What Spinoza undertakes in Epistle 9 is the presentation of a functional distinction within the cognitive act of definition. The question at issue is not “what can be derived from a definition?” but rather “to what kind of cognitive act does a definition belong?” This must be established at the outset, because a great deal of interpretive work on Spinoza’s theory of definition has displaced this question onto one concerning ontological derivation—a reading the relevant passage of Epistle 9 does not support.

Spinoza opens by diagnosing the source of de Vries’s difficulty:

Video te iis haerere, propterea quòd non distinguis inter genera Definitionum.

(I see that you are stuck on these matters because you do not distinguish between the kinds of definition.)

The distinction between two types is introduced not as a solution but as a diagnosis of the difficulty itself. This is logically significant. The distinction functions as an instrument for dissolving a particular point of contention; it is not offered as a systematic exposition of the theory of definition in general.

II. The Formal Statement of the Two Types

Having diagnosed the source of the difficulty, Spinoza formulates the two types of definition as follows:

Quare definitio vel explicat rem, prout est extra intellectum, & tum vera debet esse, & à Propositione, vel Axiomate non differre, nisi quòd illa tantùm circa rerum, rerumve affectionum essentias versatur; hoc verò latiùs, nempe ad aeternas veritates etiam se extendit: Vel explicat rem, prout à nobis concipitur, vel concipi potest, tumque in eo etiam differt ab Axiomate & Propositione, quod non exigit, nisi ut concipiatur absolutè, non ut Axioma sub ratione veri.

Before addressing the distinction itself, the question of where to ground the exclusivity of the vel … vel … structure requires care. In classical Latin usage, vel corresponds to inclusive disjunction—an “or” that permits both alternatives to hold simultaneously—while exclusive disjunction is expressed by aut. It would therefore be formally imprecise to infer exclusivity from the conjunction vel … vel … alone.

Read more

Wolfson offers an imaginative portrait of Spinoza, guided by his nature as a social animal, conducting Sunday services at a Lutheran church in The Hague (Wolfson 1934, p. 351). Spinoza delivers a sermon as an invective against what he calls “the prejudices of the theologians of our time,” rejecting seven theological doctrines: the spirituality of God, the personal relation between God and humanity, God’s direct intervention in human affairs, the divine origin of Scripture, freedom of the will, the separability of soul from body, and the individual survival of the soul after death. When the sermon ends, he pauses and says, “Now let us pray.” In his prayer he thanks “the creator of the universe” for his bounty, begs forgiveness for “our sins,” asks for divine enlightenment in the true understanding of “Thy revealed Word,” and petitions for divine grace in “guiding us” in the paths of righteousness, that “we may inherit” life everlasting and enjoy eternal bliss in the presence of “Thy glory.” As he is about to close the prayer, he catches a glimpse of the congregation and suddenly realizes that he is in a Christian church. He immediately adds: “In the name of Christ, the mouth of God, whose spirit is the idea of God, which alone leads us unto liberty, salvation, blessedness, and regeneration. Amen.”

But for the circumstances, environmental and personal, which had cut his normal contacts with society, Spinoza, who defined man, after Aristotle, as a social animal, would undoubtedly have guided himself by the same dictate of reason that he had prescribed for others by his maxim that man is freer when he participates in the life of society than when he lives in solitude. In conformity with this maxim of his, then, he would undoubtedly have joined in the active life of the communities in which he lived after his departure from his native Amsterdam — Rijnsburg, Voorburg, and The Hague; he would have become a substantial, respectable, and public-spirited burgher and a pillar of society. Perhaps, also, despite differences in theology, he would have joined the Lutheran church of his friend Doctor Cordes in The Hague. And I can picture him, once of a Sunday, at the invitation of the good old Doctor, taking the services in the church. He preaches a sermon which is an invective against what he styles “the prejudices of the theologians of our time.” In it he inveighs against prevailing credulous beliefs in the spirituality of God, His personal relation to men, His direct guidance of human affairs, the divine origin of the Scriptures, human freedom of the will, the separability of soul from body, and the survival of the soul after death as an individual entity. The sermon over, he pauses and says, “Now let us pray.” And in his prayer he thanks God, “the creator of the universe,” for His bountiful goodness; he begs for the forgiveness of “our sins,” asks for divine enlightenment in the true understanding of “Thy revealed Word,” and petitions for divine grace in “guiding us” in the paths of righteousness, to the end that “we may inherit” life everlasting and enjoy eternal bliss in the presence of “Thy glory.” As he is about to close his prayer, he catches a glimpse of the congregation and suddenly realizes that he is in a Christian church. Immediately he adds: “In the name of Christ, the mouth of God, whose spirit is the idea of God, which alone leads us unto liberty, salvation, blessedness, and regeneration. Amen.”1

This portrait is not a mere anecdote; it discloses a specific theoretical difficulty.

The scene Wolfson presents is not simply an episode: it lays bare a structural problem. Two things appear in immediate succession from the same subject — a discourse that criticizes theological doctrine, and the practical use of religious language. This duality at once generates the following question. If religious language is a product of the misrecognition grounded in imaginatio, does its use entail assent to that misrecognition? Yet it is equally insufficient to treat this situation as mere dissimulation or strategic accommodation, because such an explanation reduces the linguistic practice to external circumstances and fails to account for why it is possible within Spinoza’s philosophy. What is at issue is not the elimination of this duality but the internal determination of the theoretical conditions under which it can obtain.

This problem must be reconstructed on the basis of Spinoza’s own texts. First, what is shown in the Appendix to Ethics Part I and in Part II is the structure by which representation through imaginatio necessarily follows from the conditions of human cognition (E1App, E2P16, E2P35, E2P36). Here religious and teleological language is located not as mere error but as a structural product immanent to the constitution of finite modes. Second, the observations in the Preface to the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus show that these representations determine action through the mediation of affectus (TTP Praefatio). Language thus functions not only as cognitive content but as a moment that orients action. Third, in Chapters V and XIV of that same work, this nexus of language and representation is described as a mechanism that sustains obedientia — the mode of action called obedience — on a continuous basis (TTP Cap. V, Cap. XIV). At this point the content of faith is determined not by its truth but by the function it performs in making action possible.

When these three moments are articulated together, the use of religious language comes to be understood not as assent to the propositional content, but as a practical employment that corresponds to the conditions of human cognition. From this perspective, the continuity of sermon and prayer in Wolfson’s portrait should be grasped not as contradiction or aberration but as a form of practice that the internal structure of Spinoza’s philosophy permits. The epistemological negation and the functional use at the level of action belong to different aspects of one and the same causal nexus.

The task of this paper is to extract the moments that compose this structure step by step, and to make their articulation explicit. Those moments are, in order: first, the necessary generation of imaginatio; second, the determination of action by affectus; third, the functional constitution of ritual and language; and fourth, the formulation of the minimal conditions of the articles of faith. Through these four levels this paper aims to derive the relationship between philosophical negation and religious linguistic practice immanently, without recourse to external explanation.

One point of scope should be noted: what this paper undertakes is a functional analysis, not a normative recommendation. None of the descriptions offered here implies the proposition “therefore one ought to act in this way.” This limitation is maintained throughout.

Read more

This interpretive orientation is continuous with the principle of “positive explanation (explication positive)” that Macherey identifies in his reading of the Appendix. As Macherey argues, the study of prejudice in the Appendix does not merely expose the illusory character of the teleological worldview in order to expel it from the horizon of theoretical reflection; it simultaneously develops, at the level of principle, a positive account of how that worldview comes to be generated2. This perspective was not established by chance, and accordingly it too belongs to determinate causes. The account of its genesis restores to it a fully natural status, without thereby justifying its representative mode or conceding to it any character of truth.

Read more

The definitions 1 through 5 present the basic units of existential constitution. These are not, however, a simple parallel arrangement; as confirmed by the dependency relations of subsequent propositions, they have a directional structure in which what is conceptually prior provides the conditions for what follows. At the outermost position stands causa sui (self-cause), which, through the formula that “essence involves existence,” first nullifies the very separation of existence and essence.

Per causam sui intelligo id cujus essentia involvit existentiam sive id cujus natura non potest concipi nisi existens. (E1D1)

Within the space opened by this nullification, substantia (substance) is established as that which “is in itself and is conceived through itself.”

Per substantiam intelligo id quod in se est et per se concipitur hoc est id cujus conceptus non indiget conceptu alterius rei a quo formari debeat. (E1D3)

Attributum (attribute) and modus follow in turn. Attributum is defined as what the intellect perceives as constituting the essence of substance, functioning as the concept that discloses substance’s internal structure.

Per attributum intelligo id quod intellectus de substantia percipit tanquam ejusdem essentiam constituens. (E1D4)

The constitutive role of definitions 1–5 can be confirmed by examining which definitions the subsequent propositions actually depend upon in their demonstrations. E1P7 (”It belongs to the nature of substance to exist”) directly relies on the definitions of causa sui and substantia, while E1P5 (”In nature there cannot be two or more substances of the same nature or attribute”) depends on the definition of attributum.

Ad naturam substantiæ pertinet existere. (E1P7)

In rerum natura non possunt dari duæ aut plures substantiæ ejusdem naturæ sive attributi. (E1P5)

This dependency should be described not as a spatial “nesting” but as logical dependency among propositions. Definitions 1–5 function as the foundation that each proposition’s demonstration must reference, and in this sense they constitute the constructive premises for propositional generation. It must be noted, however, that the formal articulation of the dependency relations among E1P1–P15 remains incomplete in this paper; the task of producing an explicit map of these referential relations to strengthen the argumentative density of this tier remains as unfinished work. Until this task is completed, the argument for the first tier remains at the level of “comparatively strong.”

Read more

The causa sui presented at the beginning of Part I is exemplary in this regard. Definition 1 states as follows:

Per causam sui intelligo id, cujus essentia involvit existentiam.
(Per causam sui intelligo id cujus essentia involvit existentiam sive id cujus natura non potest concipi nisi existens.)(E1D1)

What is defined here is not something that exists. Rather, it is a conceptual condition: “that whose essence involves existence.” In other words, the point of departure of Part I is not existence itself, but the definition of the thinkability of an essence that includes existence. At this stage, Spinoza does not affirm existence. He merely determines under what conditions a concept that includes existence can be conceived.

Read more

Per causam sui intelligo id cujus essentia involvit existentiam, sive id cujus natura non potest concipi nisi existens.

(“By cause of itself I understand that whose essence involves existence, or that whose nature cannot be conceived except as existing.”)

(E1D1)

A first point of attention in this definition is the verb intelligo placed at the

beginning of the sentence. This is the first-person singular present of intelligere (“to understand,” “to conceive”), and it indicates: “I understand” or “I conceive in the following way.” Such a formulation is not unusual in early modern philosophical definitions; it belongs to a conventional manner of fixing the meaning of terms. Nevertheless, its presence is not without significance for interpreting the definition.

For what is presented here is not yet a demonstrated proposition. Spinoza is not asserting that a self-caused being in fact exists; rather, he is stipulating how the term causa sui is to be understood. Definition I thus does not function as an ontological claim, but as a preliminary determination of meaning that prepares the ground for subsequent demonstrations. At this stage, the existence of such a being has not yet been established. The definition serves, rather, to fix the conceptual framework within which the later propositions will operate.

Read more

To clarify this point, one must return to the starting point of Part I of the Ethics. There, Spinoza defines substantia (substance) as causa sui (self-cause):

Per causam sui intelligo id, cujus essentia involvit existentiam, sive id, cujus natura non potest concipi nisi existens.
(By cause of itself I understand that whose essence involves existence, or that whose nature cannot be conceived except as existing.)
(E1D1)

What this definition entails is that no separation between essentia (essence) and existentia (existence) is possible in the case of substantia. In other words, in substance, what a thing is and that it is cannot be distinguished. Existence is already contained within essence. This point is confirmed in a more concise form in Proposition 7:

Ad naturam substantiae pertinet existere.
(It belongs to the nature of substance to exist.)
(E1P7)

Read more

When welfare systems disappear, this does not necessarily occur at the moment when laws are formally repealed. More often, the institutional framework remains intact. What changes instead is meaning: the purpose of the system quietly shifts, its operation becomes hollowed out, and those who were meant to be supported are gradually displaced from its field of vision. What finally takes place is merely a technical act of “rationalization” or “streamlining” applied to a system that has already lost its substance.

From this perspective, at least in the context of the modern state, welfare is not simply a mechanism of redistribution. It functions as a technology of governance that regulates and allocates populations and labor power. Through social policy design, welfare administration, and public and media discourse, determinations are made regarding who should be reintegrated into the labor market, who should be treated as an exception, and who is deemed worthy of support.

Under conditions of social crisis, however, the meaning of this technology can invert. Institutions of protection are transformed into institutions of selection, and selection is then linked to a logic that legitimizes exclusion. What matters is not whether institutions continue to exist, but how they are made to function and what they come to signify.

The transition from late Weimar to the Nazi period provides a decisive reference point for analyzing this inversion of meaning. Yet it would be insufficient to describe this process as a straightforward transformation of a welfare state into a violent state. What proved decisive was not the destruction of welfare institutions themselves, but the transformation of the conceptual framework that sustained welfare, across both administrative practice and political discourse.

At the center of this transformation lies the question of how groups deemed “socially unproductive” or “non-contributing to the community” were constructed.

Before the crisis, different groups did not initially exist as identical targets of exclusion. Welfare recipients—such as the unemployed or those receiving social assistance—were generally positioned within the system as outcomes of social risk. Economic downturns and cyclical unemployment temporarily displaced individuals from the labor market, and welfare served as an institutional mechanism to support them and facilitate their reintegration. These individuals were deviations, but internal deviations, and reintegration remained the underlying assumption.

Jews, by contrast, were legally citizens and socially integrated. At the same time, their cultural and religious difference carried an ambivalence that could be mobilized by political antisemitism. From the outset, then, two distinct positions existed: a “temporary dropout” within the welfare system, and a minority group situated within society yet vulnerable to othering.

The problem is how these heterogeneous positions were gradually drawn toward a shared evaluative axis.

As the crisis deepened, a unifying concept emerged within policy discourse and administrative rationality. Society came to be defined as a community of contributors, while those who did not contribute were framed as burdens. Welfare was no longer understood as an apparatus of unconditional support. Social categories were reorganized not around rights, but around contribution.

Crucially, welfare recipients and Jews were not initially equated. What emerged first was the evaluative axis of “burden” and “non-contribution,” to which different groups became attached through distinct pathways. Exclusion did not begin with institutional reform, but with shifts in vocabulary and evaluative frameworks.

The foundational lexicon of the Weimar welfare state had emphasized protection, rights, and social risk. As crisis intensified, however, this lexicon was gradually replaced in administrative documents and public discourse by terms such as fiscal burden, welfare fraud, morality, and efficiency. Unemployment and social assistance were no longer treated as misfortune, but as objects of financial management. Welfare recipients were re-described from “temporary internal deviations” into “permanent burden populations.” The institution remained, but its meaning changed. Welfare ceased to function as a right and came to be understood as a cost.

The next step was the moralization of non-productivity. Unemployment and welfare dependence were no longer framed merely as economic conditions, but as ethical states: not working, lack of self-reliance, dependency. Welfare recipients were displaced from an economic category into a moral one, becoming exceptions said to corrode the community from within. “Burden” shifted from an economic evaluation to a moral accusation.

Yet welfare recipients as a whole were not immediately subjected to exclusion or violence. What proved decisive was the extraction of specific groups from within this population as “exceptions.” No longer simply unemployed, they were labeled as maladaptive, antisocial, work-averse, or deviant. Through administrative and policing vocabularies, these groups were singled out. This internal form of exception-making was linked to discipline, correction, and confinement.

At this point, a junction emerged with a different but parallel operation. Antisemitic discourse increasingly adopted an economic-moral vocabulary during the crisis period. This shift was not initially total; rather, it appeared as a discursive tendency that would later be fully radicalized under the Nazi regime. Jews were no longer described primarily as religious or cultural others, but as burdens on the national economy, as internal agents extracting benefits, as non-contributors to the community. Cultural difference was translated into an economic-moral category, opening a pathway toward external exception-making: the construction of an enemy.

Here, two forms of exception-making—distinct in origin and direction—were connected through a higher-order evaluative axis: non-contribution as burden. Integration did not mean identification. It meant absorption into a shared evaluative framework.

When this framework became institutionalized, its guiding principle was clear: the community consists of those who contribute. Welfare ceased to function as universal protection and became an instrument of internal consolidation. Only those deemed valuable members of the community were supported; non-contributors were selected, exceptionalized, and excluded. Protection inverted into selection, and selection became the justification for exclusion.

Finally, it must be emphasized that the directions of exclusion were not identical. Exceptionalized welfare recipients were treated as an internal problem of discipline and regulation. Jews, by contrast, were externalized as enemies of the community. The trajectories differed, but the evaluative axis that made both possible was the same: burden, non-contribution, exception.

Institutions need not be abolished for exclusion to advance. A shift in meaning is sufficient. The question, then, remains pressing today: not whether institutions still exist, but what they mean, and who—through which pathways—is being constituted as an exception. Exclusion begins not with legal clauses, but with conceptual operations.

What E1D3 establishes is the conceptual independence of substance: the concept of substance is not formed through dependence on any other concept. To say that substance is “conceived through itself” indicates nothing more than a negative condition, namely that the logical origin of its concept is not derived from anything else. This negation simultaneously excludes dependence, mediation, and any order of conceptual generation. What is at issue here is not how substance is grasped, but rather the logical independence of the concept as such. Accordingly, nothing is said at this stage about the conditions under which substance is given to the intellect or about the form in which it is apprehended; these questions are deliberately left unaddressed.

This silence is not accidental. Had E1D3 explicitly stated that substance is grasped through attributes, an almost inevitable misreading would arise: substance would appear to be constituted by its mode of apprehension. In that case, the problem of conceptual independence would be conflated with the problem of the conditions of apprehension, and substance would seem to depend on forms of cognition. To prevent this short circuit, Spinoza first isolates conceptual independence alone and intentionally suspends the question of apprehension.

This suspension is lifted only in E1D4. There, attribute is defined as “that which the intellect perceives of substance as constituting its essence.” It is at this point that the intellect is explicitly introduced, and only here that the conditions under which substance is apprehended are articulated. Crucially, however, these conditions of apprehension are not folded back into Definition 3, which establishes conceptual independence. Between E1D3 and E1D4, a difference in logical level—between conceptual independence and conditions of apprehension—is deliberately maintained.

As a result of this arrangement, two claims can be upheld simultaneously. First, substance is established as conceptually independent, not relying on any other concept for its formation. Second, that concept, once established, is shown—by a subsequent definition—to appear to the intellect only under specific conditions of apprehension. Substance is conceptually independent, yet it is not given in a naked or immediate form. This tension is precisely what is produced by the separation between E1D3 and E1D4.

Accordingly, the fact that E1D3 does not speak of attributes is not a sign of insufficiency. Rather, it constitutes a structural silence designed to prevent a premature identification of conceptual independence with conditions of apprehension. By temporarily suspending the latter and introducing the concept of attribute later, at a different logical level, Spinoza secures the autonomy of the concept of substance. This very arrangement functions as a device of conceptual regulation within Part I of the Ethics.

The separation between E1D3 and E1D4 thus refuses both the reduction of substance to epistemology and the absorption of cognition into ontology. What emerges instead is a structure in which substance is established as conceptually independent, while nevertheless being given to the intellect only under determinate conditions of apprehension. What E1D3 does not say is itself indispensable for the establishment of this structure.

Part I of Spinoza’s Ethics is often summarized through the simple equation “substance = God = nature.” Although this interpretation may appear plausible at first glance, a careful examination of the logical structure of the text—especially the system of definitions and their mode of deployment—reveals it to be remarkably crude. The aim of this paper is to show that what Spinoza establishes is not an ontological identity thesis stating that “substance is God,” but rather an epistemological necessity: substance can be grasped only as God. This necessity will be clarified through an analysis of the geometrical method and the specific way reductio operates within it.

1. Substance Exists in Itself, but Is Not Grasped in Itself

In Definition 3 of Part I (E1D3), substance is defined as “that which is in itself and is conceived through itself (per se concipitur).” What must be noted here is that this definition nowhere claims that substance is directly grasped without attributes. Substance indeed exists in itself, but Spinoza immediately turns, in the following definition, to the question of how it is grasped.

2. Attribute as the Form of Cognition

According to Definition 4 (E1D4), an attribute is “what the intellect perceives of substance as constituting its essence.” This means that substance is always grasped only through the mediation of intellect—that is, through attributes. A substance without attributes, or a “bare substance” prior to attributes, is never presented as an object of thought. At this point, a decisive asymmetry is already introduced between substance in itself and the manner in which substance is grasped.

3. God as the Necessary Name of Grasped Substance

In Definition 6 (E1D6), God is defined as “a substance consisting of infinite attributes, each of which expresses an eternal and infinite essence.” What is crucial here is that the concept of God is not an additional title attached to substance, but the description that is necessarily reached insofar as substance is grasped through attributes. To grasp substance is necessarily to grasp it under some attribute. Moreover, substance is causa sui (E1P7), must be infinite insofar as it belongs to its own nature (E1P8), and that which possesses more reality must possess more attributes (E1P9).

4. What the Proposition “Substance Is God” Does Not Mean

This chain of reasoning shows that whenever one attempts to grasp substance as substance, the content of that grasp inevitably coincides with the definition of God as an infinitely attributed substance. Therefore, the proposition “substance is God” is not an ontological declaration of identity. Rather, it expresses the necessity that, in attempting to grasp substance, one can arrive at no concept other than that of God.

5. Internal Exclusion Through Negation

To clarify this point, let us consider the opposite assumption: “substance can be grasped in a manner that is not God.” Such an assumption would entail that substance has finite attributes, is not causa sui, or has limited reality. Each of these implications directly contradicts the definitions and propositions of Part I (E1D3–6, E1P7–14).

6. The Geometrical Method as a Form of Reductio

What is important here is that Spinoza does not present this exclusion in the usual form of reductio ad absurdum, namely by assuming the negation of a proposition and deriving a contradiction. Instead, what operates here is a reductio that renders entry into the definitional system itself impossible. By placing the definitions at the outset through the geometrical method, Spinoza designs the system such that the moment one attempts to think otherwise, that very attempt becomes untenable within the system.

7. Necessity of Cognition Rather Than Ontological Identity

As a result, the proposition “substance is God” is not proven in the usual sense, but is necessitated in the form that thinking otherwise becomes impossible. In popular interpretations, the equation “substance = God” is often taken as an ontological fact. What Spinoza’s text actually establishes, however, is not ontological identity but epistemological constraint.

Conclusion: God as the Necessity of Grasp

Substance can be thought only through attributes, and this thought necessarily coincides with the concept of God. Substance, therefore, can be grasped only as God; it is not declared to be identical with God as a being. If this distinction is overlooked, Spinoza is easily misunderstood as a crude monist or as a thinker who simply reduces God to nature. In reality, by rigorously specifying the conditions of cognition, Spinoza detaches the concept of God from any naïve affirmation.

What Part I of the Ethics ultimately demonstrates is not the simple identity “substance is God,” but the necessity that substance can be conceived only as God. This necessity is supported by a form of reductio built into the geometrical method itself. Spinoza does not refute erroneous conceptions of God; he renders them impossible. In this sense, the Ethics is a system of negation carried out in near silence—and one of the most refined philosophical constructions of reductio ever devised.

To grasp the structure of Part I, one must first clarify the role of the definitions. The definitions are not introduced in order to explain the contents of concepts such as substance, attribute, or God. Their function is rather to determine in advance which distinctions are permissible and which conceptual operations are excluded. Definitions do not derive conclusions; they establish the scope within which subsequent operations can meaningfully occur. In this sense, the definitions delineate the entire conceptual space of Part I in advance.

Against this background emerge the propositions that function as blocks on possibility. The first decisive instance is Proposition 5 (E1P5). Although E1P5 states that no two or more substances can share the same attribute, the issue at stake is not the empirical number of substances. What is at issue is whether the conceptual operation of distinguishing multiple substances under the same attribute is coherent at all. The reductio argument employed here does not merely refute a provisional hypothesis. Rather, it exposes an inconsistency between the definitions themselves and thereby establishes that such a mode of thinking is impossible. E1P5 functions to close off the very possibility-space of plural substances.

This closure is reinforced by Proposition 8 (E1P8), which asserts that every substance is necessarily infinite and thereby excludes the conceptual construction of a finite substance. Whereas E1P5 blocks multiplicity, E1P8 blocks finitude. These are not independent claims but coordinated operations that delimit the mobility of the substance concept from two directions. At this point, it becomes conceptually fixed that substance can be neither multiple nor finite.

Yet even at this stage, the ontological status of substance is not fully determined. This task is carried out by Proposition 11 (E1P11). Often interpreted as a proof of God’s existence, E1P11 is more accurately understood in functional terms as an ontological junction. For the first time, the concept of God as defined in Definition 6, the concept of substance, and the necessity of existence are connected within a single proposition. Only here does God become an object that can be treated ontologically within the system.

On the basis of this connection, Proposition 14 (E1P14) can be introduced. When E1P14 states that no substance other than God can exist or be conceived, it does not introduce a new exclusion of possibilities. The multiplicity and finitude of substance have already been ruled out by E1P5 and E1P8, and E1P11 has already established God as an existing substance. The function of E1P14 is to determine, within an already closed space of possibilities, the only remaining coherent configuration. It is here—and only here—that the identification of substance with God is completed within the system.

The functional chain of Part I does not end there. Proposition 15 (E1P15), which asserts that everything that exists is in God and cannot be conceived without God, serves a different purpose. It does not add a new ontological claim. Rather, it functions as a permission for systematic expansion. By establishing the immanence of all things in God, E1P15 authorizes the subsequent discussions of attributes, modes, and finite things in Parts II and beyond.

Seen in this light, Part I of the Ethics is structured as a chain of clearly differentiated functions: the setting of conceptual scope by definitions, the blocking of illegitimate possibilities, the ontological connection of key concepts, the systematic identification of substance and God, and finally the authorization of further development. Within this chain, reductio arguments are not rhetorical embellishments but standard instruments assigned to the task of blocking possibilities. Substance monism is not asserted by any single proposition. It emerges as a structural consequence of a sequence of functions, each of which must be fulfilled in turn.

To grasp this point, one must first recall the conditions under which “demonstration” operates in the Ethics. Within Spinoza’s geometrical method, the admissible resources of inference are strictly limited to definitions, axioms, and propositions already demonstrated. Consequently, the “assumptions” introduced in a proof do not designate empirical hypotheses or imagined possible worlds. They always take the form of a question: whether a given concept can be coherently constructed in a certain way. Reductio, too, is employed exclusively under this constraint.

This becomes most evident in Proposition 5 of Part I (E1P5). E1P5 states that two or more substances sharing the same attribute cannot exist. Yet what is at issue here is not whether multiple substances actually exist in reality. The question is whether the conceptual operation of distinguishing substances as multiple under the same attribute is itself coherent. The proof shows that if one assumes several substances sharing the same attribute, the very principle by which substances are distinguished—distinction by attributes—collapses, and with it the concept of substance itself. What is negated here is not simply a proposition, but a mode of thinking that permits such an assumption. Accordingly, this reductio must be understood not as the elimination of error, but as the determination of conceptual impossibility.

In this sense, E1P5 does not assert the numerical uniqueness of substance. Rather, it conceptually closes the entire space of possibility in which substance could be thought as multiple. Reductio here functions by exposing the non-coherence among definitions and thereby excluding a certain form of thought as impossible. Put differently, the reductio in E1P5 operates as a technique of definitional exclusion.

Seen in this light, the position of Proposition 14 of Part I (E1P14) becomes clear. E1P14 states that no substance other than God can exist or be conceived. No new reductio is introduced here, because the possibility of multiple substances has already been conceptually excluded by E1P5. The task of E1P14 is not to close off possibilities, but to identify, within an already closed space of possibility, the sole remaining substance as God.

Thus, E1P5 and E1P14 do not merely repeat the same conclusion. E1P5 renders the very thought of multiple substances impossible, whereas E1P14 presupposes that impossibility and determines the object of the system accordingly. Their difference lies not in the content of what they establish, but in the logical level at which they operate. The former is a proposition that blocks a space of possibility; the latter is a proposition of systematic identification.

From this perspective, it becomes clear why Spinoza does not treat reductio as a “weak” form of proof. In the Ethics, reductio is neither hypothetical reasoning nor a merely convenient device. It is a fully legitimate mode of demonstration that establishes conceptual impossibility on the basis of the necessary relations among definitions and axioms. Far from being a peripheral technique of the geometrical method, reductio functions as a core mechanism for constructing the conceptual network of the system.

Accordingly, Spinoza’s substance monism is not the result of an eliminative process that discards multiple empirical possibilities. It emerges instead as the necessary consequence of the fact that concepts can be constructed in one way only. When this point is overlooked, reductio appears hypothetical and the uniqueness of substance seems arbitrary. In reality, however, it is precisely reductio that closes the conceptual structure of the Ethics and enables the system to come into being.

When surveying the structure of Part I of Spinoza’s Ethics, Propositions E1P5 and E1P14 are often treated together as proofs of the “uniqueness of substance.” Such a reading, however, conflates the distinct demonstrative tasks performed by these propositions. What E1P5 accomplishes is not the mere denial of multiplicity but the exposure of an internal contradiction within the very concept of substance, namely the thinkability of a plurality of substances. E1P14, by contrast, determines—on the basis of that result—the identification of the one substance as God. The two propositions do not state the same conclusion in different forms; rather, they respond to different questions situated at different logical levels.

Let us first examine the demonstrative character of E1P5. This proposition asserts that two or more substances sharing the same attribute cannot exist.

In rerum natura non possunt dari duae aut plures substantiae ejusdem attributi.
(Ethics I, Prop. 5)

What is crucial here is that E1P5 does not stand in isolation. It presupposes the immediately preceding proposition, E1P4, according to which distinct things are distinguished either by a difference in attributes or by a difference in affections (modes). Since substances cannot be distinguished by their modes, the distinction between substances can occur only through attributes. If this mediating step is ignored, attributes risk appearing as mere labels or markers. Such a reading would be foreign to Spinoza’s intent.

According to Definition 3, substance is defined as follows:

Per substantiam intelligo id, quod in se est et per se concipitur; hoc est id, cujus conceptus non indiget conceptu alterius rei, a quo formari debeat.
(Ethics I, Def. 3)

Definition 4, in turn, specifies that an attribute is what the intellect perceives of substance as constituting its essence:

Per attributum intelligo id quod intellectus de substantia percipit tanquam ejusdem essentiam constituens.
(Ethics I, Def. 4)

Read more

The claim in Spinoza’s Ethics that “substance is one” does not arise simply from the intuitive claim that “two infinites cannot coexist.” Rather, it emerges from a systematic attempt to resolve the conceptual tensions inherent in Cartesian substance dualism—tensions concerning causality, infinity, and intelligibility. This essay reconstructs that process of conceptual reconfiguration step by step.

Stage One: Can Two Infinites Coexist?

The first point that must be clarified is that the assertion “two infinites cannot coexist” is not itself Spinoza’s thesis. What Spinoza denies is not the multiplicity of the infinite as such, but the possibility that multiple substances could be infinite under the same attribute (E1P5). The problem, therefore, is not a collision of quantitative infinities, but the structural relation among substance, attribute, and causality.

At this level of analysis, the Cartesian configuration—according to which thinking substance and extended substance are each infinite and mutually independent—does not immediately entail a logical contradiction. If two infinites belong to entirely unrelated orders, they are, formally speaking, capable of coexistence.

Stage Two: The Problem of Causal Disconnection

Spinoza, however, rejects the very assumption that multiple substances could exist in complete causal isolation from one another. The reason lies in Axiom 4 of Part I: “The knowledge of an effect depends on, and involves, the knowledge of its cause.”

If this axiom is accepted, then to exist is to be situated within a determinate causal order and, in principle, to be intelligible. To posit two substances that are entirely causally disconnected would be to posit a duplicated world and to fragment the scope of intelligibility itself.

For Spinoza, this is unacceptable, because ontology and epistemology are inseparable. What exists must, in principle, be intelligible; and intelligibility requires placement within a causal chain.

Stage Three: The Decision to Preserve the Unity of Causality

At this point, a decisive conceptual choice is made. If the world is intelligible, then the causal order must be one. And if causality is one, the substance that sustains that causal order as its own cause must also be one.

In this framework, the Cartesian attempt to relate two substances proves self-defeating. For if two substances were causally related, they would already belong to the same causal order, and thus constitute two infinite substances under the same attribute—precisely what E1P5 excludes.

• Accordingly, the plurality of substances is denied for a double reason:

• if substances are unrelated, they are unintelligible;

if they are related, they cannot remain distinct substances.

Stage Four: What, Then, Were Thought and Extension?

This leads to the question: what were thought and extension, if not substances?

Spinoza’s move here is not a mere “downgrading.” Rather, he reconstructs the very definition of substance. Substance is “that which is in itself and is conceived through itself” (Definition 3), and only a self-caused being satisfies this condition.

Thought and extension do not meet this criterion. They do not exist in themselves, but express the ways in which the intellect apprehends the essence of substance. They are therefore re-situated as attributes rather than substances (Definition 4).

Crucially, this is not a nominal reclassification but the result of conceptual necessity. If one is to preserve both the unity of causality and the irreducible difference between thought and extension, the structure of “one substance with multiple attributes” is the only coherent option.

Conclusion

Spinoza’s substance monism does not originate in the intuitive negation that “two infinites cannot exist.” It emerges instead as the outcome of an attempt to hold together:

• the inseparability of existence and intelligibility,

• the unity of the causal order,

• and the self-causality of the infinite.

In this process, Cartesian substance dualism is dismantled, and thought and extension are reconfigured from substances into attributes. The proposition that “substance is one” thus appears not as a mere negation, but as a necessary consequence required to preserve the coherence of the system as a whole.

In this sense, bad examples can be broadly divided into two levels. One is a naïve but typical misreading at the beginner’s level, and the other is a sophisticated misreading at the researcher’s level, methodologically deviant despite its apparent rigor. The latter is particularly dangerous because it appears plausible at first glance.

A representative beginner-level bad example is the reading of the Part I definitions as a “compressed version” or “summary” of the entire system. In this reading, the definitions are treated as a concise encapsulation of content that will later unfold, and subsequent propositions are understood as exercises in elaborating or reconstructing the omitted material. However, this understanding overlooks the fact that definitions do not reduce information—they do not present content at all. The role of the definitions is to set the preconditions necessary for subsequent demonstrations to be possible; they are neither summaries nor digests.

Closely related is the immediate understanding based on linguistic intuition or everyday meaning. Terms like “cause of itself,” “substance,” or “God,” if read according to everyday or religious usage rather than the strict structural context of the definitions, ignore the redefinition of meaning within the text. The reader’s existing vocabulary is prioritized over the text itself. Likewise, treating the definitions as “explanatory passages” is the same kind of error. Definitions are not explanatory texts; they establish conditions for concept usage, and conflating comprehensibility with logical function fundamentally misrepresents their role.

Researcher-level bad examples are more sophisticated and appear systematic. A typical instance is reading E1D1 (Cause), E1D3 (Substance), and E1D6 (God/Expression) as if they were already unified entities in anticipation of the ontological identity and the theory of expression ultimately demonstrated. In this case, conclusions first demonstrated in Proposition 14 and following are retroactively imported into the definitions, nullifying the formal significance of their sequence and logical order. Consequently, the definitions are transformed from premises for demonstration into annotations already containing conclusions.

Moreover, over-theorizing the concept of “expression” in E1D6 counts as a bad example. Connecting “expression” immediately to Deleuzian theories of expression, medieval emanation theories, or subject/object structures forces the concept to operate beyond its minimal function in the definitions. As a result, differences and developments that should only emerge in Part II and later are prematurely erased.

Finally, a meta-philosophical reading that interprets the definitions as a “statement against Descartes” or as “Spinoza’s methodological declaration” also counts as a researcher-level bad example. In such readings, the definitions are no longer preconditions for demonstration but declarations of attitude or stance, and their truth is implicitly exempted. The internal necessity of the geometrical method is lost, and the definitions are transformed into philosophical slogans.

What all of these examples have in common is an intolerance for the fact that the definitions “have demonstrated nothing yet.” Activating dormant concepts, connecting unconnected concepts, or fixing meanings that are still indeterminate—any of these constitute a bad example in E1D reading. In other words, treating the definitions not as a “shell” but as “already containing content” is itself an error.

Spinoza’s Ethics explicitly declares in its title that it is “demonstrated in geometrical order” (ordine geometrico demonstrata). This phrase has often been treated as the natural point of departure for interpretation, as if grasping the formal structure—definitions, axioms, propositions, and demonstrations—were a prerequisite for understanding the philosophical content of the work.

This essay questions that assumption itself. The central issue is whether, in interpreting the Ethics, the geometrical method must indeed be placed in the foreground of reading from the outset.

The position defended here does not deny the importance of the geometrical method. Rather, it proposes to reposition it: not as a prior condition of interpretation, but as a background element whose function becomes clear only through the process of interpretation itself. By reorganizing the method in this way, it becomes possible to approach the philosophical content of the Ethics directly from the text—especially from the definitions of Part I—without first passing through an external methodological framework.

2. The Instability of Origin-Based Explanations: Why “Where It Comes From” Is Not Decisive

Interpretations that foreground the geometrical method often rely on accounts of its origin. Was the method derived from medieval scholastic forms of demonstration? From early modern mathematical proof? Or was it adopted as a critical response to Cartesian philosophy? Such questions have frequently guided interpretive strategies.

From a hermeneutic perspective, however, origin-based explanations rarely provide decisive guidance. First, these hypotheses are not mutually exclusive; multiple influences may well overlap. Second, even if a particular origin hypothesis were historically convincing, it would not by itself determine how the Ethics should be read, nor establish the priority of certain interpretive moves.

What matters, therefore, is not where the geometrical method came from, but how it functions within the text itself. Origin-based accounts may have explanatory value, but when they are placed at the entrance of interpretation, they risk making the understanding of the Ethics dependent on external premises. In doing so, they can obscure the internal movement by which concepts are constructed within the text.

3. A Definition-Centered Reading: Backgrounding Method as a Strategy

This essay proposes a reading strategy that treats the definitions of Part I not as components of a fully articulated logical system already in place, but as the site where concepts are gradually constructed.

Under this approach, the reader does not need to possess a comprehensive understanding of the geometrical method in advance. Instead, attention is directed to the vocabulary, syntax, and conceptual distinctions within the definitions themselves, tracing step by step the conceptual space each definition opens.

Such a sequential reading is sometimes suspected of undermining the systematic character of the Ethics. In fact, the opposite is the case. Systematicity is not something given from the outset through a synoptic overview; it emerges retrospectively through the chain of definitions and propositions. The geometrical method should thus be understood as the outcome of this process of conceptual organization, not as its precondition. In this sense, it is properly backgrounded.

4. The Significance and Limits of Gueroult’s Formalism

Martial Gueroult reconstructed the Ethics as a rigorously coherent logical system, systematically clarifying the necessary relations among definitions and propositions. His work plays a crucial role in demonstrating the strictness and internal consistency of Spinoza’s philosophy.

At the same time, this formalist reconstruction tends to abstract from the temporal dimension of reading. Definitions are more readily treated as a fixed set of premises for a completed system than as a field in which concepts are generated and differentiated through the act of reading.

The present argument does not reject Gueroult’s approach. Rather, it suggests that such a reconstruction presupposes that the reader has already reached a vantage point from which the system can be grasped as a whole. If one takes seriously the process by which the reader arrives at that vantage point—how concepts are introduced, articulated, and positioned in relation to one another—then formalism appears not as the starting point of interpretation, but as its endpoint.

5. Reconfiguring Ordo Cognoscendi: The Theoretical Meaning of Backgrounding

These considerations can be clarified using Spinoza’s own distinction between ordo essendi (the order of being) and ordo cognoscendi (the order of cognition).

The geometrical method provides the most rigorous expression of the necessary order of being. But within the order of cognition, the reader is not required to grasp this form in advance. Cognition proceeds step by step, from partial understanding toward a more comprehensive grasp.

To “background” the geometrical method does not mean to downplay its importance. Rather, it means to reposition it in accordance with the order of cognition. The method emerges as a result of understanding, not as its presupposition.

6. Conclusion: The Possibility of a Text-Direct Reading

By placing the geometrical method in the background, the reader can step back from external methodological debates and confront the text of the Ethics directly. The definitions of Part I, in particular, function not as obstacles to philosophical understanding, but as its point of entry.

This reading strategy does not ignore the geometrical method; it seeks to assign it its most appropriate place. As a result, Spinoza’s philosophy appears not merely as a completed system, but as a movement of thought in which understanding itself is progressively generated.

The four criteria confirmed here are not indicators for simply ranking texts in a linear order. Rather, they constitute mutually non-substitutable analytical axes that operate in parallel when multiple texts are handled simultaneously. Accordingly, no single criterion can absorb the others through its dominance; instead, they function effectively only within a relation of tension.

Normative Priority
Auxiliary concept: interpretive point of reference

Normative priority refers to the principle according to which a text that has been fixed in a completed form occupies a privileged position as a point of reference for interpretation in relation to drafts and peripheral documents. What is at issue here is not whether the text is “correct” in a truth-theoretical sense. Rather, the question concerns the asymmetry of the initial configuration of interpretation: where interpretation begins and by what standard it proceeds. This criterion is not derived from comparison but is required by the very structure of interpretive practice itself.

Genetic Proximity
Auxiliary concept: closeness to the site of formation

Genetic proximity is a criterion that measures how temporally and structurally close a given text is to the process in which concepts and thoughts are in the course of formation. From this perspective, immaturity or instability does not constitute a defect. On the contrary, what is decisive is the extent to which a text preserves traces of hesitation and trial prior to the formalization of thought.

Interpretive Transparency
Auxiliary concept: degree to which a text is not covered over by strategy

Interpretive transparency concerns the degree to which the concepts and arguments within a text can be read directly, without being obscured by later theoretical strategies or systematic arrangements. This is not a matter of ease of understanding. A text that is weakly systematized or insufficiently organized may, for that very reason, expose the trajectory of thought more clearly and thus exhibit a higher degree of transparency.

Causal Necessity
Auxiliary concept: irreplaceability within the system

Causal necessity refers to the criterion that asks whether a given text occupies an indispensable position in the constitution of the overall system of thought—such that, if it were absent, the system itself would fail to hold together structurally. What is at stake here is not the magnitude of influence but the systemic condition of whether absence is tolerable or not.

These four criteria do not, in principle, necessarily coincide. It is rather the norm that a completed text may possess high normative priority and causal necessity while remaining genetically distant, whereas a draft may be genetically proximate yet systemically replaceable. It is precisely this tension that shifts textual interpretation from a static hierarchy to a dynamic mode of analysis.

II. Application of the Four Criteria

When the four criteria outlined above are presupposed as a methodological coordinate system and Definition 1 (causa sui) of Part I of the Ethics is placed at the center of analysis, its structural position can be clearly delineated.

From the perspective of normative priority, Definition 1 occupies the highest position within Part I as a whole. Definition 1 defines causa sui as that “whose essence involves existence,” and this very definition functions as an interpretive point of reference that determines whether the subsequent propositions can be established at all. Although Letter 12 and the Short Treatise explain and assist in understanding this definition, they do not occupy a position from which Definition 1 itself could be normatively revised. Accordingly, the normative priority at issue here is not the result of comparison but is fixed as a structural property internal to Definition 1 itself.

From the perspective of genetic proximity, Definition 1 exhibits a markedly low value. It displays no traces of conceptual formation, hesitation in thought, or responses to objections. By contrast, such traces remain visibly present in the letters and the Short Treatise. However, this low degree of genetic proximity does not constitute a defect. Rather, it should be understood as an index of completion achieved precisely through the severing of the process of formation.

With regard to interpretive transparency as well, Definition 1 occupies a low position. Definition 1 presents a double formulation—“that whose essence involves existence” and “that which cannot be conceived except as existing”—yet it does not demonstrate the necessity of this formulation within the definition itself. This opacity is not accidental but results from a strategic choice to defer explanation to the periphery of the system. Here, the low degree of transparency is not a lack but a consequence of prioritizing the function of an immediately applicable principle.

Finally, from the perspective of causal necessity, Definition 1 attains the highest possible value. If Definition 1 were absent, the core propositions of Part I—such as the necessary existence of substance, its infinity, and the unity of substance—could not be logically derived. By contrast, the absence of the letters or the Short Treatise does not compromise the existence of the system. This asymmetry demonstrates that Definition 1 functions as an indispensable nodal point for the system as a whole.

In light of the above, Definition 1 can be understood as a structural fixed point that maximizes normative priority and causal necessity at the cost of intentionally suppressing genetic proximity and interpretive transparency. By operating all four criteria simultaneously, the silence and omissions of Definition 1 can be reinterpreted not as deficiencies but as deliberate choices required for the constitution of a completed system.

In Part I of the Ethics, Spinoza defines God as “a substance consisting of infinite attributes” (I, def. 6). He further explicitly denies both the existence and the conceivability of any substance other than God (I, prop. 14). From these two theses follows the ontological identity of God and substance. That is, only one substance exists, and this unique substance is what is called God.

E1D6

Per Deum intelligo ens absolute infinitum, hoc est substantiam constantem infinitis attributis, quorum unumquodque aeternam et infinitam essentiam exprimit.

E1P14

Praeter Deum nulla dari neque concipi potest substantia.

This identity is not a weak or metaphorical one, but an exclusive and strictly logical identity. Since the possibility of multiple substances is excluded even at the level of thought, no ontological margin remains here. There is only one substance, and it is God.

-

Read more

These four criteria are: normative priority, which treats completed texts as interpretive reference points; genetic proximity, which measures how close a text is to the conceptual formation process; interpretive transparency, which assesses the extent to which a text is not obscured by later systematic strategies; and causal necessity, which evaluates the text’s indispensability within the overall system.

However, these criteria operate on certain assumptions. First, researchers construct in advance an “object of evaluation” that represents Spinoza’s thought as a relatively unified whole. This “object of evaluation” is not a single document but a theoretical unit such as a completed work or an established system of thought. In other words, the four criteria are applied to this unit, not to isolated texts.

Moreover, each criterion presupposes a network of texts in which the document’s relation to other writings is taken into account. The relative position of the evaluation target stabilizes only when multiple reference texts are available. Binary comparisons risk circularity, undermining the objectivity of the placement.

Yet the method has structural limitations. Spinoza’s writings contain temporal variation, unorganized drafts, and conceptual inconsistencies, which means that the evaluation target can be unintentionally idealized with excessive coherence or rationality. This structural assumption is not unique to Delbos or Wolfson’s virtual image of Spinoza; it is also present in the works of Gueroult and Matheron, reflecting a trust in the rational order of philosophers and their texts.

Additionally, the set of texts accessible to researchers is always incomplete. Missing or marginalized documents inevitably influence the results of evaluation. The application of the four criteria is thus unavoidably constrained by the limits of knowledge.

In conclusion, the four criteria should not be regarded as universal principles. They function as a methodological coordinate system, used to construct evaluation targets and organize internal textual relations under limited conditions. They serve as effective tools for dynamic interpretation in Spinoza research, but they are not definitive criteria for establishing the overall structure of Spinoza’s thought.

First, normative priority (auxiliary concept: the interpretive point of reference) applies. This principle holds that a text established in its completed form enjoys a privileged status as an interpretive benchmark in relation to drafts and peripheral documents. Here, the significance lies not in the text being “correct,” but in its role as a reference axis for initiating and guiding interpretation. Normative priority thus introduces an initial ordering among texts.

Second, genetic proximity (auxiliary concept: closeness to the site of formation) evaluates how close a text stands—temporally and structurally—to the process in which ideas and concepts are being formed. Under this perspective, immaturity is not a defect; rather, what is decisive is the degree to which the text preserves traces of thought in the process of formation.

Third, interpretive transparency (auxiliary concept: the degree to which a text is not covered over by strategy) asks to what extent concepts and arguments in a text can be read directly, without being obscured by later theoretical strategies or systematic arrangements. This is not a question of “ease of understanding”; indeed, a text that is less systematically arranged may, for that very reason, exhibit greater transparency.

Fourth, causal necessity (auxiliary concept: irreplaceability within the system) considers whether a text occupies a position so indispensable to the constitution of the overall system of thought that its absence would produce a structural rupture. The concern here is not the magnitude of its influence, but whether the system could exist in its absence.

These four criteria—namely, the interpretive point of reference (normative priority), closeness to the site of formation (genetic proximity), the degree to which a text is not covered by strategy (interpretive transparency), and irreplaceability within the system (causal necessity)—do not necessarily coincide. On the contrary, reversals are frequent: a completed text may be normatively privileged yet genetically distant, while a draft may be genetically close yet lack systemic necessity.

In actual research, concrete cases emerge in which these criteria collide sharply—between drafts and published works, or between peripheral correspondence and systematic treatises. It is precisely in such cases that the utility of these four criteria becomes most apparent.

Conclusion

Normative priority, genetic proximity, interpretive transparency, and causal necessity—these four criteria are mutually non-substitutable and often stand in tension with one another. Yet it is precisely this tension that drives textual interpretation beyond a static hierarchy and into a dynamic analytical mode. In this sense, these criteria function as a methodological coordinate system for Spinoza research.