Category Archives: Sanskrit Philosophy

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Preliminary thoughts on truth and justification in U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya —UPDATED

U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya’s Sūkṣmārthaṭīkā defines `validity’ (prāmāṇya) as “the fact of being about a thing (viṣaya) appearing in the cognition in the same way in which it exists” (ad 1.1.5, p. 77 1971), thus showing an awareness of the distinction between the knowledge-independent real thing and its representation in knowledge. If the two correspond, there is knowledge.

Contrary to the common use of the word viṣaya (see Freschi, Keidan), Vīrarāghavācarya appears to denote the knowledge-independent real thing as viṣaya. This thing is said to specify (viśeṣaṇa) a cognition when this is about it. In the case of a valid cognition, the viṣaya specifies the cognition which appears as specified by that viṣaya.

Now, what happens in case of invalid cognitions? Can it be that the knowledge-independent thing has no impact at all on the invalid cognition? Vīrarāghavācārya distinguishes therefore between the prakāra `mode’ of cognition, i.e., the apparent content of it, the viṣeṣaṇa `specification’ of the cognition, and the viṣaya `knowledge-independent thing’. Suppose two people see a piece of mother-of-pearl on the beach and one of the two mistakes it for silver. Both have in front of them the same viṣaya, which influences (viśiṣ-) the cognition in the same way. However, the prakāra of the cognition is different, being in one case mother-of-pearl and in the other silver. In other words, we have valid cognitions when the prakāra appearing in the cognition is about the viṣaya and invalid cognitions when the viṣaya does not appear in the cognition as its viśeṣaṇa.

Thus, an erroneous cognition is prompted by a certain viṣaya (e.g., mother-of-pearl) and has a different prakāra (e.g., silver), but it continues to be determined by its viṣaya. Why not just speaking of viṣaya and prakāra? Possibly because the viṣaya belongs to the ontological field, whereas the way it affects cognitions is via its determining them (viṣeṣyakatva).

The latter term needs to be introduced in order to avoid the naïve assumption that the cognition represents directly the external object. prakāra and viṣaya are connected via the fact that a viṣaya determines the cognition, which therefore displays the resulting prakāra.

Last, U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya also speaks of characteristic (dharma) and characteristic-bearer (dharmin). The dharma is the presentation-mode of a certain external object. In this sense, the dharma-dharmin pair on the ontological level corresponds to the prakāra-viṣaya one on the epistemic one. A correct cognition recognises as its prakāra the same dharma which actually inheres in a given dharmin.

At this point one might wonder whether the picture of the SĀṬ corresponds broadly to an externalist account. In fact, it mentions an external check (the correspondence between the viṣaya and the prakāra) for truth. However, such account of truth is only normatively relevant. For all practical purposes, truth does not need to be ascertained. U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya is an upholder of intrinsic validity and, hence, the externalist account of truth is accompanied by an account of justification which requires neither external nor internal reasons.
There is also something else which is interestingly new with respect to the Seśvaramīmāṃsā account of epistemology, namely the link between access to cognitions and justification of validity (and here I would be glad to read your thoughts!). In fact, first U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya says that validity is intrinsic because a knower grasps at the same time what appears as the content of a cognition and the cognition’s determining factor. Then, his Naiyāyika opponent retorts that validity is extrinsic, because what appears as the content of a given cognition is not the same thing as what appears once one thinks about the cognitive event.

Then, U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya replies that this is not a real problem, since it is enough for justification that what appears at the metalevel is connected to what appears in the cognition, thus pointing to svataḥprāmāṇya vs parataḥprāmāṇya as being about cognition-objects and their representations at a meta-cognitive level. If the two happen to diverge, then, it appears, an additional step of external justification is needed.

In other words, the picture gets more complex once one adds to the above quasi-externalist account of truth the awareness of validity (see next posts) and U.T. Vīrarāghavācārya seems more open to the Nyāya point of view than Veṅkaṭanātha.

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Studying Sanskrit philosophy as an undergraduate —UPDATED

First, some perspective: “Wikipedia’s list of ancient Greek philosophers (seemingly based on Anthony Preus’ books) lists 316 authors –of many of them not a single work survived. How many works and authors do you think are covered by the label ‘Sanskrit philosophy’?” When I asked this question in class, I got answers ranging from 5 (!) to 312 authors. Karl Potter’s Bibliography of Indian Philosophy (by no means complete) lists 9,631 authors.

A further important point in this connection: Sanskrit philosophy does not only deal with “religious topics” (although religion is discussed in it!). There is a big emphasis on philosophy of language and epistemology, plenty of ontology and logic and then many other philosophical discussions (the only topics being relatively neglected are political philosophy, as well as philosophy of race, of gender etc.).

Thus, we are dealing with a world, geographically, chronologically and culturally comparable with “European philosophy” (400 BCE–1900 CE). Thus, just like no one would expect you to master the latter after a term, so don’t expect that a class will be enough to master “Sanskrit Philosophy”.

In a nutshell: Invest some time with the topic and make fun of whoever among your colleagues thinks that Sanskrit philosophy is a smaller field than “Philosophy of the young Wittgenstein”.

Second, why should you at all want to undertake such a journey? For a few reasons: 1. Sanskrit philosophy (like other philosophical traditions) will enrich you with a treasure-house of new questions and answers. 2. No matter what you will specialise in, having a perspective from far away will shatter your prejudices and make you aware of your unconscious biases.

Third, what does it take? Will you need to learn the relevant languages? Will it be hard? Answer: It will be hard, because philosophy is hard. If it looks easy, you are not trying hard enough. But it should not be harder than any other philosophical tradition, apart from extra-philosophical elements, such as getting accustomed to the idea that male names end with -a. You do not need to learn the relevant languages, although I will encourage you to learn Sanskrit if you will decide to specialise in the field in three years.

Forth, should you decide to specialise in a historically underrepresented philosophical tradition, let me warn you about something else. You will be “hireable” by departments of areal studies (and/or religious studies) as well as of philosophy. This is due to the fact that in the last decades scholars of Sanskrit philosophy have not been mainly hired by philosophy departments, but often by “Asian studies” or “Religious studies” ones. (I will not discuss the reasons for such historical circumstances.) This also means that you will end up having to convince two different sets of people that you are a serious scholar. You will need to show that you are accurate and sensitive to the context when talking to the first group of colleagues, while at the same time needing to show to your philosophical colleagues, every year again, how philosophically cool is what you are doing.

The UofT is not like that, so I routinely forget and am chilled again when colleagues point out that it is not at all obvious that there is “philosophy” outside of the Euro-American world, see below for a nice example (I don’t want to engage with mean or plainly racist cases):

To summarise: If you’ll specialise in Sanskrit philosophy, you will be cheered up by a vibrant community (it’s a small world, apart from India, so we are all very welcoming), and you’ll have the wonderful experience of being a pioneer in many respects (there are literally MILLIONS of texts which expect to be properly studied!). But, you’ll have to learn to deal with objections like the ones I mentioned above.

Colleagues and students: What did I forget?

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Preliminary thoughts on divine omnipresence

Within the paradigm of rational theology (in my jargon, God-as-Lord or Īśvara), can God have a form and a body?… Do They need one?

Possible arguments in favour of Their having a body: 

—Yes! They need it to exercise Their will on matter (and, as Kumārila explained, matter does not obey abstract will)

—Yes! They need it so that we can revere Them.

The second argument does not count (it’s part of the God-as-Thou level), but the first seems powerful enough. If God did not have a body, They would have no influence on the world. Do They need a body in order to be omnipresent? And which kind of body? Surely not a limited one (as a deity could have it), since this would limit Their action (They could act only where the body is). Instead, They need to be omnipresent.

Which kind of body could be omnipresent? What would this entail?

In fact, most rational theologians I am aware of speak of God as being omnipresent, in a non-material way, but still as being able to interact with matter at will (so Udayana). Thus, as typical of the God-as-Lord, God is more-than-human, but very close to humans.

However, time and again theologians came to a different solution to God’s body, one which brings them close to the third concept of God, the impersonal Absolute. These theologians think of God’s body as omnipresent and yet material, because it is all that exists.

This all brings me to a more general question: Can there be omnipresence without a (limited) body?

This seems to demand from us a category jump. Because we need to put together presence in space (usually connected with extended bodies) and absence of a body (if conceived as extended in a limited space). 

I can think of at least three solutions:

1. space does not exist for God and is just a category conscious beings superimpose on the word (e.g., Kant, I am not aware of this solution prior to Kant)

2. pantheist version (God is the world) (e.g., Spinoza, Bruno, Rāmānuja)

3. God has something akin to a subtle body, which is omni-pervasive (vibhū) (Nyāya) 

The third case is often said to be a characteristic shared by God and souls (Augustine, Nyāya).

Yet, the souls’ omnipresence seems to be very different from God’s one (possibly because of some additional limitations due to their embodiment, the original sin etc.) 

What else can we say about Their omnipresence? It needs to be complete in each instance. God cannot be present for, e.g., 1/1.000.000.000.000 in the tree in front of my window, since this would entail the risk of Them exercising only a small amount of power on the tree. Moreover, They would be “more” present in bigger objects and less present in small ones! Thus, God needs to be completely present in each atom though being at the same time distributively present in the whole sum of all atoms. This again, calls for a category jump and not just a more-than-human body, since even a subtle matter extending all over the space will not be at the same time completely present in each atom. 

Thoughts and comments are welcome. Please bear with me if I am late in reading comments after the term starts again, on Monday.

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General and specific rules in Mīmāṃsā?

What happens when commands clash? A standard devise to deal with the topic is the idea of taking one as a general rule and the other as a specific one. In Sanskrit, these are called, respectively, utsarga and apavāda. Mīmāṃsā authors have, however, other devices.

For instance, Kumārila, discusses the prohibition to perform violence and its seeming conflict with the ritual prescription to perform ritual killing within a given sacrifice.
See his Commentary in verses (Ślokavārttika), chapter on Injunction (codanā), vv. 223—224:

तेन सामान्यतः प्राप्तो विधिना न निवारितः ||
फलांशोपनिपातिन्या हिंसायाः प्रतिेषेधकः |
“Therefore the prohibition to killing, obtained in general applied and not stopped by another injunction, prohibits the killing when it pertains to the fruit-portion |

Is this a case of a general rule overturned by a specific one (as claimed in Kei Kataoka 2012, Is Killing Bad?)?

If it were so, we would have the general prohibition to perform violence (F(violence)/T) being overruled by the more specific obligation to perform ritual killing in a specific setting:
F(violence)/T
O(violence)/sacrifice for Agni and Soma

However, this is not the solution adopted by Kumārila. Rather, Kumārila’s point is that the original prohibition to perform violence should be reconfigured as a prohibition regarding only violence as the result of the action, and not regarding instrumental violence.

That is, according to Kumārila, the Vedic prohibition to perform violence should not be read as
F(violence)/T
but as
F(violence as a result)/T
which does not conflict with (instrumental violence)

Comments, as usual, welcome!

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Why do people respond to commands?

Why do people obey to commands? Because they are immediately inclined, in a behaviourist way, to obey? Or because they realise that the action commanded is an instrument to the realisation of a coveted goal? Or are there further explanations?

This question has been debated at length in Sanskrit philosophy, oscillating especially among three main positions. I discussed these positions with some accuracy in previous posts, but this time I would like to try a bird-eye view about what is at stake.

On the one side, Maṇḍana claimed that the only motivator for undertaking actions is the awareness of the fact that the action to be undertaken is the means to obtain a desired goal. On the other, Prabhākara’s followers claimed that we immediately obey to commands because we feel enjoined, and only later analyse what is being asked and why. The role of the mention of the listener’s desire in commands such as “If you want to lose weight, try this shake!” is not meant to say that the enjoined action is an instrument to realise the desired output. Rather, the mention of the desire is meant for the listener to understand that they are the person addressed by the prescription. It picks up the person, who immediately relates with their own desires, but does not describe the existence of an instrumental relation between enjoined action and result. The last position can be connected to Bhartṛhari’s pratibhā theory. As depicted by Maṇḍana, this is a general theory about meaning, which includes both commands and descriptive sentence. According to it, human as well as non-human animals have innate inclinations which make it possible for them to perform activities they could have never learnt but are still able to perform, such as swimming or breastfeeding in the case of a baby. The pratibhā theory can be extended to commands which one would respond to because of an innate inclination.

Maṇḍana’s theory has the clear advantage of being a reductionist theory. By following it, one does no longer need an ad hoc semantic theory for commands, which can be reduced to descriptive sentences explaining the relation between the action enjoined and the expected output. Similarly, Maṇḍana provides a single theory covering all aspects of motivation to act, both in the case of commands and in the case of autonomous undertakings of action. In all cases, one is motivated to act because one thinks that the action is the instrument to get to the expected result. What are the disadvantages of this theory? First of all, Prābhākaras have a point when they describe our first response to commands. We immediately feel enjoined even before starting to analyse the action we have been required to perform. Secondly, Maṇḍana’s theory might have problems when it comes to people who know what would be best for them, but still don’t act. Can this all be explained just in terms of desires and instruments?

As declared at the beginning, the above is my attempt to give a short overview of the debate. Comments are welcome!

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Maṇḍana’s intellectual theory of motivation

Maṇḍana’s thesis is an answer to the problem of how to identify the core of a prescription. What makes people undertake actions? Kumārila’s śabdabhāvanā theory and Prabhākara’s kāryavāda had already offered their answers. Maṇḍana expands on Kumārila’s intuition about human behaviour being always goal-oriented by offering a radical reductionist hypothesis. According to this hypothesis, being a motivator is nothing but communicating that the action to be undertaken is an instrument to some coveted result. In this sense, prescribing X to people desiring Y is nothing but explaining that X is the means to achieve Y.

This cognitive interpretation of what motivates one to act could be accused of intellectualism. What about agents who, though understanding that X would be the appropriate course of action, do not undertake it, perhaps out of sloth?

A possible answer is that Maṇḍana’s theory describes the behaviour of ideal agents, who are able to evaluate rationally what is the best means to a coveted goal. Alternatively, one might suggest (as hinted at at the end of section 11.2) that even such irrational people would be impelled to act, even if they then do not physically undertake any act. The iṣṭasādhanatā is a motivator even for them, although they do not act correspondingly. One might think of the comparable case of someone who intensely desires an ice-cream and comes to know that great ice-creams are available in a given part of the city. They are ready to go there, but undergo an accident and are prevented from going. Although they do not practically act, the knowledge about the ice-cream shop did act as motivator for them.

Correspondingly, pravṛtti is used as a synonym of prayatna `effort’ and indicates the undertaking of an activity, not yet its realisation. Similarly, a person said to be pravṛtta is one who has already conceived the decision to undertake an action, although no movement can be seen yet.

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A preliminary understanding of pratibhā

Within chapter 11 of his masterpiece, the Vidhiviveka `Discernment about prescription’, Maṇḍana identifies the core element which causes people to undertake actions. Maṇḍana expands on Kumārila’s intuition about human behaviour being always goal-oriented by offering a radical reductionist hypothesis. According to this hypothesis, being a motivator is nothing but communicating that the action to be undertaken is an instrument to some coveted result. In this sense, prescribing X to people desiring Y is nothing but explaining that X is the means to achieve Y.

At this point, Maṇḍana introduces some opponents, mainly one upholding pratibhā.

The term pratibhā is found in Bhartṛhari, whom Maṇḍana extensively quotes in chapter 11 of his Vidhiviveka. It is clear that Maṇḍana suggests the pratibhā as an alternative way of making sense of what motivates people to act. In this sense, pratibhā is a pravartaka `motivator’, something causing one to act. It is the key alternative to Maṇḍana’s own proposal that the knowledge that the enjoined action will lead to a desired result is what causes people to act. The pratibhā theory radically opposes this one.

In fact, Maṇḍana’s theory is primarily cognitive (you act with regard to X because you know something relevant about X), whereas the pratibhā theory is almost behaviourist (you act with regard to X because of the pratibhā inducing you to act).

The Prābhākara opponent within Maṇḍana will later appropriate this theory and join it with their own deontological understanding, according to which we act primarily because we are enjoined to do so, thus adding a deontological nuance which was absent in Bhartṛhari’s view of pratibhā.

But what is pratibhā before its Prābhākara reinterpretation? A key passage for the understanding of the pratibhā theory in Maṇḍana before its Prābhākara appropriation is the very sentence introducing it, at the beginning of section 11.3. There, the opponent suggests pratibhā as the thing causing one to undertake an action. An uttarapakṣin asks which kind of artha this is and the answer is at first sight surprising: It is no artha at all (na kaścit). What is it then? It is a cognitive event (prajñā) leading to action.

The point seems to be that there is no mental content, but only the urge towards acting. The pratibhā is a mental state without intentional content.

A further hint is found at the beginning of 11.5, where Maṇḍana responds to the paradox that the pratibhā cognition has no object, but it causes activity. This results, says Maṇḍana, in an undesirable consequence. In fact, if in the case of pratibhā the cognition of the connection between word and meaning plays no role, because the pratibhā has no intentional content, a person hearing a prescription should act independently of any cognition of the meaning.

But can we have purely agentive mental states? Can there be incitement to action without any content?

I am grateful to Hugo David for an inspiring talk on pratibhā back in 2018. This interpretation should, however, not be blamed on him. Similarly, I am always grateful to Elliot Stern for his edition of the Vidhiviveka and for the work we shared in the last 12 months.

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Jayanta on why knowing one’s good is not enough to act

Today I discussed with Sudipta Munsi how Jayanta (9th c., Kaśmīr) speaks of the motivator of exhortative sentences. Why do we undertake activities upon hearing an exhortative sentence?

Among the possible candidates are one’s desire (rāga) for the output of the activity, and the cognition that the enjoined activity is the means to achieve one’s welfare etc. (śreyassādhanatva).

Jayanta thinks that the latter theory is untenable, since one does not undertake activities, even if conducive to one’s welfare, unless one desires it (as we all know when it comes to brushing our teeth or doing daily workouts). The refutation then becomes more technical, because Jayanta explains that the śreyassādhanatva theory is introduced as part of the bhāvanā theory, but this cannot work.

In fact, according to the latter theory, the nature of an action (bhāvanā) consists of three elements (1. thing to be realised, 2. instrument to realise it and 3. procedure). For the śreyassādhanatva, the two relevant parts are the first two. But an activity delimited by these two parts does not have the form of being the means to one’s welfare (śreyassādhanatva) since it is “incomplete” (aniṣpanna). Why so? Because one can only speak of śreyassādhanatva at the end of the process, once the activity is pariniṣpanna ‘complete’. Thus, śreyassādhanatva comes at the end of the process and cannot be the motivator.

Maṇḍana Miśra, possibly because of similar criticisms, inserts the element of desire within the śreyassādhanatva, which he therefore more frequently calls iṣṭasādhanatva, i.e. the idea that an action is the ‘instrument to realise something desired’.

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Uddyotakara on absence (NV on 1.1.4)

Uddyotakara is perhaps the first extant Nyāya thinker discussing six types of contact in his commentary on the definition of direct perception (pratyakṣa) in his commentary on NS 1.1.4. By doing so, he can add a specific kind of contact in charge for grasping absence. He calls it viśeṣaṇaviśeṣyabhāva, possibly `the condition of being specified by a specifier (being absence)’.

Unfortunately, he does not seem to elaborate thereon. Vācaspati elaborates extensively and discusses absent pots on the floor, the sheer floor and all we know after Kumārila. Why does Uddyotakara not elaborate thereon?

Probably because someone else (who?) in the tradition had mentioned this possibility and so readers would have understood what he meant by the mention of the sixth kind of contact.

Moreover, is Uddyotakara’s viśeṣaṇaviśeṣyabhāva the same as what will be later known as saṃyuktaviśeṣaṇatā ‘the fact of being an attribute of something being in contact [with the sense faculties]’?