## 1. Life



Chatton's life and career can be divided into four
 stages.[1]



**Childhood, ordination, and philosophical training (birth to
1315)**. Walter Chatton was born between 1285 and 1290 in the
small village of Chatton, just west of Durham, in the far north of
modern England. He entered the Franciscan Order before the age of 14,
and was ordained a subdeacon on 20 May, 1307. He very likely received
his early education and philosophical training in the north as
well.



**Early bachelor of theology studies (1315 to 1321)**.
During this period Chatton finished his early education and was sent
south to Oxford to study theology. There he came in contact with
William of Ockham who was lecturing at Oxford at this same time,
although at a slightly more advanced career stage. Chatton began to
oppose Ockham very early and very vocally, and this opposition was to
last the entire duration of his Oxford career (i.e., into the early
1330s).



**Advanced bachelor studies and regency (1321 to 1332)**.
We have the least amount of hard biographical data for this period,
although it is clearly the most interesting and intense intellectual
period of his life. Textual evidence allows us to argue with varying
degrees of certainty that four of his five extant works -
*Reportatio*, *Lectura* (which includes the separately
edited *Collatio et Prologus*), *Quodlibet*, *De
paupertate evangelica*, and *Sermo de visione beatifica*
- were written during this
 period.[2]
 We have long possessed reasonable dates (although they are wide, in
one case) for the first two of these works: he probably delivered his
*Reportatio* lectures during the academic biennium
1321-23, and his *Lectura* must have been written between
1324 and
 1330.[3]
 The first three works listed above are of primary philosophical
importance in his corpus. During this period Chatton delivered an
important set of lectures in which Ockham's thought is
strenuously criticized (probably in London), completed his training at
Oxford, and attained the final academic rank marking that achievement,
regent master, in academic year
 1329-1330.[4]



**Later career in Avignon, and death (1332 to 1343/4)**.
Chatton is known to have been in Avignon on 17 January, 1333. He was
summoned there in order to participate in hearings against Thomas
Waleys, and eventually he served as an advisor to Pope Benedict XII.
His career took an excellent upward turn in 1343 when he was appointed
bishop of the Welsh See of Asaph, but this good fortune reversed
itself when it turned out the position was not really vacant. That
winter, earthly good fortune gave up on Chatton completely, and he
died in Avignon, late in 1343 or perhaps early
 1344.[5]


## 2. Intellectual World



Three points should be noted about Chatton's intellectual
environment. First, the theological context in which Chatton and his
contemporary philosopher-theologians operated was religiously framed
but not intellectually static or sterile. The central metaphysical
tenets of the faith were treated as fixed-points, not hypotheses, but
mediaeval Latin philosophers varied widely in their attitudes, and
much of this variability is easily recognizable to modern people
- there are skeptics, realists, nominalists, etc.



A second, connected point concerns the genres of mediaeval
philosophical writing. Much of mediaeval philosophy was written in the
form of commentaries or debates with contemporaries (sometimes
polemical, sometimes not). There are no mediaeval 'research
articles' and not many systematic, seemingly spontaneous
meditations on philosophical topics by theologians. There was little
concern, in short, with doctrinal or topical originality, broadly
speaking. Rather, to exposit past masters with clarity and ingenuity,
to match wits skillfully with one's contemporaries - these
were the chief activities of the philosopher-theologians. All
Chatton's written works were commissioned in an academic or
ecclesiastical context, hence all are in this way theological, but
they contain much which almost any modern person would identify as
philosophically interesting and innovative.



Third, it is useful to know that Chatton's immediate academic
and intellectual world was small and intense, shaped mostly by figures
and events at the University of Paris and at Oxford. His primary
opponents, interlocutors, and sources were Aristotle and Augustine
among the ancients, but among contemporaries and near-contemporaries
he cites Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, William Ockham, Richard
Campsall, Adam Wodeham, and Peter Auriol. In particular, much of his
writing is so shaped by debates against Ockham (some of them conducted
not only in writing but almost certainly face-to-face) that his mature
views are nearly unintelligible in their details apart from
Ockham's philosophy, and vice versa. Especially illustrative of
this interdependence is Chatton's anti-Ockhamist ontological
principle, often called his 'anti-razor'.



## 3. The Anti-Razor


### 3.1 Ontological Commitment



Philosophers frequently disagree about what is real. Sometimes they
disagree so profoundly on this matter for so long a time that they see
themselves as members of schools or parties in a conflict, or as part
of larger historical trends that play themselves out over and over in
the history of ideas. For example, some philosophers tend to argue for
all kinds of invisible metaphysical structure in the world -
that numbers, properties, causality, free will, etc., are all entities
in their own right, somehow existing independently of our grasp or use
of them, as real in their own way as the ordinary physical objects we
seem constantly to rely on in daily life. We usually call such people
'realists'. But others see this outlook as a theoretical
extravagance, a needless proliferation of ontology. We tag partisans
of such views 'nominalists'.



It often happens that parties on either side of such debates will seek
leverage against their opponents by articulating higher level rules
meant to govern metaphysics itself - rules meant to apply, not
to the question 'What is real?', but instead to the
question 'What methods of argument are rightly applied to the
question "What is real?"' In other words,
philosophers sometimes argue not about what is real but about what is
the best way to argue about what is real. The goal is often negative:
if a philosopher does not believe in the existence of some entity
\(X\), he or she may try to show that a philosophical opponent leans
on a weak or irrational style of argumentation generally when arguing
that \(X\) exists. Occasionally such debates show an intense
connection with philosophy of language, since one common way to make a
realist argument that \(X\) exists is to say that, for instance,
certain sentences cannot be true or false unless entities like \(X\)
exist. Under the influence of the articulate twentieth-century
American philosopher W. V. O. Quine, this issue - when and
whether certain facts about language require us to admit that certain
kinds of entities exist - is often referred to as
'ontological commitment'.



Quine himself was a nominalist, as was Ockham. Both of them repudiated
certain realist styles of argumentation in the metaphysics of their
own times. Ockham in particular was so famous for this attitude that
we still discuss reductionary explanatory tendencies under the label
'Ockham's razor' - do not multiply entities
beyond necessity.


### 3.2 The Chatton Principle



But as it is usually understood today, this is not a principle that
Ockham believed in or defended; neither is it specific enough of a
principle of ontological commitment to attach seriously and
exclusively to one philosopher. Ockham's actual theory of
ontological commitment was something like this:



> 
> No extra-mental distinction among extra-mental things (*res*)
> should be assumed unless it can be proved (a) by arguments from
> self-evident premises, or premises of indubitable experience or, (b)
> by unquestionable experience of extra-mental things, or (c) by some
> infallible authority such as the Bible, the Saints, or certain
> Ecclesiastical pronouncements.
> 



Since it gives negative advice, telling us when not to make a
distinction among things, it is reductive in orientation, and we might
call it one example of a *principle of parsimony*. Ockham
coupled this attitude to a complex and original theory of how
sentences get to be true. When coupled these two theories yielded
interesting arguments which reject the existence of motion, and of
most relations.



Chatton seemed to think that relying on this standard would yield bad
results in certain cases; in particular he thought that despite
Ockham's insistence to the contrary, certain semantic arguments
could be adduced to establish the existence of a restricted class of
relations. He developed his attack on Ockham and supported his own
ontological commitment to real relations with a counter-razor he
called *propositio mea* = 'my proposition' and an
*ars respondendi* = 'a method of responding', and
also simply *regula mea* = 'my rule'. I shall call
it the 'Chatton Principle', to contrast with
'Ockham's Razor'.



Here is an early general formulation of the Chatton Principle from
*Reportatio* I, d. 30, q. 1, a. 4:


1. Consider an affirmative proposition, which, when it is verified,
is verified only for things; if three things do not suffice for
verifying it, one has to posit a fourth, and so on in turn [for four
things, or five, etc.]. (*Reportatio* I, 10-48, paragraph
57, p. 237)



He states different versions of the Principle in other places, but
throughout his career the basic idea is always the same: we must admit
that there are as many things as are required to make a certain
proposition true.



Later on, due to the Principle's increasing importance to him,
and to Ockham's direct criticisms of it (some of which are
recorded, for example in his *Quodlibeta Septem* I, 5), Chatton
developed a long defense for the Principle and a richer formulation of
it. The richest formulation of the Principle we have is from
*Lectura* I, d. 3, q. 1, a. 1:


2. Whenever an affirmative proposition is apt to be verified for
actually existing things, if two things, howsoever they are present
according to arrangement and duration, cannot suffice for the
verification of the proposition while another thing is lacking, then
one must posit that other thing. (*Lectura* I, d. 3, q. 1, a.
1, paragraph 4, p. 2)



Similar versions occur in his *Collatio et
 Prologus*.[6]



By itself, this principle is trivial, of course, since anyone would
agree that we should posit as many entities as we need. But there is
more to the theory than this. Chatton explicitly breaks his Principle
into two parts for purposes of justification and for application as
well. His full theory can be thought of as a two-stage meditation on
ontology. Stage one is given in version (2) above. To summarize stage
one, we could say that language can serve as a guide to ontology in a
certain way; setting aside the passage of time and the occurrence of
motion - think of an 'ontological snapshot', if you
like - and given a true proposition \(p\), we can investigate
systematically the question of what kinds of things (what kind of
ontological snapshot) are necessary to make \(p\) true, and hence we
can conclude from \(p\)'s truth that those kinds things must
exist. The question at stake here is *truth-makers*. What this
first part of the Chatton Principle says is (1) that the truth-makers
of propositions are things (*res*), and (2) that, under certain
conditions, propositions are a guide to ontology.



As noted, this is all well and good as far as it goes; we must posit
as many things in reality as are sufficient to make the proposition
true, when it is true. But all by itself this simply begs the question
of sufficiency. Chatton sees this and so claims therefore that the
Chatton Principle involves a second stage:


3. Hence it is required to posit a second proposition ... and it
is this: those things are not sufficient to account for the fact that
a proposition is true with which it is consistent that, in whatever
way they are present according to arrangement and duration without a
new thing, the proposition would be false. (*Lectura* I, d. 3,
q. 1, a. 1, paragraph 17, p. 7)



Here Chatton gives us a test for when a certain number of entities is
insufficient to make a true sentence true. His test is phrased in
terms of the consistency of the falsehood of the proposition and the
existence of certain things without another. By studying other texts
we are able to see that Chatton has in mind a kind of *a
priori* version of Mill's methods. We are to imagine, within
the absolute power of God, whether the causal powers attributed to the
kinds of entities in a given ontological snapshot would be sufficient
to make the proposition in question turn out true. If they are not, we
then imagine other entities coming into being, adding each to the
ontological snapshot one at a time, checking to see after each
addition whether the proposition would at that point have to be true.
So long as the insufficiency remains, we add another object to the
picture. We check that the insufficiency remains via
*consistency*: so long as there remains no manifest
contradiction between the existence of the currently considered
snapshot and the falsehood of the proposition, the insufficiency
remains, and we must continue to posit more things. Given this method,
it would seem to follow that, for any set of entities, if the causal
powers of those entities are found wanting on the basis of consistency
and yet the proposition in question were known to be true, then
another kind of entity, with its attendant causal powers, would have
to exist.



At this point we might ask what licenses us to conclude that the
entity whose existence Chatton proves is indeed a *res*?
Can't propositions get to be true and false for other reasons
besides a *res* coming to be or passing away? Chatton did not
think they could, at least in most cases, and his Principle exhibits
this commitment in version (2) above; the only way to add to an
ontological snapshot is to add things (*res*) to the picture.
Hence he relies on and is clearly committed to an assumption which
says that if an existent makes a difference to truth then it must be a
real thing (*res*). This assumption can be found in Aristotle
(e.g., *Physics*, 225a 1-20) and Scotus (e.g.,
*Ordinatio* I d. 30 qq. 1-2, n. 41). Often called *the
principle of contradictories*, it can be stated as follows:
"There can be no passage from contradictory state to
contradictory state without the generation or corruption of some thing
(*res*)."


### 3.3 Ockham's Criticism of the Chatton Principle



Ockham explicitly rejects this assumption as needlessly profligate and
it is precisely on this point that he attacked the Chatton
 Principle.[7]
 Ockham's strategy for overcoming Chatton's (and
Scotus') realist results is two-fold: (1) he reforms the
principle of contradictories by expansion; and (2) he capitalizes on
this expansion by offering an alternative semantic account
(connotation theory) which explains what happens when a proposition
passes from being true to being false.



Ockham opens up the principle of contradictories by deriving from the
proposition, "There can be no passage from contradictory to
contradictory apart from the generation or corruption (of some
thing)", the following expansion:



> 
> It is impossible for contradictories to be successively verified for
> one and the same thing, except (i) on account of local motion of
> something, or (ii) on account of the passage of time, or (iii) on
> account of the production or destruction of some thing. (Ockham,
> *Scriptum* = *OTh IV*), I, d. 30, q. 1, p. 396, lines
> 8-9)
> 



Clearly this is just Scotus' principle of contradictories,
expressed in clause (iii), with clauses (i) and (ii) added by Ockham.
The thrust of Ockham's alteration is to recognize that there are
more ways to account for change in truth value besides changes in what
things there are; a change in time or a change of location can also
explain it. But, if Ockham's version is correct and
Scotus's is not, then Chatton's plurality argument using
his Principle will not go through: we don't have to posit that
\(n + 1\) things exist if \(n\) things will not explain the truth of
some true proposition, since the truth may be adequately explained
simply by the passage of time or the occurrence of change. It is
absolutely clear that Ockham's expansion of the principle of
contradictories and Chatton's 'howsoever they are present
according to arrangement and duration' clause in version (2) of
the Principle above play off each other, and in these formulas we see
some of the intense mutual influence between Ockham and Chatton.



Notice too that Chatton's clause essentially forces us to hold
time and movement as constants, and only *then* ask what would
make the true proposition true. In this way, he forces us to see that
a *res* must in fact be posited in such cases, since there is
no change of place or lapse of time to explain the passage from
contradictory to contradictory. By itself this begs the question
against Ockham, and Chatton's principle has no general leverage
against Ockham. In the end the Chatton Principle had to be
supplemented with direct attacks on Ockham's alternative
semantics, viz., connotation theory.


## 4. Categories and Universals



Mediaeval philosophers accepted the ten categories in
Aristotle's *Categories*: substance, quantity, quality,
relation, time, place, action, passion, position, and state or having.
They wondered, however, whether categories were categories of concepts
or words or things, on what basis one could arrive at all ten, and
whether Aristotle's list was exhaustive. Chatton addresses a
number of questions about categories, positioning himself between
Scotus and Ockham. While Scotus argues that the categories are
primarily ontological - there are ten basic extra-mental
essences or natures - and secondarily semantic (conceptual and
linguistic), Ockham argues that the categories are purely semantic.
Like Scotus, Chatton holds that there are ten basic classes of things,
but like Ockham, Chatton insists that the categories are ten kinds of
terms. What is notable about Chatton's contribution to theories
of categories is that he uses the Chatton Principle to argue for the
ontological classes that underpin the categories.


### 4.1 Semantic Categories



The categories are categories of simple terms, ultimately concepts
(e.g., *substance*, *redness*) but also the words of
conventional languages (e.g., 'substance,'
'redness'), that pick out extra-mental things of various
kinds. Chatton describes a category in the traditional manner as:



> 
> an essential order of predicables, through which the intellect is
> naturally apt to descend from a transcendental concept by dividing and
> compounding to assemble a specific definition of some thing.
> (*Lectura* I, d. 8, q. 1, a. 3, paragraph 118)
> 



A category is an ordered set of predicates, produced by the activity
of the intellect, arranged according to degree of generality from a
most general genus concept (*substance*) down to a least
general species concept (*human being*), passing through the
intermediate levels of more or less general genus concepts
(*body*, *organism*, *animal*). Above the
categories are 'transcendental' concepts like
*being*, which signify the items of more than one category and
are, therefore, even more general than the concepts of any one
category. Below the categories are individual concepts like *this
human being* or *Socrates* that pick out one and only one
thing.



Category concepts are important for constructing the definitions with
which we express the essential properties of things. Chatton's
particular interest are the real definitions of species concepts
- "specific definitions" - and the things that
those concepts signify, which are, to use modern terminology, natural
kinds like human beings and roses. Specific definitions are
constructed by compounding a genus concept and an essential difference
concept. For example, the definition of *human being* is
*rational animal*, where 'rational' is the
essential difference and 'animal' is the genus; the
definition of *animal* is *sentient organism*, where
'sentient' is the essential difference and
'organism' the genus. Two key semantic features, connected
to definitions, were commonly ascribed to category concepts, which are
(1) essential and (2) universal predicates. The terms
'animal' and 'sentient' are essentially
predicable of each and every term falling under 'animal,'
e.g., 'cat,' 'human being,'
'frog,' etc., precisely because 'animal' and
'sentient' appear in the definitions of 'cat,'
etc.



Although categorial items are not extra-mental things, Chatton
mentions classes of categorial things, suggesting there are things in
categories and genera. He explains that an individual
(*individuum*), an extra-mental thing, is in a category if the
species concept that signifies it can be essentially predicated by all
the genus concepts within its categorial line (*Lectura* I, d.
8, q. 1, a. 1, paragraph 93). Socrates is in the category of
substance, in a manner of speaking, because *substance*,
*body*, *organism*, and *animal* are all
essentially predicable of *human being* and *human
being* is essentially predicable of the individual concept
*Socrates* or *this human being*, pointing to
Socrates.



In asking how we arrive at the canonical ten categories, Chatton
argues against Peter Auriol and Ockham's view that the
categories are generated by asking ten different questions of a
substance. On this view, the responses to "what is it"
form the category *substance* (e.g., 'animal,'
'body'), to "how many" or "how
much" form the category *quantity* (e.g.,
'three'), to "how is it" form the category
*quality* (e.g., 'brown,' 'curved'), to
"whose is it" or "in respective of what is it"
form the category *relation* (e.g., 'mother,'
'similar') and so on. Chatton objects to this view on
three grounds: (1) we can ask many more questions of substance than
these ten so the choice is arbitrary without further elaboration; (2)
why limit the questions to questions about substance? Why not ask
"how much" or "what is it" of quality too? And
finally (3) God would end up in all or most of the categories since we
can ask these questions of him.


### 4.2 Ontological Classes



Chatton thinks that there are ten categories and that they are those
ten, namely *substance*, *quantity*, *quality*,
*relation*, *time*, *place*, *action*,
*passion*, *position*, and *state* or
*having*, because there are ten basic classes of real things
for which we construct specific definitions, the terms of which come
out of the categories. The categories are devised to define and thus
neatly map onto ontological classes. Chatton disapproves of
Ockham's contention that there are ten categories for only two
sorts of things, substances and some of their qualities. To establish
his ontological claim, Chatton argues for each class on a case-by-case
basis, employing the Chatton Principle (see above 3.2). He had already
done this in the case of relations in the earlier *Reportatio*,
arguing that we are ontologically committed to certain classes of
relational entities in order to make the propositions "a heat
causes heat" or "the soul causes an intellection"
and "Plato generates Socrates" true. Now, in the
*Lectura*, he argues that we must grant the existence of
substances, qualities, and quantities as really distinct from one
another as well as from relations, which include not only relations
proper but also the six kinds of relations picked out by the last six
categories, namely *time*, *place*, *action*,
*passion*, *position*, and *state*. Here is a
reconstruction of his argument for quantities found in
*Lectura* 1, d. 8, q. 1, paragraph 109:


1. Suppose this proposition \(p\) is true: "it is naturally
impossible for the quantities of two hosts in the Eucharist to exist
in the same spatial arrangement at the same time."
2. Neither substances nor qualities are sufficient to make \(p\) true
because substances and qualities, if posited, are consistent with
\(p\) being false.
3. The existence of substances, qualities, and quantities is
sufficient to make \(p\) true because substances, qualities and
quantities, if posited, are inconsistent with \(p\) being false.
4. Therefore, we must posit the existence of quantities.



Chatton's appeal to the Eucharist, where a piece of bread
miraculously converts into the substance of the body of Christ, is
unsurprising in the late medieval context though striking to modern
eyes. Transubstantiation forced medieval theologians, trained in
Aristotle's metaphysics and natural philosophy, to think about a
number of philosophical issues including the inherence (or
non-inherence) of accidents in their substances but also the
ontological status of quantity. Prior to consecration, the host is a
piece of bread whose substance is bread substance and has various
perceptible accidental qualities and quantities, e.g. being-white,
being-round, having such and such dimensions, etc. During
consecration, when the bread substance has been converted into the
substance of the body of Christ, all the bread's perceptible
accidents remain present yet without being anchored in the bread
substance.



With respect to premise (2), Chatton argues that substances, at least
extended substances, cannot make \(p\) true, since there are no such
substances on the altar at all. The substance of the body of Christ is
present in every consecrated host, on every altar, but unextended
while the extended substance of the bread is of course absent. Nor
does Chatton think that \(p\) is true of qualities because qualities
clearly can naturally exist in the same spatial arrangement at the
same time. The very same body or parts of a body can be white and cold
all over and at once. So, neither extended substances nor qualities
suffice to make \(p\) true. A third entity is necessary and this,
Chatton thinks, is a quantity, an entity of which it is true to say
that two such entities cannot naturally exist in the same spatial
arrangement at the same time. No two quantities, or quantified bodies,
can naturally penetrate one another; rather, the one will push out the
other. Interestingly, Chatton associates quantity principally with
impenetrability rather than extension, conceding to Ockham that
substances and qualities may be extended by themselves and
irrespective of having any quantity. They cannot, however, be
impenetrable without some quantity. This explains why \(p\) refers to
two hosts that cannot naturally interpenetrate rather than one whose
parts are extended to establish the category of quantity.


### 4.3 Natures and Individuation



The genus and species concepts that we find in the categories are what
mediaeval philosophers took to be universals, which following
Aristotle they unanimously agreed are what is "predicable of
many" (*On Interpretation* 7, 17a38-b1). No one
disagreed that the term 'humanity' was predicable of many
particular human beings. The pressing metaphysical question was rather
whether there is a property of being-human, i.e. humanity, that all
singular human beings share or not, which would explain why it is true
to say that Plato and Socrates, for instance, are human beings. The
realist holds that there is some kind of universal entity - a
repeatable and instantiable property - that all the particular
entities or members of some kind exemplify. But since it is obvious
that Socrates and Plato are both human beings and yet that each is a
singular, individual entity, the realist also has to give some account
of how the property of being-human is individuated so as to constitute
Socrates on the one hand and Plato on the other. The nominalist, by
contrast, denies that any such universal entity exists, holding
instead that all entities are just particular.



Chatton wades into the debate between Scotus, a realist, and Ockham, a
nominalist, most extensively in *Lectura* d. 2, q. 5, defending
Scotus' position against Ockham's unrelenting attack
contained in the latter's *Ordinatio* d. 2, q. 6. We see
that Chatton adopts Scotus' basic picture of the metaphysical
structure of substances, both immaterial substances like angels and
material substances like human beings, cats, and trees. In each case,
the particular entities of a given kind, for instance each and every
human being, are constituted by various natures - humanity,
animality, etc. - and what Chatton calls an 'individual
property.' Also known as a haecceity, the individual property
of, say Socrates, is what individuates each substantial and accidental
nature such that they are *Socrates's* humanity,
animality, whiteness, etc. and not Plato's, who has his own
individual property that makes his humanity, animality, whiteness. his
own. The nature of humanity as such is a repeatable and instantiable
property but as individuated, Socrates's humanity is not; it is
utterly individual and singular. Scotus thought, and Chatton
emphasizes this in the face of Ockham's conviction that every
thing is radically particular, that natures never exist as such out
there in external reality. Natures either exist in extra-mental
reality as individuated and singular, Socrates's humanity and
Plato's humanity each being numerically one and distinct from
one another, or natures exist in the mind as universal concepts where
they are indeed predicable of many.



Chatton insists that despite the fact that Socrates's humanity
can only exist as individuated, as Socrates's humanity and no
one else's, nonetheless if taken as such and in abstraction from
its instantiation in Socrates, humanity is the sort of thing for which
it is not contradictory to be instantiated by another individual, like
Plato. The reason, he thinks, is that the definition of
Socrates's humanity, definable as 'rational animal',
is *intrinsically* general, containing no reference to Socrates
that would restrict its signification to his and only his humanity. If
Socrates's humanity were intrinsically particular to him, its
definition would have to be something like 'this rational
animal' pointing at Socrates. Yet, this cannot be the case for
the simple reason that human beings other than Socrates exist and each
of their humanities is likewise definable as 'rational
animal' and not 'this rational animal'.



The upshot of this is that there must be some kind of distinction
within Socrates between his humanity as it is definable by its
specific definition and his individual property (e.g.,
*Lectura* 2, d. 5, paragraph 24). In light of this distinction,
it is, then, not contradictory (Chatton uses the expression "not
repugnant to") to Socrates's humanity to be Plato's
even though it is in fact impossible for Socrates's humanity to
be Plato's. This complicated line of counter-factual reasoning
finds its inspiration in Scotus but takes centre-stage in
Chatton's discussion of natures and individuation. It is not
repugnant to natures, taken as such, to be instantiated by multiple
particular entities of the same kind at once. It is repugnant to
natures, as individuated, to be instantiated by multiple particular
entities of the same kind at once.



It should now be clear what Chatton means when he says that an
individual is in a category. Socrates is the individual *res*
whose species concept - 'human being' - is
essentially predicated by all the genus concepts within its given
categorial line - 'animal,' 'body,'
'substance' - and he is nothing but a set of
individuated natures. Similarly, the whiteness that inheres in
Socrates, whose specific concept 'whiteness' is
essentially predicated by 'colour,' 'sensible
quality,' 'quality' is an individuated nature.
Individuals, or rather individuated natures, fall into the ten basic
classes of things that are signified by category concepts.


## 5. Indivisibilism


### 5.1 Who is an Indivisibilist?



It is perhaps surprising that fourteenth-century theologians and
philosophers were quite interested in the infinite, in continuity, and
in the question of whether certain entities called
*indivisibles* exist and if so how; we use the term
*indivisibilists* for those who attest to these entities.
Especially important indivisibilists in England were Henry of Harclay
(d. 1317) and Chatton himself; they were the first two English figures
to defend indivisibilism in the fourteenth century, a significant
stance to take given that indivisibles were frequently rejected or
given limited reality by contemporaries. These English indivisibilists
were opposed by people such as Adam Wodeham (d. 1358) and Thomas
Bradwardine (d. 1349), basing themselves in Aristotle's
*Physics* and in Ibn Sina (d. 1037) as transmitted through
al-Ghazali's *Maqasid
al-filasifa*, which circulated widely in Latin translation,
sometimes under the title *Intentiones philosophorum*. While
modern people often associate the infinite with mathematics,
Aristotle, Chatton, and Harclay's interests in the infinite and in
arguments about indivisibles usually operated in a roughly physical
context. Despite this focus, critics of indivisibilism drew freely on
al-Ghazali's (borrowed) arguments against
indivisibles, which were rather mathematical and Euclidean in
character, and Chatton and Harclay were bound to respond, especially
since these mathematical objections were discussed by John Duns Scotus
(d. 1308), a towering figure for both men.


### 5.2 What is Indivisibilism? Infinite Divisibility and Continuity



It is fairly easy to give a cursory statement of *what* an
indivisible is supposed to be in this period, and to motivate, in a
general way, what lies behind disagreements concerning them. The root
problem involves a collision between the discrete and the continuous.
There are some things we want to see as absolutely smooth, gapless,
and whole, call them *continua*; however, certain modes of
thinking about continua force us to rely on *discrete* entities
to measure or analyze them. A modern example might be the
geometric line and any set of numbers we lay against it; it is not
easy to relate a set of discrete objects such as the real numbers to
the absolutely smooth line of geometry in a way that is practically
and conceptually satisfying. The medieval debate reflects a similar
collision of intuitions. To take the physical side of the issue
first, motion seems absolutely smooth, time seems absolutely smooth,
space seems likewise smooth (Aristotle declared this to be so in the
*Physics*, and moreover claimed that as it is with any one of
these three, motion/time/space, so too with the others). Again, the
intensification of qualities seems smooth. So we have a handful of
very important quantities that come in various magnitudes as well as
processes and alterations that are *prima facie*
continuous. Mathematical examples of continua from the Euclidian side
include geometrical objects like lines and planes and solids.



However, measurement and analysis of these continua, physical or
mathematical, make us want to posit discrete things, for example,
locations for motion and for space, discrete instants to analyze time,
points help us analyze lines, lines planes, and so on. If on the one
hand such analyses are veridical, then the discrete entities
might be thought to be 'in' the continua somehow, but how
exactly? Compositionally? Only analytically, in the mind? If
compositionally, then physically, or in some other way? What way? If
on the other hand these discrete things do not lie in or compose or
otherwise intimately relate to their continua, then how do they
measure them? What else could they measure?



The stakes are not merely philosophical. Ancient mathematicians had
sometimes conceived of a circle as a regular polygon with infinitely
many short side lengths, and Archimedes, no indivisibilist,
nevertheless declared that surfaces were composed of all the lines in
them. If we think these discrete entities have an intimate connection
to their continua, we may be drawn toward indivisibilism; but then we
must try to say how something absolutely smooth and infinitely
divisible can be related to the self-contained, distinct, indivisible,
and discrete objects that constitute it or are at least in it somehow.
If on the other hand we are more impressed with the infinite
divisibility of the continuum we may have to reject composition by
indivisibles, since while a geometrical line can be divided into other
lines, points cannot be so divided.


### 5.3 Why Argue for Indivisibilism as a Theologian?



The theological consequences of problems raised by continua are more
far-reaching and more practical than might be imagined. For example,
an angel is indivisible, in some way analogous to a geometric point,
but we need to say angels move, and motion is continuous, like a
geometric line. Can a discrete point "move" and by doing
so trace out a continuous line? Aristotle argued strenuously that
nothing indivisible can possibly move absolutely smoothly. But
theology requires us to assert that an angel exists in discrete place,
then subsequently and successively in another discrete place, even
though we cannot say that some of its "parts" were always
heading to the new place because as an indivisible it has no parts.
But then any angelic motion we might be imagining is not absolutely
smooth, but rather jumpy. If angels are indivisible then angelic
motion must be "gappy", and Aristotle teaches us that this
is not motion at all.



Chatton wrote about indivisibles and continua chiefly in the context
of angelic motion, although he sometimes touched on related issues of
*minima naturalia*, condensation and rarefaction, and questions
of whether a will can sin in an instant. Other indivisibilists in his
time used indivisibles to treat problems of celestial motion. All
these governing contexts are fundamentally physical. Chatton would
discuss mathematical issues as required, especially in the face of
critique, but he advocated for belief in indivisibles in physical
contexts for theological reasons; since he thought that theology
needed recourse to real physics involving indivisibles, for him the
concept had to be defended and rehabilitated if possible. Opposing him
in this were not only many of his contemporaries, but also the
authority of Aristotle.


### 5.4 Chatton's (Rather Odd-Sounding) Opinions on the Continuum



When Chatton was forced by critics to wander into mathematical issues
he did not always handle things skillfully. This fact, together with
the authority of Aristotle's anti-indivisibilism and the
explosion of technical and theoretical power dealing with the infinite
in modern mathematics have led modern critics to see Chatton's
indivisibilism as hopelessly naive. Moreover, his
*Reportatio* discussion on indivisibles sometimes displays
confusing exposition and abrupt changes of mind, perhaps under
pressure from contemporary critiques. If one reads only these texts
and thinks of continua in modern terms, the negative assessment of him
seems confirmed.



Moreover, his views sound odd when baldly stated. Chatton claims, in
relation to the question whether angelic motion is continuous or
discrete, that we must investigate the prior question "Is a
*quantum* composed from indivisibles, either permanent
indivisibles or successive indivisibles?" And his response is
that, yes, *quanta* are composed of indivisibles, but *in
potentia*, where *in potentia* seems to imply
an unusual part/whole relationship: these indivisibles are
not naturally separable from the wholes they compose, moreover they do
not exist separately and then aggregate to compose these wholes by
joining with other indivisibles in making them be one thing *per
se*. Indivisibles are in continua, they can be said to make up
that which they are a part of, but not by aggregation or
conglomeration. Moreover, while God can complete the division of any
finite continua, such continua themselves are only *finitely*
divisible! It is this finitist claim that seems most baffling.



Overall, we have an odd-sounding view, and it is hard to see why
someone would hold it. The best way to understand Chatton's
indivisibilism fairly is to turn from his *Reportatio* toward a
different text and to view his opinions as a direct response to
Aristotle's anti-indivisibilist arguments. Therefore some of
these arguments must be briefly exposited.


### 5.5 How Aristotle Attacked Indivisibles



Aristotle's most famous arguments against the composition of
continua out of indivisibles are in *Physics*, VI.1. His
discussion is a bit disjointed. It can be difficult to untangle and
arrange the pieces for interpretation, or even to know how and when to
distinguish different arguments in the text. Chatton focuses on two
arguments in Chapter 1, the most famous of which is known as *the
touching argument* (*Physics*, VII.1, 231a21-231b10)
I present the reasoning of this argument as I think Chatton understood
it below.



The main conclusion of the touching argument is this:



> 
> 
> There can be no discrete indivisible entities composing a continuous
> extended magnitude.
> 
> 
> 



The argument is by cases, and it tries to show that these three
concept-clusters


**discrete**/**indivisible**
/ **composing a continuous extended magnitude**

are completely incompatible.



Upon assuming for *reductio* that discrete indivisibles could
compose an extended continuum, there are four scenarios Aristotle
thinks we must consider. To generate them, pick any two such alleged
indivisibles composing a continuum. Then these indivisibles either (1)
touch a third indivisible or (2) do not touch a third indivisible.
Suppose they do touch a third indivisible. Two subcases appear: they
touch it either (1a) both in the same spot, or (1b) each in different
spots. On the other hand, if they do not touch a third indivisible it
is for one of two reasons: either (2a) they have gaps in between them,
or (2b) their extremities are one.



The touching argument is supposed to show that the assumptions of each
subcase pull apart the above concepts at some junction or other. In
arguing through each of the subcases we will **boldface**
the concepts which are being pulled apart or dislodged, and
underline the lever being used to do it. The destabilization
always comes at the expense of one of the concepts, as we will
carefully note.



For case (1), the lever that pries the concept cluster apart is the
concept of touching. Take supposed discrete indivisibles
*A* and *B*, then consider discrete indivisible
*C*. (It is easiest if we start by trying to imagine *C*
in between them.) That they are all able to touch is presupposed by
the fact that they are all discrete. Since it is possible, let us
assume it is actually the case that *A* and *B* touch
*C*, and consider the two subcases.



(1a) If they touch *C* in the same spot, then since *C*
is indivisible, *A* and *B* must coincide, and hence
cannot compose an extended magnitude, presumably because if two
discrete indivisibles add nothing to the extension of themagnitude then no amount of them can produce any extension at
all. In this subcase the fact that they are discrete ensures the
possibility of touching, but the
**indivisibility** of *C* and its being touched
in the same spot undermine the claim that they **compose a
continuous extended magnitude**. The conflict is with the
**extended** bit. Allowing "=" to symbolize
indivisibles touching and "=" indivisibles coinciding, we
could picture the problem like this:



*A*=*B*=*C*; therefore, *A* and
*B* do not compose an **extended** magnitude



(1b) If they touch *C* in different spots, then *A* and
*B* can remain discrete, but we must conclude *C* has
more than one spot on it, hence is not indivisible. Here discrete
ensures the possibility of touching, but touching in
different spots makes **discrete** and
**indivisible** come apart. We can picture the situation
like this:



*A*=*C*=*B*; therefore, *C* is
not **indivisible**




By the law of excluded middle and dilemma, **discrete**
either makes **indivisible** and **composing a
continuous extended magnitude** inconsistent, or else makes
**itself** inconsistent with
**indivisible**, assuming that indivisibles touch.
The concept cluster is thus completely inconsistent under the
assumption of touching.



What happens when we assume they do not touch? There are two
possibilities and so two non-touching cases to reason through: (2a)
they do not touch because they are separated, or (2b) they do
not touch because they have their *extrema* in
common. Under either assumption we can again undermine at least
one element of the concept cluster.



If (2a) holds, then since they are separated, they can no
longer be seen as **composing a continuous extended
magnitude**. We can picture it like this:



*A C B;* therefore,
they are not **continuous**




The problem now is obviously with the **continuous** bit
of that complex concept; the magnitude they would compose is now
'gappy'.



If (2b) holds then since *A*, *B*, and *C* have
their *extrema* in common, they are really one, in which
case *A*, *B*, and *C* are no longer
**discrete**. The situation can be pictured like this (we
can no longer really use distinct symbols to illustrate):



*ABC*; therefore, they are not **discrete**




Aristotle assumes from previous discussion that there are exactly
three ways things can be in a spatial or temporal order, as he puts
it, can be *in succession*: two successive items either have
their extremities as one (*continuous*; e.g., two halves of a
line) or have their extremities together (*contiguous*; e.g., a
bronze sphere immersed in water) or have their extremities such that
nothing of the same kind intervenes between (*merely in
succession*; e.g., two houses). Case (1) above shows what would
happen if two discrete indivisibles' extremities were not one but
still touched, that is, if they were contiguous but not continuous;
case (2a) shows what would happen if they were merely in succession,
and case (2b) shows what would happen if their boundaries were one,
that is, if they were continuous. Hence Aristotle seems to feel he has
captured all relevant cases here.



Let us summarize the incompatibilities. Assuming there could be
discrete indivisibles composing a continuous extended magnitude:



> 
> 
> (1a) their touching as a whole makes **extended**
> untenable;
> 
> 
> 
> (1b) their touching by parts makes **indivisible**
> untenable;
> 
> 
> 
> (2a) their being separated makes **continuous**
> untenable;
> 
> 
> 
> (2b) their having extremities as one makes
> **discrete** untenable.
> 
> 
> 



Hence, we may conclude it is impossible that discrete indivisibles
compose an extended continuum.



Notice every concept in the cluster gets its due, except the concept
**composing**, which is never contradicted, but rather
frames the whole argument; together with his discussion of "in
succession" it gives us the four cases and helps insure they are
exhaustive. We can detect a nice symmetry in the touching argument
thus analyzed:



> 
> 
> (1) Discrete indivisibles that touch have a problem composing extended
> continua. There are two ways to view their touching, compositionally
> speaking: (a) the first undermines the extension of the continuum they
> allegedly compose, (b) the second undermines their own
> indivisibility.
> 
> 
> 
> (2) Discrete indivisibles that do not touch also have a problem
> composing extended continua. There are two ways to view their
> non-touching, compositionally speaking: (a) the first undermines the
> continuity of the continuum they allegedly compose, (b) the second
> undermines their own discreteness.
> 
> 
> 



Moreover, in the same chapter of the *Physics* Aristotle gives
another anti-indivisibilist argument that supplements or works with or
perhaps overlaps the touching argument (it is not easy to say exactly
what he intended). Chatton tends to treat it as if it is somewhat
separable, or at least as if it requires additional response. We might
view it as an attempt to address the concept of
**composing**. This second argument connects
composition and infinite divisibility in continua, but in an
anti-indivisibilist vein, and can be reconstructed as follows:



> 
> 
> Everything composed of certain realities is divisible into those
> realities as parts, and everything divisible into parts must have
> those parts touching each other while they are in it. Now continua are
> composed either of divisible realities or indivisible realities. If
> into divisible realities, then these parts touch by sharing a
> boundary, and there is no problem; they form a continuum and are
> themselves divisible, in fact infinitely divisible. If into
> indivisible realities, then these realities must touch, and we have
> all the problems the touching argument brought out under cases (1a)
> and (1b). Therefore, continua are composed exclusively of divisibles,
> are divisible exclusively into divisibles, and are infinitely
> divisible. (see *Physics*, VII.1, 231b10-17)
> 
> 
> 



We can distill all of this into a single statement resembling a
slogan:



> 
> 
> Discrete indivisibles have a problem composing extended continua:
> insofar as they are indivisible, they cannot compose anything
> extended; insofar as they are discrete, they cannot compose anything
> continuous.
> 
> 
> 



The slogan makes it easy to understand why Aristotle's
anti-indivisibilist arguments were felt by many in Chatton's
time to be decisive on the issue of indivisibles and the continuum.
When stated in this way anti-indivisibilism sounds almost like common
sense. But Chatton thought this was an illusion.


### 5.6 Chatton's Response to Aristotle in Four Conclusions



Chatton thought the touching argument could be defanged in one move.
Looking carefully at Aristotle's arguments Chatton notices that
the discreteness of the indivisibles and a kind of temporal notion of
composition are really doing most of the work. Aristotle is imagining
what would happen if small, discrete, separated, independently
existing things would come together and make a continuum; he is
thinking of Democritus in particular, and of his atoms, existing
*in actu* apart from anything they might compose. But this view
has very little relevance to what Chatton was trying to do with
indivisibles in theology. Although the motion of an indivisible may be
problematic and needs to be clarified, the first step to getting
indivisibles positively involved in the physics of angelic and
celestial motion is simply to reverse their banishment by Aristotle.
Chatton did not oppose the touching argument merely because he was
forced to when his critics raised it against him; rather
Chatton's treatment of indivisibles denies the relevance of the
touching argument because he thinks the perceived universality of its
conclusion is merely illusory.



In *Quaestio de compositione continui*, a text which dates from
the 1320's and which contains a better organized and clearer
discussion than his *Reportatio* of the same time period,
Chatton (or possibly one of his followers) offers four conclusions,
each of which sounds a bit strange in isolation, but which make sense
in the context of the touching argument. First we quote him, then give
some analysis that may relieve some of the strangeness:



> 
> 
> **Conclusion #1:** ...I hold three conclusions. First,
> that no continuum is composed of indivisibles existing *in
> actu*, because there is a contradiction between the terms
> "continuum" and "an indivisible *in
> actu*". This is because if there is a continuum, its parts
> are so related that none exists on its own, actually [*in
> actu*] separated from the other parts; but if an indivisible did
> actually [*in actu*] exist, it would have to exist on its own,
> separated from other parts of the same kind. Democritus says the
> opposite, positing the continuum to be composed from atoms, which form
> a "continuum" merely through a kind of congregation.
> Aristotle proceeds against him for this reason, but Aristotle's
> arguments do not apply to someone who agrees that
> "continuum" and "indivisible *in actu*"
> contradict, [as I do]. (*Quaestio de compositione continui*,
> paragraph 56)
> 
> 
> 



Chatton's main concession here is that "indivisible *in
actu* entails discrete", and discrete does conflict with
continuous, as Aristotle shows. This seems to mean that Chatton
concedes the whole of subcase (2a) in the touching argument but denies
its relevance. Aristotle's case (2a) applies to Democritus, for
example, but not to those who believe instead in indivisibles *in
potentia*:



> 
> 
> **Conclusion #2:** The second conclusion is that the
> continuum is composed of indivisibles *in potentia*.
> (*Quaestio de compositione continui*, paragraph 57)
> 
> 
> 



Here Chatton claims, not surprisingly, that there is another kind of
indivisible; these he calls "indivisibles *in
potentia*", which can compose a continuum. Given the
concession in the first conclusion, it must be the case that these
indivisibles *in potentia* are not discrete.



This is the master key to understanding Chatton's critique of
Aristotle. For it is the discreteness of the contained indivisible
that Chatton denies, and which he views as doing all the work in the
touching argument, not only in case (2a), but even in cases (1a) and
(1b). This fact about the touching argument is easy to miss, since it
may seem as if the conflict between discrete and continuous only
occurs in case (2). But it is discreteness that insured the
possibility of touching, and since both of subcases under case (1)
depend upon touching to get the inconsistencies, without the
assumption of their discreteness (what Chatton calls their being
*in actu*), none of the arguments in case (1) can even get
started. Hence Chatton believes he has, with these two paragraphs,
dispensed with cases (1a), (1b), and (2a) in the touching argument in
one go.



But really case (2b) is also taken care of, since in that subcase
Aristotle simply shows that indivisibles are not discrete, something
Chatton already conceded. Hence, he sidesteps the entire touching
argument with these first two conclusions.



Two further conclusions that Chatton gives seemed strange to his
contemporaries and stranger still to us. They are aimed at the final
argument sketched in 5.5 above, the one relating composition and
infinite divisibility in continua. That argument forces Chatton to
take a stand on how his indivisibles *in potentia* compose a
continuum, and on infinite divisibility in such a way that he evades
Aristotle's reasoning in that argument. His next conclusion
begins the process:



> 
> 
> **Conclusion #3:** The third conclusion is: while no
> creature could, granting the way the world actually works, complete
> the division of a continuum, or divide it into pieces without the part
> they just divided having parts of its own, or see an indivisible
> entity on its own; nevertheless, God could do any of these things, and
> he could confer upon a creature the power to do any of them as well.
> And why not, given that God can perfectly well make physical fire
> affect our souls [in hell], and can make it so that the human eye can
> see a spiritual creature? (*Quaestio de compositione continui*,
> paragraph 58)
> 
> 
> 



Chatton's third claim is that indivisibles *in potentia*
are not *naturally* the bottom level of division of any
extended magnitude. However, God can complete the division of a
continuum into partless parts (indivisibles) and cause one of them, or
indeed any indivisible, to be seen alone (he is thinking of angels
here). Such a thing would be an indivisible *in actu*. This
suggests that for him indivisibles *in actu* are, for example,
what the bottom level would be if God supernaturally completed the
division of an extended continuum; there is no contradiction involved
with such indivisibles "being in" an extended thing or
with them being the supernatural result of dividing it, there is only
a problem with them discretely composing it, which Chatton already
denied. The indivisible parts of true continua do not and cannot
metaphysically precede them in order to compose them. Chatton in
effect denies the first premise of the argument, that**"**Everything composed of certain realities is divisible
into those realities as parts"; continua are composed of
indivisibles *in potentia*, but divisible, and that only by
God, into indivisibles *in actu*. This leads to a surprising
corollary: God can break the geometric line into lowest constituents,
but he cannot restore it from those pieces, since this is a
contradiction.



What recourse does the Aristotelian have at this point? Perhaps simply
to point out that however it goes with divisibility and with the
touching of indivisibles, nevertheless continua are infinitely
divisible, and indivisibles aren't divisible, so they cannot be
integral parts of continua. This is practically to define
"continuous" as "infinitely divisible", but
nevertheless it is a powerful intuition, and Aristotle would certainly
not be the last to insist on it. Chatton's final conclusion is
aimed at this last gasp. He simply denies, on theological grounds,
that a finite continuum is infinitely divisible, and this helps
explain the motivation for what is otherwise his strangest claim:



> 
> 
> **Conclusion #4:** I say, therefore, that in all existing
> things there are only finitely many entities, whether of an
> indivisible or divisible kind. Nor could God make it be the case that
> infinitely many things compose any continuum in the physical world,
> nor could He make it the case that, in any existing thing, there are
> parts composing it so numerous that there can't be more
> [*absolutely*]; but rather, [it is correct merely to say that]
> the components will be so great a plurality that there cannot be more
> *in the particular thing*, because [absolutely speaking] God
> can always make more of something beyond any given plurality.
> (*Quaestio de compositione continui*, paragraph 82)
> 
> 
> 



Chatton's final conclusion breaks into four parts:



(1) All existing things, because finite, have at most finitely many
entities in them or composing them [naturally].



(2) It is logically impossible for any existing thing [even a
continuum] to have infinitely many entities in it or composing it,
where "infinite" means "so many things that there
cannot be more, absolutely speaking". Nothing can be an absolute
plenum.



(3) It is logically possible that a given thing cannot have any more
entities in it as a particular individual thing. There is such a thing
as relative fullness.



(4) The reason for (2) and (3) is that God by his absolute power can
make more of a thing beyond any given number of that thing. Absolute
fullness would restrict God's absolute power and so is
impossible, as (2) claims; while relative fullness is self-consistent
and consistent with God's absolute power and so is possible, as
(3) claims.



The upshot of these four clauses is that no finite thing is infinitely
divisible into parts; no physical thing because all such are finite,
nor anything else if 'infinite' means *so much there
cannot be more in it*, for a given object cannot always have more
in it and remain the same object, and, speaking generally, even if
continuum *c* were composed of infinitely many entities of type
*e*, God can always make more *e*'s.
Aristotle's argument connecting composition and infinite
divisibility uses an illegitimate view of infinity, given divine
power.



Chatton had more to say about how indivisibles touch, and his ideas
were again original and useful enough that even Wodeham, his
staunchest critic, was willing to apply them in certain contexts,
remarking that Chatton's arguments were a rational way to defend
an unreasonable conclusion. But overall we should say that
Chatton's indivisibilism is not an organic theory of structure
of continua meant to undergird mathematics or even physics, rather, it
simply shows a way to go against Aristotle in order to save the
theological situation.


## 6. Future Contingents


### 6.1 A Fatalist Argument



What philosophers call *the problem of future contingents* goes
together naturally with the related and more well-known *problem of
free will and determinism*. In the Middle Ages, as now, we really
find a cluster of several related problems radiating from a single
common conundrum or paradox. One important difference is that the
mediaeval problem has some theological branches that today receive
less philosophical attention. For example, few modern philosophers
seriously consider the seeming inconsistency between veridical
prophecy and the contingency of the future, or whether angels of high
rank can reveal future contingents to inferior angels, but these were
important issues with their own test cases in the Middle Ages.
Moreover, the problem was far more stark, severe, and difficult for
mediaeval Christian thinkers than for modern secular philosophers,
since it was doctrinally unacceptable to solve the problem by ejecting
some element of the paradox - *all* elements of the
paradox were important pieces of Christian doctrine. One felicitous
consequence of this struggle is that some very original and deep
philosophy was created and employed in an attempt to find a stable
solution. I will briefly present the conundrum at the heart of the
matter, and then examine Chatton's own radical and relatively
original solution to the
 problem.[8]



Consider the following grouping of ideas, objects, and events in our
universe (Chatton's usual Latin terms for certain cognates are
distinguished in parentheses):




|  |  |
| --- | --- |
| RIGID | OPEN |
| 1. | necessity | 8. | contingency (f. sg. *contingentia*, -*ae*) |
| 2. | universal causality | 9. | human free will |
| 3. | universal bivalence (=every proposition is determinately either
true or false) | 10. | contingent things (n. pl.
*contingentia*,-*um*) |
| 4. | God's foreknowledge | 11. | planning and working for the future |
| 5. | veridical prophecy | 12. | future contingent propositions (*propositiones contingentes
de futuro*) |
| 6. | predestination | 13. | the undetermined future |
| 7. | providence | 14. | merit for good acts, freely done |



No kind of strict paring between list entries across from each other
on the right and left is intended here. Rather, we should notice three
things. (1) All of the putative objects and phenomena on the left-hand
under the heading RIGID are elements of the universe that are firm and
unchanging, and their existence seems to entail a kind of immutability
of reality; the world cannot be otherwise. (2) Those putative objects
under OPEN, by contrast, seem indeterminate and loose, and their
existence demands recognition of alternatives; the world can be
otherwise. (3) It is common and quite attractive to believe in the
existence of many of the elements on the left and on the right
simultaneously, but it seems clear that the implications of that
belief are often contradictory, entailing that one and the same piece
of reality both can be otherwise and cannot be otherwise in the same
way at the same time. In short, certain mixtures of these elements,
right and left, are nearly irresistible parts of our total outlook on
the universe, but unfortunately they seem to yield contradictions. Not
every pairing of items yields a paradox, e.g., 1 and 8 do not. There
can be both necessity and contingency in the world. The reader is
invited to consider, however, just how many left-right pairings from
these lists do seem both attractive and impossible.



There are as many possible solutions to these paradoxes as may be
imagined, but there are really only three ways out; either: (1) accept
the rigid element of reality at the expense of the open element, or
(2) accept the open element at the expense of the rigid element, or
(3) show that the contradiction between the two is only a seeming
contradiction. Most mediaeval philosophers took this third approach in
their solutions.



By the time Chatton was writing, it was quite common to present a
basic fatalist or necessitarian argument to show that God's
foreknowledge, which seems deeply connected to his providence, is not
consistent with future contingent things and events. Here is
Chatton's version of this standard fatalist argument:



> 
> Herein lies the difficulty of this question - if it were
> consistent with the contingency of future events that God knows future
> contingents, then this consequence would follow: 'God knew that
> the Antichrist will come; therefore the Antichrist will come'.
> The antecedent of this consequence is necessary, as is the consequence
> itself, hence the consequent is necessary. But the [necessary]
> consequent 'the Antichrist will come' is not consistent
> with the contingency [of the future event *the Antichrist
> comes*]. Therefore [God's knowledge is not consistent with
> the contingency of the future]. (*Reportatio* I, 10-48,
> d. 38, paragraph 2, p. 347)
> 



Two things to note. (1) *The coming of the Antichrist* is a
standard example of a future event that is anticipated but which seems
contingent; however, there is no special importance attached to the
content of the example; equally popular was the less dramatic example
'Socrates will sit'. (2) A *consequence* is what we
call a *consecution* today (something of the form '\(p\)
therefore \(q\)'), but in this case we can, without distortion,
model the reasoning by treating it as a conditional. The fatalist
argues that (IF God knew the Antichrist will come THEN the Antichrist
will come) is necessary, and moreover, the antecedent, 'God
knows the Antichrist will come', is also necessary, since
God's knowledge is certain and firm. But if (IF \(p\) THEN
\(q)\) is necessary, and furthermore the antecedent \(p\) is
necessary, it follows by uncontroversial logical principles that the
consequent \(q\) is necessary; hence we can conclude that the coming
of the Antichrist is necessary, which violates our assumption that the
future is open. Chatton summarizes the fatalist argument this way:



> 
> This whole thing can also be made more compact with the formula:
> 'God knew that \(a\) will be; therefore \(a\) will necessarily
> be'. (*Reportatio* I, 10-48, d. 38, paragraph 2, p.
> 347)
> 



This is the argument to be defeated. After brief consideration of some
other views, including Peter Auriol's, which seems to have
influenced him in certain respects, Chatton draws together the threads
of his discussion into a solution that is quite original and radical,
but which he supports only hesitantly, not apparently out of
intellectual reservations but out of fear of falling into heresy.
Although his hesitation makes it difficult to pin him down, a
reasonably secure reconstruction of his ideas seems possible. His
solution has two parts: (1) He offers a counter-argument to the
fatalist's reasoning, and (2) he clarifies the *way* God
knows future contingents.


### 6.2 Chatton's Anti-Fatalist Argument



I present the first part of his solution as an annotated argument.
First, we should state the fatalist argument generally. For any
contingent object \(a\) we have:


1. Necessarily (IF God knows that \(a\) will be THEN \(a\) will
be).
2. Necessarily God knows that \(a\) will be.
3. Necessarily \(a\) will be.



Or, in modern notation:


1. \(\Box(p\rightarrow q)\)
2. \(\Box p\)
3. \(\Box q\)



This argument is clearly valid by application of the K-axiom and modus
ponens, i.e., by the K-axiom we can go from the necessity of the
consequence, \(\Box(p\rightarrow q)\), to the necessity of both parts,
\(\Box p\rightarrow \Box q\), and then we just apply modus ponens at
line
 (2).[9]



Chatton rebuts this argument by denying the second premise. He claims
that when '\(a\)' names a contingent thing, the sentence
'God knows that \(a\) will be' is contingent, not
necessary. His counter-argument is based on two pieces of
philosophical analysis (premises 1 and 4 below), and a theory of
equivalence (premise 7):


1. To assert a sentence of the form '\(a\) will be'
really means either to assert: (i) that '\(a\) will be' is
true, or (ii) that '\(a\) is' will be true. These two
expositions are non-equivalent, since one can be true while the other
is false. [Explicit premise. Chatton claims to borrow this analysis
from an opinion that was making the rounds at Oxford when he studied
there.]
2. If \(a\) names a contingent thing, then option (i) is right out,
since this would entail that there is no reason to take trouble about
the future. [Explicit premise. Chatton draws the fatalistic inference
from option (i) and thereby rejects that option.]
3. Therefore, option (ii) holds: if '\(a\)' names a
contingent thing in '\(a\) will be', we must understand
the sentence '\(a\) will be' to be equivalent to the
following *contingent* sentence '"\(a\) is"
will be true'. [From 1 and 2. '"\(a\) is" will
be true' must be contingent, because otherwise it is no
different in meaning or fatalistic consequences from option (i).]
4. From now on let '\(a\)' name a contingent thing. Now,
the sentence 'God knows that \(a\) will be', properly
exposited, is equivalent to this conjunction: 'God knows \(a\)
AND \(a\) will be'. [Explicit premise. This analysis is
Chatton's original contribution.]
5. Therefore the following expository equivalences hold: 'God
knows that \(a\) will be' = 'God knows \(a\) AND \(a\)
will be' = 'God knows \(a\) AND "\(a\) is"
will be true'. [From 3 and 4.]
6. 'God knows \(a\) AND "\(a\) is" will be
true' has a contingent conjunct, namely the second conjunct.
[From 3.]
7. When a proposition is exposited by a conjunction, if one of the
conjuncts of the exposition is contingent, the original proposition is
as well. [Implicit premise.]
8. 'God knows that \(a\) will be' is contingent. [From 5,
6, and 7.]



To sum up, the first part of Chatton's response comes to
this:


1. 'God knows that \(a\) will be' is equivalent to the
conjunction 'God knows \(a\) AND "\(a\) is" will be
true'.
2. The sentence 'God knows \(a\)' is of course necessary,
but '"\(a\) is" will be true' is contingent,
therefore the conjunction of the two sentences is contingent.
3. Therefore, since 'God knows that \(a\) will be' is
equivalent to a contingent sentence, it is itself contingent.



Two remarks need to be made. First, premise 4 seems to have originated
with Chatton, and he was followed in this by the next generation of
Oxford theologians, for example, Robert
 Holcot.[10]
 Second, even if we accept this argument, Chatton still owes us an
explanation of what the *first* conjunct means in the
conjunction 'God knows \(a\) AND "\(a\) is" will be
true'. On the assumption that \(a\) is a contingent future
thing, we can still sensibly ask, how can God possibly *know*
this future contingent \(a\)? Chatton admits that this conjunct is
necessary, but this fact, together with the firmness of divine
knowledge, seems to violate our sense of \(a\)'s contingency; it
seems we can just raise the problem of future contingents all over
again, focusing on the left-hand conjunct. There is yet another
problem. Does the fact that God knows contingent \(a\) entail that his
knowledge changes when \(a\) comes into existence in time?
Fortunately, Chatton is aware of these difficulties and tries to solve
them by distinguishing God's *knowing* a thing from his
*cognizing* it.


### 6.3 God's *knowing* versus God's *cognizing*



Chatton claims it can still be true that God knows \(a\) when \(a\) is
a future contingent object, provided we understand God's grasp
of \(a\) as divine *cognition*:



> 
> ... [T]he larger proposition 'God knows that \(a\) will
> be' is equivalent to this copulative sentence - 'God
> knows \(a\) and \(a\) will be'. This I will concede, as long as
> the 'knowing' referred to in the definiendum is taken to
> be a *cognition*. (*Reportatio* I, 10-48, d. 38,
> paragraph 28, p. 352.)
> 



Chatton explains his idea of divine cognition by recourse to an
analogy, a distinction, and a claim about all operations of the divine
intellect.



Chatton's analogy is this: *cognition is to knowledge as
apprehension is to assent or assertion*. Just as apprehension
implies the mere grasp of something without additional judgment about
it, so too cognition implies the mere grasp of something, without the
additional affirmative judgment implied in the term
'knowledge'. Hence, when Chatton uses the phrase
'God knows \(a\)' in the above solution, it should be
understood as 'God cognizes \(a\)', meaning that we are
only talking about God's *grasp* of \(a\), not about any
kind of approval, disapproval, agreement, disagreement, etc.
(*Reportatio* I, 10-48, d. 39, paragraph 14, p. 363). In
cognizing, the divine intellect is somehow holding \(a\) without
confirming it, judging it, or creating it. Only one part of the divine
intellect is in play, not divine assent or the divine will.



Another difference between knowledge and cognition is that
*knowledge is necessarily of a present existent, whereas cognition
does not have this restriction* (*Reportatio* I,
10-48, d. 38, paragraph 42, p. 355). The upshot of the
distinction in this context is that God cannot *know* future
objects, for example, since they are *not yet*; however, he can
*cognize* them.



Finally (and this claim he intends to apply to both divine cognition
and divine knowledge), *God's knowledge and cognition are
neither mediated by propositions nor are they generally of
propositions* (*Reportatio* I, 10-48, d. 39,
paragraph 14, p. 363; *Quodlibet*, q. 1, paragraph 36). Chatton
holds that God's intellectual activity is not discursive or
representative in any way, and that the usual objects of divine
intellectual activity are not propositions, but rather real things,
that is, *res*. God does not require any mediator in the
operation of his intellect with respect to creation; for example, he
requires no concepts or propositions in order to know or to cognize.
Rather, God directly cognizes (for example) the future contingent
things (*res*) that he cognizes, whether those things are
people, the shoes on their feet, or even occasionally and somewhat
trivially, the spoken, written, or mental propositions they talk,
write, or think with. God sees them all through a kind of direct
vision or intuition. As noted above, Chatton was a realist about
relations, and since relations are accidents inhering in their
subjects, for God to cognize a future *res* is also for him to
cognize the relational accidents of that *res*. So, in
cognizing a *res*, God cognizes everything about it, and so
directly cognizes all the situations or states of affairs of this
*res* as well, Thus, his grasp of it is complete. Because it
has no intermediary, God's cognition is not something separate
from him; there is no determinate representation of a thing *by
which* he cognizes. Consequently, divine cognition is, in a sense,
not really distinct from God himself.



With the idea of divine cognition thus developed, we can now return to
the problems we raised at the end of the last section. First, we
asked: How can 'God knows \(a\)' be necessary when \(a\)
is both future and contingent? After all, it seems the firmness of
God's knowledge of \(a\) and the determinacy of his concepts of
\(a\) are a sign that \(a\) cannot be otherwise. But now we have our
answer. By 'God knows \(a\)' Chatton means only 'God
cognizes \(a\)', and divine cognition is (1) non-judgmental and
non-voluntaristic, (2) not necessarily of determinate existents, and
(3) a complete, though non-discursive, direct awareness. Consequently,
when God cognizes some future \(a\), that cognition is in no way
judgmental, confirming or otherwise approving of \(a\), nor does it
entail the existence of \(a\), although it does grasp all that matters
about \(a\). In short, divine cognition is an omniscience that does
not interfere in any way with the natural operation or condition of
\(a\), nor does it force \(a\) to exist, or imply it already does. The
divine will is out of the picture; mere cognition of \(a\) is not
causative of \(a\). Neither do we have to worry about the rigidity of
some structure called 'God's knowledge' and its
relation to \(a\). All divine intellection is direct, and so God does
not have a body of propositions about \(a\) or any intermediary
concepts of \(a\) by which he cognizes it.



In short, Chatton's view is that the necessity we detect in
'God knows \(a\)' attaches to *God* as a necessary
cognizer, i.e., it attaches to the divine intellect alone, not to the
objects it cognizes or to some distinct, determinate body of truths
called 'God's knowledge'. It is almost as if, for
Chatton, 'God cognizes [future contingent] \(a\)' simply
means, 'the all-seeing God exists and contingent \(a\) will
exist'.



From these considerations we also get Chatton's answer to the
second difficulty: Does God's knowledge of the world change when
the world changes? Chatton can formulate his answer with the same
notion of cognition. There is no change implied in God when contingent
\(a\) comes into existence: (1) God's cognition has not changed,
certainly, since cognition is indifferent to existence, but (2)
God's knowledge has not changed either, at least not in any
serious sense. For there are only three ways that God's
knowledge could be said to change: (2a) it could be that the mental
proposition 'Socrates is sitting' in God's intellect
goes from being false to true, say, when standing Socrates sits, i.e.,
it literally changes truth value in God's mind; or (2b) it could
be that Socrates is now sitting and before he was not, and so before
God's knowledge contained the proposition 'Socrates is not
sitting' but now it contains the proposition 'Socrates is
sitting' instead; or similarly, (2c) it could be that Socrates
is now sitting and before he was not, and so before God knew the
non-seated Socrates which was signified by 'Socrates is not
sitting' but now he knows the seated Socrates signified by
'Socrates is sitting'.



(2a) and (2b) are not a problem because God's knowledge is not
generally of propositions, nor is it mediated by them. And even when
it is of propositions, there is nothing special about how he knows a
proposition's shift from truth to falsity, as distinguished from
any other form of change. (2c) is not a problem, because Chatton
famously held that the thing signified by 'Socrates is
sitting', is exactly the same as the thing signified by
'Socrates is not
 sitting'.[11]
 God cognizes of every proposition when it will be true; he cognizes
the "truth career" of each proposition. But he cognizes
this at once, as of now. And when a proposition he cognizes becomes
true, he knows it. But again, this is no change in God, who does not
think discursively, but rather sees every created thing, including
propositions, as *res*.



There are still many questions we would like answered here, of course.
For example, what is the ontological status of the not-yet existing
things that God cognizes? Exactly what does God cognize when he
cognizes a present non-existent? These issues require a more extensive
treatment than can be given here.


## 7. The *Intellectio* Theory of Concepts



In the last half of the twentieth century the most documented and
discussed aspect of Chatton's thought concerned his views on
human cognition and the metaphysics of concepts. He was not especially
innovative on these topics, but he had considerable influence on
contemporary debates, having brought about a dramatic change of heart
in Ockham concerning the nature of general concepts.



Ockham famously rejected the existence of anything metaphysically
universal outside the human mind; he was an uncompromising nominalist
in the mediaeval debate on universals. His rejection followed, not
from his razor, but from his conviction, supported through long
argumentation, that the very idea of a 'universal substance
existing outside the mind' was simply incoherent, contradictory,
or false. No adequate theory of this idea had been or could ever be
given; everything outside the mind is irreducibly individual, not on
account of some distinct individuating force, as Scotus had said, but
simply *in se ipso*. On his view, the only things in reality
that could in any way be truly denominated 'universal' are
the general concepts existing in the human mind, for example the
concept *man* or the concept *white*. The general
concept *white* is universal, but only in the following
reduced, metaphysically innocuous sense: *white* applies to
many individual things.



This line of thought led Ockham quite naturally to offer an account of
the metaphysical status of general concepts. To what Aristotelian
category do they belong? Are concepts in the human mind
*substances*, that is, 'things' in their own right,
and so are in their own way as real and independent as people and
horses? Or are they instead *accidents*, that is, not
stand-alone entities, but rather modifications of stand-alone
entities, the way for Aristotle *tall* is not a stand-alone
subject, but simply a *way* that a stand-alone subject can be?
Ockham began his career defending the first option, but ended it
defending the latter. The cause of this transformation was the
sustained attacks of Walter Chatton.



Ockham's early theory of concepts, often dubbed 'the
*fictum* theory', was probably influenced in some measure
by the work or at least the terminology of Peter Auriol. According to
Ockham's first account, a concept is an Aristotelian substance,
but not a normal material substance, such as a human being, nor a
nonmaterial substance, such as an angel - such beings can be the
subjects of accidents and so could be said to have *esse
subjectivum* (=subjective being) - rather, concepts are in
an entirely different class of substances, which have the sort of
existence in the mind that an object fashioned by thought has, to wit,
*esse objectivum* (the being of a thought-object), or, as he
sometimes says, a concept is a *fictum* (=a mentally-fashioned
being).



Chatton criticized this theory relentlessly, primarily on the ground
that concepts as *ficta* are an unnecessary intermediary
between the cognizer and the thing cognized, such that the cognizer
would be immediately aware only of the general concept, and not of the
individuals picked out by the general concept. In short, the
*fictum* theory is not consistent with direct realism, which
was a hallmark of Ockhamist epistemology. Chatton suggested that it
made the most sense from an Aristotelian point of view to treat
concepts as accidents, and not as substances at all. On
Chatton's view, concepts are modifications of the soul, and in
particular my concept of \(X\) is nothing more than my act of thinking
about \(X\). Concepts are not intermediaries that we then think with,
but are rather simply our very acts of thinking themselves, i.e., my
concept of \(X\) is just my *intellectio* (=act of thinking) of
instances of \(X\). In response to Chatton's criticism and his
positive alternative, Ockham abandoned his *fictum* theory, at
first with some hesitation, wavering between this early theory and
Chatton's new *intellectio* model, subsequently embracing
it more fully, and finally, in his most mature philosophical
reflection on the topic, even arguing against the old *fictum*
theory. The stages of Ockham's change of mind are well
documented in the different versions of his commentary on the
*Sentences*, and are even an important source for our dating of
those different versions.


## 8. Virtues and Intentions



Throughout the late 1320s and into the 1330s Chatton became
increasingly interested in questions of virtue and vice, the objects
of moral acts, and the role of intentions in
 ethics.[12]
 Much of what he says follows or agrees with Scotus and opposes
Ockham.



Mediaeval philosophers often made much of the distinction between
willing or intending to do a thing and actually doing it. Let \(A\) be
any action that a human being might contemplate, choose, and want to
execute. Then person \(P\)'s *willing \(A\)* is
considered an *interior act* with respect to \(A\), because the
willing is internal to the human soul. This is meant to contrast with
the corresponding *exterior act*, that is, the event that \(P\)
*actually executes \(A\)*. Note that \(A\) itself may be in
some sense 'interior', e.g., let \(A =\) thinking well of
my enemy. Then, although \(A\) is itself internal inasmuch as thinking
takes place in my mind, nevertheless we can distinguish the interior
act of *willing to think well of my enemy* from the exterior
act *thinking well of my enemy*. Thus 'interior'
and 'exterior' here signify primarily the distinction
between choosing to do \(A\) and doing \(A\), not so much the internal
and external activities per se.



It was Ockham's considered view, evidenced in many of his
writings, that only the interior act was properly regarded as
meritorious or sinful; the corresponding exterior act makes no moral
difference. Ockham is unwilling to allow external factors to play any
significant role in moral evaluation. Chatton argues against this in
many ways, the most effective being theological: for example, Christ
always willed to redeem humanity, so if willing were sufficient, then
his exterior act of being executed on the cross was unnecessary.
Similarly, intending to confess would be as meritorious as actually
confessing. However, Chatton also points out several philosophical
disadvantages to Ockham's overall position.



Ockham's insistence that the interior act alone is subject to
moral appraisal leads him to pack as much as he can into the act of
will to be evaluated, and Chatton often criticized this strategy as
disingenuous. For example, Ockham seemed to think of the objects of
moral acts as anything the intellect needs to consider in advising the
will to act, including even the circumstances under which the act is
done; acts are finely distinguished with circumstances as a part of
their identity conditions. For example, we cannot evaluate the
internal act 'willing to tell a lie', since it is too
general; to properly identify and evaluate this interior act we must
specify it with all its morally relevant circumstances. So, strictly
speaking, we should rather evaluate whether it is right to will to
tell a lie to cover up a certain fact, to a certain person, to whom we
are related in a certain way, etc.



Chatton opposed this view. The objects of moral acts can (and often
should) be thought of in a far more reduced sense, including only the
exterior action of the actor himself, which the intellect approves and
which the will then wills (that is, the case of *virtuous*
acts). Circumstances are, properly speaking, variables existing on the
perimeter of a moral act, while the objects and goals of acts are,
properly speaking, more intimate to the act itself. Chatton admits
that sometimes, when the will has a complex object that includes
temporal, causal, or locative qualifiers, these
'circumstances' can be said in a certain way to be an
object of the act. But such conditions, insofar as they are objects of
the act, are therefore not in the same way *the environment
surrounding* the act, and so are no longer really
*circumstances* in those cases. There are two practical
implications of this point. (1) Ockham writes and argues as though in
his ethics he considers only internal factors in moral evaluation, and
excludes the external completely, but this result is obtained only by
sneaking in external factors through the back door, and building them
into the objects of the will, making them internal only by *ad
hoc* stipulation. (2) If, with Chatton and against Ockham, we
reject the idea that every act of will must include all its
circumstances as a partial object, we thereby make it possible to say
that some acts of will are intrinsically good (or bad) no matter what
circumstances they are done in. This possibility is important for
Ockhamist ethics, because Ockham insists that there is (and indeed
that there must be) at least one intrinsically good act of will, which
he identifies with loving God for his own sake. But if we always roll
the circumstances of an act up with the intended object of the act,
then it is possible to make any seemingly virtuous act wicked by
'in-building' bad intent, and so no act can be
intrinsically virtuous. Chatton constructs this example against
Ockham:



> 
> For example, when I love my neighbor for the sake of God, it is
> required that love of God move me toward a love of neighbor. But this
> fact can be understood in two ways. (1) It can be understood that the
> object *taken as a whole* is loved, that is, the entire object
> *neighbor for the sake of God*. In this case the act that has
> this as an object can be done malevolently, say for the sake of
> desirability, or more for the sake of desirability than for the glory
> of God. (2) Alternatively, my friend could be loved by me for the sake
> of God in the sense that love of God itself is the very thing that
> moves me and causes my love of him. In this second case the love is
> virtuous. (*Quodlibet* question 12, paragraph 14.)
> 



Similarly, a person could love God for his own sake for the sake of
something unworthy:



> 
> I say that the act of 'loving God for his own sake' can,
> as a whole, be done malevolently; therefore, in order that it be done
> benevolently, some additional necessary factor must be present. It is
> clear that this act can be done malevolently, since a person can have
> as his total object *loving God for his own sake for the sake of
> money*. (*Quodlibet* question 12, paragraph 13)
> 



It might be objected that *loving God for his own sake for the sake
of money* is an impossible object for the will, since good and
evil objects or motives cancel each other out. But it is not clear how
this affects Chatton's point, since the human will really can
(and sometimes does) have impossible objects and motives associated
with it.


## 9. Conclusion



It is sometimes suggested that Walter Chatton was not a very original
philosopher. There is some fairness in this claim, but it is also a
little misleading. What is true is that he is not as recognizably
important a figure today as Ockham or Aquinas, and that his philosophy
tends to be negative (i.e., critical) and conservative in character,
in the following respect: in many of his writings we find him
attacking the novel work of others, frequently Ockham, and sometimes
defending the more accepted work of others, frequently Scotus.
Moreover, he did not strive to develop and set out a unique systematic
view of reality, that is, a *system* of his own. But, in
fairness, such was not the goal of philosophical theology in the
fourteenth century. Moreover, as the examples above show, Chatton was
philosophically quite creative, and incisive in his attacks on
Ockham's thought. So while we find no evidence of a large
following after his death (there was no large Chattonian
'school' or 'movement' that we know of), he
did have considerable influence well into the middle of the fifteenth
century in England, particularly on those who reacted strongly to
Ockham's nominalism and semantic theory, and also in the
intricate and intense debate over future contingents.