He tells us not to think of the disposition partners causing the mani-
festation but of them being the manifestation. This separates Martin
from other causal dispositionalists, such as Mumford and Anjum (2011)
and Bird (2010). Martin’s is a radical proposal that would amount to
an eliminitivism about causation. He is saying that if we grant that
336 contemporary
the world is a world of powers, then we don’t need a separate notion of

causation besides. Instead, we could just substitute the idea of part-
nering powers. This ambition runs aground once we see the three inad-
equacies of the model listed above, and there may be more besides.
Martin’s model misses the way that change in the world can be genu-
inely transformative and processlike. What we would need is precisely
the thing that he urges us to reject. We should indeed think of part-
nered powers causing their manifestation rather than being them. Mar-
tin’s model describes some other form of coming together that is not
causal. Perhaps it could fairly be described as a mereological coming
together: it is about how parts compose additively to form wholes, as
the triangles and square show very clearly. The inadequacies of Martin’s
model rest precisely in the fact that part-whole is inadequate to charac-
terize cause and effect.
9. Naturalness
A final theme to be found in Aristotle and contemporary disposition-

alism is the notion of naturalness. Sometimes, the account of natural-
ness is thought to be one of the weakest parts of Aristotle’s metaphysics.
The basic idea is that there is a natural state for things to be in (Physics
V.6). Rocks should naturally be on the ground and gases up in the air
and if either of these should be in the wrong place, they would seek out
their natural place. Hence, a rock thrown into the air soon finds its nat-
ural place back down on Earth. Because this was thought a primitive
and prescientific account of the workings of reality, the notion of
naturalness has for some time been out of favor. Recent dispositional-
ists have, however, been tempted to revive the idea because it may be
possible to make the notion of naturalness scientifically credible in
terms of dispositions. In one study, Lie 2009 relates the issue to ecophi-
losophy, arguing that there are certain natural dispositions of things.
It is natural for an acorn to grow into an oak tree, rather than a human,
because it has a disposition to do so and what such a disposition is can
be cashed out in scientifically respectable terms of biology and genetics.

Technology often involves “forcing” things to do what they would not
do naturally. A tree will not turn into a house if left to its own devices
but if we intervene, we can force it to do so, dividing the trunk into
planks and then arranging them into the form of a house.
Hüttemann (2013) uses this insight as the basis of a theory of causa-
tion differing from the one that has been outlined in the bulk of this
chapter. His suggestion is that causation could be viewed as an inter-
vention that changes the natural course of something, perhaps by
interfering with something’s natural tendency. In this respect, the
account has an affinity with Aristotle’s account of naturalness. If we
consider a particle moving along a certain trajectory, then we know
from Newton that it will continue this motion (or rest) until it is made
to do otherwise. If something does intervene, and deflects the particle
onto a new trajectory, then we can say that causation has occurred.
Similarly, we could just let the tree continue its growth naturally until
it dies of old age, or we could intervene causally, such as when we cut it
down and build a house from it.
We have, therefore, two very different takes on how dispositions
relate to causation. The main account that has been outlined gets cau-
sation from powers. A cause is a power or disposition exercising or
manifesting itself. In Hüttemann’s account, causation is instead what
happens to stop or change the manifestation of a disposition. It may
also be possible to reconcile the two views along the lines of mutual
manifestation partnering, in which case both the original natural dis-
position of an object and the cause that diverts it from its path could
be seen as partners that produce a new natural course of a disposition.
Rather than attempt to resolve this issue, it is worth instead re-
turning to the theme of naturalness and considering whether it is illu-
minated in terms of dispositions. One obvious objection to this would
be that we cannot explicate the notion of naturalness in terms of dispo-
sitions because dispositions can themselves be divided into natural and
artificial. The disposition of a plant to grow could be considered natural,
338 contemporary
while the disposition of scissors to cut could be considered artificial.

The pair of scissors was manufactured. It is an artifact, which has to be
manipulated by an operator, whereas a flower thrives without our in-
tervention. This suggests that there is a prior notion of naturalness to
that of dispositionality. It may be, then, that when we speak of the na-
tures of things, we do actually mean their dispositions—what they
tend toward—rather than natural as opposed to artificial. For we can
speak of the natures even of artificial things: it is in the nature of scis-
sors to cut, in the nature of a clock to tell the time, and in the nature of
a certain make of car for its suspension to creak. But this means only
that it is what they are for: what they have a disposition to do. And just
as we can use this dispositional sense of natural for artifacts, we can of
course say the very same about naturally occurring objects too. They
also have natures in the dispositional sense. Which of these senses of
natural was Aristotle’s concern is a matter we can leave to the scholars.
10. Summary
It is hoped that this chapter has served to illustrate some of the key
features of contemporary Aristotelian accounts of causation. Such
views of causation go against the predominant Humean theories, and
it is arguable that the distinction is sharp. Instead of a world of loose
and separate distinct existences, connected only by contingent rela-
tions such as constant conjunction or counterfactual dependence ex-
plicated in terms of a plurality of worlds, we have instead a world of
powers that have connections that are more than purely contingent.
We have a dispositional modality that is somewhere between necessity
and complete contingency. Instead of change involving a move be-
tween static discreta, the powers ontology favors a continuous view of
change in which causes and effects are simultaneous. Causation is seen
as a process, commencing as soon as manifestation partners are brought
together and finishing either if the process is interrupted or runs its
course. We saw how one leading dispositionalist thought of this as
o ffering an alternative to causation. Martin suggested that the coming

together of power partners was the effect, rather than that it caused the
effect. But it was argued that this would not accommodate some of the
known transformative cases of causation. Novelty and change are fre-
quently the results of causation, and thus there is still the need for some
notion of production. This, we have seen, is entirely consistent with
understanding the world in terms of causal powers rather than, as
many empiricists see it, built up from events.
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Index
1277 Condemnation, 121–22 powers in, 31–35, 45, 320, 322–23

Achilles, 17, 49–53 simple bodies in, 40–44, 56–57
actuality. See potentiality, vs. actuality soul in, 35–40
Adams, R., 186–87 unmoved mover in, 7, 28, 44–47
Adelard of Bath, 9, 96–99 See also Aristotelian
Aenesidemus, 66–67 art, production of, 18–19, 311–16
Agamemnon, 51–53 Athemaeus of Attaleia, 69
Alexander, 59n18, 74–75 atomism, 7n5, 24, 36
Anaxagoras, 24 Augustine of Hippo, 86–88, 92n11
Anscombe, E., 54–55, 304 Averroes. See Ibn Rushd
Anselm of Canterbury, 9, 93–96 Avicenna. See Ibn Sīnā
Aristotelian, 16, 278, 317–18, 323, 338–39
See also Aristotle Babbage, C., 196–97
Aristotle, 3–5, 7–8, 23–47, 48, 54–55, 58, 67, Bach, J. S., 17, 134–35
80nn56–57, 111, 122n34, 123, 129–30, Barthes, R., 312–13
139, 142, 143, 324, 325, 327, 328, 330, 332, Bayle, P., 193, 209
335, 336 Beebee, H., 245n13, 246
definition of efficient cause in, 25–26, 55 Beethoven, L., 17, 135–36
four kinds of cause in, 3–4, 23–24, Berkeley, G., 13, 198–200, 218, 219–29
25–26 account of causation in, 219–25
367
368 index
Berkeley, G. (continued) necessity of, 8–9, 10, 12–13, 14, 77, 79–80,
relation to Malebranche, 219, 225–29 97, 105, 113–18, 128, 165–90, 202, 207–08,
spirits as active in, 225–28 221, 238, 242–45, 250–51, 265–66, 325
Biel, C., 113 preemption of, 289, 291–92, 293, 294–95,
bodies. See Aristotle, simple bodies in; 298–300
elements; force, of bodies; prior to effect, 233–34, 255, 274, 277–78,
Malebranche, bodily impact in 286, 288, 328
Boethius, 102 probabilistic, 166, 167, 174, 175–76, 188,
Boyle, R., 193–94 285, 296–301
Broughton, J., 163 simultaneous with effect, 109–10, 111, 329–33
sine qua non, 112–13, 231–32
Cage, J., 313–14 see also Aristotle, definition of efficient
causation, theories of cause in; Aristotle, four kinds of cause
antireductionist, 305–06 in; Berkeley, account of causation in;
counterfactual, 15, 290–96 Berkeley, spirits as active in; causation,
dispositionalist, 318, 319–20 theories of; Descartes, containment of
manipulability, 302–04 effect in cause in; Descartes, problem of
probabilistic, 15, 296–301 mind-body interaction in; God,
process, 301–02, 321–23 cooperation with causes; God, as
regularity, 15, 200–25, 228–29, 233–35, 255, primary cause; Hume, causal inference
286–90 in; Hume, definitions of cause in; Ibn
singularist, 304–05 Sīnā, definition of efficient cause in;
See also cause; relata, causal Ibn Sīnā, distinct kinds of causes in;
cause Kant, causation of succession in; Kant,
as absence or inaction, 17, 18–19, 96, model of causality in; laws, causal;
301–02, 308 Leibniz, identification of causal and
background conditions for, 166, 174–75, logical necessity in; Malebranche, and
183–84 cognitive model of causation;
as because, 4–5, 62 Malebranche, necessity of cause in;
definitions of, 3, 25–26, 66–67, 101–02, relata, causal; Spinoza, identification of
106, 140–41, 219–29, 231–29, 231–35, causal and logical necessity in;
286 Stoicism, distinct kinds of causes in;
final, 4–5, 11, 12, 15, 23–24, 26, Suárez, containment of effect in cause
44–45, 55–56, 90, 98–99, 117, 125–30, in; Suárez, definition of efficient cause
141–43, 169, 177, 199, 223–24, 232, in; Suárez, distinct kinds of causes in;
278–82 volition, as necessary for causation
formal, 4–5, 23–24, 98, 140–41, 177 Chrysippus, 8–9, 58–59, 63, 72–77,
indeterministic, 290 78–82
INUS conditions for, 287–88 Cicero, 72n40, 75–78, 86
limited to spiritual beings, 83–93, 199–200, Clarke, S., 208–09, 214n33
201–05, 219–29, 256 Clement, 71–72
material, 4–5, 140–41 computer. See machine, calculating
mechanistic, 18, 23–24, 27, 192–97, 279 concept, 5–6, 19, 260–61
and moral responsibility, 48, 49–53, concurrence. See God, cooperation with
77–82 causes
index 369
conservation, 11–12, 108–09, 156–59 libertarian, 76–77, 118–19, 121–15,

as continuous creation, 109, 148–49, 153–55, 215–16, 254
209–18 and responsibility, 77–82
See also Descartes, divine conservation in See also volition; will
Coope, U., 35n28
creation, 12, 90–91, 101–03, 108–09, 111–12 Galen, 8, 59n18, 67, 68–70, 72
See also conservation, as continuous Garber, D., 157
creation Garrett, D., 245–46
Gassendi, P., 154
Davidson, D., 286–87, 288 Geulincx, A., 201
Democritus, 14 Ghazālī, 10, 106, 114–19
Descartes, R., 11–12, 139–40, 144–45, God
149–64, 165 cooperation with causes, 10, 117–18,
containment of effect in cause in, 11–12, 148–49, 156–59, 182n26, 193–96
150–53 foreknowledge of, 86–88
divine conservation in, 12, 109, 149 as primary cause, 97–98, 101, 108, 110–11,
problem of mind-body interaction in, 149, 147–49, 154
159–64 See also occasionalism; Descartes, divine
See also Suárez, containment of effect in conservation in; Stoicism, God in
cause in Grene, M., 250
Des Chene, D., 142
dispositions. See power Hector, 52, 53
Dowe, P., 301, 302n17 Henry of Ghent, 106, 122–23
Dretske, F., 309 Hildegard of Bingen, 17, 133–34
Ducasse, C., 304 Hobbes, T., 165
Duchamp, M., 18, 313, 314–15 Homer, 17, 48–49, 132, 133
Horwich, P., 289
elements, 40–44, 56–57, 98–100 Hume, D., 13–14, 163, 165–66, 167, 218, 221,
See also Aristotle, simple bodies in 231–56, 260, 262–63, 264–66, 268, 270,
Elisabeth, Princess Palatine, 159–61, 162 277–78, 281, 317n1, 328, 330
ends. See cause, final; Kant, organism in causal inference in, 235–36, 237–41
Everson, S., 36n29 definitions of cause in, 231–35, 237–41,
245–55, 290n5
fate. See Stoicism, fate in naturalism of, 236–37
Fontenelle, B., 205, 207–13, 214–15, 216 See also Humean
force Humean, 15–16, 221, 227, 285, 317–18, 325,
of bodies, 13, 96–101, 157–58, 206–07, 218, 330–32, 338–39
229, 276–77, 281–82 See also Hume
of substance, 178, 185–88, 273 Hüttemann, A., 337
See also Leibniz, force in
forms, substantial, 92, 140, 177, 178, 185–86, 278 Ibn Rushd, 10, 106, 115–16, 117, 119, 125
Frede, M., 8, 32n23, 55 Ibn Sīnā, 10, 106–18, 125–26
freedom, 10–11, 86–88, 118–30, 217–18, 262 definition of efficient cause in, 107
compatibilist, 9, 72–82, 88, 119, 120–21, distinct kinds of causes in, 106–11, 125–26
181–82, 254 necessitarianism of, 113–18
370 index
Iliad, 18–19, 48–53, 133 Malebranche, N., 13, 165, 183, 198–218, 223,
incommensurability, 5–6 225–29, 237
inspiration, artistic or musical, 17, 132–36 bodily impact in, 198, 205–13
intellect. See will, relation to intellect and cognitive model of causation,
201–05
John Duns Scotus, 106, 123–25, 127–29 necessity of cause in, 202, 206, 207–08, 214
John Scotus Eriugena, 9, 86n4, 90–93 See also Berkeley, relation to Malebranche
Johns, J., 313–14 Marmadoro, A., 34n26
Martin, C., 326, 328–30, 333–36, 339
Kant, I., 14–15, 258–82 Maximus Confessor, 90
causation of succession in, 14–15, 266–71 Menzies, P., 300–01, 303
Critical philosophy in, 260–66 Michelangelo, 18, 311–12, 316
model of causality in, 272–78 Mill, J., 221, 227
organism in, 279–81 Millican, P., 243n11, 252nn23–24
Kim, J., 307 miracle, 10, 166, 167–68, 176–77, 184–88
Kivey, P., 132 Moholy-Nagly, L., 315
Krauss, R., 312n4 More, H., 161–62
Kuhn, T., 5–6 motion, 23–31, 41, 90–91, 107–08, 141–42,
208–09
See also Aristotle, unmoved mover in;
laws, causal, 12, 156–57, 166, 167, 174, 176,
locomotion
184, 185–89, 195–96, 212–13, 228–29,
Mumford, S., 324
256, 258, 285, 287–87, 288, 291–92, 305
Lee, S., 214–15, 223
Leibniz, G., 12–13, 17–18, 144, 165, 168, Nadler, S., 201, 210n27
177–90, 192–93, 194–96, 218n39, necessity. See cause, necessity of; Ibn Sīnā,
263–64, 281 necessitarianism of; Leibniz,
force in, 178, 185–88 identification of causal and logical
identification of causal and logical necessity in; Malebranche, necessity of
necessity in, 12–13, 178–79, 181–83, 189 cause in; Spinoza, identification of
principle of sufficient reason in, 181–82, causal and logical necessity in
184, 188, 190, 263–64 Newton, I., 208, 337
See also Spinoza, identification of causal See also physics, Newtonian
and logical necessity in; Spinoza,
principle of sufficient reason in occasionalism, 10, 13, 93n13, 113–18, 147, 158,
Leucippus, 24 159n29, 183, 200–18, 220, 256
Lewis, D., 290–95, 307, 317 organism. See Kant, organism in
Lie, S., 336 Ott, W., 168n8, 201–05
Locke, J., 165, 196, 227n54
locomotion, 7, 43–44, 193–94 Peter Abelard, 101–103
Lovelace, Lady, 196–97 Peter Olivi, 124
Lucretius, 157n25 physics, 55–59, 92, 156–59, 290
Newtonian, 15, 200, 208, 229,
machine, calculating 18, 192–93, 195–96, 197 275–78, 337
Mackie, J., 286–88 Piper, A., 315–16
index 371
Plato, 36, 57, 62n26, 72, 84, 89 soul, 7, 34–40, 84–85, 89–90
See also Platonism See also Aristotle, soul in; Berkeley, spirits
Platonism, 9, 83, 87, 90–91, 93, 94, 103 as active in; cause, limited to spiritual
See also Plato; Plotinus; Proclus beings; Descartes, problem of
Plotinus, 9, 84–85 mind-body interaction in
Plutarch, 75–76, 81 Spinoza, B., 12, 114n21, 165, 169–77, 181,
Posidonius, 69 189–90
potentiality, vs. actuality, 28–30, 42–43, identification of causal and logical
130, 324 necessity in, 12, 169–70
powers, 16, 84–85, 243, 247–48, 252–53, 256, principle of sufficient reason in, 12,
320–29 174–77, 190
See also Aristotle, powers in; force; See also Leibniz, identification of causal
Leibniz, force in and logical necessity in; Leibniz,
Price, H., 303 principle of sufficient reason in
Prince, R., 315–16 Stoicism, 8–9, 25n7, 54–82, 114n21
principle of sufficient reason, 109n9, 114, determinism of, 8, 59, 72–77
174–77, 181–82, 184, 189–90, 258, distinct kinds of causes in, 59–60, 68–72,
263–64, 265–66 74–77, 79–80
See also Leibniz, principle of sufficient fate in, 72–74, 80, 82
reason in; Spinoza, principle of God in, 8, 55–59
sufficient reason in materialism of, 8, 61, 64
problem of evil, 85–86 Strawson, G., 251–52
Proclus, 9, 85, 87, 89 Striker, G., 59
Pseudo-Dionysius, 90 Suárez, F., 11–12, 109, 139–49, 150, 153, 155,
Pyle, A., 217–18 156, 158, 159, 162, 164
containment of effect in cause in, 145–46
Radner, D., 152 definition of efficient cause in, 143–44
Ramachandran, V., 295–96 distinct kinds of causes in, 140–41,
Raphael, 311–12 144–49
Rauschenberg, R., 313–14 See also Descartes, containment of effect
Reid, T., 14, 233, 255–56 in cause in
relata, causal, 172–73, 180–81, 249–50, 286, Suppes, P., 297
306–07, 330–31
Revius, J., 158 teleology. See cause, final; Kant, organism in
Roberts, J., 225n48 thinking matter, 196
Rutherford, D., 188n30 Thomas Aquinas, 11, 106, 107, 108, 111–12,
117n28, 120–21, 122, 126–27, 128, 141,
Schaffer, J., 292–93 142n4, 147, 154–55, 168n8, 325
scholasticism, 11, 139–40, 142, 163–64 Tooley, M., 304
Seneca, 64 tropes, 232, 301, 307, 310
Sextus Empiricus, 59–60, 68, 70–71 Turing, A., 197
Shoemaker, S., 321
Sleigh, R., 177 Vasari, G., 311–12
Socrates, 62, 142 Vlastos, G., 4–5
372 index
volition, 13, 107–08 self-determination of, 105, 123–25

as necessary for causation, 86–88, 199–200, See also freedom; volition
201–05, 219–25, 256 William of Conches, 9, 99–101
See also freedom; will William of Ockham, 10, 106, 129–30
Williams, B., 149
Warhol, A., 18, 313–16 Winkler, K., 220–25, 226n53
Whitehead, A., 330 Woodward, J., 303–04
will
divine vs. human, 118–19 Zeno, 62–63, 73
relation to intellect, 10–11, 119–25, 141–43 Zeus, 50–53, 59, 75

Efficient Causation

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Efficient Causation

oxford philosophical concepts

forthcoming in the oxford philosophical concepts series

Eternity Moral Motivation

© Oxford University Press 2014

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

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

List of Illustrations vii

Series Editor’s Foreword xiii

Introduction to Efficient Causation

Part I :: Ancient and Medieval

Reflection: Representations of Efficient Causation in the Iliad

2 Efficient Causation in the Stoic Tradition

3 Efficient Causation in Late Antiquity and the Earlier Medieval Era

4 Efficient Causation: From Ibn Sīnā to Ockham

Reflection: Efficient Causation and Musical Inspiration

6 Efficient Causation in Spinoza and Leibniz

Reflection: Reason, Calculating Machines, and Efficient Causation

7 Efficient Causation in Malebranche and Berkeley

8 Efficient Causation in Hume

9 Efficient Causation in Kant

Part III :: Contemporary

Reflection: Efficient Causation in Art

11 Contemporary Efficient Causation: Aristotelian Themes

Figure 1. hildegard of bingen, Portrait in Scivias, 1151

anna harwell celenza is the Thomas E. Caestecker Professor of Music at

lisa downing is Professor of Philosophy at The Ohio State University. Her

douglas ehring is the William Edward Easterwood Professor of Philoso-

r. j. hankinson is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Texas, Austin.

matthew l. jones is the James R. Barker Associate Professor of Contempo-

p. j. e. kail is University Lecturer in the History of Modern Philosophy,

martin lin is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Rutgers University, New

stephen mumford is Professor of Metaphysics in the Department of Phi-

tobias myers is Assistant Professor of Classics at Connecticut College. His

kara richardson is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Syracuse Univer-

tad m. schmaltz (volume editor) is Professor of Philosophy at the Uni-

thomas m. tuozzo is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Kansas.

eric watkins is Professor of Philosophy at the University of California, San

ian wilks is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Acadia University. His re-

Oxford Philosophical Concepts (OPC) offers an innovative approach to

Many editors have found it appropriate to include long-ignored Arabic

figure 3. françois joseph aimé de lemud, Beethoven inspiré, 1863

figure 6. andy warhol, Marilyn Monroe,

This volume is a contribution to the Oxford Philosophical Concepts

different kinds of “cause” (aitia): material, formal, efficient, and final.

history, for what is needed is something more like a series of ethno-

2. A History of Efficient Causation

The history of the concept(s) of efficient causation that this volume

concept in ancient and medieval philosophy. In chapter 1, Thomas

As Hankinson indicates, the central move in Stoic compatibilism in-

In chapter 4, Kara Richardson considers the development of the

prominent feature of later medieval discussions of efficient causality:

efficient causality involved in the conservation of a being differs from

Lin argues that he is in fact committed by his account of essences to

of constant conjunction and a mental expectation that an effect will

o­ bjective temporal succession and simultaneity. He argues that these ar-

versions of each alternative theory that provide different answers to

One distinctive feature of volumes in the OPC series is that they

interdisciplinary perspective on the history of the target concept. The

question of whether Warhol’s machinations have succeeded in detach-

Ancient and Medieval

Aristotle and the Discovery

more fundamental kinds of efficient causation (MA 700b11-13/CWA

1. Mover and Moved

o bjective temporal succession and simultaneity. He argues that these ar-