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The Formation of Post-Classical
Philosophy in Islam
The Formation of
Post-Classical
Philosophy in Islam
FRANK GRIFFEL
1
3
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190886325.001.0001
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
für Claudia
Knowledge desired by some may mean ignorance and stagnation for
others.
—Franz Rosenthal, Knowledge Triumphant (1970)
Introduction 1
Conventions 20
I . P O S T-C L A S SIC A L P H I L O S O P H Y
I N I T S I SL A M IC C O N T E X T
I I I . T H E F O R M AT IO N O F Ḥ I K M A A S A
N EW P H I L O S O P H IC A L G E N R E
In September 1683 a large army of soldiers from Germany, Austria, and Poland-
Lithuania won a battle against an even larger Ottoman army that had laid siege to
Vienna, the capital of the Holy Roman Empire. That same year, John Locke fled
England to the Netherlands and entered into circles that acquainted him with the
work of the Jewish philosopher Baruch Spinoza. In Holland, Locke also found
time to work on the manuscript of what would become his most important phil-
osophical work, The Essay concerning Human Understanding, published eventu-
ally in London in 1689.
The last two decades of the seventeenth century marked the beginning of two of
the most important developments in modern European history: Enlightenment
thought and the military defeat of the Ottoman Empire. This was the moment
when Europeans started to think of their own history in terms that we now call
“modern.” They witnessed history as progress, understood as increasing ra-
tionalization and liberalization, as well as the creation of material wealth and
the expansion of political power. When Europeans looked at the Muslim world,
however, they saw nothing but decline.
From the early Middle Ages, central Europeans had become more and more
used to thinking about Islam as Europe’s nemesis, the absolute opposite of all that
Europe stood for. By the late seventeenth century, the threat that earlier armies
of Muslims had posed to Europe had disappeared. The Turkish siege of Vienna
in 1683—the second of its kind after an earlier Turkish attempt in 1526—led to a
successful counterattack of central and eastern European armies that conquered,
within a few years, almost half of the Ottoman territories on the Balkan. By the
end of the seventeenth century, the Habsburg Empire had taken lands from the
Turks that are equivalent to the modern countries of Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia,
and parts of Romania. Never again would Islamic armies pose a threat to a cen-
tral European country. Quite the opposite: within only a century a European
army stood at the gates of a major Muslim capital and routed its defenders. In
July 1798, the French army fought a decisive victory over Egyptian forces during
the Battle of the Pyramids. The defeat led to the first European colonial admin-
istration of a Muslim country. The Battle of the Pyramids was, however, only the
first of many defeats that were inflicted upon almost all Muslim countries in the
period between 1798 and 1920. After the Battle of Maysalun before the gates of
Damascus in 1920, every Muslim country, with the exception of Turkey, Iran,
The Formation of Post-Classical Philosophy in Islam. Frank Griffel, Oxford University Press. © Frank Griffel 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190886325.003.0001
2 Introduction
was seen as the last of the great civilizations of the Middle East and the Abbasid
caliphs worthy successors of the pharaohs of Egypt, the kings of Babylon, and the
khosrows of Persia. But Arabic high culture was only a very temporary phenom-
enon. In his Lectures on the History of Philosophy of 1817, Hegel (1770–1831)
treated Arabic philosophy not as an independent tradition but merely as one that
bridges the Greeks with the scholasticism of the Latin Middle Ages.3 Arabic phi-
losophy, Hegel writes, “has no content of any interest [for us] and it does not
merit to be spent time with; it is not philosophy, but mere manner.”4 For Hegel,
Arabic philosophy is only the “formal preservation and propagation” of Greek
philosophy,5 and has worth only insofar as it is connected to it. The Arabs created
no progress in the history of philosophy and “there is not much to benefit from
it” (aber es ist nicht viel daraus zu holen).6
Hegel stands at the beginning of the Western academic study of Arabic and
Islamic philosophy. He was closely followed by Ernest Renan (1823–92) and his
1852 study, Averroes and Averroism, the first Western monograph on the history
of philosophy in Islam.7 French Enlightenment thinking and its enmity toward
the Catholic Church heavily influenced Renan’s perspective, leading him to
apply categories to the history of philosophy in Islam that were established in the
historiography of European thought. For Renan, philosophy in Islam suffered
under the persecution of an “Islamic orthodoxy” that would eventually prevail
and crush the free philosophical spirit in Islam. Renan wrote in 1861 that with
the death of Averroes (Ibn Rushd) in 1198, “Arab philosophy had lost in him its
last representative and the triumph of the Qur’an over free-thinking was assured
for at least six-hundred years.”8 What relieved the Islamic world from the op-
pression of a Qur’anic orthodoxy was, in Renan’s mind, the French occupation
of Egypt in 1798.
3 Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie, 19:514–23. See the Engl. transl. in idem,
interessant, bei diesem kann man nicht stehenbleiben; es ist keine Philosophie, sondern eigentliche
Manier.” E. S. Haldane’s translation of 1892 (Hegel, Lectures on the History of Philosophy, 3:29) leaves
out this particular sentence.
5 äußerliche Erhaltung und Fortpflanzung; Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie,
Philosophy, 3:26.
7 In the decade before Renan, two important studies of philosophy in Islam had already appeared.
Solomon Munk (1803–67) wrote several articles on Arabic philosophers, both Jews and Muslims,
for the six-volume Dictionnaire des sciences philosophique, published 1844–52. These articles were
later incorporated into Munk, Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe (1857–59). In 1842, August
Schmölders (1809–80) published his Essai sur les écoles philosophiques chez les Arabes, which is an
edition and annotated French translation of al-Ghazālī’s al-Munqidh min al-ḍalāl.
8 Renan, Averroès et l’averroïsme (2nd augmented edition), 2. In the first edition of 1852
(1) this sentence did not yet have its colonialist second half: “Quand Averroès mourut, en 1198, la
philosophie arabe perdit en lui son dernier représentant.” In the second edition of 1861, Renan adds
“et le triomphe du Coran sur la libre pensée fut assuré pour au moins six cent ans.”
4 Introduction
9 De Boer’s Geschichte der Philosophie im Islam was translated into English (1903), Persian (1927),
Arabic (1938), and even into Chinese (1946). The English translation was reprinted in London 1933,
1961, and 1965; in New York 1967; in New Delhi 1983; and in Richmond (Surrey) 1994. The Chinese
version was reprinted as late as 2012.
10 Renan, Averroes et l’averroïsme, 28 (1st edition).
Introduction 5
11 Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī appears under the name of “Ibnu El-Chatib Rasi” and al-Ṭūsī as
“Nasiroddinus”; see Brucker, Historia critica philosophiae, 3:113–18. Other post-classical authors
mentioned are Abū l- Barakāt al- Baghdādī (“Ebn Malca”) and al- Taftazānī (“Ettphtheseni”)
(3:119–20).
12 Cf. d’Herbelot, Bibliothèque orientale, 3:116– 17 on Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, and 2:684 on his
work al-Muḥaṣṣal and its commentary by al-Kātibī al-Qazwīnī (2:642, 1:527); further the articles
on Abū l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī (2:223), Athīr al-Dīn al-Abharī (1:21), Quṭb al-Dīn al-Rāzī (3:118),
or Naṣīr al-Dīn aṭ-Ṭūsī (3:26) and his work Akhlāq-i Nāṣirī (3:27) as well as his Tajrīd al-ʿaqāʾid and
its numerous commentaries (3:385–86). Finally, see the interesting article on the science of ḥikma
(2:233–34).
13 Goldziher, “Die islamische und die jüdische Philosophie des Mittelalters,” 63–64; Vorlesungen
über den Islam, 177–78, 198; Engl. transl. 158–59; Ritter, “Hat die religiöse Orthodoxie einen Einfluß
auf die Dekadenz des Islams ausgeübt?,” 121, 134. I follow Alexander Treiger, Inspired Knowledge,
108–15, in his argument that the commonly accepted translation of tahāfut as “incoherence” is
wrong. The verb tahāfata means something like “to rush headlong into a seemingly beneficial but
ultimately dangerous situation,” almost like a moth that rushes toward the fire. Already in 1888, Beer,
Al-Ġazzâlî’s Maḳâṣid al-Falâsifat, 6, translated tahāfut as “blindly running after someone or a group
who runs fast and recklessly ahead,” “run into error.”
14 Browne, A Literary History of Persia, 2:293.
6 Introduction
weak to accomplish such a feat. . . . Ethical and religious doctrine had ended in
Mysticism; and the same was the case with Philosophy.”15
Those who work in Islamic studies know that the view of al-Ghazālī as the
destroyer of philosophy in Islam is still very much alive, particularly in more
popular publications of our field. Today seemingly respectable publications still
present him as the final point of any discussion of philosophy in Islam,16 not to
mention the many polemical voices on the internet that fuel and are fueled by
sentiments of Islamophobia.17 Among those who work actively in the field of
the history of philosophy in Islam, however, al-Ghazālī’s assessment has drasti-
cally changed in the past thirty years. He is no longer regarded as the destroyer
of philosophy in Islam. We now understand that his major response to the phil-
osophical movement in Islam, The Precipitance of the Philosophers (Tahāfut al-
falāsifa), is a complex work of refutation and is not aimed at rejecting philosophy
or Aristotelianism throughout. It is concerned with twenty teachings developed
by Aristotelian philosophers in Islam, and it vigorously rejects at least three of
them, to the extent that it declares those philosophers who uphold these three
teachings apostates from Islam and threatens capital punishment. The book,
however, does not reject philosophy as a whole. In fact, it can be read—and it was
read—as an endorsement of studying Aristotelianism to find out what is correct
and what is wrong among the teachings of Muslim Aristotelians. In that sense,
the book is a demarcation between those teachings of Arabic Aristotelianism
that al-Ghazālī deemed fit to be integrated into Muslim thought and those he
thought unfit.18
The reevaluation of al-Ghazālī’s Tahāfut al-falāsifa as a work that is not directed
against philosophy but aims to create and promote a different kind of philos-
ophy from that it criticizes is seconded by an earlier development in the field of
15 De Boer, Geschichte der Philosophie im Islam, 151; Engl. trans. 169–70. This opinion is, for in-
stance, echoed by F. E. Peters, who wrote in 1968, “Ibn Sīnā’s disciples descended . . . into a faceless
mediocrity. . . . Both Abū al-Barakāt (d. a.d. 1165) and ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī (d. a.d. 1231) are
still worthy of the name of faylasuf, but the rest, if it is not silence, is not much more than a whisper”
(Aristotle and the Arabs, 230–31).
16 A recent example from 2014 is, for instance, the presentation of al- Ghazālī in Starr, Lost
Enlightenment: Central Asia’s Golden Age From the Arab Conquest to Tamerlane, 406–22. According
to Starr, al-Ghazālī was “the dark genius” (532), who taught that “Aristotle’s logic is totally irrele-
vant to revealed religion,” regarded any talk of causality as “quackery and fraud,” and thus “gave his
students an excuse for ignoring . . . the difficult studies” connected with the rational sciences (414,
417). “Convinced that he was in possession of divine truth, [al-Ghazālī] proceeded to pass judg-
ment on all those who, in his view, were not” (419) and branded all philosophers and freethinkers
as apostates. “In doing so, Ghazali administered the coup de grâce” to philosophy and the sciences
(419). A hundred years later his “denunciation of science and philosophy had long . . . become a best-
seller,” and “never again would open-ended scientific enquiry and unconstrained philosophizing
take place in the Muslim world without the suspicion of heresy and apostasy lurking in the air” (422).
17 Examples are lectures by Neil deGrasse Tyson on the history of science in Islam that are widely
Ghazālī studies. Two important articles were published more than thirty years
ago, in 1987, Richard M. Frank’s (1927–2009) “Al-Ghazālī’s Use of Avicenna’s
Philosophy” and Abdelhamid I. Sabra’s (1924–2013) “The Appropriation and
Subsequent Naturalization of Greek Sciences in Medieval Islam.” Frank’s ar-
ticle launched a whole new direction of research on al-Ghazālī. Earlier Western
contributions on him highlighted his critical attitude toward the teachings of
al-Fārābī (d. 339/950–51) and Avicenna (Ibn Sīnā, d. 428/1037). After Frank’s
article and a more thorough monograph published in 1992,19 books and arti-
cles appeared that investigate what al-Ghazālī had adopted from falsafa. This
has become the dominant direction of Ghazali studies in the past twenty years.
Important books and articles made the case that many of his most original
teachings are adaptations of earlier ones by Avicenna. By adaptation we do not
mean that they are therefore no longer original to al-Ghazālī. Rarely did he adapt
something from Avicenna without making changes. Often these were slight
changes in wording that amounted nevertheless to significant philosophical and
theological permutations. In his autobiography al-Ghazālī points out that the
skilled expert produces the antidote to a snake’s venom from the venom itself.20
Sabra’s article offers context for Frank’s discoveries, showing that al-Ghazālī’s
adaptation of teachings from Avicenna and al-Fārābī was part of a much larger
phenomenon in Islam. Sabra observed that by the eighth/fourteenth century,
sciences that were earlier called Greek and regarded as foreign had, in fact, be-
come Muslim sciences. For Sabra this happened in a two-step development of
first appropriating Greek sciences in a process of translation and adaptation to
a new cultural context, characterized by the use of the Arabic language and a
Muslim-majority culture, and second by naturalizing them so that the Greek
origins of these sciences were no longer visible. Although he did not work
with Sabra’s categories, Frank’s contributions of 1987 and 1992 can easily be
corresponded to Sabra’s suggestions. Whereas Avicenna’s philosophy is an ex-
pression of the process of appropriation in which the Greek origins of many of
his teachings are clearly visible and even stressed, al-Ghazālī, who adopted and
adapted many of Avicenna’s teachings, obscured their origins and thus contrib-
uted to—or maybe even initiated—the process of naturalization. Sabra himself
never applied his suggestion to the fate of philosophy in Islam. It is, however, a
very fitting description of what happened during the sixth/twelfth century and
after. The movement of falsafa can thus be regarded as the continuation of Greek
philosophy in Arabic. As Sabra’s work foregrounds, falsafa represents the ap-
propriation of a Greek science in Islam. Subsequently, the appropriated Greek
such as de Boer indeed shared.22 The full implications for the history of philos-
ophy in Islam, however, have yet to be drawn. Even very recent contributions to
the history of Arabic and Islamic philosophy contain statements saying that al-
Ghazālī launched attacks “against philosophy in general, and metaphysics in par-
ticular.”23 This, however, gives the wrong impression that his attacks had come
from outside of philosophy. The quoted sentence excludes al-Ghazālī from the
history of philosophy and suggests that he was hostile to rational inquiry and
the advancement of knowledge through reasonable and convincing arguments.
That was Renan’s view of al-Ghazālī. Renan taught that philosophy in Islam was
attacked by outsiders like him who aimed at squashing it in the name of Islamic
orthodoxy. In reality, what we see happening at the turn of the sixth/twelfth cen-
tury is the development of a philosophical dispute between those who defended
Avicenna’s teaching on God and His relation to this world (the falāsifa) and the
likes of al-Ghazālī who criticized this position.24
Thinkers who followed al-Ghazālī in his criticism of falsafa were also en-
gaged in philosophy and should be regarded as part and parcel of the history
of philosophy in Islam. They must count as active contributors to the history of
philosophy in Islam, as philosophers, albeit not falāsifa. This leads to the next
important realization: after al-Ghazālī, philosophy in Islam was not the same as
Arab Aristotelianism. In his Tahāfut al-falāsifa, al-Ghazālī uses the word falsafa
to describe the kind of Aristotelianism that is taught in the books of Avicenna,
among them his most comprehensive work, The Fulfillment (al- Shifāʾ).25
Almost all philosophers writing in Arabic and Persian—Muslims, Christian,
as well as Jews—who came after al-Ghazālī adapted this choice of language.26
Beginning with the Tahāfut al-falāsifa, which was published in 488/1095,27 the
word falsafa was understood in Arabic and Persian as a label for the philosoph-
ical system of Avicenna as well as for the teachings of al-Fārābī and other ear-
lier philosophers wherever they are congruent with those of the Eminent Master
22 De Boer, Geschichte der Philosophie im Islam, 138–50; Engl. trans. 154–68, has a full chapter on
al-Ghazālī.
23 Amos Bertolacci in his online article “Arabic and Islamic Metaphysics” in the Stanford
use institutional power in the form of a religious authority to defeat the other. The point is discussed
in c hapter 3 of the first part of this book.
25 “Fulfillment” seems a more accurate translation of the title of Ibn Sīnā’s main work than the
oft-used “Cure” or “Healing.” See Saliba, “Avicenna’s Shifāʾ (Sufficientia),” and Nusseibeh, Avicenna’s
al-Shifāʾ, xv.
26 Ibn Rushd was one of the few Arabic authors who did not adopt al-Ghazālī’s choice of language
in his Tahāfut and who argued that by focusing on Ibn Sīnā, al-Ghazālī misrepresented the move-
ment of falsafa and neglected its various non-Avicennan elements. Ibn Rushd was also one of a small
number of philosophers after al-Ghazālī who claimed for himself the label of being a faylasūf.
27 See p. 417.
10 Introduction
28 I pointed this out in the commentary to my German translation of Ibn Rushd’s Faṣl al-
maqāl, 61–65.
Introduction 11
conclusion that God must be able to change from noncreator to creator and that
He must have a free will and does exercise choice between alternatives.
This major difference between the thoughts of Avicenna and al-Ghazālī
forms the backbone of any understanding of philosophy in the Islamic East
during the sixth/twelfth century. Avicenna’s Creator-God is what in the context
of the Western Enlightenment has been called the “God of the philosophers.”
The phrase is ill-placed in Islam, as it refers to a group of mostly French public
intellectuals of the eighteenth century who had chosen the label les philosophes to
distinguish themselves as thinkers who were independent of any commitment to
Christianity and its Church. Still, their thoughts about God can help us illustrate
and understand Avicenna’s ideas about God. Many Enlightenment thinkers, and
among them many of the French philosophes, were committed to a deist under-
standing of God that developed in Europe in the wake of Baruch Spinoza’s (1632–
77) philosophy. The connections between Avicenna’s thought and that of Spinoza
are highly interesting, but they go beyond the scope of this book. Suffice to say,
Spinoza had access to Hebrew philosophical texts—such as those of Maimonides
(d. 601/1204), for instance—that were deeply influenced by falsafa.29 According
to a simplified deist understanding, God is the creator of the world, but He
cannot interfere in it. God creates the rules that govern causal connections—
what we today might call the “laws of nature” or “laws of physics”—through
which He governs over His creation. Hence, God creates through the interme-
diation of long chains of secondary causes, whereby each creation becomes the
intermediary for the next creation that it causes. God, however, does not choose
these “laws of nature” that govern this process of creation by secondary causes.
Rather, God Himself is governed by the necessity that these “laws” express.
Avicenna developed a highly impersonal understanding of God whereby
the deity—who in his œuvre is most often referred to as “the First Principle” or
“the First Starting-Point” (al-mabdaʿ al-awwal)—never exercises a decision or a
choice about what to create. In Avicenna’s understanding, God is the origin of all
necessity that exists in this world, most importantly the necessity that governs
causal connections and hence determines this world. A simplified but not inac-
curate expression of Avicenna’s understanding of the deity would be to say that
God is the laws of nature that govern His creation. He does not choose them, but
He is them. Avicenna never would have chosen such language since he didn’t
think in our modern terms of “laws of nature.”30 Rather, for Avicenna, God is
29 See, for instance, Fraenkel, Philosophical Religions from Plato to Spinoza, or W. Z. Harvey, “A
and the “concomitants” (lawāḥiq) of the quiddity (māhiyya) of a certain species. “Combustible if
touched by fire,” for instance, is one of the passive concomitants of the species cotton, and “igniting”
an active concomitant of fire. Once fire and cotton come together, these concomitants lead to a neces-
sary causal reaction.
12 Introduction
pure necessity—He is the being necessary by virtue of itself (wājib al-wujūd bi-
dhātihī)—meaning He is the reason for how all other things must be.31 These
“other things” are the beings that are necessary by virtue of something else (wājib
al-wujūd bi-ghayrihī), namely by virtue of God. Once modern European philos-
ophy understands the necessary as being expressed by laws of nature, it is only a
small step from Avicenna’s understanding of God as necessity to Spinoza’s deus
sive natura (God, meaning Nature).
If creation is an expression of the necessity that God is, then creation must last
as long as God lasts, which is from past eternity. This latter implication offered
al-Ghazālī the philosophical angle to criticize Avicenna’s conceptualization of
God. For al-Ghazālī, the God of Avicenna was not the God that is described in
the Muslim revelation. Motivated by his commitment to Ashʿarite Muslim the-
ology, al-Ghazālī found in revelation an active God who chooses to create this
world among an almost infinite number of alternative ones. God’s will (irāda)
and His choice (ikhtiyār) are the two cornerstones of al-Ghazālī’s understanding
of the divine. He faced the problem, however, that Avicenna did not deny that
God has a will and a choice, even if he meant different things with these words
than al-Ghazālī did. Rather than quibbling with Avicenna over the meaning of
divine attributes, al-Ghazālī chose to attack the falāsifa’s understanding of the
divine via the implication of a pre-eternal world. If he could show that a world
without a beginning in time is impossible and that, for instance, an infinite
number of moments could never have existed in the past, then al-Ghazālī would
have refuted Avicenna’s understanding of God. Without the possibility of a pre-
eternal world, there would need to be a decision on the part of God to start cre-
ating. If there was that first decision about creation, many other decisions and
many other choices could follow.
While arguments about the eternity of the world were one of the philosoph-
ical battlegrounds of the conflict between Avicenna and al-Ghazālī, the con-
flict itself was about two different understandings of God. It would, however, be
wrong to say that one party in this conflict stood on the side of revelation—or
worse: religion—and the other on the side of philosophy. Given that the conflict
was about our human understanding of God, it should be clear that both parties
were engaged in a process of religious thinking or, if one wants, in thinking about
religion. Producing his arguments against Avicenna, al-Ghazālī was certainly
motivated by his Ashʿarite reading of Muslim revelation. Avicenna, however, had
also developed an understanding of revelation that was perfectly in line with his
conceptualization of God. In several of his works Avicenna writes commentaries
31 maʿnā wājib al-wujūb bi-dhātihī annahū nafs al-wājibiyya. Ibn Sīnā, al-Taʿlīqāt, 50.23 /121.9;
see also idem, al-Mubāḥathāt, 140.10, 142.3 (§§ 386, 391), which are quoted in al-Rāzī, al-Mabāḥith,
1:122.5, 123.7.
Introduction 13
on verses and short suras of the Qur’an.32 Although he never expressed it explic-
itly, we have good reason to assume that Avicenna considered his understanding
of revelation and his conceptualization of God a sound expression of Islam and
just as Islamic as many contemporary views, including the Ashʿarite one. What’s
more, we should understand that Avicenna thought of his interpretation of Islam
and its revelation as truth. For him, other Muslim groups, such as the Muʿtazilites
and Ashʿarites, had failed to reach that truth. The clash was not between “reve-
lation” and “philosophy” but rather between different readings of revelation and
between different ways of arguing philosophically.
During the sixth/twelfth century, that is, during the century after al-Ghazālī’s
philosophical intervention, there were philosophers who followed Avicenna just
as there were those who followed al-Ghazālī. What is most curious, however, and
what prompted me to write this book, is the observation that less than a hun-
dred years after al-Ghazālī, in the last quarter of the sixth/twelfth century, we
find authors who write one set of books that defend Avicenna’s understanding
of God and another set that defend al-Ghazālī’s. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī was the
first author, as far as I can see, who composed works in kalām (rational theology)
where he followed in al-Ghazālī’s footsteps to criticize Avicenna and others in
ḥikma (philosophy), where he aimed at improving the philosophical system of
Avicenna. To be clear: the former set of books argues for different conclusions
from the latter ones. This study will trace the emergence of books on ḥikma from
al-Ghazālī, where we find the first seeds of this genre, to its fully developed form
in Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī.
The main thesis of this book is that authors of post-classical philosophy such
as Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī wrote books in the discipline of philosophy (ḥikma) that
are conscious in their continuation of the discourse of falsafa in Islam while
also writing books in the discipline of rational theology (kalām) that are part
of a different genre of texts and follow different discursive rules. Al-Rāzī was
the first of a line of thinkers who in their works of ḥikma defended some of the
teachings of Avicenna, yet in their books of kalām defended Ashʿarite teachings
on the same subjects. While there are some areas of thought where Avicennism
and Ashʿarism are quite compatible with one another—cosmology, the theory of
human acts, for instance, or ethics—they are at loggerheads when it comes to the
conceptualization of God and His attributes. Here, there is no middle ground be-
tween Avicennism and Ashʿarism, and by extension between the results of ḥikma
and kalām. Indeed, we see that works in these two genres argue for directly op-
posing conclusions on such subjects as the world’s pre-eternity and the closely
32 See the texts gathered in ʿĀṣī, al-Tafsīr al-Qurʾānī wa-l-lugha al-ṣūfiyya fī falsafat Ibn Sīnā, and,
based on that, Janssens, “Avicenna and the Qurʾān,” and de Smet and Sebti, “Avicenna’s Philosophical
Approach to the Qur’an.” See also Janssens, “Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna).”
14 Introduction
related subject of divine essence and divine attributes, particularly God’s will and
His choice. And yet, these two different sets of books were written by the same
authors! Fakhr al-Dīn’s younger contemporary Sayf al-Dīn al-Āmidī (d. 631/
1233) wrote books in ḥikma (al-Nūr al-bāhir and Kashf al-tamwīhāt) and books
in kalām (Abkār al-afkār and Ghāyat al-marām) where the same phenomenon of
opposing conclusions can be observed. In the next generation, Athīr al-Dīn al-
Abharī’s (d. 663/1265) Guide to Philosophy (Hidāyat al-ḥikma) was one of most
successful textbooks of ḥikma, attracting many commentaries that show how it
was adopted to madrasa curricula. Yet al-Abharī also left us a book on kalām
(Risāla fī ʿilm al-kalām). Another example is Shams al-Dīn al-Samarqandī’s (d.
722/1322) highly successful textbook of techniques and strategies in disputations
(al-Risāla fī ādāb al-baḥth wa-l-munāẓara), which assumes that there were dif-
ferent ways of arguing in ḥikma and in kalām and which provides different sets of
examples for these two genres.33
The distinction between works of ḥikma and those of kalām becomes well
established in the seventh/thirteenth century, and while this question lies out-
side the focus of this monograph, it seems to have existed continuously until the
nineteenth century, when the curricula of madrasa education in Islamic coun-
tries were replaced by those of newly founded European-style polytechnics and
universities. If anything, these new institutions destroyed post-classical philos-
ophy in Islam. Its home was the madrasa, which financed its activities out of
the revenues of pious endowments (sing. waqf or ḥubus) of land and real estate.
No uprising of nomadic Turkmen nor the devastations of the Mongol conquest
caused as much damage to this educational system and to the continuity of an
indigenous philosophical tradition in Islam as a single law that abolished the
endowments of the madrasas or that simply privileged personal private pro-
perty over waqf and ḥubus landownership. Yet these laws were passed in count-
less Muslim countries during the period of Western colonization. Rather than
any single Muslim opponent of falsafa, it seems that colonial domination and a
Muslim eagerness to catch up with the economic and intellectual developments
of the West caused the end of the kind of philosophical discourse explored in
this book.
Another way of presenting the goal of this study is to say that it tries to ex-
plain Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s two early philosophical compendia, The Eastern
Investigations (al-Mabāḥith al-mashriqiyya) and The Compendium on Philosophy
and Logic (al-Mulakhkhaṣ fī l-ḥikma wa-l-manṭiq). These are puzzling works
that present a philosophical system that, on the one hand, follows Avicenna
and, on the other hand, tries to alter and improve him. Why, however, would
33 al-Samarqandī, al-Risāla fī ādāb al-baḥth, 88–91. For the centrality of this work and its content,
the Muslim theologian Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, author of a massive Qur’an com-
mentary and many successful books on Ashʿarite kalām, aim to improve the
system of Avicenna’s philosophy, a philosophy that al-Ghazālī in his Tahāfut al-
falāsifa had condemned as unbelief and apostasy from Islam? Earlier literature
on Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī has mostly avoided dealing with the problem that these
two books pose. Muḥammad Ṣāliḥ al-Zarkān (1936–2013), the author of a very
impressive early monograph study on Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, published in 1971,
dismissed his Eastern Investigations as an “early work, where al-Rāzī got carried
away over and above the falāsifa.” Given that in all of the other works of Fakhr
al-Dīn that al-Zarkān examined closely he wrote like an Ashʿarite mutakallim,
this one book should be dismissed as youthful folly. Later, al-Zarkān says, al-
Rāzī’s positions developed into those put forward in his books on kalām.34 That
line of argument was taken either explicitly or implicitly by many scholars who
tried to establish a consistent set of teachings in Fakhr al-Dīn’s œuvre. This line,
however, is closed to us since Eşref Altaş’s 2013 study on the chronology of al-
Rāzī’s corpus. Altaş shows that Fakhr al-Dīn started his career with a short book
in kalām, followed by his Eastern Investigations, when he was still in his late
twenties. This was followed by his most influential book in kalām, The Utmost
Reach of Rational Knowledge in Theology (Nihāyat al-ʿuqūl fī dirāyat al-usūl). All
these works precede al-Rāzī’s Compendium on Philosophy and Logic—his second
major book in ḥikma—which was completed in 579/1184, when he was thirty-
three years old.35 Should we assume that Fakhr al-Dīn started his career as an
Ashʿarite mutakallim, then drifted toward defending Avicenna’s philosophy, only
to return to being an Ashʿarite, and then once again falling for the temptations of
Avicenna? Such drastic reversals of opinion are implausible even for such a flam-
boyant and self-confident thinker as Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī.
We must therefore accept that Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī and with him the tradi-
tion of post-classical philosophy in Islam were in one way or another committed
to the teachings of both ḥikma and of Ashʿarite kalām. Which way exactly will
be one of the questions this study must answer. What prompted Fakhr al-Dīn—
and with him al-Āmirī, al-Abharī, al-Samarqandī, and many others—not only
to present the Avicennan philosophical system in over 1,500 pages but also to
alter and improve upon it? What were those improvements, and how should we
think about them? Finally, what does this mean for our view of the history of
philosophy in Islam? Was Fakhr al-Dīn’s engagement with philosophy merely an
academic exercise, and was de Boer correct when he suggested more than a hun-
dred years ago that books such as al-Rāzī’s Eastern Investigations were the idle
34 al-Zarkān, Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī wa-ārāʾuhū al-kalāmiyya wa-l-falsafiyya, 299–300, 301. The
book represents a master’s thesis at Cairo University that was completed in 1963 and published, ap-
parently without much revision, around 1971.
35 Altaş, “Fahreddin er-Râzî’nin eserlerinin kronolojisi,” 97–113.
16 Introduction
pastime (Zeitvertreib) of an intellectual elite at a time when “no one felt called
upon to come forward with independent views [and] the time had come for
abridgements, commentaries, glosses, and glosses upon glosses”?36
This book deals with the period immediately after al-Ghazālī and studies
developments during the hundred years after his death in 505/1111. It tells how
the philosophical tradition founded by Avicenna and criticized by al-Ghazālī
found a new expression in the works of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī. With this book
comes also the claim that the development from al-Ghazālī to al-Rāzī can be
studied as a unit and to some degree separated from what will happen in the
seventh/thirteenth century and later. Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s œuvre marks a wa-
tershed in the history of post-classical Islamic philosophy. He wrote the phil-
osophical books that influence later generations of scholars in post-classical
Islamic thought. Nonetheless, this book is no comprehensive survey of philos-
ophy in Islam during the sixth/twelfth century. First, I leave out the philosophical
tradition of al-Andalus and Morocco by authors such as Ibn Bājja (d. 533/1139),
Ibn Ṭufayl (d. 581/1185–86), and Averroes (Ibn Rushd, d. 595/1198).37 Due to
the influence they had on European philosophy, the philosophers of al-Andalus
have always attracted much attention among Western researchers. Their story
does not need to be retold. It is also significantly different from the developments
in the Islamic East, to the extent that the latter can be studied separately. As of
now, there is no sign, for instance, that any philosopher active in Iraq, Iran, and
Central Asia during the sixth/twelfth century ever read the works of these three.
The second philosophical tradition of the sixth/twelfth century that I cannot do
full justice to in this study is that of Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī. It forms the nucleus of
what will later, in the second half of the seventh/thirteenth century, develop into
the tradition of Illuminationist (ishrāqī) philosophy. Al-Suhrawardī was a highly
original philosopher with an extremely rich body of work. He is included in this
study, however, only as far as it is necessary to explain the development from al-
Ghazālī to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī.
The questions that this book tries to answer touch on many aspects of the
practice of philosophy during the sixth/twelfth century in the Islamic East.
While the main focus lies in the development that led to Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s
two philosophical compendia, The Eastern Investigations and The Compendium
on Philosophy and Logic, the book also asks about the material conditions of
practicing philosophy, about the patronage that philosophers received, and
about those patrons and their motives. Another important set of questions
is connected to the relationship between philosophy and religious law. Did
thinking that led to al-Ghazālī’s judgment of apostasy and with the conditions
under which it was passed.39 Here in this book, I will look into the effects that this
and other condemnations had on the practice of philosophy during the sixth/
twelfth century.
The second part of the book examines the lives of philosophers in the Islamic
East during the sixth/twelfth century. It first presents the textual sources and
then discusses their biographies. In the historiography of philosophers during
this period there is a change from falsafa to ḥikma that happens around 540/
1145. Philosophical authors before that date are generally described as falāsifa,
most authors after that date as ḥukamāʾ. Falsafa and ḥikma should both be trans-
lated as “philosophy,” even if they have different connotations in Arabic. The
chapter explains the change and clarifies in what way ḥikma was different from
falsafa, at least in the eyes of those authors who promote this difference. The bulk
of this chapter, however, consists of a contextualized study of the philosophers’
lives, establishes a corpus of their writing, and—wherever it is able to do so—
gives an overview of the chronology of their writings. The bibliography at the
end of the book begins with an inventory of philosophical works in Arabic and
Persian from the sixth/twelfth century in the Islamic East that covers all those
texts that I am aware of.
The third part of this book deals with the philosophical books themselves.
This part starts with the question: What are the “philosophical books” (kutub
ḥikmiyya) that Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī refers to in several of his writings? This will
bring us quickly to a corpus of three major works and several shorter epistles in
which al-Rāzī presents his ideas in the discipline of ḥikma. Most important are
his Eastern Investigations and Compendium on Philosophy and Logic. My analysis
is divided into three chapters, the first dealing with the teachings in these two
books, the second with the development of the genre of ḥikma, and the third with
the method of books of ḥikma vis-à-vis that of kalām. While the goal in each of
the three chapters will be to explain the teachings, genre, and methods of al-Rāzī’s
al-Mabāḥith and al-Mulakhkhaṣ, they will also look at the developments that
lead toward them, focusing particularly on works by al-Ghazālī—his Doctrines
of the Philosophers (Maqāṣid al-falāsifa)—and on Abū l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī as
well as Sharaf al-Dīn al-Masʿūdī.
This book is the result of more than ten years of research that started right
after the publication of my 2009 book on al-Ghazālī. It began that year with
a research trip to libraries in Istanbul, realized with a grant from the Andrew
Carnegie Corporation of New York. I wish to thank Yale University, the Carnegie
Corporation, and the Humboldt Foundation in Germany for their generous sup-
port. The Humboldt’s Friedrich-Wilhelm-Bessel Research Award allowed me to
critical discussions. I also thank Eşref Altaş for allowing me to reprint the graph-
ical overview on the relative chronology of Fakhr al-Dīn’s works in the appendix
of this book, and I thank Reclam Verlag in Ditzingen (Germany) for the use of
parts of the third chapter from my book Den Islam denken.
Needless to say that I am the only one responsible for the book’s shortcomings
and its mistakes.
Conventions
This book uses the transliteration system for Arabic and Persian established
by the International Journal of Middle East Studies, with the exception that it
employs -ah in Persian for the tāʾ marbūṭa instead of -ih. Dates before 1800 ce
appear in the dual format of ah/ce (hijrī dates followed by the Common Era).
Names of locations appear in their common English spelling as found in widely
used maps, such as those in The Times Atlas of the World of 1967, unless the
places no longer exist. In the latter case places are referred to by their historical
name in transcription of Arabic or Persian.
This study focuses on a period when most written documents were in Arabic.
These documents represent the names of people in Arabic, even if their carriers
were ethnic Persians or Turks. In fact, it is remarkable that ethnicity—so im-
portant for us today—hardly ever figures in our sources. There are next to no
comments on whether al-Ghazālī or Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, for instance, were eth-
nically Arabs or Persians. We do not know what languages these two spoke at
home. Both have Arab ancestry and both wrote books in Arabic and in Persian,
depending on which kind of audience they wished to reach. In order to preserve
the ethnic neutrality of our sources I have opted to represent all names in accord-
ance with the Arabic version that appears there. This follows a practice in schol-
arship on medieval European intellectual history, where we use Latin names and
not vernaculars. Thus, someone who in Persian might be called Moʿīnuddīn
Nīshāpūri is in this study referred to as Muʿīn al-Dīn al-Naysābūrī, and Nejm-e
Rāzī Dāya, for instance, is in this study Najm al-Dīn al-Rāzī Dāya.
Given the fact that, first, critical editions of the sources used in this study are
rare, and, second, there is often no one canonical edition used by researchers in
the field, it is sometimes recommendable to quote more than one edition. In the
case of the following texts, I refer in my notes to two editions and divide the page
references by a slash:
Ibn al-Fuwaṭī, Talkhīṣ majmaʿ al-ādāb, ed. M. Jawād (Damascus) /ed. M. al-
Kāẓim (Tehran).
Ibn Sīnā, al-Najāt, ed. Ṣabrī al-Kurdī 1938 /ed. Dānishpazhūh 1983.
Introduction 21
Ibn Sīnā, al-Ishārāt wa-l-tanbīhāt, ed. Forget 1892 /ed. al-Zāriʿī 2002.
Ibn Sīnā, al-Taʿlīqāt, ed. Badawī 1973 /ed. Mūsaviyān 2013.
al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, Lajna-edition 1937–38 /ed. Jedda, Dār al-
Minhāj 2011.
al-Ghazālī, al-Iqtiṣād fī l- iʿtiqād, ed. Çubukçu and Atay 1962 /ed. al-
Sharafāwī 2008.
al-Ghazālī, Maqāṣid al-falāsifa, ed. Ṣabrī al-Kurdī 1936 /ed. Dunyā 1961.
al-Ghazālī, Mishkāt al-anwār, ed. al-ʿAfīfī 1964 /ed. al-Sayrawān 1986.
al-Ghazālī, al-Arbaʿīn fī uṣūl al-dīn, ed. Muḥammad Kāmil 2011 (in Jawāhir al-
Qurʿān wa-duraruhū) /ed. Makrī (Dār al-Minhāj) 2006.
al-Sāwī, Nahj al-taqdīs, ed. al-Marāghī 2006 /ed. Dādkhwāh and Karīmī
Zanjānī Aṣl 2013.
al-Shāfiʿī, Kitāb al-Umm, ed. Būlāq 1903–8 /ed. ʿAbd al-Muṭallib, 2001.
al-Shahrazūrī, Nuzhat al-arwāḥ, ed. Hyderabad 1976 /ed. Alexandria 1993.
al-Suhrawardī, al-Talwīḥāt al-lawḥiyya wa-l-ʿarshiyya. al-Ilāhiyyāt, ed. Corbin
1945 /ed. Ḥabībī 2009.
As a rule, in notes the page number before a slash refers to the edition that is first
mentioned in the bibliography; the number after the slash to the one mentioned
second.
This book follows the reference system of the Chicago Manual of Style with
the addition that on occasion it includes information about the line of the page
that the relevant text can be found in. In that case, the line reference is divided
from the page reference by a period. The reference “2:260.17,” for instance,
means that the relevant text can be found on line 17 of page 260 in the second
volume of the cited work.
All translations from the Arabic, Persian, and other languages are my
own unless stated otherwise. When I use bilingual editions, such as Michael
E. Marmura’s editions with facing English translation of al-Ghazālī’s Tahāfut al-
falāsifa or of Avicenna’s al-Ilāhiyyāt in al-Shifāʾ, I try to match my own translation
to the one that exists and here acknowledge my indebtedness to the translators
of these works.
PART I
POST-C L ASSIC A L PH I LO S OPH Y
IN IT S ISL A MIC C ONT E XT
First Chapter
Khorasan, the Birthplace of Post-Classical
Philosophy, a Land in Decline?
Post- classical Islamic philosophy developed during the sixth/ twelfth cen-
tury in the Iranian province of Khorasan and in regions such as Transoxania,
Khwārazm, Jibāl, and Ghūr that bordered on it. It developed out of the work of
two major thinkers of the region: Avicenna and al-Ghazālī. The latter was born
in Ṭābarān-Ṭūs, one of the scholarly centers of Khorasan, where he also taught
at the end of his life. Avicenna grew up in Transoxania but spent most of his
adult life in the cities of western Iran, in Jurjān (Gorgan), Isfahan, Hamadan, and
Rayy (Tehran). We are told that with the second generation of his students, the
study of his philosophy moved to Khorasan, from where it spread further.1 The
most western point of the development of post-classical Islamic philosophy is
Baghdad, where al-Ghazālī spent a number of important years and where Abū
l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī was active. Only after reaching a mature stage in the works
of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī did post-classical Islamic philosophy move out of the
Iranian region to upper Iraq (Mosul), Syria, Egypt, and Anatolia.
Historians of philosophy are aware that a proper understanding of intellectual
traditions without knowledge of their context is impossible. One will not un-
derstand intellectual history without knowing general history, and unfortunately
the history of the eastern Islamic world in the sixth/twelfth century is not at all
well known among Western readers.2 Philosophy does not generate in books.
The books that we read are the material remnants of a process that involved
studying, thinking, debating, and disputing. Philosophy needs an advanced pro-
cess of division of labor where the philosophers are relieved from the burden
of immediate economic reproduction. Good philosophy needs exchanges with
other philosophers. It requires meeting points where not only friends with sim-
ilar opinions come together but also adversaries who challenge each other’s
ideas. These and other conditions for the successful pursuit of philosophy exist
first of all in societies with a high degree of urbanization. In our case, these were
the cities of Khorasan and its neighboring provinces. Their economic foundation
The Formation of Post-Classical Philosophy in Islam. Frank Griffel, Oxford University Press. © Frank Griffel 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190886325.003.0002
26 Post-Classical Philosophy in Its Islamic Context
to a court or indulgence of a patron. We are told, for instance, that the philoso-
pher Ibn Sahlān al-Sāwī made his income from producing copies of Avicenna’s
Fulfillment (al-Shifāʾ). This information comes in the context of his asceticism as
he chose this humble job rather than dependence on patronage.
Among the three principal sources of income for philosophers in the sixth/
twelfth century, teaching proved to be the least profitable. Al-Ghazālī famously
denounced teachers who were in that business to become rich—or just to make a
living. He regarded knowledge as a commodity that should be generously given
to those in need of it. The teacher should not expect any monetary reward from
his students and certainly should not be motivated by monetary gains.8 The di-
rect transfer of money from a student to a teacher was frowned upon. Such a
restriction created obvious problems for a society where the transmission of
knowledge from teacher to student is an important source of competency and
prestige. The answer to this conundrum came in the form of the madrasa.
Developed in the cities of Khorasan, the madrasa was adopted by the Seljuq
state at the middle of the fifth/eleventh century.9 A madrasa is an institution of
higher education that is supported by a steady flow of income generated from real
estate that individuals or the state gave to the madrasa. Founding a madrasa in-
volved the construction of a suitable building, the endowing of either agricultural
land or urban real estate, and the setting up of the institution’s several functions.
For small madrasas that were created by rich individuals, the latter meant little
more than supplying a teacher with the means of living for him and his family.
Larger madrasas in big cities supported the teachers as well as the students. They
had imposing buildings with high upkeep. These institutions often had a library
and also a copying workshop as well as paper production facilities. Later, in the
seventh/thirteenth century, there were madrasas connected to observatories that
conducted important research in the natural sciences.
George A. Makdisi suggests that in the madrasa we have one of the nuclei out
of which eventually the modern university system has grown.10 The key differ-
ence between a university and a madrasa is, according to Makdisi, the latter’s
limitation to just a few select subjects of instruction, namely those directly
8 al-Ghazālī, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, 1:94.3–4/1:207.10–11: “The second duty of the teacher is to follow
the example of the lawgiver and not to ask for a wage when he is teaching, and accept neither reward
nor thanks.” See Bell, “A Moslem Thinker,” 35; Guenther, “The Principles of Instruction,” 24–25.
9 Makdisi, Rise of Colleges, 31–32; G. Makdisi and J. Pedersen in EI2, art. “Madrasa,” 5:1126;
11 Makdisi, “Muslim Institutions of Learning,” 37; idem, Rise of Colleges, 296–304; idem, “Non-
nomocratique et nomocentrique.”
13 Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, 85–86, and more generally 82–87.
14 Makdisi, Rise of Colleges, 84, lists what he calls “the Islamic sciences”: tafsīr, qirāʿāt, ḥadīth, uṣūl
19 MS Raqqāda, Centre d’Études de la Civilisation et des Arts Islamiques 289 and MS Istanbul,
Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Fatih 5433, foll. 246a–270a. For information on these two cat-
alogues, see Hirschler, Medieval Damascus, 5–6, 16–53.
20 Hirschler, Medieval Damascus, 16–53.
21 Ibid., 91–95.
22 Ibid., 5.
23 Ibid., 64–80.
30 Post-Classical Philosophy in Its Islamic Context
Avicenna is well represented in the library, with eleven of his works from both
his medical and philosophical corpus, including his major philosophical ency-
clopedia, The Fulfillment (al-Shifaʾ).24 The library held two collective volumes
with “rare advice from the philosophers” (nawādir al-ḥukamāʾ) as well as a small
number of works by (or based on) Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle.25 Al-Ghazālī is one
of the best-represented authors in the catalogue, with thirty books, including his
Doctrines of the Philosophers (Maqāṣid al-falāsifa), a faithful report of Avicenna’s
teachings in logic, metaphysics, and the natural sciences.26 Remarkably, this
work was, like another of his books on logic, put into a subject category together
with works used in fiqh, suggesting that these two philosophical works were used
for teaching jurisprudence.27 In his analysis of the catalogue, Hirschler stresses
the diversity of the library holdings and its inclusion of distinctly rationalist and
philosophical works. “In contrast to both the traditional view of the madrasa as
part of a Sunni ‘orthodox’ revival,” writes Hirschler, “. . . its shelves were equipped
with material that discussed a distinctly rationalist way of approaching theolog-
ical questions.”28
The Niẓāmiyya madrasas—which stand at the beginning of the spread of the
madrasa—still existed at the middle of the sixth/twelfth century and contributed
to an important network of state-sponsored institutions of higher learning.29
Named after the Shāfiʿite vizier Niẓām al-Mulk (d. 485/1092), who initiated the
system, they were established in all major cities of the Seljuq Empire.30 A ma-
drasa could provide a steady source of income for teachers of logic as well as
Islamic law or theology (kalām). These teachers could then also engage in the
natural sciences or philosophical theology (ilāhiyyāt). Madrasas also provided
a network of academic exchange, where scholars would mingle. We read about
a scholar meeting a colleague at that-and-that madrasa in that-and-that city. Yet
only bigger madrasas would provide that kind of service. Whereas Makdisi’s sug-
gestion that madrasa instruction was limited to religious subjects has now been
disproven for the whole of madrasa education in the sixth/twelfth century, it may
still hold true for smaller institutions in towns and minor cities, if only for the
practical reason that teachers in the rational sciences were not as numerous as
those in the religious subjects. The bigger madrasas were maintained by large
73n37). The Niẓāmiyya in Baghdad, the flagship of the system, was founded in 457/1065 and began
its activity two years later (Glassen, Der mittlere Weg, 50, 66).
30 al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-shāfiʿiyya al-kubrā, 4:313, lists cities in which Niẓāmiyya madrasas where
built: Baghdad, Balkh, Nishapur, Herat, Isfahan, Basra, Merv, Āmul (in Ṭabaristān), and Mosul.
Khorasan, a Land in Decline? 31
endowments whose steady income drew talent away from smaller institutions.
Like other institutions they were affected by economic crises and a lack of public
security. The network of Niẓāmiyya schools, for instance, suffered from the col-
lapse of the Seljuq state at the mid-sixth/twelfth century. The Niẓāmiyya ma-
drasa in Nishapur, the very first of its kind, was destroyed in the tumultuous
events of 548/1153, never to be rebuilt.31 But since these madrasas had endowed
wealth they were able to survive without direct stipends from the government.
Most Niẓāmiyya madrasas continued to exist after the fall of the Seljuq state.
In Merv, Balkh, and Herat, they functioned at least until the destruction caused
by Mongol-led troops in the early seventh/thirteenth century.32 In Baghdad, the
Niẓāmiyya received a thorough renovation in 504/1110–11 and 580/1185, and
subsequently a new library building in 589/1193.33 The Niẓāmiyya madrasa in
Baghdad existed long into the Īl-Khānid period (early eighth/fourteenth cen-
tury) and the one in Herat—the one used longest—even into post-Timurid times
(tenth/sixteenth century).34
One of the most prolific chroniclers of the activities at madrasas during the
late sixth/twelfth and the seventh/thirteenth centuries was the historian Kamāl
al-Dīn Ibn al-Fuwaṭī (d. 723/1323). Born in Baghdad and enslaved during the
Mongol conquest, he came to the attention of the philosopher Naṣīr al-Dīn al-
Ṭūsī (d. 672/1274), who freed him and worked with him at the influential ma-
drasa observatory of Maragha, where Ibn al-Fuwaṭī eventually served as head
librarian. Later in his life he held the same position at the Mustanṣiriyya madrasa
in Baghdad, one of the very few examples from this period where the building
has survived. Ibn al-Fuwaṭī wrote a biographical dictionary of the great men in
history and of his era.35 Unfortunately, less than half of that work has come down
to us. In this fragment he provides information on a great number of scholars
whom he met and whose fame had reached him. In the preserved part, Ibn al-
Fuwaṭī mentions the names of more than sixty different madrasas.36 His is the
5:1127. The Niẓāmiyya in Baghdad also suffered from a fire in 510/1116–17; see Ibn al-Athīr, al-
Kāmil, 10:366–67.
34 On Baghdad: Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Tuḥfat al-nuẓẓār, 2:108; Engl. trans. 2:332; Wüstenfeld, Academien
der Araber, 28–29; Talas, La madrasa Nizamiyya et son histoire, 64, 73, 76–77; on Herat: Allen,
Catalogue of the Toponyms and Monuments of Timurid Herat, 135.
35 On Ibn al-Fuwaṭī’s life, see Muṣṭafā Jawād in the introduction to the Damascus edition of Talkhīṣ
tion of Ibn al-Fuwaṭī’s Talkhīṣ majmaʿ al-ādāb fī muʿjam al-alqāb (see the index in the Damascus
ed., 4:1205–42). In his study on the city of Nishapur, Bulliet mentions more than thirty different
madrasas (Patricians, 286–87). For a list of more then twenty madrasas that were founded in
Baghdad during the sixth/twelfth and seventh/thirteenth centuries, see Ephrat, A Learned
Society, 21–25.
32 Post-Classical Philosophy in Its Islamic Context
kind of book that will likely prove to be a rich mine for information on post-
classical Islamic philosophy, yet it has not been studied much. Among the almost
six thousand biographies that Ibn al-Fuwaṭī preserved is, for instance, that of
a scholar called Kamāl al-Dīn Aflāṭūn ibn ʿAbdallāh (d. 669/1270–71). Either
his parents must have foreseen his later passion or he adopted the Arabized
name of Plato, Aflāṭūn. He was one of the many people, writes Ibn al-Fuwaṭī,
who approached Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī at the madrasa in Maragha to study with
him. His talents, however, were not sufficient to do advances studies or research
(taḥṣīl). Aflāṭūn spoke incomprehensibly, wore a Mongol hat, and may have
come from as far as India. He was passionate about philosophy (ḥikma) and read
all its books. Naṣīr al-Dīn delegated his teaching to Ibn al-Fuwaṭī, who grudg-
ingly obliged but honored Aflāṭūn with a sympathetic description of his manners
and demeanors.37
This example for the teaching of philosophy within the madrasa system
comes from the second half of the seventh/thirteenth century, a period that is
beyond the scope of this study. Yet philosophy was a subject that scholars at the
Niẓāmiyya madrasas were already interested in and that was pursued right from
the beginning of that institution. One often cited piece of evidence is the popu-
larity of a philosophical book by one of Avicenna’s students that was removed
from the library at the Niẓāmiyya madrasa in Nishapur some time before 475/
1082.38 With al-Ghazālī’s push for the study of logic and the rational sciences,
philosophy became a field that was studied at institutions such as the Niẓāmiyya
madrasas, where his thought was influential. During the sixth/twelfth century,
however, philosophy was by no means limited to the madrasa. Philosophers such
as al-Lawkarī and Abū l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī had no contact with the madrasa
system. Yet it adapted to the madrasa system and developed the kind of texts
that could be studied there. Although we know very little about the pedagogy of
madrasa education in this period, we can deduce which kinds of books enjoyed
success there.39 These insights allow us to infer the conditions that made them
successful.40 Determining the techniques that these books employ will be an im-
portant part of this study.41
37 Ibn al-Fuwaṭī’s Talkhīṣ majmaʿ al-ādāb (ed. Tehran), 4:131. He is not in the Damascus edition of
the book. On the underused merits of Ibn al-Fuwaṭī’s Talkhīṣ majmaʿ al-ādāb, see DeWeese, “Cultural
Transmission and Exchange.”
38 al-Bayhaqī, Tatimmat Ṣiwān al-ḥikma, 95–96. The book was removed by Jamāl al-Mulk, the
eldest son of Niẓām al-Mulk, who died in 475/1082 (cf. C. E. Bosworth in EI2, 8:72a).
39 On the little we know from direct sources, see Talas, La madrasa Nizamiyya et son histoire, 39–40.
40 Makdisi, The Rise of Colleges, 99– 152, pursues a similar strategy in order to determine the
“methodology of learning” at madrasas of this period.
41 See pp. 508–16 below.
Khorasan, a Land in Decline? 33
Before we arrive at that stage, we need to understand the context of the forma-
tion of post-classical philosophy in Islam. Thus far, the cities of Khorasan have
not been part of the history of philosophy. Nishapur, Ṭabārān-Ṭūs, Merv, and
Herat are names that scholars of Islamic theology might be familiar with, but as
places of philosophical activity they still need to be discovered. The same applies
to Bukhara and Samarkand in Transoxania as well as Gurgānj in Khwārazm and
Fīrōzkōh in Ghūr.
Existing works on an earlier period of the history of philosophy of this re-
gion mistakenly assume that Khorasan was the name of the whole of the Islamic
East. Some assume, for instance, that Avicenna’s “eastern philosophy”—a label
he uses in one of his books—refers to Khorasan.42 Avicenna, however, had no
relation to Khorasan proper. It has already been mentioned that he was born
in Transoxania and spent most of his life in Jurjān and western Iran (Jibāl and
Irāq al-ʿajamī). Bert Fragner argues that the territorial concept of “Iran” (Īrān-
zamīn) emerged only in the Īl-Khānid period.43 Before, there was a significant
cultural difference between western Iran and Khorasan, not the least because,
unlike western Iran, Khorasan was heavily populated by Arab settlers. Historic
Khorasan—which is not identical with the modern Iranian provinces that in-
clude that name—stretched over the northeast corner of the Iranian high plateau
and included the oasis of Merv and the desert-like lowlands that surround it.44
In the south it bordered on the less significant Qūhistān province and the Dasht-
i Kavir desert. In the east it was limited by the Hindukush mountain range in
central Afghanistan, whose western slopes still formed part of Khorasan.45 Its
42 Gutas, Avicenna and the Aristotelian Tradition, 140n41; idem, “Ibn Ṭufayl on Ibn Sīnā’s
Eastern Philosophy,” 222–23n1+2; idem, “Avicenna’s Eastern (‘Oriental’) Philosophy,” 159n1. See
also Reisman, The Making of the Avicennan Tradition, 193n92. Pines, “La ‘Philosophie Orientale’
d’Avicenne,” 15–16, says that Ismāʿīlite authors of the time associate mashriq, “the land of the
east,” with Khorasan. Yet Pines also clarifies that the label mashriqiyya (eastern) refers to Bukhara
in Transoxania—and not necessarily to Khorasan—or, in a very general way, to all lands east of
Baghdad.
43 Fragner, “The Concept of Regionalism,” 352, and idem, “Ilkhanid Rule and Its Contributions,”
72–73. In the latter article, Fragner reviews the development of the historical term “Iran,” clarifying
that the Ilkhanid notion is built on an earlier Sasanian understanding of Iran as Īrānshahr. This is
confirmed by Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī, al-Maṭālib al-ʿāliya, 8:78.12, who mentions in passing the histor-
ical “Īrānshahr,” where all people were Zoroastrians, i.e., clearly referring to Sasanian Iran.
44 Le Strange, Lands of the Eastern Caliphates, 382, clarifies the geographical meaning of
“Khorasan” and its borders. There is also, in some Western literature on Arabic philosophy, a misun-
derstanding of Khorasan’s western borders. Wakelnig, A Philosophical Reader, 4, for instance, identi-
fies Rayy as a city of Khorasan. It is, however, part of Jibāl, the high plateau of western Iran.
45 In today’s political divisions, historic Khorasan includes the three Iranian provinces North ,
Razavi, and South Khorasan, almost all of Turkmenistan (excluding its most eastern and north-
eastern regions), as well as the provinces Herat, Badghis, Faryab, Jowzjan, and Balkh in western
Afghanistan.
34 Post-Classical Philosophy in Its Islamic Context
northern border was the Amu Darya River—known in the West by its Greek
name, Oxus—separating it from Transoxania. In the far north Khorasan bor-
dered on Khwārazm, the fertile river delta that the Amu Darya formed before its
water opened out into the Aral Sea.46 Khwārazm was a river oasis, surrounded by
desert and steppe. Transoxania—or in our sources “what is beyond the river” (mā
warāʾ al-nahr)—was the rich agricultural region of Bukhara and Samarkand, the
ancient Sogdiana (Ṣoghd), as well as the land north of it up to the Syr Darya River
(Jaxartes). The fertile Ferghana Valley, which is most easily accessible from the
region of Samarkand, was sometimes included in Transoxania. Khwārazm and
Transoxania are divided by a three-hundred-kilometer (two-hundred-mile)-
wide desert today known as the Qızılkum, the desert of “Red Sand.”
During the sixth/twelfth century, Khorasan’s main cities were Nishapur (today
in Iran), Merv (in Turkmenistan), Herat, and Balkh (both in today’s Afghanistan).
These were also known as the four quarters (singl. rubʿ) of Khorasan.47 Among
these four cities, only Herat survived as a major settlement into the modern pe-
riod.48 Up to the seventh/thirteenth century, Khorasan also supported a great
number of midsize cities, such as Isfarāyīn, Sabzawar-Bayhaq, Ṭābarān-Ṭūs and
Nūqān-Ṭūs (out of which grew the city of Meshed), Sarakhs, Mayhana, Abiward,
Nasa, Merv-i Rudh, and Tirmidh. Khorasan’s prosperity resulted from its cen-
tral position on the so-called Silk Road as well as the relative abundance of rain
that falls on its higher ground and the slopes of the Hindukush. Labor-intensive
irrigation systems of qanāt collected water resources in the more mountainous
regions and led them toward denser populated agricultural land and the cities.
Among the historic cities of Khorasan, Nishapur is the one we know best.
Important studies by C. E. Bosworth, Richard W. Bulliet, and Heinz Halm have
focused on the city and its scholarly community.49 Nishapur was a key hub in the
network of trade connections known as the Silk Road. During the sixth/twelfth
century, this did not mean that traders from Nishapur reached as far as China.
They probably did not. Yet Chinese luxury goods were traded in Nishapur via
a network that connected the city with Transoxania, Turkic-speaking areas in
Shīnjāng (Xinjiang), and subsequently with cities in China. Of greater economic
importance, however, were the connections with cities closer to Khorasan,
Transoxania, and western Iran.
46 For the borders of what Rocco Rante considers “Greater Khorasan,” see his “ ‘Khorasan Proper’
and ‘Greater Khorasan,’ ” 12. At the time of writing, the Aral Sea has almost completely disappeared,
with the sole exception of a lake in its former northern part, fed by the Syr Darya. The Amu Darya no
longer discharges its waters into the Aral Sea.
47 Le Strange, Lands of the Eastern Caliphate, 382.
48 Today, Nishapur has again a population of c. 200,000. In the early 1970s, it was only at 30,000
(Bulliet, Patricians, 5), suggesting that earlier in the twentieth century it was a small town.
49 Bosworth, The Ghaznavids, 145– 202; Bulliet, Patricians; idem, “Medieval Nishapur”; idem,
Islam, index; Halm, Ausbreitung, 42–70; idem, “Wesir al-Kundurī”; le Strange, Land of the Eastern
Caliphate, 383–88.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The royal
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and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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Author: M. H.
Language: English
THE
ROYAL BANNER;
OR
By the Author of
"LITTLE HAZEL, THE KING'S MESSENGER,"
&c. &c.
"Stand up! Stand up for Jesus
Ye soldiers of the cross,
Lift high his royal banner,
It must not suffer loss."
London:
1888.
Contents.
Chap.
I. THE WISHING-WELL
V. AN ENGLISH HOME
X. A HIGHLAND FIELD-PREACHING
CHAPTER I.
THE WISHING-WELL.
"Nora admires the rubies, but I like the gold," said Eric.
"But are not they both beautiful?"
"Yes," she said; "but when your own dear mamma died, and
left the diadem to me for her little daughter, she said she
hoped both she and her boys would find out that there was
something 'better than gold and above rubies.'"
But his words met with no response. Nora's head was bent,
and a tear had risen to her eye; for, though dimly, she still
retained a remembrance of the mother who had loved her
so fondly.
Her aunt smiled. "Yes, darling, much more so, much more
valuable; and you can obtain it, my child."
"I! O aunt—"
But just then the door opened, and a pleasant-faced
gentleman entered.
"Oh no," was the ready response; "the three orphans have
brought joy, not sorrow, into our home, I think, Ralph; and
our own little ones love them dearly. Nora is a sweet girl;
but Ronald has the most character of them all. How I shall
miss the noble boy when he leaves us! Eric can hardly fill
his place to me yet: he is very heedless; he is the only one
who causes me a moment's anxiety. He has not the
generous nature of the other two, I fear. Still, he is young,
and I may prove wrong in my judgment of him. We need
much wisdom, Ralph, from God, rightly to train these
children and our own."
Seven years had elapsed since then, and the children were
growing up quickly in their quiet Highland home, in which
three little cousins had been born since the death of Elenora
Macintosh.
Nora was right. At the time our story begins, Ronald was
seated beside the Wishing-Well, book in hand. But the boy
was not reading just then; his heart was somewhat full. On
the morrow he was to leave his quiet home to go to a large
school in England; and from thence, at the age of
seventeen, a cousin, who was the head of a mercantile
house in London, had offered to give him a situation in it.
He hardly liked the idea. He had a soldier's spirit, and would
have chosen his father's profession (who met his early
death bravely fighting in an Indian war).
But Ronald had others to think of. He must work for his little
sister, whom his mother had left to him as his special
charge, and Eric as well. He was thinking of these things as
he sat beside the Wishing-Well, and he heaved a sigh as he
laid down the spirited account of the early Crusades which
he had been reading.
"Who are you?" said the boy. "And what do you wish me to
do?"
"First may I ask, have you taken the Lord as your Master,
and given him your heart?"
The lad bent his head, then raised it calmly. "I have," he
answered. "By my mother's death-bed, seven years ago, I
gave myself to Jesus."
"The very place to begin," was the earnest reply. "Help the
weak ones there, like a true Knight of the Cross, and try to
set some bond ones free. Carry the Lord's banner there,
and see to it you are a true standard-bearer. Now, farewell!
My time here is short. In the world's great field of battle we
may meet again; if not, let our trysting-place be before the
throne on high." Then, saying the words, "Inasmuch as ye
do it to the least of these my brethren, ye do it unto me,"
he strode off through the heather as silently as he came.
Had it all been a dream? No; every word, every look, of the
mysterious speaker was too deeply impressed on his mind
and eyes for that. One thing was certain: he had promised
anew to live to God and for God. He had joined the great
army of the Lord of hosts; and bending his head a moment
in prayer, he asked strength from above to "endure
hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."
"Here he is, Eric! I told you we'd find him here;" and with a
bound Nora stood beside the Wishing-Well. "Reading again,
I declare, Ronald!" said the merry little maiden, catching up
her brother's book and tossing it up in the air; taking care,
however, to catch it ere it reached the ground. "Do come,
and let us have a race."
But ere Ronald could answer, the child's mood had changed
again. "No, wait a moment. I forgot, Ronald, this is your
last day, and I want a long talk with you; you know it will be
an age ere we have a nice one again."
And with the gentle look stealing over her face which so
often reminded her brother of their mother, she sat gently
down and let Ronald twine his arm round her waist.
For a moment there was silence; Nora was gazing
thoughtfully down into the waters of the well. Then she
spoke: "Ronald, what is it that is above rubies?"
Ronald drew his sister very close to his side. "Yes, I know
what it is, Nora. It is the wise king who says, 'A virtuous
woman is above rubies.'"
Ronald's reply to her remark was cut short by Eric, who had
run off after his favourite dog Cherry, and now returned,
dashing down his cap in his impetuous way; then, telling
Cherry to lie down, he exclaimed, "Come, Aldy—" (his great
name for his brother), "as this is your last day here for ever
so long, let us all wish for some special thing beside the
well. Never mind whether the old legend is true or not. Who
knows? Let us try."
Truth to tell, she had wished she might wear the lovely
diadem when she grew up, and was not sure whether her
brother would not laugh at her wish.
"Heaps of gold, Eric?" And Ronald laid his hand kindly on his
brother's shoulder. "Our mother used to say she hoped we
would all find out what is better than gold."
Amid the purple heather the well lay; clear and cool, soft
green moss grew close round it; and ferns hung over its
sides in graceful beauty—some tiny ones were still green
there, whilst all around had caught the autumn colours.
From the well northwards, the eye ranged over grand
mountains—some clad with trees far up their sides, others
purple and brown with heather; whilst in the immediate
background the copsewood was glowing in crimson and
golden glory, the leaves gently falling with every light gust
of wind, and strewing the ground as with gold and rubies.
Eric soon wearied, and ran off to amuse himself with his pet
rabbits; but Nora and Ronald chatted on a while, till the
nurse and two little cousins came in search of Miss Nora,
who was wanted indoors to see a lady who was calling.
Then Ronald set off alone to pay a farewell visit far down
the glen to an invalid widow who had been his mother's
nurse.
And we marvel not that his heart shrank from the thought
of leaving it all for other scenes.
"Come in, my young master, an' bide a wee, an' gledden the
auld woman's een wi' a sicht o' her bairn—" for such she
always termed the handsome lad.
"An' so ye're leavin' us, Maister Ronald, an' gaun yer first
voyage intil the wide world? Aweel, aweel! It's little auld
Peggy kens aboot that world, she that's been quietly
fostered a' her days, as maiden, wife, an' widow, in the
Highland glen. But, O laddie!"
And she laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, "The Lord
God, the Maker o' a' the world, kens ilka turn in it; he's no
ane to leave the lad he's brocht to trust in him to lose his
road in a strange land. Ye're no gaun withoot a guid Guide,
bairn; and Ane wha never leaves his wark unfinished. 'This
God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even
unto death.' Ay," she added, "an' thro' the valley also; an'
he'll no gie up the wark even on the ither side; he's guidin'
your dear mother yonder, Maister Ronald, by the crystal sea
an' the livin' fountains o' water. Ye're no feard he'll fail you,
my lad?"
She was silent for a minute, then said, "You'll mind Johnnie,
my Johnnie, Maister Ronald; my dead daughter's only
bairn? Aweel, his mother gi'ed him too into the Lord's
hands, and yet—" and here a tear fell on the old cheek—"he
wearied o' his quiet hame amid our grand old hills, and left
his grannie in her auld age, and wandered off wi' an idle
companion into the wide world. And it's three years sin' I
heard frae him; an' yet tho' my heart wearies sair to see
him, I can trust him to the Lord and believe. He can and will
draw him to himself yet, even tho' my een should be closed
to earth afore then. Ay, the Lord is a promise-keeping God.
The world is wide, Maister Ronald, I ken that; but should
you ever fall in wi' Johnnie Robertson, ye'll mind him o' his
auld Grannie Cameron, and the Highland glen where he
spent his young days? He had a kind heart, the bit laddie
that I loved like my ain son; and had he ta'en heed to the
command o' the wise king, 'My son, if sinners entice thee,
consent thou not,' he'd been here still earnin' his livin', as
his faither did afore him, as an honest tiller o' the ground."
Ronald felt for the old widow. Well did he remember the
handsome lad, some four years his senior, who had been
induced about three years before by an idle cousin to leave
his home and try his fortune in London. Only once had he
written to the grandmother he had seemed really to love,
and since then no word had come from him, and none knew
whether he was living or dead; but from the lowly hut in the