Spinoza's Compendium of Hebrew Grammar (1677, posthumous, unfinished) claims that all Hebrew words, except a few particles, are nouns. The standard scholarly reaction is that this is either a metaphysical imposition (projecting his monistic ontology onto grammar) or a terminological trick (defining "noun" so broadly it's vacuous). Both wrongly project Greek and Latin grammatical categories as the neutral baseline.

Spinoza's Claim: Hebrew's All Nouns

From Chapter 5 of the Compendium (Bloom translation, 1962):

"By a noun I understand a word by which we signify or indicate something that is understood. However, among things that are understood there can be either things and attributes of things, modes and relationships, or actions, and modes and relationships of actions."

And:

"For all Hebrew words, except for a few interjections and conjunctions and one or two particles, have the force and properties of nouns. Because the grammarians did not understand this they considered many words to be irregular which according to the usage of language are most regular."

The word "noun" here is nomen. It means "name." Spinoza is saying: almost every Hebrew word is a name for something understood. This includes names for actions, names for relationships, names for attributes. His taxonomy of intelligible content explicitly includes actions and modes of actions alongside things and attributes.

The Vacuousness Objection

The obvious objection is: if "noun" covers actions as well as things, then the claim that "all words are nouns" is trivially true and does no work. Any content word names something intelligible; so what?

But this objection assumes that a useful grammar must draw a hard categorical line between nouns and verbs, and that Spinoza's refusal to draw it is therefore vacuous. That assumption is embedded in the Greek grammatical tradition; it is not a fact about Hebrew.

Semitic Roots

In Hebrew (and Arabic, Akkadian, and other Semitic languages), words are generated from consonantal roots—typically trilateral—by applying vowel patterns and affixes. The root כ-ת-ב generates katav (he wrote), kotev (one who writes), ktav (writing/script), mikhtav (letter), katvan (scribbler). The morphological operation is the same in every case: take the root, apply a pattern that describes the relation of the concept to the thing you are describing. For example, mikhtav is something that is made-written, a letter, much like the Arabic mameluke is someone who is made-owned, a slave. Whether the output functions as what a Greek grammarian would call a "noun" or a "verb" depends on which pattern you applied, not on some fundamentally different generative process.

This is not how Greek or Latin works. In those languages, nouns and verbs belong to largely separate inflectional systems (though they do have participles). Nouns decline for case and number; verbs conjugate for tense, aspect, mood, and person. A Greek speaker can usually tell from a word's form alone which category it belongs to. The noun/verb distinction corresponds to a real difference in morphological machinery.

In Hebrew, it doesn't. The grammarians who insisted on the distinction—both the rabbinical grammarians working in the Arabic tradition and the Christian Hebraists working from Latin—were forcing Hebrew into a framework designed for languages with a different structure. The result, as Spinoza observed, was that regular Hebrew forms got classified as irregular, because they didn't respect a boundary the language doesn't draw.

The infinitive

Spinoza argues (Chapter 5) that the Hebrew infinitive "is a pure unadulterated noun" that "knows nothing about the present, nor past, nor any time whatever." In Latin, the infinitive carries tense. Amare is present ("to love"), amavisse is perfect ("to have loved"). So grammarians working from Latin categories classified the Hebrew infinitive as a verb form, and then had to treat it as deficient because it lacks the tense marking a "verb" should have. But Spinoza says it doesn't carry tense because it isn't a verb. It's a name for an action. (The Hebrew metalinguistic term for "infinitive" is shem hapo'al, literally "name of the action.") The "irregularity" disappears when you stop expecting it to behave like a Latin infinitive.

The passive reflexive.

In Chapter XXI, Spinoza identifies a verb form he says "seems to be unknown to all the grammarians whom I know." The specific example is Ezekiel 23:48, where the form וְנִוַּסְּרוּ (weniwwasseru, "that they may be taught") appears. This is what modern grammarians now call the Nithpael, a passive reflexive combining features of the Niphal and Hithpael. Here's how one gets there. We start with a root י-ס-ר (yasar) indicating the idea of applying discipline. Render it reflexive and it's hithyasser, meaning "applies self-discipline". Then apply the passive and it means "made to be self-disciplining."

From a Greco-Latin perspective you encounter this word and the first question you ask is, "which schema do I apply? Is it a verb? Is it a noun?" and it's hard to answer. But it's a whole compound predicate. It's unusual to do that by just stacking two operators on a root even in Hebrew, but it's not as weird as it would be if you had to first categorize a word as a verb or a noun, and then apply the appropriate modification within that data structure.

The standard framework of Spinoza's era recognized seven binyanim (standard modifications of a root) and this form didn't fit any of them, so grammarians either emended it as a scribal error or classified it as anomalous. Spinoza argues it's a regular pattern the grammarians couldn't see because their framework didn't have a slot for it. Modern Hebrew grammar now recognizes the Nithpael as a rare but real stem formation.

Where the noun/verb distinction comes from

The Arabic grammatical tradition, which the medieval rabbinical Hebrew grammarians adopted wholesale, classifies words into three categories: ism (noun/name), fi'l (verb/action), and ḥarf (particle). Scholars have long noted the parallel between this trichotomy and Aristotle's division of speech into onoma (name), rhema (verb/predicate), and sundesmos (connective); Syriac scholars were important intermediaries in transmitting Greek linguistic thought to Arabic, though the degree of direct dependence remains debated.¹ The classification reached Hebrew grammar through two independent routes: Greek → Latin → Christian Hebraists, and Greek → Arabic → rabbinical grammarians. Both paths originate in Greek philosophy.

Around 100 BC, in the Art of Grammar attributed to Dionysius Thrax, rhēma was redefined to mean something more like the modern colloquial sense of "verb": "a part of speech without case inflection, but inflected for tense, person, and number, signifying an activity or process performed or undergone."² This is the framework the Arabic and Roman grammarians inherited.

Judah ben David Hayyuj (c. 945–1000), the founder of scientific Hebrew grammar, applied Arabic grammatical theory to Hebrew, including the ism/fi'l/ḥarf trichotomy and the principle that all Hebrew roots are trilateral.³ His technical terms were translations of Arabic grammatical terms. Jonah ibn Janah (c. 990–1055) extended this work, producing the first complete Hebrew grammar and drawing explicitly from the Arabic grammatical works of Sibawayh and al-Mubarrad.⁴ When Spinoza complained that "the grammarians" misunderstood Hebrew, this is the tradition he was arguing against.

Aristotle's noun/verb distinction is not just a grammatical observation. It reflects his substance/predication ontology. The world consists of substances (things that exist independently) and predicates (things said about substances). A noun names a substance; a verb predicates something of it. The sentence "Socrates runs" has the structure: substance + predication. The grammar encodes the metaphysics.

Dramas and Graphs

Greek and similar languages have different pools of words for filling the grammatical roles of noun and verb. Hebrew has one pool of roots that supplies words for both roles, depending on the pattern applied. These aren't just two different ways of doing the same thing. They reflect different structural priorities.

The Indo-European system is built around assembling a scene: placing distinct actors into relationships with distinct actions. You need different building blocks for the actors and the actions because they play different structural roles in the scene. Who did what to whom, when, in what manner. Case endings on nouns tell you the role; verb conjugation tells you the temporal and modal frame. The grammar presupposes that the actor/action distinction is primitive.

The Semitic system works differently. Each root is a node in a flat graph of intelligibles. The graph doesn't recurse; roots refer to intelligible things, not to relations between other roots. And it doesn't privilege any type of node over any other, which is why the morphological system treats them all with the same machinery. It does not start by assigning one word the role of "the thing" and another the role of "what the thing does."

A sentence picks out some nodes from this graph, and casts them into some definite relation to each other. Their arrangement and patterns of modification describe the way in which these intelligibles are related: process, agent, result, instrument, quality, location.

When you take the Greek-derived framework and impose it on Hebrew, you're asking a flat graph of intelligibles to behave like a scene-assembly system. The spurious irregularities Spinoza complained about are projections of the friction from this mismatch.

I'm not projecting, you're projecting!

The standard scholarly line is that Spinoza projected his philosophical commitments onto his grammar; that his monism (one substance, everything else is modes) motivated his claim that Hebrew has one part of speech with subcategories rather than two fundamentally different parts of speech. Harvey (2002) argues that the Compendium's linguistic categories parallel the conceptual categories of the Ethics.⁵ Rozenberg (2025) goes further, claiming Spinoza "project[ed] the characteristics of Latin onto Hebrew" and thereby "neglected the dynamism of Hebrew."⁶ Stracenski provides a more sympathetic reading but still frames the question as whether the Compendium serves the Ethics' metaphysics or the Tractatus' hermeneutics.⁷

This gets the direction of explanation backwards, or at least sideways. Spinoza was reading a Semitic language and describing how it generates words. The fact that his description aligns with his metaphysics may reflect a common cause: both the grammar and the metaphysics are what you get when you don't take the Aristotelian actor/action distinction as a primitive. Spinoza rejected Aristotle's substance/predicate ontology in the Ethics; he also noticed that Aristotle's noun/verb grammar didn't fit Hebrew.