MUSLIM INTELLECTUAL: A STUDY OF AL-GHAZALI

CONTENTS

Chapter One

THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECTUAL 1

Chapter Two

THE WORLD OF AL-GHAZALI

1 The Political Background 7

2 The Religious and Intellectual Background 14

3 Al-Ghazali’s Early Life 19

Chapter Three

THE ENCOUNTER WITH PHILOSOPHY

1 The Philosophical Movement in the Islamic World 25

2 The Social Relevance of Philosophical Ideas 35

3 Al-Ghazali’s Period of Scepticism 47

4 “The Inconsistency of the Philosophers” 57

5 The Introduction of Logic into Theology 65

Chapter Four

TRUTH FROM THE CHARISMATIC LEADER

1 Isma’ilite Doctrine in its Political Setting 74

2 The Intellectual Defence of Sunnism 82

Chapter Five

THE REAPPRAISAL OF THEOLOGY

1 The Achievements of Islamic Theology 88

2 Theologians and Governments 98

3 Al-Ghazali’s Critique of the Scholar-Jurists 108

4 Dogmatic Theology from a New Standpoint 117

Chapter Six

THE BITTERNESS OF

WORLDLY SUCCESS

1 The Sufi Movement 128

2 The Crisis of 1095 133

3 Life as a Sufi 143

4 “The Revival of the Religious Sciences” 151

Chapter Seven

THE INTELLECTUAL BASIS OF

THE “REVIVED” COMMUNITY

1 The Intellectual Class and the Conception of Knowledge 156

2 The New “Intellectual Structure” of the Community 163

Chapter Eight

THE ACHIEVEMENT

1 The Tension between Philosophy and Theology 173

2 The Batinite Challenge 175

3 The Tension between the “Islamic Sciences” and Sufism 176

Excursus 181

Notes 187

Chronological Table; Bibliography 201; 203

Index 207

THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECTUAL

THIS book arises out of a concern felt by many intellectuals. In the desperate predicament of the world in which they live can they as intellectuals make any special contribution to saving it from the destruction which threatens? It was once thought that ideas controlled the course of history, and there are many remnants of this belief; but on the whole it is now discredited. Many men, instead, tend to acknowledge the dominion of economic and material factors, whether regretfully or eagerly. If ideas are powerless, then the intellectual, as the bearer of ideas, has no important functions.

In Islam and the Integration of Society I tried to show that, while economic and material factors determine the setting of man’s life, ideational factors direct his responses to the situations in which he found himself. Corresponding to this function of ideas in the life of society will be the function of the intellectuals as the persons primarily responsible for dealing with ideas. The present study is an attempt to show in detail what this handling of ideas amounts to, and the method is to examine the life and thought of one of the greatest intellectuals of Islamic society, al-Ghazali.

It is convenient to speak of the intellectuals or intelligentsia as if they constituted a single class. Yet as soon as one begins to consider them closely, they appear to be manifold in their variety. There are all those concerned with the handing on of ideas to other people, whether school-teachers, university professors, journalists, broadcasters or writers of books. There are all those

concerned with the application of ideas to detailed situations; almost everyone does this to some extent, but we might think here specially of politicians and civil servants. Even when, setting aside the transmission and application of ideas, we confine ourselves to the creative handling of ideas, there would still appear to be three aspects: instrumental, systematizing and intuitive.

(a) The instrumental intellectual par excellence is the scientist, who investigates our environment and thereby increases our control over it. Even the pure scientist, who does not think of the practical applications of his work, is in fact performing this function for his society. At the present time men are developing the social sciences, and thereby increasing the possibilities of controlling society and other men. (b) Representatives of the systematizing trend are the philosopher, the philosophically-minded scientist, the theologian, the legal theorist, and perhaps the historian where he is finding general rules implicit in particular events. (c) The intuitive intellectual may be said to be concerned with the values acknowledged in a society and their basis in reality. A prophetic leader like Muhammad, who directed far reaching social and political movements, is a good example of the intuitive intellectual. But in the same group would also come poets and other litterateurs, and likewise historians and humanistic scholars. The politician is placed here in so far as he is dealing with lofty and important issues.2

While these three aspects are clearly distinct, they are probably seldom found in their pure state. Systematization is usually a type of activity that does not proceed automatically but requires an element of intuition. There may even be an element of intuition lurking in the results of the scientist, especially of the social scientist. The present study is chiefly concerned with the ideas which are fundamental to the whole life of Islamic

society, and these belong primarily to the intuitive aspect. Because of the intermingling of the aspects in actual life, however, it will not be necessary to label particular men as intuitives or systematizers. It is also to be noted that in so far as the response to a situation is intuitive it is partly unconscious; the intellectual need not be fully aware either of that to which he is responding or of the precise manner of his response to it.

The phrase “bearers of ideas” suggests a measure of passivity, but the intuitive intellectual is essentially creative. Such creativity cannot be avoided. A society is a living thing, and the situation to which it has to respond is constantly changing. Even where the economic and material framework of its life is stable, there is a constant movement of social adjustment which goes to constitute the given situation at any time. The ideational basis of a relatively stable society has a certain fixity, but it is also always undergoing modification in detail, even if only in respect of emphasis. This modification is the work of the intuitive intellectual. Ideas, too, even when they remain ostensibly unchanged, may through material and social changes come to fulfill a different role in the life of society. The outstanding case of this is where ideas, which were originally sound and appropriate_ to the time, become ideological (in the technical sense) through being used to bolster up a sectional privilege which in the interests of society as a whole ought to be abolished. An example in the field of religion is the case of the Pharisees in the New Testament. Their ideas were substantially the same as those of the religious leaders of the Jews some two hundred years earlier. In the earlier period the ideas were an appropriate bastion for the defence of the Jewish religion against the cultural attack of Hellenism; but in the later period they had become a vehicle for the self-satisfied pride, complacency and even hypocrisy which we now associate with Pharisaism.

It is not necessary here to try to classify all the types of adaptation that are required of intellectuals, but only to notice that there are several different types. In so far as the society is a homogeneous one, the main types of adaptation will be to changed material circumstances and to the changed social conditions arising out of the material changes. The adaptation consists in the modification of the ideational basis of the society so that activity in accordance with the new ideational basis is a more satisfactory response to the existing situation. A society such as that of the Islamic world, however, is not homogeneous. Besides the different social classes there are-often cutting across class divisions-groups from divergent cultural backgrounds. Here part of the work of the intellectual is to attempt to find an ideational synthesis which will increase the integration in the society and decrease the tensions. Ideally such an ideational synthesis is a complex of ideas in which each group can find those elements in which it is chiefly interested, and find them in a form which does not offend other groups. The intellectual can only achieve this modification and adaptation in so far as he is himself involved in his society and its tensions. Sometimes he can deliberately bring about such involvement-as al-Ghazali did when he set about studying the views of the philosophers and the Batinites and genuinely trying to appreciate the truth in them. Where there is tension between two sections of a society, there is a place for intellectuals in each section; but the most satisfying and lasting work for an intellectual would appear to be in maintaining a certain detachment from the contending factions.

A study such as the present cannot be completely objective, since the writer’s own attitude to religion enters into his assessment and presentation of the facts. The best way to minimize the harmful effects of this subjective bias is to try to make explicit what one’s attitude is.

So far as I am aware, then, the following three points define the attitude to religion on which this investigation is based:

(1) Human life has significance, meaning or transcendent value. The word “transcendent” here indicates that this value is not negated by death or transiency, not even by the disappearance of human life from the solar system.

(2) This transcendent value is normally given what maybe called an “ontological basis”. That is, it is demonstrated, or perhaps merely asserted, that reality is such that the value is indeed transcendent; for example, Marxists assert that the dialectic of history inevitably leads to the classless society. Whether this “ontological basis” is true or false, and whether it is meaningful here to speak about truth and falsehood, are questions belonging to another discipline. All that is assumed in this study is that the “ontological basis” is a set of ideas which has sociological functions. It might be said, of course, that such an assumption implies that the “ontological basis” has a degree or measure of truth.

(3) The language in which the transcendent value and the “ontological basis” are expressed is closer to that of poetry than to that of science. In pointing or hinting at the nature of reality it is necessarily vaguer than language based on sense-experience. This makes it possible for different religions and sects to refer to the same (or almost the same) aspect of reality in ways that are superficially contradictory. (The extent to which such contradictions are based on “pre-religious” categories of thinking is a subject requiring further investigation.)

II
THE WORLD OF AL-GHAZALI

I THE POLITICAL BACKGROUND

IN a sense the background of the life of any individual is the whole previous history of his civilization. For an understanding of al-Ghazali it will be sufficient to glance briefly at the history of the Islamic empire or caliphate from the death of Muhammad in 632 to the birth of al-Ghazali in 1058. In these four centuries four main phases may be distinguished, which may be labelled: conquests; conversion; disintegration; reconstitution. These phases follow one another chronologically, but overlap to some extent.

(1) The Conquests. As Muhammad lay on his deathbed in Medina an expedition was being assembled on the outskirts of the town whose task was in fact to open the way for the conquest of Syria. For the next two years, however, the Muslim leaders were busy suppressing revolts in Arabia, but in the following ten years the small state with its centre at Medina wrested the rich provinces of Syria and Egypt from the Byzantine empire and that of Iraq from the Persian empire, besides sending the latter reeling to destruction. A hundred years after Muhammad’s death the sway of his successor extended from north of the Pyrenees, through North Africa and the Fertile Crescent to Central Asia (Transoxiana) and the Punjab.

The effective control of these vast territories after the amazingly rapid conquest was made possible by the simplicity of the central organization. The Arabs constituted themselves into a vast army. At the extremities of their domains they had the help of auxiliaries from such peoples as the Berbers, but otherwise the army of Arabs did all the fighting and all the garrison-work. The local administrations were taken over and continued to function much as before. All that the Arab provincial governors had to do was to have direct supervision over the army and then to see that the non-Arab local administration was effective and handed over the due taxes.

The head of this state was called the caliph or successor (sc. of Muhammad), and had inherited the latter’s administrative but not his prophetic functions; the state is correspondingly known as the caliphate. From the description given it will be seen that it is essentially an Arab-Muslim military aristocracy; or rather, only those who are Arabs and Muslims are full citizens, serving in the army and in return drawing an annual stipend. The non-Muslims were related to the Muslim government not as individuals but as groups, later known as millets, and usually with a religious basis; e.g. the Christians of Jerusalem or the Jews of Iraq. Such a group had internal autonomy under its religious head, who was responsible to the government for handing over the taxes. Since it was a matter of honour for the ruler to make the official protection of such groups effective, there was practically no religious persecution. Yet the suggestion that these “protected persons” were second-class citizens meant that there was a constant pressure on them to become Muslims. On the whole the system has worked well and made life tolerable for millions; but it has tended to “freeze” small groups and prevent their assimilation in the larger whole except at a very slow rate (by conversions to Islam). The present troubles with minorities in the Middle East are largely due to the breakdown of the millet system of the Ottoman empire.

(2) Conversion. Islam was by tradition a missionary religion, and was, at least implicitly, of universal validity. Because of its Arabic origin, however, there was a tendency to think of it as primarily for Arabs. This tendency was reinforced during the first century of the caliphate by the desire of the Arab Muslims to retain their privileged position as first-class citizens. Little effort was made in the early decades to convert non-Arabs to Islam. When non-Arabs insisted on becoming Muslims, whatever their motives may have been, they had to be attached to Arab tribes as “clients”. This still had a suggestion of inferiority. As the number of non-Arab Muslims increased, their discontent with their status and demand for equality was one of the factors behind the movement which replaced the Umayyad caliphs of Damascus (who had ruled from 660 to 750) by the ‘Abbasid caliphs of Baghdad. This change was not simply a change of dynasty; it was a change of the basis of the caliphate. The body politic was now more explicitly based on Islamic principles and regarded as a “charismatic community”;’ and all Muslims, whether Arab or not, were full citizens. The establishment of the ‘Abbasid caliphate thus reflected the fact that many nonArabs had been converted to Islam.

Yet the change of dynasty also meant in various ways a return to Persian ideas of autocratic government. Under the Umayyads power had been shared between the new Islamic aristocracy (who received higher stipends because they or their ancestors had become Muslims at an early date) and sections of the old Arab aristocracy. At many points actions had been based on traditional Arab political ideas, derived from experience with tribes and confederations of tribes; but in several ways this was unsatisfactory, and unsuited for a vast empire. Under the earlier ‘Abbasids power was almost exclusively in the hands of the caliph and his court. Since membership of the court was virtually in the gift of the caliph, this meant that power was in the hands of the caliph and one or two other men, such as the Barmakid viziers; how far the caliph had to share his power depended on his strength and capacity for controlling affairs. Within the court circle, that is, within the ruling institution, there was practically no check on the autocratic decisions of the caliph; and contemporary chronicles depict a naked struggle for power in which nothing was barred. On the other hand, the relations between the ruling institution and those ruled were largely determined by Islamic principles as stated in the Shai a or revealed law. The general acceptance of Islamic principles outside the court circle produced during the next century or two a high degree of homogeneity in the vast and varied empire.

(3) Disintegration. After the first enthusiasm had waned the ‘Abbasids found it increasingly difficult to exercise effective control over their domains. Provincial governors had to be given large powers, including the command of considerable armies. If they disliked some order from the caliph, they could hardly be forced to obey it. They tended to present the caliph with a series of faits accomplis, such as the extension of the boundaries of their province, which he was obliged to ratify. At length demands came that a son should succeed to the governorship, and the caliph had to accede. Thus there came into being local dynasties, for all practical purposes autonomous, but making a formal acknowledgement of the supremacy of the caliph. This description is specially applicable to the east, where there are four dynasties which deserve to be mentioned.

(a) Tahirids. Five men (four generations) of the Tahirid family maintained themselves as governors of Khurasan from 820 to 872. From the standpoint of the present study it is worth noting that the Tahirids, by making Nishapur their capital, gave a fillip to its development as an intellectual and cultural centre. Their downfall resulted not from any action of the caliph but from military defeat by the first of the Saffarids.

(b) Saffarids. Three men of the Saflaarid family, starting shortly before 868 from the governorship of Sijistan (roughly southern Afghanistan), extended their rule (by 872) to most of southern and eastern Persia up to the Oxus, and maintained themselves there until about 903.

(c) Samanids. The Samanid family is reckoned as having ruled from 874 to 999, and has a complex history which need not be described here. The chief basis of their power was Transoxiana, and their eastern capital, Bukhara, became a literary and cultural centre of great brilliance? After they had wrested Khurasan from the Saffarids (900-910) Nishapur became their second capital, not far behind Bukhara in the splendour of its intellectual life.

(d) Ghaznavids. The Ghaznavid dynasty (976-1186) was of Turkish race, being descended from officers in the Samanid armies. Subuktigin became governor in the mountain town of Ghazna (about a hundred miles south of Kabul in Afghanistan), and extended his power both towards India and into eastern Persia. His son, Mahmud of Ghazna (regnabat 998-1030), repudiated Samanid suzerainty, was appointed governor of Khurasan and Ghazna directly by the caliph, and made great conquests in India. Soon after the death of Mahmud, however, the dynasty began to be deprived by the Seljuqs of its domains in Persia and Transoxiana, so that from about 1050 its rule was restricted to Afghanistan and India.

Further west there were small dynasties which developed from provincial governorships and continued to acknowledge the caliph of Baghdad. In the west, however, there were also actual losses of territory. A few years after the overthrow of the Umayyad caliph by the ‘Abbasids, a member of the Umayyad family became independent ruler of Spain, though without claiming to be caliph. Such a claim was first made by the Fatimids, a dynasty which established itself first in Tunisia in 909, and then in 969 transferred the seat of its power to Egypt. The Fatimid rulers claimed to be the rightful caliphs of the whole Islamic world, and sent emissaries into the ‘Abbasid domains to preach revolution. No more need be said about the Fatimids here, since their propaganda (also known as Isma’ilite or Batinite) became a major concern for al-Ghazali (chapter IV).

(4) Reconstitution. The word “reconstitution” is not altogether satisfactory as a description of the fourth phase of the caliphate, but it is convenient to have a single word. In this phase the caliph loses most of his remaining power, though he retains his position as a figurehead with certain official functions and dignities. Real power passed into the hands of a series of warlords, who eventually came to have the title of “sultan”. The first of these war-lords was Ibn-Ra’iq, who entered Baghdad at the head of an army in 936 and simply took over the machinery of government from the caliph’s vizier. As a Muslim historian puts it: 3

“From this time the power of the viziers ceased. The vizier no longer had control of the provinces, the bureaux or the departments; he had merely the title of vizier, and the right of appearing on ceremonial days at the Palace in black with sword and belt.”

Ibn-Ra’iq held this lofty position for less than two years, but in 945 Baghdad was captured by the Buwayhid (or Buyid) family-chiefs of a warlike highland tribe from Daylam, at the south of the Caspian Sea-who assumed the reins of government, and held them, though latterly with a slackening grip, until 1055. Their direct rule extended over Iraq and a large part of Persia, but provinces were entrusted to different members of the family, and these did not always see eye to eye.

The Buwayhids eventually fell before another family of war-lords, the Seljuqs, who, supported by Turkish tribesmen, first made themselves masters of Khurasan, and then in 1055 established themselves in Baghdad. At its widest extent their empire was much greater than that of the Buwayhids, including Syria in the west and Transoxiana and the whole of Persia in the east. This was the situation during the maturity of al-Ghazali, but before his death in 1111 the central government was weakening and it eventually disintegrated in 1157. This is as far as we need follow the history of the caliphate.

This phase of reconstitution has various aspects. While in one way it was the end of the rule of the caliphs, in another way it was a restoration to the central government of the territories directly under the caliph. In this new central government the place of military power was more explicit. The early conquests had been made by a citizen army, but in course of time a citizen army was shown to have disadvantages. In any case, after conversion became frequent there were too many citizens for the army. In practice it was found more satisfactory to have mercenaries, though this meant that the officers of the mercenaries might have undue power. It was becoming clear that political power depended on military backing. Those who were successful in the struggle for power, like the Buwayhids and the Seljuqs, were groups of men-not isolated individuals-who had effective military support that was in part independent of monetary payments. Political power partly also depended on the acquiescence of the citizens, and this was gained by recognition of the Islamic basis of society-acknowledgement of the caliph, participation in worship on certain occasions, continuation of courts applying the Shari a. In major political decisions, however, and in the functioning of the court Islamic principles counted for nothing.

Despite this apparently unsatisfactory state of affairs (at least from a theoretical standpoint), the earlier part of the Seljuq period, especially the reigns of Alp-Arslan (1063-72) and Malik-Shah (1072--92), was a time of comparative peace and prosperity and of great cultural achievement 4 To this happy condition the wise and efficient vizier of these two sultans, Nizam-al-Mulk, made an outstanding contribution. Though nominally subordinate to the sultan, he was practically all-powerful during these thirty years.

2 THE RELIGIOUS AND INTELLECTUAL BACKGROUND

The religion of Islam in its earlier forms was adapted to the social and intellectual needs of Mecca, Medina and Arabia.s But the framework of material circumstances in which it had to function even under the Umayyad caliphs was entirely different from that of Muhammad’s closing years.

The first phase of development, the conquests, quite apart from the effects on the subject peoples, involved a vast social upheaval for the Arabs, that is, the Muslims. The old tribal and clan system broke down; and, since it was through the tribe that a man’s life became meaningful, this led to a religious as well as a social crisis. An important section of the Arabs dealt with this crisis by substituting for the tribe the Islamic community. Life became meaningful for them through membership of this community, since it was divinely founded and was living in accordance with divinely-given mores. But the question of how to deal with those who transgressed God’s commands proved intractable, and there was much bitter argument before it was solved. In the end, however, a way was found by which the whole community, despite the presence of sinners in it, could be regarded as a “saving sect”, so that membership led to everlasting bliss.6

The phase of “conversion” was a piece of social adjustment following on the incorporation of vast territories and their inhabitants in the Islamic empire. While some material self-interest may have been a factor in conversion, the major factor was perhaps the religious one-the attractiveness of the dynamic image of the Islamic community as a charismatic one. Men felt they wanted really to belong to this, not just to be loosely attached to it. The conception of the Islamic community as charismatic, originally developed for Arab tribesmen whose tribe had broken down, was further developed by the non-Arab Muslims. The distinctive excellences of the community, especially its possession in the Shari’a of a divinely-revealed law or rather set of practices, were linked with its charismatic nature. Zeal for the charismatic community was an important factor behind the incredible intellectual efforts expended in the elaboration of the Shari’a.

In the course of elaborating the Sharia something else was also done. Many of the new converts came from a higher cultural level than the Arabs, and naturally retained most of their culture. The pious scholars in whose hands the Shari’a took shape not merely developed the principles found in the Qur’an by adding to them the Traditions, that is, anecdotes about Muhammad’s words and practices. Somehow or other, almost without any conscious deception, these scholars managed to include among the Traditions much of the inherited wisdom of the Middle East, transmitted through Christian, Jewish, Gnostic and other sources. To the modern student this is all the more remarkable since Muslims had a complex system of criticism of Traditions. Careful examination, however, shows that this system was not aimed at ascertaining objective historical fact, but at excluding the views of the eccentrics or “lunatic fringe”; and this it largely succeeded in doing. The effect of systematic criticism was in fact to stabilize the Islamic religion on a new ideational basis, namely, that amalgam of Qur’anic principle, early practice and older lore which had come to be accepted by the main body of Muslims round about the year 8oo. This amalgam, it is to be noted, did not include the higher learning of the Middle East, such as Greek philosophy and science; and the correct attitude to these “ foreign “ sciences is one of the problems which al-Ghazali had to tackle.

By these ideational developments the religion of Islam adapted itself with considerable adequacy to the changes of the first two phases of conquest and conversion. The point where its adaptation had been least adequate was within the ruling institution. There Persian traditions of autocracy and the unprincipled use of power had become dominant, even though in the relations of the rulers to the ruled Islamic principles continued to be respected. In the succeeding phases this impotence of Islamic principles in the topmost political levels-so curious in view of Islam’s reputation in Europe of being a political religion-contributed to the difficulties of the intellectual class, and so to the major problem al-Ghazali had to solve.

It would be convenient to describe with similar brevity the religious and ideational repercussions of the third and fourth historical stages (of disintegration and reconstitution); but unfortunately it is not possible. These repercussions have not yet been properly investigated from the standpoint of this study. Moreover, their investigation cannot be altogether separated from the problem of al-Ghazali himself. As our understanding of this great man increases, we get more light on what had been happening in the two centuries or so before his birth. The economic, political, social, intellectual and religious happenings of these centuries made the setting in which his life had to be lived. It is part of the aim of this study to discover the salient features of that setting and what had most contributed to making them what they were. At this preliminary stage in the investigation three points may be noted.

(a) The standard Islamic ideational system had taken root nearly everywhere. The war-lords were under the necessity of recognizing it publicly in all their dealings with the populace. Consequently the disintegration of the caliphate under the war-lords led not to a diminution of Islamic intellectual culture but to its encouragement in numerous local centres. Among the most vigorous of these centres was Nishapur and the surrounding region, where al-Ghazali’s early life was spent.

(b) In the fourth phase, and also in the third phase though less obviously, supreme rule belonged to superior military force. This happened in a community which had hitherto been regarded as charismatic or divinely-constituted. Did it mean that the community lost its charismatic nature? Was the difficulty a serious one for the men of the time?

(c) Al-Ghazali’s abandonment of the standard career of a religious intellectual or scholar-jurist8 suggests that there was something wrong with this career. Was it that it implied subservience to godless rulers? Were the intellectuals trying to find the significance of their lives in a framework in which Islam was irrelevant? Was the difficulty that the Shari’a, whose ostensible purpose was to direct the affairs of the body politic, obviously did not do this?

Al-Ghazali himself in his autobiography speaks of four groups of men who were trying to find an adequate response to the situation, and we can do no better than follow his guidance and investigate the attitudes of these four groups: the philosophers; the Batinites or Isma’ilites; the theologians (among whom we may make a further distinction between Ash’arites and Hanbalites); the Sufis or mystics.

It remains to say a word about a fifth possible response to the situation, a response in which al-Ghazali might have been interested but in fact was not-the Persian renascence. Before the Arab conquest of Persia the Zoroastrian clergy, to preserve their power as an intellectual class, had become closely allied with the rulers and subservient to them. In so doing they had largely become cutoff from the ordinary people. When the phase of conversion began, therefore, it was not surprising that many Persians became Muslims. The Persian Muslims had much to do with the establishing of the ‘Abbasid dynasty, and in return the equality of all Muslims, Arab and non-Arab, came to be generally recognized. After a time there was a movement among the secretary class or civil service which maintained the inferiority of the Arabs; but this Shu’ubite movement, as it was called, was chiefly a literary movement, it would seem, without much political influence. Other forms of Persian self-assertion are connected with Manichaeanism and with certain sects of Shi‘ite Islam.9

The real awakening of the Persian spirit, however, did not come until after the phase of disintegration. Local or provincial dynasties, especially the Samanids, were a focus for hopes and aspirations. It should not be supposed, of course, that there already was a Persian nationalism comparable to the nationalisms of the nineteenth century. There was potentially something similar to these nationalisms, but it had to become conscious of itself. The chief part in bringing about this national selfawareness was played by Firdawsi (d. 1020-1025). His great epic, the Shah-ndma, welded many local traditions into a unity and gave men of Persian descent a renewed enthusiasm for the perennial mission of Iran-defence of civilization from the inroads of Turan, the Turkish “barbarians” from the great steppes. This was a mission which could be combined with membership of the Islamic empire, though one imagines that the Persians would have found it difficult to go on for centuries serving these two masters, Persian secular aggrandizement and the extension of Islam.

In favourable circumstances this Persian movement might have grown and become of much political significance. Circumstances were against it, however. Before Firdawsi had completed his great poem the sun of the Samanids was setting, and in the ascendant was the star of a Muslim Turkish general, Mahmud of Ghazna. Indeed, Mallmud became Firdawsi’s patron, though it is not surprising in view of his Turkish origin that he and the poet fell out.10 He was soon followed by the Seljuqs, more Muslim Turks. With Persia largely under Turkish rule Firdawsi’s conception of the roles of Iran and Turan had become no more than a political mirage. Persians had become weaker politically, and in their place Turks were now the military defenders of Muslim civilization. This was the position from a few years before al-Ghazali’s birth, and it is thus understandable that, though he must have had much Persian blood in his veins, he never seems to have been attracted by a “Persian” solution of current problems or even to have shown special interest in things Persian. 10a

3 AL-GHAZALI’S EARLY LIFE

The central figure of this study was born in 1058, four and a half centuries after the migration of Muhammad from Mecca to Medina, and three years after the establishment of Seljuq rule in Baghdad. His birth-place was the town or district of Tus, near the modern Meshed in north-east Persia. His name was Muhammad, and he was son of Muhammad, son of Muhammad; he had the honorific title (kunya) of Abu-Hamid, meaning father of Hamid but not necessarily implying that he had a son of this name (certainly only daughters survived him). He is best known as al-Ghazali, the Ghazalite, possibly meaning the man from Ghazala, an otherwise unknown village in the region of Tus;11 he is sometimes also called at-Tusi, the Tusite. He had one brother, Ahmad, who became a distinguished scholar and mystic, and several sisters.

Nothing is known for certain about his family except that he had a grand-uncle (or less probably uncle), also called Abu-Hamid al-Ghazali, who was one of the scholars of Tus and died about 1043. The family was thus in touch with intellectual circles, as is also shown by the father’s anxiety that his two sons should receive the fullest possible education. The assertion in some sources that the theologian’s father was a spinner and vendor of wool is to be rejected, since it appears to be an inference from the less probable spelling and derivation of the name Ghazali. It may be accepted, however, that the father was comparatively poor. On his death he left as much money as he could with a Sufi friend, charging him to see that the two boys were well educated. When the money was exhausted the friend made arrangements for them to go to a college or madrasa where they could receive free board and lodging as well as instruction. This very brief glimpse of al-Ghazali’s family shows that the family background was not without its influence on his later career. His father would be characterized by the simple piety of ordinary Muslims, based no doubt on a considerable knowledge of the Qur’an and the Traditions which could be gained by attendance at the lectures given freely in the mosques. Towards the end of his life al-Ghazali wrote a book in which he advocated prohibiting ordinary people from attending lectures on theology,12 but this must be taken to apply only to the abstruse rational theology of the time and not to the more concrete forms of religious instruction.

No dates are recorded for the earlier part of al-Ghazali’s education. The normal age to begin schooling was eleven, and he would be eleven in 1069.13 In 1077 he went to an important school or college at Nishapur, the capital of this part of Persia, to study under the most distinguished theologian of the age, al-Juwayni.14 In the intervening. years he pursued his studies mainly at Tus, apart from a visit to Gurgan (Jurjan) at the southeast corner of the Caspian Sea. (Nishapur is about fifty miles from Tus, Gurgan over three hundred, the road passing through Nishapur; these were comparatively short journeys for a great scholar.)15 The story is told of how the caravan in which the young student was travelling back from Gurgan was set upon by robbers. Among the goods they seized were the notebooks, with the harvest of his study in Gurgan. He went after the robbers and pled for the return of his notebooks, which contained, as he phrased it, the knowledge he had gained at Gurgan. The robber-chief scoffed at this alleged knowledge which could be taken away so easily, but gave back the notebooks. The visit to Gurgan cannot have been later than 1074, since al-Ghazali on his return spent three years committing his “knowledge” to memory.

In these years of study at Tus, Gurgan and Nishapur, al-Ghazali followed the standard curriculum of Islamic higher education. This had a predominantly legal slant. The basis was the study of the Qur’an and Traditions, together with the commentaries on these. Jurisprudence was derived mainly from the Traditions. Then there were ancillary sciences such as Arabic grammar, differences between the recognized legal rites, and biographical knowledge of the transmitters of Traditions. In al-Ghazali’s case, at least until he went to Nishapur, the chief emphasis was on Traditions and jurisprudence. In these subjects the standard of instruction in Tits and Gurgan may well have. been high. For over a century Nishapur and the neighbouring regions had been in the forefront of educational development, doubtless owing to the virtual independence of the Samanids and their patronage of learning and the arts,

Instruction in the “Islamic sciences” had originally been given in mosques without any fees, and this practice continued. Gradually, however, special institutions were created. At first they may have consisted merely of a room or hall and a library. In course of time living-quarters for the students were added, and funds made available for their support. To this latter form of institution the name madrasa is given, which may be rendered “college”. The first such college seems to have been founded in Nishapur before 960, and this was followed within the century by several others. The movement of college-founding was vigorously encouraged by Nizam-al-Mulk, the great Seljuq vizier (in power from 1063 to 1092). One source suggests that he was the first to provide “scholarships” for the students; but some earlier cases are known.16 What is certain is that he founded at least nine Nizamiyya colleges, scattered from Mosul to Herat, and that they were lavishly endowed. In 1077 Nishapur had enjoyed relative peace under the Seljuqs for nearly forty years, whereas Baghdad had been the scene of strife, which must have made academic work difficult, till after the Seljuq occupation in log g. It might, therefore, be expected that the level of academic attainment in the region of Nishapur would be among the highest in the Islamic world.

In particular, when al-Ghazali went to Nishapur in 1077 it was to the Nizamiyya college he went, attracted by the fame of the great theologian, Abu-’l-Ma’ali al-Juwayni, known as Imam-al-Haramayn, “the imam of the two holy places” (Mecca and Medina). Al-Juwayni was the son of a professor or lecturer at Nishapur, but was admitted by all to be more brilliant than his father. He was primarily a theologian, and introduced al-Ghazali to theology, perhaps the most difficult of the Islamic sciences. Al-Ghazali remained at Nishapur until al-Juwayni’s death in August 1085, and latterly helped with teaching. Then he went to the camp of Nizam-al-Mulk, and was received by the vizier with honour and respect, though still only twenty-seven. Though one would have expected him to go on teaching in Nishapur, the records suggest that he spent the whole of the next few years at the camp, until his appointment as professor at the Nizamiyya college in Baghdad in July 1091.17

Thus we see that al-Ghazali had an education as good as any to be had in the Islamic world. Al-Juwayni was the first theologian of his time. His teachers in Tradition were not so eminent, but his inexactitude in quoting Traditions and his use of uncanonical Traditions are probably due mainly to his own slackness and unorthodoxy. Education, too, had struck deep roots in the region round Nishapur and Tus, and had influenced many classes of society. This meant that al-Ghazali, while gaining an excellent education, was not cut off from the simple but well-informed faith of the ordinary people. Al-Ju-wayni is reported to have made a statement which indicates how the younger man was moulded by the older in this point and in others:18

“I heard Abu-’l-Ma’ali al-Juwayni saying, I had read thousands of books; then I left the people of Islam with their religion and their manifest sciences in these books, and I embarked on the open sea, plunging into the literature the people of Islam rejected. All this was in quest of truth. At an early age I fled from the acceptance of others’ opinions (taqlid). But now I have returned from everything to the word of the Truth, ‘Hold to the religion of the old women’. If the Truth does not grasp me by the grace of His justice, so that I die in the religion of the old women and the result of my life is sealed at my departure with the purity of the people of Truth and the word of sincerity, ‘There is no god but God’, then alas for the son of al-Juwayni (that is, himself).”

III

THE ENCOUNTER WITH PHILOSOPHY

1 THE PHILOSOPHICAL MOVEMENT IN
THE ISLAMIC WORLD

IN its main outlines the story is well known of how Greek philosophy entered the Islamic world and was partly incorporated into Islamic theology, but about the details there is still much obscurity.1 The aim of this and the following section is not to investigate some of the many remaining obscurities, but to look at the place of the philosophers in Islamic society.

It was only under the early ‘Abbasids that Muslims began to have effective contacts with Greek learning, though within the territories ruled by the caliph this was still alive at a number of Christian colleges, notably one at Gunde-Shapur (or Junday-sabur, about a hundred miles north-east of Basra). The decisive step was taken by the caliph al-Mansur (regnabat 754-775), whose health was not good, when in 765 he summoned to his court a doctor from Gunde-Shapur, George of the Persian-Nestorian family of Bokhtishu‘; until 870 the post of court physician was held by George and his descendants, and other members of the family are heard of subsequently.2 From 765 onwards interest in all the aspects of Greek learning grew in the court circle, encouraged by such men as the Barmakid family of viziers. Noted patrons and amateurs of Greek learning were Harun ar-Rashid (regnabat 786-809) and his son al-Ma’mun (813-833). Under the three caliphs mentioned and their immediate successors a beginning was made with the work of translating Greek books into Arabic (usually from the Syriac translations already possessed by the Christian colleges), and a few bold spirits would attempt to combine Greek and Islamic ideas.

Three main stages may be distinguished in the work of translation. The first is that already described. To begin with, the patronage was sporadic, but al-Ma’mun gave the matter an institutional basis by setting up a “house of wisdom” (bayt al-hikma), which was both a library and a centre for the copying and translating of books. By 850 a fair number of Greek medical texts and several of the works of Aristotle and other philosophers were available in Arabic. Since an Arabic technical vocabulary in these disciplines had to be created, the achievement was considerable, even if some of the more abstruse works were still imperfectly comprehended. The second stage is that of Hunayn ibn-Is’haq (regnabat 808-873) and his son and other pupils. Hunayn was of Arab descent, had studied grammar at Basra and medicine at Baghdad, and then travelled widely in the Byzantine empire as well as the Islamic. From his travels he brought back an excellent knowledge of Greek and a valuable collection of manuscripts. His scholarly standards in translation were of the highest; for him a necessary preliminary of translations was the construction of a critical Greek text. In general the translations of Hunayn and his school reached a new level of accuracy and comprehension. The third stage in the work of translation corresponds roughly to the tenth century. Owing to the development of original philosophical writing in Arabic there was a more profound understanding of the problems and a richer technical vocabulary. Some of the older translations were revised (as Hunayn also had done). Such fresh translations as were made, however, were from Syriac and not directly from Greek.

It was mainly out of the work of translation that the independent philosophical movement grew in the Islamic world. In this movement there are various trends. With the attachment to the caliphal court of the family of Bokhtishi‘, the medical tradition of Gunde-Shapur began to take root in Baghdad. There was a hospital under the supervision of the court physician, and here medical teaching was given. There was probably also some instruction in philosophy; certainly all doctors of the period studied philosophy.

A second important strand was the philosophical tradition of Alexandria. The great college at Alexandria had never had very close relations with its Coptic speaking Egyptian hinterland, being essentially a Greek institution. It is significant that Syriac had begun to replace Greek before the Arab conquest. This latter event presumably led to the withdrawal of the remaining Greek-speaking (as distinct from Syriac-speaking or Coptic-speaking) teachers. The connection with Syriac scholarship doubtless determined the selection of Antioch as a new site for the college about 718, when it had presumably become too small to continue in Egypt. Round about 850 there was another move, this time westwards to Harran (about halfway along the route to Mosul), and towards 900 yet another, to Baghdad. These moves were essentially moves of the teachers, the living bearers of the philosophical tradition, though on some occasions they are also reported as having taken the library with them. From about 850 something is known about the chief philosophers connected with this tradition. In particular there was a lively philosophical coterie meeting in the house of Abu-Sulayman al-Mantigi as-Sijistani in Baghdad in the last quarter of the tenth century.3

There were also other strands about which we are not so well informed. The so-called sect of Sibi’ans in Harran had made some study of Greek philosophy, and certain members of it became involved in the translation work and the philosophical movement in Baghdad. The college transferred from Antioch to Harran, however, seems to have been separate and under Christian direction. In the eastern parts of the caliphate there were also some philosophical studies, which made possible the appearance of a man like Muhammad ibn-Zakariya ar-Razi. It seems likely that philosophical works were translated into Persian at Gunde-Shapur and elsewhere, but the suggestion that works of Aristotle were translated from Persian into Arabic has been shown to be without foundation.4

What of the people who were involved in this philosophical movement? Who were they, what was their position in society, and why were they interested in philosophy?

First of all there were the caliphs like al-Mansur and al-Ma’mun. As they became aware of the “foreign sciences” which were being cultivated within their empire, they must have wanted to gain what practical benefits were to be had from them. Medical treatment had obvious advantages, and so doctors are found to have played a large part in the philosophical movement. Astrology was also assigned a high practical importance, and the contemporary amalgam of astrology and astronomy was much cultivated. Mathematics, too, had its practical use. The same could not be said of philosophy, but it may have been included because it was closely linked with the other branches of Greek learning. In any case it was a part of this new, exciting and in some ways “higher” culture.

Al-Ma’mun had as friends and advisers a group of Islamic theologians known as Mu‘tazilites. Some of these had been involved in defending Islam by argument against non-Muslims, and they soon perceived the usefulness of Greek logic and other Greek philosophical ideas in such arguments. Consequently they boldly engaged in speculation, and interpreted traditional Islamic doctrines in terms of Greek ideas to the scandal of the more conservative theologians. They will have to be discussed more fully at a later stage of this study. Here, after this brief mention, they may be left aside, since they were not philosophers but theologians who to a limited extent made use of Greek ideas.

At a later period than that of al-Ma’mun, minor rulers in the provinces are found patronizing students of philosophy and the other Greek sciences. In some cases they may have been chiefly interested in a man’s medical knowledge; but al-Farabi, who never practised as a doctor, was well-received at the court of Sayf-ad-Dawla in Syria (about 945). In such a case it may be that the local ruler was emulating the court of the caliph; but it is also conceivable that he may have wanted to maintain a degree of independence from the scholar-jurists (though this is a point which requires further investigation).

Of the many Christians involved in the philosophical movement nothing will be said here, since their motives can only be understood in the context of the history of the relations between Christianity and philosophy. Some of the Christians gained a living as doctors, others had positions in their ecclesiastical institutions.

The point on which our attention must be focussed is the chain of Muslim philosophers and the position of each in society.

(1) The earliest of all, al-Kindi5 (c. 800-866 or-873), known as “the philosopher of the Arabs”, came from an Arab family which had held official posts rising to the governorship of Kufa. He himself was attached to the caliphal court, and was tutor to a son of one of the caliphs. He had a large library, presumably mainly of books in the Greek sciences, in which he was an expert. The library was removed to Basra to inconvenience him as the result of a court intrigue, but was subsequently restored.

(2) A pupil of al-Kindi’s, Ahmad ibn-at-Tayyib as-Sarakhsi (d. 896), had administrative and other positions at the caliph’s court, including the tutorship of a future caliph, but had time to write about philosophy.6

(3) After the transference of the former Alexandrian college from Harran to Baghdad a man called Ibn-Karnib is said to have become head of it (shortly after 900?). His father and brother were mathematicians and wrote on astronomy, and he himself is said to have been both a theologian (mutakallim) and a natural-scientist. He earned his living, however, as a secretary (or civil servant).

(4) The great physician ar-Razi, known in Europe as Rhazes (865-923 or -932), completed his education at Baghdad, though he spent the early part of his life at Rayy (near modern Teheran). He worked as a physician at a hospital in Baghdad and at the courts of several provincial rulers.

(5) Al-Farabi (873-950), “the second Teacher” (Aristotle being the first), was born in Turkestan, but eventually came to Baghdad and studied philosophy and other Greek sciences. How he supported himself is not clear, but he lived an ascetic life and may have needed little. In his closing years he was at the court of Sayf-ad-Dawla of Aleppo (regnabat 944-967), occupied in writing books and teaching.7

(6) Close to the philosophical circle stood the widely travelled bookseller Ibn-an-Nadim (d. c. 996), whose Fihrist or Catalogue (of all existing Arabic books known to him, with biographical notes on the authors) is a mine of information about many subjects, including the philosophical movement here described.

(7) A minor figure was ‘Isa (d. 1001), son of the “good vizier” ‘Ali ibn-‘Isa. He was a secretary to the caliphs, and one of the few men in the philosophical circles of whom we know definitely that he had made some study of the Islamic sciences, in particular of Tradition.

(8) From at least about 980 there flourished in Baghdad a most varied philosophical circle, meeting in the house of Abu-Sulayman as-Sijistani, “the logician” (d. after 1001). Students from many different backgrounds interested in one or other of the Greek sciences met and discussed topics of literary, scientific or philosophical interest. Though Abu-Sulayman stood well in the eyes of the Buwayhid prince ‘Adud-ad-Dawla (regnabat in Baghdad 977-983), he appears to have held no official post but to have lived in retirement, apart from the meetings in his house.

(9) Some of these discussions have been described by the host’s younger friend, Abu-Hayyan at-Taw’hidi (d. after 1010). This man was a Persian with Mu’tazilite leanings, and a man of letters rather than a philosopher; he also knew something of Islamic law. By profession he was a scribe and amanuensis, latterly serving as secretary to viziers and other court officials in Baghdad and the provinces.

(10) Ibn-Khammar (d. 1017), a Christian who became a Muslim, was a physician and philosopher who latterly was at the courts of Khwarizm and Ghazna in the east.

(11) Another man who was not exactly a philosopher was the Persian Miskawayh (d. 1030), who was secretary and librarian to several viziers.

(12) A man with considerable philosophical talent was “the Sahib”, Ibn-’Abbad (d. 995), the son of a secretary in Rayy, who rose to be vizier there and made himself semi-independent.

(13) Ibn-Hindu (d. after 1018), another Persian, though perhaps of Indian extraction, was a secretary of Persian princes.

(14) The great Ibn-Sins or Avicenna (980-1037), probably another Persian, was the son of a minor administrator in Transoxiana under the Samanid dynasty. His first interest in philosophy came from a Fatimid propagandist, though he also had some traditional Islamic instruction. An otherwise unknown teacher introduced him to the works of the Greek philosophers and scientists, and he continued to read them by himself until he had fully mastered their contents. The chance purchase of a book by al-Farabi gave him fresh insight, which completed his philosophical development. He worked as a high minister of state at various courts in the unsettled times of the early eleventh century.8

(15) Shortly after these men a self-taught physician and philosopher appears in Cairo, Ibn-Bidwan (d. 1061).9

(16) Abu’l-Hasan Said Hibatallah (d. 1102) was physician in charge of a hospital in Baghdad and also a philosopher.

(17) Ibn-Jazla (d. 1100), a pupil of the last-named, was originally a Christian, but was persuaded by his Mu’tazilite instructor in logic, Abu-’Ali ibn-al-Walid, to become a Muslim. He subsequently obtained an official post at the law-courts.

What stands out clearly from this list is that the bearers of the Greek sciences and the new Islamic philosophy were quite different from the bearers of Islamic religious learning.

Only in one or two cases are men with a competence in philosophy reported to have made any advanced study of Traditions or the Shari‘a; and it may be that even these few had not progressed far. Moreover, those who pursued philosophical studies, unless they were doctors or found a patron at some court, were unable to gain a living from their studies but had to work as secretaries or in humbler ways. For philosophy to flourish as it did there must have been many enthusiasts among them.

The close link between the philosophical movement and the class of secretaries or civil servants suggests the question whether there is any connection between this attraction of philosophy for them in the tenth and eleventh centuries and the interest they showed in Manichaeanism in the eighth century. Then it seems probable that the class of secretaries, conscious that from Sasanian times they had been the bearers of Perso-Iraqian culture, saw in Manichaeanism a basis from which to criticize the growing class of Islamic scholar-jurists, which was threatening to become a dangerous rival.10 In the tenth and eleventh centuries this rivalry still existed, and philosophy also might provide a basis for criticism; but the next section will show that there is little that can be called an attack on the scholar-jurists, only attempts at self-justification with a view to self-preservation. If there is anything in the suggestion above that the rulers interested in philosophy were anxious to reduce their dependence on the scholar-jurists, their support of the secretary-philosophers would coalesce with the latter’s effort to remain independent. What has been said in this paragraph is all somewhat conjectural, but it does not affect the fact of the link between the secretaries and the philosophical movement.

The essence of the situation was that there were two separate educational systems in the Islamic empire, the old Greek one and the new Islamic one. It was not unlike the situation in most Islamic countries during the past century, when there was the traditional Islamic educational system with its crown in universities like al-Az’har in Cairo and a modern system culminating in Western-style universities. The parallel must not be pressed too far, however. There was much less organization in medieval times, and in particular the study of Greek science and philosophy was hardly organized at all except at the teaching hospitals, and it is doubtful whether we are justified in speaking of a philosophical school or college at Baghdad except in the sense that there was a group of like-minded people. There was certainly such a group, however, and there was certainly continuity in their thought. Before trying to say any more about them we must consider some of the things they themselves said.

2 THE SOCIAL RELEVANCE OF
PHILOSOPHICAL IDEAS

One of the basic conceptions of this study is that, whether men are aware of it or not, their ideas reflect social facts and social aspirations. Plato had an understanding of our problem, and in the Republic gives prominence to the parallelism between an individual’s powers and the class-structure of society. The ideal state for him was one where the intellectuals were the ruling class, and in accordance with this view he engaged in politics to the extent of trying to make the ruler of a small state a philosopher-prince. Yet he was also aware of the difficulty of realizing this ideal in practice. There is another strand in his thought which distinguishes between the unchanging world of the forms and the ordinary world of becoming and dissolution, genesis and phthora. According to this strand of his thought the proper work of the intellect or reasonand so, we infer, of the intellectual-is not in controlling the mutable things of space and time, but in dealing with the immutable forms; in other words, the intellectuals contract out of politics, and leave public affairs to those who have the knack. The allegory of the cave in the Republic attempts to explain why the philosophers, who know the realities of which the shadows are seen in the cave, are often worse at dealing with the shadows than those who have not philosophized. These strands were still present in the Greek philosophical tradition when, more than a millennium after Plato, it thrust itself upon the Muslims;’ and the position of philosophers in Hellenistic and Byzantine society was a factor, even if a minor one, in determining the place of philosophers in Islamic society.

(a) Ar-Razi

In surveying the social implications of Islamic philosophical thought it is convenient to begin with ar-Razi (d. 923 or 932), though he was younger than al-Kindi. He stands somewhat apart from the other great philosophers of Islam, being less under the influence of Proclus than they.

Ar-Razi accepts the Platonic conception of the soul as tripartite,12 which implies the superiority of reason; and he has much to say about the control of the passions by reason. Reason is also the source of all civilized life:

“God gave us reason, chiefly that we might attain the utmost benefits we are capable of, both temporal and eternal. It is the greatest of God’s gifts; nothing is more profitable for us. By Reason we are superior to the brute beasts; we subjugate them, and employ them in ways useful both to us and them. By Reason we apprehend all that elevates us, and beautifies and enriches our life; by it we attain our heart’s desire. By Reason we learn how to build and sail ships, and thereby reach lands beyond the seas. By it we acquire the medical art, to the great advantage of our bodies, and the other useful arts. By it we apprehend what is obscure, far-off and concealed. By it we know the shape of earth and sky, and the magnitude, distance and motions of sun, moon and stars. By it we come to knowledge of the Creator, the summit of our comprehension and chief source of our welfare. In short, without Reason our condition would be that of beasts, children and madmen.”13

Despite this realization of the contribution of Reason to the fabric of the life of the community, ar-Razi shows no desire that reason should guide and control political affairs. He advises people not to try to raise their status by engaging in politics. He defends himself against the charge of having consorted with princes, by pointing out that he has held no appointment in the army or civil service, but has merely treated the prince’s body when he was ill, and given him counsel in health. He has not aimed at increasing his wealth, but has been content with a modest sufficiency; and we know that he must have worked incessantly at his medical and other scientific studies and in writing his numerous books. His ideal is what he calls “the philosophic life”, a life of intellectual activity. The rational part of the soul falls short of its true nature unless it “sees the wonder and grandeur of the world, meditates on it and marvels at it, and has an insatiable desire for knowledge of all that is in it, especially the science of the body in which it finds itself and its shape and condition after death” 14

The most positive things he has to say about political life are in a little essay entitled The Signs of Worldly Advancement and Political Power. The theme of this is that certain people are marked out to be rulers of men. Nature has endowed them with qualities of character such as nobility and perhaps a certain personal magnetism which make others follow them and accept them as leaders. That such people should actually rule he regards as right and proper. In this he seems to be inclining to fatalism, for there is something ineluctable about these differences fixed by “nature”. This is not altogether consistent with his general view of reason. At other times, however, he maintains that all men are equally endowed with reason, and on this ground argues against the conception of God sending prophets, since these give knowledge to some people and not to others. This is implicitly an attack on the existing Islamic basis of society.

In general, ar-Razi’s version of Platonism becomes a justification for the kind of life he was leading, a life of intellectual, mainly scientific, pursuits apart from the main stream of society. His philosophy enabled him to think and feel that he was doing something significant. He was allowing the highest or rational part of him to live its proper life. To put it in another way, the aim of human life is to become as like God as possible; God is all-knowing, all-just and all-merciful; and so man must endeavour to grow in knowledge, justice and mercy.15 Knowledge, we observe, comes first. From our vantage point of over ten centuries later we can see that ar-Razi was indeed playing a most important part in the life of Islamic society, but his theory did not account for all he was in fact achieving, nor was he himself aware of its full importance.

(b) Al-Kindi

The most distinctive and most important line in Islamic philosophy-to be roughly described as Neoplatonism on a basis of Aristotelian logic-begins with al-Kindi (d. 866) and leads on to al-Farabi and Avicenna. Al-Kindi’s thought has many similarities with that of ar-Razi. He considers it one of the functions of reason, or rather of the soul, to control the passions; and he emphasizes the distinction between the transient things which are the objects of the passions or sensuous desires, and the lasting good which is the object of rational desire. On the other hand, his conception of the soul (nafs) is more developed and more Aristotelian than that of ar-Razi. Among the points he makes in his Essay on the Soul are that it restrains anger and desire, that it persists after death, that when it is purified it has true knowledge of things, and that its true habitation is in the higher supernal world

A STUDY OF AL-GHAZALI

W. Montgomery Watt

3 Al-Ghazali’s Early Life 19

PREFACE

2 THE RELIGIOUS AND INTELLECTUAL BACKGROUND

3 AL-GHAZALI’S EARLY LIFE

III