The interpretation of Hegelian theodicy that has emerged over previous chapters finally allows us to understand Hegel’s accusation that Leibnizian theodicy is undermined by its ‘abstract’ and ‘indeterminate’ categories. As Hegel’s fuller discussion of Leibniz’s theodicy shows, the root of the problem is that his theodicy is afflicted by two kinds of ‘arbitrariness’: first, Leibniz’s application of axiological criteria to worldly instances eludes rational comprehension; second, Leibniz simply presupposes those criteria, with the result that the mutual implication of good and evil remains an unexplained given. Hegel’s own theodical enterprise, however, is not without its internal tensions. Following through on the logic of Hegel’s theodicy as geared towards effecting reconciliation means seeing it as effecting a break with the juridical model found in Kant and Leibniz: the goal of justification must be renounced not as unrealisable, but as misconceived. Nevertheless, Hegel’s own presentations of the goal of his philosophy frequently betrays a justificatory ambition that marks a fundamental continuity with his predecessors, seemingly invoking a teleological logic, whereby history can be measured by an absolute end or standard. The ultimate assessment of Hegelian theodicy turns, in large part, on whether this should be understood as rhetoric or rationale.

Chapter 5 argues that Hegel’s interest in the Concept Logic is to determine when a concept and its object are in a “true” or fully unified relation. This requires developing both the least adequate logical relation of concept to object, which he calls judgment, and the most adequate such form, which is the syllogistic form of teleology. For Hegel, what best corresponds to its concept is what is conceptually constituted. And Hegel’s model for conceptual constitution is a teleological process governed by some universal. It is argued that the Teleology chapter of the Logic does not reject the artifactual model for teleology but in fact embraces it, for the teleology of artifacts requires that an intention come “first” in the construction of its object. Artifactual teleology shows in a concrete way how the moments of conceptual form can be unified in the objective domain.

The chapter argues for a reading of Parts of Animals I.1, 639b11–640a9 as a continuous argument, divided into 3 main sections. Aristotle’s point in the first section is that teleological explanations should precede non-teleological explanations in the order of exposition. His reasoning is that the ends cited in teleological explanations are definitions, and definitions – which are not subject to further explanation – are appropriate starting points, insofar as they prevent explanations from going on ad infinitum. Aristotle proceeds in the following two sections to criticize certain non-teleological accounts offered by his predecessors on the grounds that they are explanatorily defective: those accounts – unlike teleological explanations – neither begin from appropriate starting points nor entail the phenomena that they purport to explain. Along the way, the chapter proposes an alternative way to understand what “hypothetical necessity” refers to, for Aristotle.

In Parts of Animals II.10, Aristotle introduces an approach to studying the nonuniform parts of animals: “to speak about the human kind first” (656a10). This chapter asks why Aristotle adopts this strategy and how he goes about implementing it. I argue that he selects it because he holds that human bodies offer particularly clear illustrations of some of his scientific concepts, including the relationship between parts and the ends they are for the sake of. As a result, he thinks that beginning with the causal explanations of human parts helps us to develop such explanations for the parts of other animals, especially when it is difficult to do so.

This chapter explores the three levels of material constitution presented in the Part of Animals: (a) elemental powers, (b) uniform and (c) nonuniform animate parts, in order to answer the question whether uniform materials that go into the constitution of animal bodies are produced for the sake of the organism. My answer is negative. At the bottom level, we encounter inanimate mixtures, not just elemental powers, that possess all the non-elemental material properties that may then be used by an animal nature. Aristotle’s chemistry (in the GC and Meteorology) exploits non-teleological processes that explain the dispositions of uniform material bodies. Such materials are then used by animal natures, through the teleological process of concoction, for the constitution of uniform and nonuniform parts of their bodies: the animal kind works within the confines set by the non-elemental material properties. This helps locate the difference between mixis and pepsis (concoction) and to understand why these conceptual tools are used in different contexts by Aristotle.

Is mind a proper topic of investigation in Aristotle’s science of nature? The question is surprisingly vexed. Although some evidence suggests that mind should be studied by natural philosophy as well as first philosophy (metaphysics), Parts of Animals I.1 (641a32−b23) presents a series of arguments often construed as decisive evidence that he excludes mind from natural philosophy. This chapter goes through the relevant text and argues that Aristotle presents three arguments to exclude mind from nature but all in the voice of an opponent. Then in a final argument (641b23−642a1) he responds directly to the third argument, with indirect implications for the second argument as well.

This chapter explores Augustine’s monumental City of God, written in the wake of the 410 sack of Rome, as a response to critics who blamed Christianity for the empire’s decline. Augustine constructs a dual vision of history structured around two metaphorical cities: the City of Man, grounded in pride and temporal ambition, and the City of God, formed by love of God and oriented toward eternal peace. The chapter examines Augustine’s theological reframing of history as linear, purposeful, and governed by divine providence, in contrast to the cyclical models of ancient historians. It analyzes his critique of pagan religion, his nuanced appropriation of Platonism, and his demonology, all of which served to delegitimize traditional Roman cults while affirming Christianity’s supremacy. At the heart of the chapter is Augustine’s doctrine of predestination and his unsettling insistence on humanity’s dependence on divine grace. The City of God emerges as both a critique of Roman imperial pretensions and a charter for a Christian understanding of time, politics, and salvation, whose legacy would profoundly shape medieval and modern thought.

This chapter focuses on those parts of animals that are deformed, useless, harmful, or ‘weird,’ and that thereby challenge Aristotle’s teleological view that the sublunary world and the animals in it are beautiful on the grounds that they are functional, and that they are therefore worthy of our study as well. My account will present three different types of teleological failure that Aristotle identifies in the production processes of animals with such ‘bad’ parts, one of which attributes ‘genuine’ mistakes or oversights to the formal natures crafting these animals. The chapter argues that especially this third type of mistake signals a methodological weakness in the explanatory project of the Parts of Animals as a whole, namely that it overextends Aristotle’s theory of natural teleology to features that could have been explained more satisfactorily by reference to chance or necessity alone.

Ch. 6 New developments in science and philosophy can led to a new natural theology based on induction and probability. Natural theology today requires insights from the sciences, analytic philosophy, and hermeneutics.

According to Suárez, each of Aristotle’s four causes counts as a cause because it inflows being to another, and each has a proper influx. Several scholars regard Suárez’s account of the influx of the final cause as unsatisfactory. These interpreters overlook his identification of the influx of a cause with its causality, and his view that the causality of a cause is an entity, a res or a mode. I argue that, on Suárez’s view, the influx or causality of the final cause is a component of the mode of action, and that this account satisfies the demands of his influx theory of cause. I also uncover some unfamiliar elements of Suárez’s view of final causality: that it is simultaneous with efficient causality and that, wherever an end is a real cause of some effect, its causality is an intrinsic feature of the action by which that effect is produced.

This chapter explores the intersection of legal methodology and beer law, drawing parallels between brewing recipes and regulatory frameworks. It posits that beer law is a distinct legal field, akin to IT law, requiring an understanding of technological and market dynamics. The pragmatic method emerges as the most suitable approach for beer law, emphasizing practical applicability over rigid legal interpretations. The chapter highlights the role of institutions in shaping beer culture and law, using Iceland’s prohibition history as a case study. It discusses performance-based regulation as a potential framework for beer law, advocating for flexibility and innovation in legal structures. Additionally, the chapter addresses the teleological aspects of beer law, stressing the importance of purpose in legal interpretation, particularly concerning trademarks and quality assurance. Ultimately, it asserts that the guiding principle of beer law should be the practical availability of beer, advocating for interpretations that support the brewing and distribution capabilities of relevant institutions.

The introductory chapter explains and legitimates the approach of the book: why does it make sense to write the long-term (pre)history of democracy as a history of two distinct phenomena – pluralistic participation and individual equality – and of their convergence? Why can it be argued that this convergence was not unavoidable and is not irreversible?

I focus on how, for me, big questions such as, “How can we tell whether something is true?” were funneled by haphazard influences into specific interests. Classes on logic got me interested in the origins of concepts. Contact with Piaget’s theory of concept acquisition added a developmental dimension. Wondering about the meaning of words led to the problems of opaque contexts like belief reports. A brush with artificial intelligence made me focus on the distinction between implicit and explicit mental representations and consciousness. My thesis supervisor’s expertise in game theory led me to explore children’s perspective-taking. Work with Heinz Wimmer on the false belief task got me firmly entrenched in theory of mind research, focusing on simulation theory as its main opponent. And to get beyond documenting children’s flourishing achievements I turned to mental files theory to understand how perspectival thinking grows from our basic ability to think about objects.

Columella wrote his Res rustica (c. AD 60/1–5) in the wake of a well-developed Roman tradition of agricultural writing. His approach to the ars distinguishes him from Republican predecessors such as Cato and Varro, however, and reflects the scientific culture of the artes of the early Empire. Columella presents agriculture as an august discipline requiring broad, interdisciplinary knowledge and theoretical understanding of nature. Depreciatory views of agriculture, imputed to other Romans, are explained as resulting from moral decline that has led to ignorance of correct technique. Columella’s discussions of manuring (Book II) and vine propagation (Book III) are shaped by his scientific conception of ars, as he argues that close appreciation of the principles of plant life provides the foundation for good agronomy. Columella’s treatise is not only the preeminent work of agronomy from Greco-Roman antiquity but also witness to the vibrant scientific culture of the artes.

The notion of the “Greek miracle” is problematic for an obvious reason: it implies that some transcendent set of values was present in a parochial section of humanity. While anti-racist arguments serve to historicize this miracle and show how it is explained without reference to the identity of the Greeks, we should be on our guard concerning the potential racist ways in which discussion of the “Greek miracle” may be appropriated. The chapter surveys such racist appropriations and comments that we need, nevertheless, to come up with concrete accounts of the Greek miracle, precisely so as to refute such racism and also, and less obviously, we should recognize the way in which certain processes, begun with the Greeks, have a progressive political valence, the theme of the remainder of the book.

This chapter details Schopenhauer’s critique of a key modern ideology that grew increasingly strong during his own lifetime: nationalism. First, it notes how Schopenhauer argued that ethnic sameness cannot ground any moral obligations of individuals. Second, it turns to Schopenhauer’s critical dissolution of teleological national history, according to which nations are collective agents with a singular fate. For him, nations were not unified subjects with one shared destiny. Third, it reviews his caustic comments on the increased importance of the vernacular in scholarly communication and the attempt to establish an exclusively German literary canon. To Schopenhauer, nationhood was not even a useful category of cultural appreciation. Through this reconstruction, Schopenhauer emerges as a fierce antinationalist who questioned the importance of the nation as a supposedly cohesive community of mutual care, a unified historical subject, or even a meaningful cultural phenomenon.

Global history stands out by its intimate relationship to the processuality of history. As they put forms and structures of ‘global integration’ centre stage, global historians have not only made statements about the direction of history the foundation of how they define their area of study; they also ascribe at least partial explanatory power to them. The chapter argues that there is a lot to gain from stronger reflection on how global historians construe historical change over time. It delves into the theory of historical processes to develop more precise questions about directionality and presents responses global histories may offer to the teleological pitfalls of global integration. It also discusses the dialectics involved in processes of global integration and offers the outlines of a global history more attuned to the (unrealised) expectations and ‘futures pasts” among historical actors and to historical uncertainties produced under the impact of global interconnection. While the directionality/teleology problem poses particular challenges for global historians, it also can help think about multiple ‘guiding scripts’ global historians may use, refine and variegate in practice.