Aristotle - Contemporary Perspectives on his Thought: On the 2400th Anniversary of Aristotle's Birth 9783110566420, 9783110564174

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Aristotle – Contemporary Perspectives on his Thought

Aristotle – Contemporary Perspectives on his Thought On the 2400th Anniversary of Aristotle’s Birth Edited by Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou

ISBN 978-3-11-056417-4 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-056642-0 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-056454-9 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Aristotle, honouree. | Sfendoni-Mentzou, Demetra, editor. Title: Aristotle - contemporary perspectives on his thought : on the 2400th anniversary of Aristotle’s birth / edited by Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou. Description: 1 [edition].. | Boston : De Gruyter, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018014900 (print) | LCCN 2018026078 (ebook) | ISBN 9783110566420 | ISBN 9783110564174 (print : alk. paper) | ISBN 9783110564549 (e-book epub) | ISBN 9783110566420 (e-book pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Aristotle. Classification: LCC B485 (ebook) | LCC B485 .A6435 2018 (print) | DDC 185--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018014900 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2018 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Preface  IX

I Philosophy of Nature Physics Gottfried Heinemann Aristotelian Supervenience: Potentialities and Powers in Aristotle’s Definition of Change  3 Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou Aristotle’s Dynamic Vision of Nature. Α Neo-Aristotelian Perspective on Contemporary Science  27

Biology James G. Lennox “For a Human Being Reproduces a Human Being”: A Mundane, Profound, Aristotelian Truth  57 David Lefebvre Aristotle’s Generation of Animals on the Separation of the Sexes  75

Psychology Tomás Calvo On the Notions of Ψυχή and Ζωή in the Aristotelian Biology  95 Abraham P. Bos Aristotle on Life-Bearing Pneuma and on God as Begetter of the Cosmos  109 Ron Polansky and John Fritz Aristotle on Accidental Perception  125

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Meteorology Theodossios P. Tassios Mechanical Properties of Solids in Aristotle’s Meteorologica  151

II Philosophy of Human Action Ethics Theodore Scaltsas Extended and Embodied Values and Ideas  167 Myrto Dragona-Monachou The Relevance of Aristotle’s Views of Ethics and Medicine to Bioethics  179

Politics Pierre Pellegrin Aristotle and Democracy  197 George Contogeorgis Aristotle and the Democracy of the City-state  211

Rhetoric Christof Rapp Aristotle and the Dialectical Turn of Rhetoric  223

Poetics Evanghelos Moutsopoulos Aesthetic Judgement according to Aristotle’s Politics  237

III First Philosophy Ontology Enrico Berti What is Aristotle’s Metaphysics?  245

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Lambros Couloubaritsis The Complex Organization of Aristotle’s Thought  257

Theology Teresa Pentzopoulou-Valalas Interpretation Problems in Aristotle’s Metaphysics Λ. The Case of the Sentence: καὶ ἔστιν ἡ νόησις νοήσεως νόησις  269

IV Theory of Thinking Epistemology Robert Bolton Two Conceptions of Practical Skill (Τέχνη) in Aristotle  279 Richard McKirahan “As in a Battle When a Rout has Occurred”  297

V Aristotle in the History of Philosophy Aristotelian Tradition Dermot Moran Aristotle’s Conception of οὐσία in the Medieval Christian Tradition: Some Neoplatonic Reflections  325

Preface This collection of twenty essays by leading Aristotle scholars worldwide includes a thorough investigation of a wide range of themes on the Stagereite’s work in philosophy and the sciences. The themes spread from Physics, Biology, Psychology, Meteorology to Ethics, Politics, Rhetoric, Poetics, Ontology, Theology, Epistemology and Aristotelian Tradition. Through a variety of approaches and thorough analyses, the contributors provide an in-depth exploration of the issues investigated, suggesting at the same time new perspectives on the study of Aristotle. Earlier versions of these essays were presented at the Plenary and Invited Speakers Sessions of the World Congress “Aristotle 2400 Years,” which was organized by the “Interdisciplinary Centre for Aristotle Studies” (DI.K.A.M.), of the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (A.U.Th.), on May 23 – 28, 2016, in celebration of the 2400th anniversary of Aristotle’s birth. The aim of the Congress was to advance scholarship on all aspects of Aristotle’s work, which had a unique impact in the history of human thought for more than two millennia and continues to be present in our intellectual lives; a work which spreads over the broadest range of topics, covering all major branches of Philosophy and extending in an impressive way into areas related to all fundamental fields of Science. In the 62 years Aristotle lived (384 – 322 B.C.) he wrote more than 200 treatises, only one-fifth of which have survived. His teachings in areas, such as Logic, Metaphysics, Ontology, Political and Moral Philosophy, Rhetoric, Poetics, have put an everlasting seal on the Hellenistic and Graeco-Roman world, on Byzantine scholarly tradition, on the Arab world, on the Medieval and Modern thought of Europe. For all this, already in the Late Middle Ages, Dante characterized him as “the master of those who know.”¹ Indeed, Aristotle was the first in the history of mankind to provide the laws of the human mind. His Logic was the basic instrument of Medieval Philosophy, under the general name of Ὄργανον, and dominated unchanged the intellectual life of the Eastern and the Western world until at least the 17th century. Aristotle’s Πρώτη Φιλοσοφία was embraced by the Hellenistic world, the Arabs, the Byzantines, the European-Western Philosophers, the Modern Western World and left an indelible mark on Metaphysics. His writings on the question of ὂν ᾗ ὄν (being qua being), and his concepts of οὐσία (substance), εἶδος (eidos), μορφή

 Dante, The Devine Comedy, Inf. 4.131. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-001

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(form), γένος (species), δύναμις (dynamis), ἐνέργεια (actuality), ἐντελέχεια (entelechy), that he was first to use and analyse, remain the most significant contribution to Μetaphysics. His philosophy, due to the prestige that it acquired by the work of St. Thomas Aquinas, laid the foundations for the education of the European Universities until the 17th century. Aristotle’s contribution to moral and political philosophy is a diachronically worthy treasure. His ideas of δημοκρατία (democracy) and πολιτεία (polity) are some of the debts of the Western world to the Stageirite. His views on the best, or most preferable, state (ἀρίστη πολιτεία), based on democratic principles, laid the foundations for most of the Western democracies in Europe and the United States of America. In his Politics, Aristotle highlights the significance of παιδεία (paideia) for the development of φρόνιμος and ἀγαθός (good and wise) citizen and suggests for the first time in the history of education that παιδεία should be public, statutory and compulsory. Aristotle’s treatise Περὶ Ποιητικῆς (Poetics) has been the emblematic text on the theory of Arts and his definition of τραγωδία, stands as an inexhaustible source of inspiration through the centuries. For the Stageirite philosopher, both politics and ethics are directly related to Law and Society. In the center is always ὁ ἄνθρωπος, defined by Aristotle as “φύσει ζῷον λογικὸν πολιτικόν” (“animal by nature rational and political”), thus expressing the philosopher’s strong belief that ὁ ἄνθρωπος is by nature governed by logic and acquires its meaning only within the community. Concepts, such as ἀρετή (virtue), εὐδαιμονία (eudemonia), μεσότης (mean, middle), φρόνησις (practical wisdom), φιλία (friendship), are fundamental, both to his moral and political theory. Aristotle teaches us, that ἀρετή (virtue) should dominate our impulses and instincts, so that we can be able to achieve μέτρον (measure), between the two ends: ὑπερβολὴ and ἔλλειψις (excess and deficiency). To accomplish the ἀγαθόν and finally εὐδαιμονία, passions must be in reasonable control, and in agreement with λόγος (reason). This can be achieved by an exercise of φρόνησις, practical wisdom. Finally, friendship is even more important than justice for the achievement of ὁμόνοια (amity) in the city-state. Aristotle’s contribution to Logic, Metaphysics, Political and Moral Philosophy, Rhetoric, Arts, Poetry and Drama has, undoubtedly, been the most appreciated part of his work through the centuries. However, the Stageirite was not only a philosophical mind, but also a scientific one, a πανεπιστήμων φιλόσοφος. His contribution to Natural Science and scientific thinking is enormous. His work covers an impressive number of scientific disciplines, such as Physics, Biology, Marine Biology, Zoology, Embryology, Teratology, Developmental Biology, Botany, Taxonomy, Psychology, Medicine, Agriculture, Mathematics, Chemistry, Meteorology, Astronomy, Geology and Mechanics. The incredible wealth of his observations in all areas of Philosophy of Nature and the number and kind of

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researches conducted during his stay in Assos, in Asia Minor, in Lesbos and in Macedonia, during the period that he was a tutor of Alexander (347– 335 B.C.), reveal that Aristotle was a great observer of nature and a research scientist. For him, as opposed to his teacher Plato, “all realms of nature are marvelous” (Part. An. 645a16). In his Zoological and Biological treatises, Aristotle shows an amazing passion for the observation of animals “without omitting … any member of the kingdom, however ignoble” (Part. An. 645a5 – 6). He gives us remarkable descriptions of terrestrial and marine animals, their parts and organs, the different ways in which they reproduce, their diet, the environment they live in. His scientific curiosity also led him to observe and record such cases as the stages of the development of the chicken embryo in the egg, or the function of one of the eight tentacles of the male octopus when it copulates with the male. He also gives reports of the internal anatomy of approximately one hundred and ten different kinds of animals, probably thirty-five of which must have been dissected by Aristotle himself.² Thanks to all these, Aristotle is considered as the father of Biology and Taxonomy and as the most significant Biologist of antiquity. His contribution to Psychology has played a similar role in the history of this discipline. His treatise Περὶ ψυχῆς (De anima) laid the foundations of Psychology and survived without any significant change until the advent of Brentano in the 19th century. His definition of the ψυχή (soul), in terms of ἐντελέχεια and εἶδος, combined with his views on reproduction in his Περὶ ζῴων γενέσεως (Generation of animals), provides highly suggestive ideas for our understanding of basic issues in contemporary Biology and Genetics. Aristotle’s Μετεωρολογικά (Meteorologica), written around 340 B.C., is the first broad and comprehensive book on the explanation of weather and astronomical phenomena. In his treatise Περὶ οὐρανοῦ (De caelo), Aristotle reports that he observed (ἐωράκαμεν) the occultation of the planet Mars by the Moon (see Cael. II.12, 292a3 – 5), an event which has now been tested for its liability and has been calculated to have happened precisely on May 4, 357 B.C.³ Aristotle’s Astronomical work has been read and commented by the great scientists of the Renaissance, Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, and later by Newton.

 See Armand Marie Leroi, The Lagoon. How Aristotle Invented Science (London: Bloomsbury Circus, 2014), 59 ff.  Kepler was the first to test this observation and conclude in his Astronomia Nova (1609) that it happened on 4 April 357 B.C. Subsequent calculations which culminated in F. Richard Stephenson’s one, dated the event on 4 May 357 B.C. [See F. Richard Stephenson, “A Lunar Occultation of Mars Observed by Aristotle,” JHA, xxxi (2000), 342– 344]. I owe the information concerning the astronomical research on Aristotle’s observation to John H. Seiradakis.

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What makes Aristotle’s enormous contribution to science even more valuable and timeless is the fact that he set up the very concept of ἐπιστήμη. He thus contributed to the birth of science as a particular way of knowing (γιγνώσκειν), by showing that what makes ἐπιστήμη is the knowledge of διὰ τί (propter quid), rather than the knowledge of ὅτι (quid). Aristotle was also the first to introduce and discuss a great number of concepts, such as ὕλη (matter) and μορφή/εἶδος (form/species form), φύσις (nature), αἰτία (cause), κίνησις (motion), ἄπειρον (infinite), συνέχεια (continuity), δύναμις (potentiality), τόπος (space) and χρόνος (time), concepts which no discussion in the fields of Philosophy and of Science can ignore. Although his system of Physical Science has been considered, since the Renaissance and almost up to our days, as the least valuable part of his thought—with the exception of Biology until the advent of Darwin’s theory of evolution— today there is a growing interest in approaching problems of Philosophy of Science by an appeal to Aristotle. Especially in the fields of Biology and Physics, it is now becoming all the more evident that in order to comprehend the processes which take place in the physical world, we have to abandon the basic schemes of Classical Physics and turn for inspiration to some of Aristotle’s highly illuminating and suggestive insights. The twenty essays of this volume provide penetrating analyses of central issues in Aristotle’s multitudinous and multifarious work, suggesting at the same time contemporary perspectives on his thought. The issues are treated under six general topics, which follow the pattern of the thematic areas of the World Congress “Aristotle 2400 Years.” *** The World Congress “Aristotle 2400 Years” was organized by the “Interdisciplinary Centre for Aristotle Studies” of Aristotle University of Thessaloniki on May 23 – 28, 2016. The Congress was under the auspices of the President of the Hellenic Republic; it also had the full support of the International Federation of Philosophical Societies (FISP), the Academy of Athens and the Hellenic National Commission for UNESCO. The aim of the Congress was to advance scholarship on all aspects of Aristotle’s work, a work that deserves to be studied not only for its long-standing influence, but also for its relevance for the 21st century and for its potential to lead us to a deeper understanding of concepts, ideas and problems of our own era; a work that can also offer the paradigm par excellence for an interdisciplinary approach of knowledge. The proclamation by UNESCO of 2016 as the “Aristotle Anniversary Year” provided the opportunity for the organization of a series of events in Greece

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and around the world, to honour the great Stageirite philosopher. The World Congress “Aristotle 2400 Years,” was the high spot of all these events for several reasons: it had the unique privilege to be held not only at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, that bears the philosopher’s name, but also in ancient Stageira and in ancient Mieza. It also had the honour to host 22 outstanding experts on Aristotle’s philosophy as Invited Speakers and in addition the impressive number of 250 Aristotle scholars from 42 countries from the five Continents, and from a rich diversity of philosophical and cultural traditions. During the six days that it lasted, the total number of Participants/Attendees approached the number of 600. The Congress programme spread over a wide range of topics covering the following major branches of Aristotle’s work in Philosophy and the Sciences: I. Philosophy of Nature: Physics, Biology, Psychology, Astronomy, Meteorology. II. Philosophy of Human Action: Ethics, Politics, Rhetoric, Poetics. III. First Philosophy: Ontology, Cosmology, Theology. IV. Theory of Thinking: Logic, Epistemology, Methods of Inquiry. V. Aristotle’s works: Transmission, Edition, Authenticity. VI. Aristotle in the History of Philosophy: Predecessors, Contemporaries, Aristotelian Tradition. VII. Aristotle and Contemporary Thought. A big proportion of the contributed papers will appear in the Proceedings of the World Congress “Aristotle 2400 Years” (Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, forthcoming, 2018). The Congress turned out to be a unique, intellectually exciting event to be remembered for a lifetime. The fact that it took place in the homeland of Aristotle, and gave the opportunity to the participants to walk and exchange ideas in ancient Stageira, the very place where Aristotle spent the first years of his life, and in ancient Mieza, the place that the Stageirite taught Alexander the Great, offered a thrilling, once in a lifetime experience. On the other hand, the excellence of talks of renowned Aristotle scholars, who participated as Invited Speakers, the number and the high quality of the contributed papers presented, and the global recognition of the Stageirite philosopher, made the Congress a point of reference worldwide and proved that the teachings of Aristotle have much of value to offer us today. As President of the Congress, I take this opportunity, to thank once again all those who contributed with their presence and their work to the success of the Congress. I also wish to express my sincere thanks to the Rector of the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki and Honorary President of the Congress, Perikles Mitkas, and the Vice-Rectors, especially Nikolaos Varsakelis and Theodore Laopoulos, for their support in every possible way. My most sincere thanks are due to the distinguished invited speakers for their valuable contribution to the World Congress “Aristotle 2400 Year”; to the members of the Honorary Academic Committee, the International Scientific Committee, the Finance and the Organizing

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Committee. Thanks are also due to the Scientific Associates of the “Interdisciplinary Center for Aristotle Studies” and to the volunteers during the Congress. Finally, I want to thank the Institutions and individuals that contributed to our effort to make this historic event real. As the editor of this volume, I would like to express my thanks and gratitude to the authors for their valuable contribution and cooperation, to the Members of the Executive Board of the “Interdisciplinary Centre for Aristotle Studies,” A.U.Th., Professors John H. Seiradakis, Zacharias Scouras and Stavros Avgoloupis for their steady support, Professor Richard McKirahan for his wonderful idea to suggest and encourage this collaboration with De Gruyter; I also wish to express my thanks to Dr. Serena Pirrotta, Katrin Hofmann and Florian Ruppenstein of De Gruyter for their excellent collaboration during the whole procedure for the realization of this project, and last, but not least, to my family and especially my husband, Aristotle Mentzos, for his support and constant encouragement. His useful suggestions on matters in which I needed judgment have, as always, been invaluable. Thessaloniki March 5, 2018

Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou

I Philosophy of Nature

Gottfried Heinemann

Aristotelian Supervenience: Potentialities and Powers in Aristotle’s Definition of Change Introduction. As far I can see, the key term in the title of my lecture was coined by John Heil. I came across it when I searched for “Aristotle + supervenience” on Google and found the Aristotelian Society announcing Heil’s lecture on “Aristotelian Supervenience” in November 2014.¹ In that lecture (of which a pre-printed version was soon available on-line), Heil said next to nothing about supervenience, next to nothing about Aristotle, and still less concerning the issue I was after, supervenience in Aristotle. Heil’s lecture outlines some moves towards a criticism of Humeanism, and quite a sketchy manifesto of Aristotelianism, in contemporary metaphysics. In the present paper, I will not engage with the former, nor will I try to fill in any details in the latter. Rather, my question is: What is Aristotelian about Aristotelian Supervenience? Can the basic assumptions of contemporary Aristotelianism, as sketched by Heil, be spelled out in Aristotelian terms?

1 Humean and Aristotelian Supervenience 1.1 David Lewis on Humean Supervenience In Heil’s lecture, “Aristotelian Supervenience” is just a slogan to counter another slogan, “Humean supervenience,” which was coined by David Lewis. As a shorthand, Humean supervenience is the claim that causal facts supervene on non-causal facts²

and, more generally, that the whole truth about a world like ours supervenes on the spatiotemporal distribution of local qualities.³

 The printed version is Heil (2015).  Psillos (2002), 133.  Lewis (1999), as quoted by Psillos (2002) 129. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-002

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A more elaborate statement by Lewis is this.⁴ Humean supervenience […] is the doctrine that all there is to the world is a vast mosaic of local matters of particular fact, […]. – We have geometry: a system of external relations of spatiotemporal distance between points. Maybe points of spacetime itself, maybe point-sized bits of matter or aether or fields, maybe both. – And at those points we have local qualities: perfectly natural and intrinsic properties which need nothing bigger than a point at which to be instantiated. For short, we have an arrangement of qualities. And that is all. There is no difference without a difference in the arrangement of qualities. All else supervenes on that.

I owe you some words about what supervenience is.⁵ In short, supervenience claims are claims about difference-making: There can be no difference in A (the supervenient domain) without a difference in B (the basis on which A supervenes). A typical example is the claim that mental properties (or events) supervene on physical properties (or events). Taken together with the claim that the physical domain is causally closed, the supervenience claim entails that mental properties (or events) are determined by physical properties (or events). Similarly, claims about truthmaking may take the form that truth supervenes on a domain of relevant facts. Similarly, Humean supervenience: The Humean mosaic which serves as basis comprises all matters of brute fact. Its description as a “mosaic” is meant to suggest that any item may be changed independently of all others. You just get another world, more or less similar with ours, with different laws of nature, etc. Hence, Humean supervenience is the doctrine that – facts about the Humean mosaic are independent of anything else, – facts about the rest are determined by the Humean mosaic, and, in particular, that – causal facts are determined by non-causal facts (e. g., regularities).

1.2 John Heil on Aristotelian Supervenience According to Aristotelianism, causal facts are facts about the causal properties of things. Causal facts are fundamental, and cannot be reduced to non-causal facts. In Humeanism, as described by Heil (2015), since properties are “particular inert

 Lewis (1986), ix f. (my indenting).  See the SEP entries on “Supervenience”: McLaughlin and Bennett (2014) and “Truthmakers”: MacBride (2016).

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qualities” (ibid., 53), the universe is thought of “as a four-dimensional distribution of impotent qualities” (ibid., 54). Heil’s Aristotelianism, by contrast, is the doctrine that properties are powerful qualities, qualities of substances that empower those substances in distinctive ways. (ibid., 53)

Hence, the universe is thought of as a distribution of powerful qualities. The universe unfolds as the powers mutually manifest themselves, yielding new distributions of powers that mutually manifest themselves, yielding in turn new distributions of powers.⁶ […] The universe so considered provides all the truthmakers you need for the truths that have truthmakers. This is Aristotelian supervenience. (ibid., 54)

Aristotelian supervenience is described by Heil in terms of truthmaking, i. e., of truth supervening on “the way the universe is” (ibid., 54, n. 10). But this is just a matter of expression, and is quite in accordance with Lewis who claims that “truth” supervenes on the Humean mosaic.⁷ Heil’s discussion also suggests that his emphasis is on “modal truths,”⁸ i. e., truths concerning causal facts. Again, this is quite in accordance with Psillos who describes Humean supervenience as a claim about “causal facts.”⁹ Both Humean and Aristotelian supervenience pertain to ontology. Such claims as – “all there is to the world” is the Humean mosaic (Lewis), and – “the universe” is “a distribution of powerful qualities” (Heil), are claims about fundamental entities. Both claims presuppose the Aristotelian scheme of reduction according to which [the question], what being is (τί τὸ ὄν), is the question, what is substance (τίς ἡ οὐσία)?¹⁰

As Frede and Patzig [(1988), II, 24] rightly insist, this applies to both meaning and reference. Hence, Aristotle’s scheme involves two claims. The question,  Heil adds that there may be also powers that manifest spontaneously, needing no reciprocal partner (see below).  Lewis (1999), as quoted by Psillos (2002), 129 (see above).  Heil (2015), 42 and passim.  Psillos (2002), 133 (see above).  Metaph. VII.1, 1028b4. I am referring to Aristotle by abbreviation as follows: De an. = De anima, Cat. = Categoriae, Int. = De interpretatione, MA = De motu animalium, Metaph. = Metaphysica, Phys. = Physica. Translations are mine (if not indicated otherwise).

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what it is to be, is claimed to reduce to the question, what it is to be a fundamental entity (οὐσία). And the question, what there is,¹¹ is claimed to reduce to the question, “what are”—quoting Thomas Kuhn¹²—“the fundamental entities of which the universe is composed?” Both Humean and Aristotelian supervenience respond to the latter question by specifying fundamental entities of which the respective cosmologies assume that the universe is composed. Concerning the former question, I confine myself to a couple of remarks. First, in either case, the relation between what is fundamental and what is not is described in terms of supervenience (or truthmaking)— which, however, is just a shorthand for the far more sophisticated account offered by those cosmologies. Second, criteria for being fundamental are diverse in the ontologies considered. In Lewis, fundamental entities are mereologically primitive; Heil leaves that open; Aristotle insists that substances are complex but still mereologically primitive in a way: no substance is composed of substances according to Aristotle.

2 What is Aristotelian about Aristotelian Supervenience? 2.1 Pandispositionalism? To mention pandispositionalism is just a preliminary. Heil claims that on the […] Aristotelian conception, properties are powerful qualities, qualities of substances that empower those substances in distinctive ways. The die is cubical. In virtue of being cubical, the die would tumble or slide (not smoothly roll) down an incline, would make a concave square impression in the carpet, would look cubical, would feel cubical. The die’s cubicalness is a quality, but not merely a quality. The die’s cubicalness is a powerful quality.¹³

Aristotle is not in the position to deny the facts thus described. He would, however, insist that the powerful character of the property mentioned involves relatives and a latency-manifestation contrast, neither of which is referred to by its definition (i. e., of what it is to be cubical). So, Aristotle seems to be committed to claiming that the powerful character of that property is accidental to it.

 Aristoteles notes that the question is old. See Heinemann (2016a), section 1.2.  Kuhn (1970), 4.  Heil (2015), 53 (italics his).

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But importantly, the powerful character of other properties is not. Consider the properties of having life, of being hot, or heavy, or smooth, or talented, etc. To each of them, the latency-manifestation contrast involved is essential. In addition, to the property of having such and such an active or passive δύναμις (i. e., an Aristotelian power in the narrow sense), relatives are essential. But for the property of having such and such a nature (which may count as an Aristotelian power in the wider sense),¹⁴ this is not obviously so.¹⁵ In particular, Heil’s mutual manifestation model does not straightforwardly apply to natures.¹⁶ The question as to how Aristotelian powers fit into that model splits up into two, concerning active and passive δυνάμεις on the one hand (see below, section 2.3.1), and concerning natures on the other (section 2.3.2). Assuming that Aristotelian natures are (composed of) “powerful qualities” in the sense required, the attribution of pandispositionalism to Aristotle is warranted to the extent as natures are fundamental to Aristotle’s ontology.¹⁷ More general claims—such as concerning the cubicalness of Heil’s “die”—fall outside my present topic and may be taken aside.¹⁸ Powers, says Heil, are “internally related” to and, hence, defined in terms of their manifestations: “A power’s identity depends on what the power is a power for.”¹⁹ Two cases must be distinguished. In the standard case, a power needs another power suitably related to manifest itself. Sugar dissolves—if put into an environment, e. g., a cup of tea, which provides the reciprocal power required.²⁰ Non-standard powers need no reciprocal partner but “manifest themselves spontaneously” and thus “infect the whole with contingencies.”²¹  That wider meaning of δύναμις is introduced at Metaph. IX.8, 1049b5 – 10.  But it should be noted that natures usually involve Aristotelian powers in the narrow sense. This applies particularly to living beings. No plant or animal would “exist by virtue of its nature” (Phys. II.1, 192b8: ἐστι φύσει) unless it is adapted by the powers involved in its nature to a way of life (βίος) which presupposes a certain kind of environment. See Lennox (2010), Heinemann (2016b).  Nor does Heil’s spontaneous manifestation model (see section 2.3.2).  Metaph. VII.17, 1041b28 – 31.  I am grateful to Niko Strobach and particularly to Anna Marmodoro who (directly or indirectly) urged me to reduce this section to its present thematic scope.  Heil (2015), 53. Similarly, Aristotle (Metaph. IX.8, 1049b12– 17): manifestation (ἐνέργεια) is prior in definition (λόγῳ) to power (δύναμις).  Additional factors may block that effect and, Heil insists, yield another (ibid., 53 f.). That is to say, when manifestation partners meet, something must happen which may be modified, but not just annihilated, by additional powers interfering. Van Miltenburg (2015), 230, n. 289 rightly objects that this does not account for factors that interfere later in the process. See footnote 56 below.  Heil (2015), 54. Heil’s example is, of course, radioactive decay (ibid., 50).

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Heil’s powers are complex dispositions, yielding different kinds of manifestation with different kinds of manifestation partners. On a more pedestrian account, with dispositions being identified “solely by reference to their manifestations,”²² such powers are not just dispositions but imply dispositions—and may be described in terms of the dispositions implied. Dispositions, in turn, may be described in terms of stimulus condition (S) and manifestation (M): x is disposed to M when S iffDf x would M if it were the case that S.²³

Heil’s interaction of powers requires at least two substances x and y to be involved. Let P and Q be powerful qualities of x and y, respectively. Then x and y are jointly disposed to M when suitably related. That relation coming about is the stimulus condition S. Both stimulus condition and kind of manifestation are determined by the kind of powers involved. In a way, Aristotle’s coupling of active with passive powers in Phys. III.3 corresponds to the “mutual manifestation” of powers in Heil. But Aristotle’s account lacks the symmetry which is characteristic of Heil’s. It is embedded in the analysis of change (κίνησις) offered in Phys. III.1– 3.

2.2 Aristotle’s Definition of Change²⁴ 2.2.1 Potentialities to Be and Potentialities to Become in Phys. III.1 Let x be some thing which can be φ but is not.²⁵ In order to get a disposition from that, a stimulus condition must be specified. But Aristotle does not proceed that way. His starting point is potentiality rather than power. His definition,

 Heil (2012), 74. I am grateful to Anna Marmodoro who drew my attention to this terminological issue.  Choi/Fara (2016), sect. 1.2; cf. Vetter/Schmid (2014), 41.  Section 2.2 replaces the far more superficial remarks I presented at Thessaloniki. I am particularly grateful to Marco Bartalucci, Ludger Jansen, Ricardo Santos, Niko Strobach and others for the subsequent discussion.  Cf. Phys. III.1, 200b26 – 201a10. φ is in one of the four categories mentioned (b33 – 34): substance, quantity, quality and place. In the first case, x is something which can be the matter of φ. In the other cases, x is a substance which can have the property φ. It goes without saying that change towards φ starts from x not being φ. Anagnostopoulos [(2017), 182] has recently pointed out that this, together with being potentially φ, marks the incompleteness characteristic of the subject of change according to Phys. III.2, 201b32 and De an. III.7, 431a6 – 7, and hence accounts for the distinction of changes from other activities.

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“change (κίνησις) isDf the state of complete activation (ἐντελέχεια) qua being potentially (ᾗ τοιοῦτον) of what is potentially (τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος),”²⁶

presupposes just that. Clearly, the potentiality in question is the potentiality of x to be φ.²⁷ But there is an ambiguity. The same potentiality might be also described as the potentiality of φ to be instantiated by x. Accordingly, the definition quoted might be spelled out in two different ways: (2)

Change [sc. towards φ] isDf the state of complete activation qua potentially being [sc. φ] of the thing [i. e., x] that is potentially [sc. φ];

(3)

change [sc. towards φ] isDf the state of complete activation qua potentially being instantiated [sc. by x] of the property [i. e., φ] that is potentially instantiated [sc. by x].

or

The next sentence: (4)

“for instance, [sc. the state of complete activation] of the alterable (ἀλλοιωτόν) qua alterable is alteration, of the in- or decreaseable in- or decrease, [etc.]”²⁸

removes the ambiguity: change is the activation of x qua being potentially φ, not of φ qua being potentially instantiated by x. But that clarification comes at a price—which, however, may turn out to be a gain. Whereas the potentiality pre-

Anagnostopoulos (ibid.) also brings out that, more precisely, the initial state of x is not just non-φ but some -φ which is contrary to φ in a way. Note that -φ is not uniquely determined by φ. It makes a difference what -φ is the starting point of a change towards φ—as it makes, for instance, a difference whether I travel to Thessaloniki from Athens or Munich. Since in the case of locomotion, beginning and end of the path may be taken as contraries, both being in Athens and being in Munich are contraries to being in Thessaloniki, and are candidates for -φ if the latter is φ. In the present section (2.2.1) of my paper, I will do without this distinction since it escapes the formal treatment proposed in the sequel.  Phys. III.1, 201a10 – 11: ἡ τοῦ δυ|νάμει ὄντος ἐντελέχεια, ᾗ τοιοῦτον, κίνησίς ἐστιν.  This is evident from 200b26 where τὸ μέν-τὸ δέ refers to x, not to φ: “x is—in some cases only actually, in others potentially and actually—either a this or of such a quantity or quality [etc.]” (that is, is… φ for some φ in one of the relevant categories).  Phys. III.1, 201a11– 15: οἷον τοῦ μὲν | ἀλλοιωτοῦ, ᾗ ἀλλοιωτόν, ἀλλοίωσις, τοῦ δὲ αὐξητοῦ καὶ τοῦ | ἀντικειμένου φϑιτοῦ (οὐδὲν γὰρ ὄνομα κοινὸν ἐπ’ ἀμφοῖν) αὔ|ξησις καὶ φϑίσις, τοῦ δὲ γενητοῦ καὶ φϑαρτοῦ γένεσις καὶ | φϑορά, τοῦ δὲ φορητοῦ φορά.

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supposed in (1) is the potentiality of x to be φ, the potentiality presupposed in (4) is the potentiality of x to become φ.²⁹ That is, Aristotle proceeds (quite tacitly) from (a)

x can be φ but is not

(b)

x can become φ.

to

One may take (b) to be just shorthand for (a).³⁰ I will argue it is not.³¹ Nor can (a) be reduced by definition to (b).³² Rather, the transition from (a) to (b) is a crucial step in Aristotle’s analysis of change. It is only by equating the potentiality of x to be φ with the corresponding potentiality to become that Aristotle gets a passive power (δύναμις) from that potentiality, and is able to enter into the causal analysis he will present in Phys. III.3. There is, of course, a question of circularity. Replace (a) with (b) in (2): you will get

 On the one hand, it is generally agreed that no potentiality of x to become φ is explicitly referred to in 200b26 – 201a10, see Heinaman (1994), 30. On the other hand, it is hard to deny that in the sequel, potentialities to become (rather than be) φ are referred to by ἀλλοιωτόν (201a12), etc. In this, I disagree with Kosman (1969) and Anagnostopoulos (2010), 62 ff.; for a collection of relevant passages, see Heinaman (1994), 25 – 27; but see also, Echeñique Sosa (2010). If so, there are two questions: (i) how to understand the latter potentialities in such a way that circularity is avoided, and as a preliminary, (ii) whether a potentiality of be or to become is referred to by δυνάμει ὄν in the very definition of change (201a10 – 11). Concerning (i), see below. My answer to (ii) is straightforward: It is implausible to impute a tacit shift in the meaning of δυνάμει ὄν at 201a10 – 11. Hence, since a potentiality to be is referred to by δυνάμει ὄν before 201a10, the same should be plausibly assumed for δυνάμει ὄν at 201a10 – 11. Differently, Heinaman (1994), passim.  Cf. Gill (1989), 189: “expressions like ‘curable,’ ‘changeable,’ and so on are ambiguous; they may designate a potentiality for change, but they may also designate in shorthand a potentiality for an end state possessed by a subject that is presently deprived.”  Similarly, Matthen (2009), 121 f. Roughly speaking, my (a) and (b) correspond to Matthen’s Po (F) and Po(towards F), respectively. Matthen attempts no derivation of Po(towards F) from Po(F). He merely claims that “[i]n virtue of Po(F), x will also possess […] Po(towards F)” (ibid., 121).  I agree with Jansen’s claim [(2015), 116] that potentialities are grounded in passive powers according to Aristotle. According to Jansen (ibid.). (D) (δυνάμει Φ)(x,t) iff dyn(Φ-zu-werden)(x,t), where dyn is Jansen’s modal predicate modificator (ibid. 19 ff.). I would rather prefer [ØΦ(x,t) ∧ (δυνάμει Φ)(x,t)] iff dyn(Φ-zu-werden)(x,t) which, however, is a minor concern. But I disagree with Jansen’s claim that (D) is just the semantic rule that defines potentiality (δυνάμει Φ) in terms of passive Aristotelian power (dyn(Φ-zuwerden)).

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change towards φ isDf the state of complete activation qua changeable to φ of the thing that is changeable to φ.

That is to say, to become φ isDf to manifest one’s potentiality to become φ—which is just a tautology. And even worse, the definition is circular since, in turn, actuality is prior in definition to potentiality according to Aristotle and, hence, “changeable” must be defined in terms of change.³³ But the difficulty is not as dramatic as it appears. On closer examination, Phys. III.1 is just one step in Aristotle’s analysis of change which presupposes other steps and is ultimately rooted in such background knowledge as Aristotle’s research into principles must presuppose.³⁴ In particular, the tripartite analysis of change in terms of opposites and underlying subject, taken for granted in Cat. 5 for accidental changes and generalized to absolute becoming in Phys. I.7, is clearly presupposed in Phys. III.1.³⁵ Hence, there is no question in Phys. III.1 of substantiating the tripartite analysis by a definition of change. The definition offered in Phys. III.1 does not apply to the principles of the tripartite analysis, but to the process of changing: (6)

the process of becoming φ isDf “the state of complete activation qua potentially being φ of the thing [i. e., x] that is potentially φ.”

Neither initial nor final state is referred to by the definiendum in (6): the process is what happens in between. That’s why there is also no question of circularity in that definition. The crucial step in the subsequent discussion, viz. from (a)

x is potentially φ (δυνάμει ὄν, 201a10 – 11)—that is: x can be φ but is not

to

 See Heinaman (1994), 34.  Phys. I.1. See ch. 1 in Wieland (1970). Note that in Phys. I.2, the ὑπόθεσις (185b12: ὑποκείσϑω) required for introducing the subject matter of natural science (cf. Metaph. VI.1, 1025b11) is stated in terms of κίνησις. Here, what it is to change is just a matter of background knowledge; there is no question of providing a definition.  Cat. 5, 4a17– 21; Phys. I.7, 190a31-b17; see Gill (1989), 188 f. Since contraries (4a18: ἐνάντια) cannot be simultaneously true of the subject, the tripartite analysis also involves a distinction of times (Cat. 5, 4a19: ὁτὲ μὲν… ὁτὲ δέ). It should be noted that contraries are also in the background of Phys. I.7 (cf. Phys. I.5, 188b21– 26) and reappear in the final paragraphs (190b27– 191a19).

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(b)

x is changeable to φ (ἀλλοιωτόν etc., 201a12 ff.)—that is: x can become φ

has rarely been properly understood. As I said, Aristotle does not just equate (a) with (b). Rather, (b) is inferred from (a).³⁶ I will argue that the inference is valid since, when embedded into an appropriate logical framework, (b) is entailed by (a). The tripartite analysis of becoming presupposed in (b) involves the opposites φ and non-φ, together with an appropriate scheme for distinguishing times. There may be two such schemes, one involving tenses, the other quantification over positions in time. I prefer tenses since in Aristotle singular statements are tensed by default.³⁷ It is quite a safe guess that the rules of tensed discourse encode such background knowledge as it is required by Aristotle’s research into principles; and so do the temporal distinctions inherent in the principle of non-contradiction.³⁸ In particular, nothing is borrowed from Aristotle’s explicit account of time in Phys. IV.10 – 14 (which, in turn, presupposes the definition of change in Phys. III.1).³⁹ Further, a scheme for distinguishing modalities is required. Aristotle’s scheme takes the form of a modification of predicates.⁴⁰ In the present case, this will not do since both tenses and modal modification will also pertain to complex propositions. It is hard to see how predicate modifiers would work with the propositional calculus. My recourse, in the sequel, to combined tensed and modal logic is surely anachronistic. Assuming that Aristotle’s starting point at Phys. III.1, 201a10 – 11, i. e., (a)

x can be φ but is not,

 True, Aristotle is not explicit in this. According to Heinaman [(1994), 35] a tacit assumption that (a) entails (b) is also “nowhere in sight”—no wonder since Heinaman also claims “that Aristotle never states the definition of change in terms of a potentiality to be” (ibid., italics his).  Note that according to De interpretatione, tense is the mark to distinguish verbs from nouns (Int. 3, 16b6: προσσημαῖνον χρόνον / Int. 2, 16a20: ἄνευ χρόνου), declarative sentences must contain verbs (Int. 5, 17a9 – 10) and, consequently, simple declarative sentences are tensed (ibid., 24: …ὡς οἱ χρόνοι διῄρηνται).  See, Heinemann (forthcoming). In Phys. III.1, a temporal distinction derived from the principle of non-contradiction (Metaph. IV.3, 1005b19 – 20) is alluded to (201a20 – 21: οὐχ ἅμα… ἢ οὐ κατὰ τὸ αὐτό), and is tacitly presupposed earlier (200b26 – 28, where οὐχ ἅμα δὲ may be added after δυνάμει καὶ ἐντελεχείᾳ). See Heinemann (2016c), 56 f.  See again, Heinemann (2016c), 56 f.  See section 1.5 in Jansen (2015).

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is in the present,⁴¹ the final state in the tripartite analysis of becoming, as applied to (b)

x can become φ,

must occur in the future; the initial state must occur before. Hence, (b) may be spelled out as follows: (b’)

it will possibly be the case that x is φ but was not φ.⁴²

Accordingly, (a) takes the form (a’)

x is not φ but it will possibly be the case that x is φ.⁴³

With this analysis, the inference of (b) from (a) is valid since (7)

(b’) is entailed by (a’)

on the condition that φ is purely presentic.⁴⁴ Hence, the transition at 201a11 is warranted in a way. One may object that it is far from innocuous, since the requirement that φ must be purely presentic is not universally met. One may also wonder, if Aristotle was aware of anything similar to the justification presented above. Be that as it may, what he gains from that transition is not just another description: he gets power from potentiality.

 Note that (a) describes an opportunity for change which has not yet been taken: it is irreversible that x has not yet changed to φ, and hence presently is not φ. That is to say, the present is as unchangeable—that is, in the language of modal logic, necessary—as the past. The necessity of the present will secure the argument from combined modal and temporal logic adumbrated below.  That is (with for possibly, F for future, P for past): F(PØφx ∧ φx).  That is: Øφx ∧ Fφx .  For purely presentic p, (8) (Øp ∧ Fp) → F(PØp ∧ p) is valid in combined modal and temporal logic. Substitute φx for p to get (a’)→(b’) from (8). I am grateful to Niko Strobach who (in private communication) supplied a proof of (8) and convinced me that (8) is far from trivial. The question whether (8) is valid was mine, but the answer is Strobach’s. Note that the requirement of being purely presentic excludes dispositional properties. Hence, my analysis of Aristotle’s definition of change does not apply to the acquisition of dispositional properties which, however, is essential to all kinds of biological development Aristotle describes. Taken in this way, Aristotle seems to be committed to claiming that dispositional properties are ultimately grounded in purely presentic categorical properties.

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2.2.2 Potentialities and Passive Powers in Phys. III.1 Change (κίνησις) is between contraries according to Aristotle. My description in terms of the final state, in which x has acquired the property φ, and an initial state such as (a)

x can be φ but is not

is therefore inadequate. The initial state is not just the privation thus indicated. It is a state in which x is -φ, viz. (a*)

x can be φ but is -φ,

where -φ is another property contrary to φ. It goes without saying that different initial states yield different changes. I may travel from Berlin or from Vienna to Munich; a wall which is green or red may be painted white. The changes are different, but their description in terms of final state and privation ignores that difference.⁴⁵ I have borrowed this more complete way of description from the tripartite analysis of change in Phys. I.7 which, as I argue, is taken for granted in Phys. III.1. The account in Cat. 5 is slightly different. Change is described in terms of contraries, but nothing between is referred to.⁴⁶ Hence, the distinction between contradictory and contrary opposition is largely ignored. But it cannot be ignored when the process of changing is at issue. Given the initial and final states of a change, the process of changing is what happens in between. If initial states differ, no intermediate state may be common to the corresponding processes, as there is, for instance, no railway station regularly passed by both the trains from Berlin and from Vienna to Munich. Process is defined in modal terms. It is important to see that two different potentialities of x are presupposed in Aristotle’s definition of change (201a10 – 11). One of them is π1:

the potentiality which is indicated in (a) and (a*) by the phrase “x can be φ.”⁴⁷

The other is

 It should be noted that this abridged way of description (which is suggested by the way changes are commonly named, see Phys. V.1, 224b7– 8), also prevails in Phys. III.1.  See Metaph. X.4, 1055b1– 2: “a contradiction (ἀντίφασις) has nothing between, but contraries (ἐνάντια) may have”—which in the immediate sequel (b3) is claimed to be the mark to distinguish contraries.  In section 2.2.1, π1 is referred to by “the potentiality of x to be [as opposed to become] φ.”

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15

a potentiality of which the manifestation is referred to by the formula “state of complete activation (ἐντελέχεια) of x (τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος) qua potentially φ (ᾗ τοιοῦτον).”

Note that x qua potentially φ is not just a potentiality, and its state of complete activation is not just the corresponding manifestation. The state of complete activation x qua potentially φ is the manifestation of a potentiality which is not explicitly referred to as a potentiality in the formula quoted, but is indirectly described in terms of its manifestation. For π1 to manifest is for x to be φ. For π2 to manifest is for x to be engaged in the process of changing from -φ to φ.⁴⁸ Accordingly, since potentialities are defined in terms of their manifestations, π2 is the potentiality of x to be engaged in the process of changing from -φ to φ. But this won’t explain anything since, conversely, what is for x to be engaged in the process of changing from -φ to φ is defined in terms of π2; see above, (6). In order to get a description of π2, which does not presuppose that process, a step back is required. Still another potentiality of x is π3:

the potentiality to become φ,

which appears at 201a11 ff., just after the definition of change in terms of π2. In the preceding section, I have argued that, in a way, π3 is inferred from π1. My present concern is the way π3 is related to π2. Change is defined at Phys. III.1, 201a10 – 11 as the manifestation of π2, and is equated with the manifestation of π3 immediately after (a11– 15, etc.). Hence, the manifestations of π2 and π3 coincide in a way. But the accounts are diverse. The description of π3 is in terms of the final state only. Consider Aristotle’s favorite example where x is the material used to build a house. The condition that x can be so used (that x is οἰκοδομητόν, a16) leaves it open in what state x is initially found. Beams, boards and bricks may be neatly stacked up on the site or still incorporated into another house which is torn down as the new one is built. In both cases the result is the same; the difference between the initial states is not accounted for in the description of π3. But the processes are different, and so should be the relevant potentialities of which the processes are the manifestations. That is to say, π2 should vary as the initial state does. In my paraphrases, I have rendered the clause ᾗ τοιοῦτον (201a11) as “qua potentially φ,” which I took to refer to the initial state of the change, that is, to the state in which  The distinction of π1 from π2 is missed when Marmodoro [(2014), 18] remarks that “Aristotle… distinguishes the activation of a power from the realization of the power’s end” (her italics).

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(a)

x can be φ but is not,

and more specifically, (a*)

x can be φ but is -φ,

where -φ is another property contrary to φ. Taken in this way, Aristotle’s definition of change describes the process of changing from -φ to φ as “the state of complete activation (ἐντελέχεια)” of x qua being in the initial state.⁴⁹ Accordingly, the potentiality π2 of which this process is the manifestation should be the potentiality which x exhibits qua being in the initial state. Thus, the requirement is met that π2 should vary as the initial state does. But it is hard to deny that π2 is still ill-defined. A more direct account of π2 can be derived from the description of the initial state. On the one hand, the initial state is a state in which x is potentially φ. As a rule, actuality is prior to potentiality according to Aristotle. Hence, x cannot be potentially φ, except by virtue of being actually ψ for some appropriate property ψ. Since Aristotelian powers, whether manifest or not, are actually possessed, the safest candidate for ψ is the possession of a passive Aristotelian power π such that for π to manifest is for x to become φ. This specification secures that the manifestation of π is just the manifestation of π3:

the potentiality of x to become φ

(see above). Taken in this way, there is nothing to distinguish π from π3. As it turns out, the latter potentiality is the passive Aristotelian power by virtue of which x is potentially φ. On the other hand, the initial state is a state in which x is -φ; for x to become φ is to change from -φ to φ. Hence, for π to manifest is for x to change from -φ to φ. Since -φ and φ are contraries, the change is what occurs in between. Hence, for π to manifest is for x to be engaged in the process of changing from -φ to φ. Taken in this way, the manifestation of π is just the manifestation of π2:

the potentiality of which the manifestation is referred to by the formula “state of complete activation (ἐντελέχεια) of x (τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος) qua potentially φ (ᾗ τοιοῦτον)”

(see above), and there is nothing to distinguish π from π2. The potentiality of x presupposed in the definition of change (201a10 – 11), of which the process of

 As I understand, this is also the point when Anagnostopoulos [(2017), 182] describes x as an “incomplete being”: it does not suffice that x is incomplete, but in order to account for the κίνησις /ἐνέργεια distinction, x must manifest qua incomplete.

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changing from -φ to φ isDf the manifestation, is just the passive Aristotelian power by virtue of which x is potentially engaged in the process of changing from -φ to φ. In the sequel, this is clearly brought out by Aristotle’s restatement of that definition. According to the original statement, the process of changing from -φ to φ isDf the state of complete activation (ἐντελέχεια) of x (τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος) qua potentially φ (ᾗ τοιοῦτον).⁵⁰

In the restatement, the phrase “qua potentially φ (ᾗ τοιοῦτον)” is replaced with when x, being fully activated (ἐντελεχείᾳ ὄν), manifests (ἐνεργῇ) not qua itself (ᾗ αὐτό) but qua potentially changing from -φ to φ (ᾗ κινητόν).⁵¹

The potentiality to change from -φ to φ is a power, the corresponding process of changing is its manifestation.

2.3 Powers, Natures, and Causes 2.3.1 Becomers and Movers in Phys. III.1 – 3 But one power is not enough. Powers are dispositions, involving a latency-manifestation contrast. For the manifestation, a stimulus is required. The stimulus is described by Aristotle in terms of mutual manifestation. According to the account in Phys. III.3, the manifestation requires two powers to be involved: – the passive power to become φ which qualifies x as a potential φ-becomer, and – and an active power to make φ which (in Phys. III.3) qualifies some y other than x as a potential φ-maker.⁵² The process of x becoming φ is the joint manifestation (ἐνέργεια) of both powers, triggered by the potential φ-becomer and the potential φ-maker coming in touch with each other. Two remarks are in order. First, Aristotle insists that both active and passive powers manifest “in” the φ-becomer, but not in the φ-maker. Aristotle’s example in Phys. III.3 is telling. A passive power to learn combines with an active power to  Phys. III.1, 201a10 – 11: ἡ τοῦ δυ|νάμει ὄντος ἐντελέχεια, ᾗ τοιοῦτον, κίνησίς ἐστιν.  Phys. III.1, 201a27– 29: ἡ δὲ τοῦ δυνάμει | ὄντος 〈ἐντελέχεια〉, ὅταν ἐντελεχείᾳ ὂν ἐνεργῇ οὐχ ᾗ αὐτὸ ἀλλ’ | ᾗ κινητόν, κίνησίς ἐστιν.  In the sequel, change is described in terms of its final state only (as it was in section 2.2.1).

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teach. The joint manifestation of both powers is a process of learning which takes place in the learner. The teacher neither learns nor unlearns. There seems to be nothing in that analysis to rule out unmoved movers to act as φmakers. Yet, a remark in Phys. III.1 suggests that this is not the typical case. Rather, Aristotle claims that every natural thing “is itself changed when it produces change.”⁵³ The question remains whether the changes correspond to each other. In some cases, they do (in one sense or another): when I push a cart, I go along with it, when water cools a stone, it is heated. In other cases, they don’t. A dog barks and rouses me from sleep. And as a matter of fact, to be a teacher is not just to possess the knowledge a student would acquire. Nor is to act as a teacher just to be in touch with a student (or with more of them) but, rather, to do such things as talking, listening, reading and commenting on essays, etc. Yet, far from being an unmoved mover, the teacher is unchanged in the very quality in which he brings about change.⁵⁴ Second, the power of x to become φ is manifest when x is in the process of becoming φ. By contrast, the potentiality of x to be φ is realized when x is actually (ἐντελεχείᾳ) φ. What it is for that potentiality to manifest—nota bene: as a potentiality (ᾗ τοιοῦτον, 201a11)—is explained by Aristotle not in terms of x being φ but in terms of x manifesting its power to become φ. Realization is the result of the process—provided that nothing impedes.⁵⁵ On the one hand, since a potentiality which cannot be realized is a contradiction in terms, there is no potentiality without powers to realize it. But on the other hand, since there is no way to exclude interfering factors, for the relevant powers to manifest is not to secure that result. Hence, the dispositional analysis applies, according to which the manifestation of a power is necessitated by the stimulus condition obtaining. But what is necessitated is the process, not its being unimpeded by interfering factors which may affect its result.⁵⁶

 Phys. III.1, 201a24– 25: κινεῖ κινούμενον καὶ αὐτό (trans. Hussey).  Similarly, De an. II.5, 417b8 – 9: it is misleading to claim that the builder undergoes a change when he builds. See Kosman (1969), 56; Polansky (2007), 236. Given Aristotle’s denial of reciprocity, Newton’s 3rd law is a mark to distinguish modern from Aristotelian science. For a largely Aristotelian account of “causal production as [nota bene: reciprocal] interaction,” see Ingthorsson (2002).  Phys. II.8, 199b18: ἂν μή τι ἐμποδίσῃ.  Niels van Miltenburg [(2015), 223 – 225 and 228 – 233] made this point. His analysis of dispositions is essentially Aristotelian. Against Mumford/Anjum [(2011), 175], who propose a “modality of dispositionality” which is “sui generis,” van Miltenburg insists that, on the one hand, dispositions necessitate their manifestation but, on the other hand, manifestations are processes which may be later (ibid., 230, n. 289) prevented by intervening factors to reach their results.

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2.3.2 Natures and Causes Natures have no role to play in the analysis of change and of causal interaction Aristotle offers in Phys. III.1– 3. But that analysis may be transferred from the powers so far considered to natures. Power (δύναμις) is the principle (ἀρχή) which “determines” the change either – “in something else” or in the same thing “qua something else” (active power),⁵⁷ or – “by something else” or by the same thing “qua something else” (passive power).⁵⁸ Nature (φύσις) is the principle (ἀρχή) which “determines motion” and accounts for the beginning of change or of rest – “in itself qua itself.”⁵⁹ Active power is characteristic of a potential φ-maker; the potential φ-becomer is “something else.”⁶⁰ Passive power is characteristic of a potential φ-becomer. Both active and passive powers need reciprocal partners to manifest. The partners must be appropriate, but different criteria of appropriateness apply to φ-becomer and φ-maker. Only the φ-maker contributes, and therefore predefines, φ.⁶¹ Hence, if y is a potential φ-maker, x is its appropriate partner for mutual manifestation iff x is a potential φ-becomer. Conversely, x may be a potential φ-becomer for a wide variety of properties φ; consider the variety of places where I

 Metaph. V.12, 1019a16: ἐν ἑτέρῳ ἢ ᾗ ἕτερον. I am referring to Fritsche’s [(2010), 11] interpretation of the phrase ἀρχὴ κινήσεως as referring to “something that (in the broadest sense) determines motion.”  Metaph. V.12, 1019a20: ὑφ’ ἑτέρου ἢ ᾗ ἕτερον. Fritsche (2010) rightly insists that a principle (ἀρχή) of change is never passive. But this is not to deny that there is a difference between making something else change and being changed by something else (Fritsche’s “passive motion”). My “passive power” is just a shorthand for the principle that determines passive motion.  Metaph. V.4, 1014b19: ἐν αὐτῷ ᾗ αὐτό; cf. Phys. II.1, 192b22– 23: ἐν ᾧ ὑπάρχει [sc. ἡ ἀρχή] πρώτως καϑ’ αὑτὸ καὶ μὴ κατὰ συμβεβηκός.  I skip the case referred to by the ᾗ ἕτερον clause—that φ-maker and φ-becomer happen to be the same thing but act and are acted upon the same way as different things act and are acted upon (e. g., the physician treating and healing himself, Phys. II.1, 192b24). But it should be noted that the distinction between internal φ-maker and internal φ-becomer in the analysis of selfmovers (see below) is not just a ᾗ ἕτερον case.  Phys. III.2, 202a9: εἶδος δὲ ἀεὶ οἴσεταί τι τὸ κινοῦν, etc. I agree with Marmodoro [(2014), 34] that a kind of “contagion model” [Scaltsas (1989), 68 – 70] of causation is described in the sequel (a9 – 12). But it should be noted that this model does not universally apply. For instance, the builder does contribute the form which he transfers to the house. But he does not instantiate that form (he is no house, nor is his τέχνη), but he knows it: the form is something he has in mind (which is ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ, Metaph. VII.7, 1032b1).

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can travel, or the variety of colours a wall can be painted, etc. Hence y is its appropriate partner for mutual manifestation iff y is a potential φ-maker for any φ such that x is a potential φ-becomer. The joint manifestation of active and passive powers is triggered by the potential φ-becomer and the potential φ-maker coming in touch with each other. The manifestation is “in” the becomer only. In the perspective of the potential φ-becomer, the active power which contributes and predefines φ is something from without. The same perspective is also presupposed in Aristotle’s formula for the efficient cause: “from where the ἀρχή of change or rest.”⁶² Again, what predefines φ and hence accounts for the completion of the change, when x has become φ, is from somewhere. Hence the question, from where (ὅϑεν). The answer is, from the φ-maker.⁶³ In the case hitherto considered, the φ-maker is something from without. Nature, by contrast, is a potential φ-maker within the potential φ-becomer. Hence, Aristotle’s “From-where” (ὅϑεν) may refer either to the nature of the potential φbecomer or to an active power external to it. Taken in this way,⁶⁴ there is no denying that “nature” (φύσις) is an efficient cause. It should be noted, however, that “nature (φύσις) in the primary and strict sense” is not just the internal ἀρχή of change or rest which may count as an efficient cause, but “the οὐσία of things which have an internal ἀρχή of change.”⁶⁵ Taken in the latter sense, “nature” (φύσις) is also a formal and final cause. As an efficient cause, nature is the way in which the formal and final cause it is, is effective.⁶⁶ In a sense, to have a nature is to be a self-mover. It is important to see that Aristotelian self-movers are not just simples. Compare Heil’s “spontaneous” oc-

 The full formula is ὅϑεν ἡ ἀρχὴ τῆς μεταβολῆς ἡ | πρώτη ἢ τῆς ἠρεμήσεως (Phys. II.3, 194b29 – 30). Variants of the formula reappear in the definitions of both nature (Phys. II.1, 192b20 – 23; Metaph. V.4, 1014b18 – 20, ibid., b18: ὅϑεν) and power (Metaph. V.12, 1019a15 ff.; cf. Metaph. VII.7, 1032b.22: ὅϑεν).  Phys. II.3, 194b31: τὸ ποιοῦν. Don’t mix up efficient cause with stimulus condition! The stimulus condition is symmetrical: becomer and mover coming in touch with each other. The symmetry is broken when the mover is exhibited as efficient cause. Only in the exceptional case of elemental motion, there is no ἀρχὴ κινήσεως other than the stimulus.  That is, in the 3rd sense mentioned in Metaph. V.4 according to Ross (1924), I, 295. See ibid., 1014b18 – 20 (b18: ὅϑεν); cf. Phys. II.1, 192b20 – 23.  That is, in the 5th sense mentioned in Metaph. V.4. See ibid., 1014b35 – 1015a11. My quotation is from ibid., 1015a13 – 15 [trans. of first section is from Barnes (1984)].  Similarly, Strobach [(2008), 72] on soul as ἀρχή of motion. As Kelsey [(2015), 41] has more recently argued, the point in Phys. II.7 is “that form is a principle of movement, primarily by being an end.”

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currences—described as “uncaused causes” by Heil. Unlike Aristotle, Heil allows that the universe is “infect[ed]… with contingencies” by “powers the manifestation of which requires no reciprocal partner” and, hence, occurs “spontaneously.”⁶⁷ Nothing similar holds of self-motion in Aristotle. To have a nature and, in particular, to be a self-mover involves a complex internal structure in which the interrelation of active and passive powers is implemented. Animal locomotion is Aristotle’s most elaborate example. I cannot go into any details here. But two remarks are in order. First, when efficient causation is at issue, kinematic chains must be considered: change c is necessitated by change c’, c’ by c“, etc.⁶⁸ Aristotle’s finitism requires that the chain is finite. Hence, there is a first change c0 which necessitates the subsequent changes, but is not necessitated by another change. Assuming that x is the thing in which change c (the last change in the chain) occurs, c0 (the first change in the chain) may occur inside or outside x. In the latter case, there is an external mover. In the former case, c0 is necessitated by some state d internal to x which involves no change: d is an unmoved mover from which the chain of changes originates. Animal locomotion is a special case of this: c0 is desire (ὄρεξις) and d is the object of desire (ὀρεκτόν).⁶⁹ Desire (ὄρεξις) is described by Aristotle as a thermic reaction in the heart to the object presented by perception (αἴσϑησις) or imagination (φαντασία).⁷⁰ That object—and the soul insofar as its relevant faculty is the thing it presents—is the unmoved mover.⁷¹ Desire is the first change of which the rest of the kinematic chain is dependent. Second, both the object of desire and the manifestation of the psychic faculty which presents it, and which is the object, or “has the same power” according to Aristotle,⁷² are unmoved movers. When presentations are referred to as

 Heil [(2015), 54; cf. 50 f].  Cf. Phys. II.7, 198b5 – 6: ἐκ τοῦδε ἀνάγκη τόδε. Note that Aristotle explicitly allows necessitation “for the most part” (ibid.).  De an. III.10, 433b11– 18; MA. 6, 700b34– 701a6.  MA 8, 701b33 – 702a7; cf. ibid., 7, 701b20 (text uncertain). I am following Corcilius (forthcoming), 26 who explicitly equates desire with those thermic changes. I am referring to the draft of Corcilius’ paper posted on Academia (https://www.academia.edu/14072093/De_Motu_Animal ium_6, seen 05.09. 2017).  De an. III.10, 433b11– 12 τὸ ὀρεκτόν [i.e. ἢ τὸ ἀγαϑὸν ἢ τὸ φαινόμενον ἀγαϑόν (433a28 – 29)] … κινεῖ οὐ κινούμενον, τῷ νοηϑῆναι ἢ φαντασϑῆναι. Similarly, MA 6, 700b23 – 701a1: ὥστε κινεῖ πρῶ|τον τὸ ὀρεκτὸν καὶ τὸ διανοητόν. οὐ πᾶν δὲ τὸ διανοητόν, | ἀλλὰ τὸ τῶν πρακτῶν τέλος. […] τὸ μὲν οὖν πρῶτον οὐ κινούμενον κινεῖ, ἡ δ’ | ὄρεξις καὶ τὸ ὀρεκτικὸν κινούμενον κινεῖ.  The manifestation of αἴσϑησις is the object (De an. III.2, 425b26 – 27); φαντασία and νόησις “have the power of the objects” (MA 7, 701b18 – 19).

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“changes,”⁷³ Aristotle’s language may be misleading. There is no change in the object presented, but just in the presenting faculty. The change is from latency to manifestation: a transition into the activity of changelessly presenting that object.⁷⁴ For the object of desire (ὀρεκτόν), the transition is just a “Cambridge change.” For the desiring faculty (ὀρεκτικόν), it provides the stimulus to trigger the process of desire responding to that object.⁷⁵ That process is the joint manifestation of two powers, – a passive power of the desiring faculty to respond in the way described to the presentation of suitable objects, and – an active power of the object of desire to bring about that response by being presented as good. The thermic reaction (i. e., the process of heating or cooling) is simultaneous with the presentation of the object of desire.⁷⁶ In addition, all changes in the kinematic chain are simultaneous, and are simultaneously triggered in each successor by its predecessor beginning to change.⁷⁷ Elemental motion is the exceptional case, in which the tripartite structure described,

is missing.⁷⁸ To be heavy is to be, or to become, located at the centre of the world —if nothing intervenes (to be light, similarly). Hence, the beginning of elemental motion coincides either with the becoming of the element or with the removal of some impediment. In either case, elemental motion is just the manifestation of a passive power to undergo locomotion.⁷⁹ There is no corresponding active power

 MA 6, 701a5 – 6: ἀλλοιωϑέντος τινὸς κατὰ τὴν αἴσϑησιν ἢ τὴν φαντασίαν; Ibid., 7, 701b18: ἀλλοιώσεις τινὲς. Similarly, De an. II.5, 416b34 and passim.  See Burnyeat (2002), 72. Bowin [(2012), 88] confirms that the relevant passages of De an. II.5, αἴσϑησις refers “to the transition to the activity of the sense faculty”; taken in this (and only in this) way, αἴσϑησις “can be identified with a sort of alteration,” whereas the activity of “perceptual awareness” cannot (ibid., 90).  See Corcilius (forthcoming), 26 and 42 f. The trigger may be external. Aristotle’s remark in Phys. VIII.6 that self-motion is caused by external changes (259b1– 16) is easily seen to be consistent with the doctrine in Phys. VIII.5 (and elsewhere) that self-motion is caused by an internal unmoved mover: the external cause is just the stimulus that triggers the active power inherent in the latter. See, Gill [(1991), 244; (1994), 16 and passim].  MA 8, 701b34: ἀκολουϑεῖ. Similarly, the conclusions of practical syllogisms follow “at once” (MA 7, 701a14, a15, a17, a22, a30, a33: εὐϑέως, εὐϑύς).  MA 8, 702a10 – 21 (a15: εὐϑύς).  In the sequel, my “elements” are Aristotelian “simple bodies.”  “Passive”: cf. Phys. VIII.4, 255b30 – 31: ἀρχή … τοῦ πάσχειν. See, Gill (1991), 261; (1994), 31.

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to manifest simultaneously. But there is a stimulus. The manifestation of the passive power is triggered by either an impediment being removed or the element coming to be.⁸⁰ In the former case, the element is unmoved, and its power to undergo locomotion is latent as long as the impediment blocks. The power manifests once the impediment is removed. In the latter case, the power to undergo locomotion is never latent: it manifests as soon as the element of which it is the power exists. The stimulus condition is provided, and elements are set in motion, “by what generated them and made them light or heavy.”⁸¹ There is no transition in the element from rest to motion, but a beginning of motion which coincides with the generation of the element. In either case, what accounts for the beginning of elemental motion is an external stimulus (which, strangely enough, counts in Phys. VIII.4 as ἀρχὴ κινήσεως). Since the stimulus is external, elements are no self-movers according to Aristotle. In conclusion, whereas Heil’s notion of powers mutually manifesting themselves is essentially Aristotelian, it comes as no surprise that spontaneous manifestation is not. More importantly, if there is a way to get Aristotelian powers from Aristotelian natures, unmoved movers must provide the link. But unmoved movers—that is, powers for which the transition from latency to manifestation is just a “Cambridge change.” (and the operation of which involves no transmission of momentum or energy)—are alien to modern science. Aristotelian supervenience does not bridge the divide between Aristotelian and modern science (and, of course, was never meant to do so).

Works Cited Anagnostopoulos (2010): Andreas Anagnostopoulos, “Change in Aristotle’s Physics 3,” in: OSAP 39, 33 – 79. Anagnostopoulos (2017): Andreas Anagnostopoulos, “Change, Agency and the Incomplete in Aristotle,” in: Phronesis 62, no. 2, 170 – 209. Barnes (1984): J. Barnes (ed.), The Complete Works of Aristotle. The Revised Oxford Translation, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984. Bowin (2012): John Bowin, “De anima ii 5 on the Activation of the Senses,” in: Ancient Philosophy 32, 87 – 104. Burnyeat (2002): M.F. Burnyeat, “De Anima II 5,” in: Phronesis 47, no. 1, 28 – 90.

 Phys. VIII.4, 256a1– 2.  Phys. VIII.4, 256a1 (trans. Graham).

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Choi/Fara (2016): Sungho Choi and Michael Fara, “Dispositions,” in: Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2016/entries/dispositions (seen 17. 12. 2017) Corcilius (forthcoming): Klaus Corcilius, “De Motu Animalium 6,” in: Chr. Rapp and O. Primavesi (eds.), Proceedings of the XIX. Symposium Aristotelicum, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Echeñique Sosa (2010): Javier Echeñique Sosa, “A Short Notice on Robert Heinaman’s Account of Aristotle’s Definition of kinesis in Physica III,” in: Journal of Ancient Philosophy 4, no. 2, 1 – 5. Frede/Patzig (1988): Michael Frede and Günther Patzig, Aristoteles, Metaphysik Zeta, 2 Bde., München: Verlag C.H. Beck Fritsche (2010): Johannes Fritsche, “Aristotle’s Usage of ἀρχὴ κινήσɛως (“principle of motion”) and the Two Definitions of Nature in Physics II, 1,” in: Arch. Begriffsgeschichte 52, 7 – 31. Gill (1989): Marie Louise Gill, Aristotle on Substance. The Paradox of Unity, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Gill (1991/1994): Marie Louise Gill, “Aristotle on Self-Motion,” in: L. Judson (ed.), Aristotle’s Physics. A Collection of Essays, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 243 – 265; [reprint, in: M.L. Gill and J.G. Lennox (eds.), Self-Motion: From Aristotle to Newton, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 15 – 34]. Graham (1999): Daniel W. Graham, Aristotle’s Physics. Book VIII, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heil (2012): John Heil, The Universe as We Find It, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heil (2015): John Heil, “Aristotelian Supervenience,” in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 115, no. 1, 41 – 56. Heinaman (1994): Robert Heinaman, “Is Aristotle’s Definition of Change Circular?” in: Apeiron 27, no. 1, 25 – 37. Heinemann (2016a): Gottfried Heinemann, “Vom Wert der Vielheit in pluralistischen Kosmologien. Notizen zu Aristoteles (mit Fußnoten zu Thomas von Aquin und Whitehead),” in: Th. Kirchhoff and K. Köchy (eds.), Wünschenswerte Vielheit. Diversität als Kategorie, Befund und Norm, Freiburg/München: Verlag Karl Alber, 23 – 58 Heinemann (2016b): Gottfried Heinemann, “‘Besser… nach Maßgabe der Substanz des jeweiligen Gegenstandes’ (Phys. 198b8 – 9). Innere und äußere Finalität bei Aristoteles,” in: G. Heinemann and R. Timme (eds.), Aristoteles und die moderne Biologie, Freiburg/München: Verlag Karl Alber, 225 – 278 Heinemann (2016c): Gottfried Heinemann, “Time as ‘Measure.’ Aristotle’s Non-Metrical Account of Time in Physics IV,” in: D. Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Le Temps chez Aristote, Cinquième Rencontre Aristotélicienne (Thessalonique, 12 – 15 Mai 2012), Paris/Bruxelles: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 39 – 68. Heinemann (forthcoming): Gottfried Heinemann, “Zeit und zeitliche Ordnung bei Aristoteles,” in: V.L. Waibel (ed.), Raum und Zeit (Ringvorlesung SoSe 2012), Berlin/New York: De Gruyter Hussey (1983): Edward Hussey, Aristotle’s Physics. Books III and IV, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ingthorsson (2002): Rögnvaldur Ingthorsson, “Causal Production as Interaction,” in: Metaphysica 3, no.1, 87 – 119.

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Jansen (2015): Ludger Jansen, Tun und Können. Ein systematischer Kommentar zu Aristoteles’ Theorie der Vermögen im neunten Buch der Metaphysik, 2. durchges. und erw. Aufl., Wiesbaden: Springer. Kelsey (2015): Sean Kelsey, “Aristotle on Interpreting Nature,” in: M. Leunissen (ed.), Aristotle’s Physics. A Critical Guide, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 31 – 45. Kosman (1969): L.A. Kosman, “Aristotle’s Definition of Motion,” in: Phronesis 14, 40 – 62. Kuhn (1970): Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd Edition, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Lennox (2010): James G. Lennox, “Bios, Praxis and the Unity of Life,” in: S. Föllinger (ed.), Was ist ‘Leben’? Aristoteles’ Anschauungen zur Entstehung und Funktionsweise von Leben, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 239 – 259. Lewis (1986): David Lewis, Philosophical Papers, Vol. II, Oxford: Oxford University Press. MacBride (2016): Fraser MacBride, “Truthmakers,” in: Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2016 Edition). http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2016/entries/truthmakers/ (seen 26. 03. 2016). Marmodoro (2014): Anna Marmodoro, Aristotle on Perceiving Objects, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Matthen (2009): Mohan Matthen, “Why Does Earth Move to the Center? An Examination of Some Explanatory Strategies in Aristotle’s Cosmology,” in: A.C. Bowen and Chr. Wildberg (eds.), New Perspectives on Aristotle’s De caelo, Leiden: Brill, 119 – 138. McLaughlin/Bennett (2014): Brian McLaughlin and Karen Bennett, “Supervenience,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2014 Edition). http://plato.stanford.edu/ar chives/spr2014/entries/supervenience/ (seen 17. 12. 2017). Miltenburg (2015): Niels van Miltenburg, Freedom in Action (Quaestiones Infinitae. Publications of the Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies, Utrecht University, Vol. LXXXVI). https://www.ris.uu.nl/ws/files/10469779/Miltenburg.pdf (seen 23. 08. 2015). Mumford/Anjum (2011): Stephen Mumford and Rani Lill Anjum, Getting Causes from Powers, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Polansky (2007): Ronald Polansky, Aristotle’s De anima, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Psillos (2002): Stathis Psillos, Causation and Explanation, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Ross (1924): W.D. Ross, Aristotle’s Metaphysics. A Revised Text with Introduction and Commentary, 2 vols., Oxford: Clarendon Press. Scaltsas (1989): Theodore Scaltsas, “The Logic of the Dilemma of Participation and of the Third Man Argument,” in: Apeiron 22, 67 – 90. Strobach (2008): Niko Strobach, “Was heißt es, eine archê in sich zu haben?” in: K. Corcilius and Chr. Rapp (eds.), Beiträge zur aristotelischen Handlungstheorie, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 65 – 82 Vetter/Schmid (2014): Barbara Vetter and Stephan Schmid, “Einleitung,” in: B. Vetter and S. Schmid (eds.), Dispositionen. Texte aus der zeitgenössischen Debatte, Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 7 – 57 Wieland (1970): Wolfgang Wieland, Die aristotelische Physik, 2. Aufl. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou

Aristotle’s Dynamic Vision of Nature. Α Neo-Aristotelian Perspective on Contemporary Science Introduction Aristotle’s Philosophy of Nature has for centuries been the least appreciated part of the Stageirite’s work. Physics, in particular, has been considered as a sterile system and a failure. This view was so firmly established through the centuries, that any attempt at an Aristotelian perspective was considered as ill-suited to science. The main reason for this attitude was obviously the fundamental differences separating Aristotle’s dynamic vision of nature from the world-view of the protagonists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries scientific revolution, Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, Bacon and subsequently Newton. Bacon for example, in his Novum Organum, seemed to have completely misunderstood Aristotle, when he claimed, among other things, that the Stageirite, “made his natural philosophy completely subservient to his logic, and thus rendered it little more than useless and disputatious….”¹ The same spirit was shared by all those great scientists, who contributed, more or less, to the rejection of Aristotle’s study of physis. The predominance of Newtonian Mechanics, for at least three centuries, left no space for the Aristotelian world of real qualities, qualitative transformations and the becoming of nature. Physical reality was confined to the level of experience, which was described in the language of Mathematics; such things as powers, potentialities, propensities, dispositions, unobservable entities, had no place in the study of nature, and the aim of science was the description of experienced phenomena, rather than explanation referring to a deeper level of reality. This spirit was passed on to Hume’s rejection of metaphysics, to Auguste Comte’s positivism, to the late 19th and early 20th century positivism and, finally, to the flourishing of all kinds of positivist trends, which dominated the scientific and philosophical thought during the first half of the 20th century. The repudiation and expulsion of the Stageirite’s thought from these territories had, from the Renaissance almost up to our era, a direct influence on the majority of Aristotle scholars, who were led to believe that Aristotle’s system of physical science,  Francis Bacon (1902), Aphorisms: Book I, LIV. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-003

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though “well adapted to historical and biological inquiry,” was “extremely illsuited to other departments of the study of nature.”² The good news, however, is that already at the end of the 19th and beginnings of the 20th century, a reaction against Newtonian Physics and in favor of a dynamic model of nature started by several insightful thinkers, such as Charles S. Peirce, Henri Bergson, Hans Reichenbach, Alfred North Whitehead and, more recently, by Ilya Prigogine. They all saw the weaknesses of Newtonian Physics and tried to emphasize the idea of the becoming of physical reality and its temporal structure. By the end of the 20th and at the beginnings of the 21st century the dissatisfaction with the Humean view of causality and the approaches of empiricism/positivism/reductionism/nominalism/constructivism has been growing. This has led to an invigoration of scientific realism in the Philosophy of Science and a resurgence of metaphysics. It is thus becoming all the more evident that in order to comprehend the character and structure of the physical world, we have to abandon the basic schemes of classical Physics and make an appeal to some entirely different explanatory patterns, which seem to be analogous to some of the most fundamental Aristotelian views and ontological categories. This attitude has also been shared by several Aristotle scholars. Randall, for example, in his classic book, Aristotle, published in 1960, remarked: “…the ideas of Aristotle’s physics are far closer to present-day physical theory than are the ideas of the nineteenth century. Thirty years ago, it was still possible to regard Aristotle’s physics as the least valuable part of his thought, and as of mere historical interest. Today, his analysis of the factors and the concepts involved in process strikes us as one of the most valuable parts of his whole philosophy, one of his most illuminating and suggestive inquiries. Far from being obviously ‘wrong,’ it seems today far truer and sounder than the basic concepts of Newton.”³ In the

 D. J. Allan (1952), 207.  John Herman Randall [(1960), 168]. Randall was deeply influenced by Frederic J. E. Woodbridge’s approach of Aristotle. Woodbridge gave a series of lectures “On the philosophy of Aristotle” in 1930, published after his death in 1966, by John H. Randall, in a book titled, Aristotle’s Vision of Nature (1966). Lecture III on “Physics and Metaphysics” starts in the following insightful way: “The appropriate thing to say at the beginning of a lecture on Physics of Aristotle is that his Physics … is a theory of nature, that system of things which allows a plant to grow, an animal to graze, and a man to think, fully as much as it allows the sun to be eclipsed or bodies to be in motion or at rest. It deals with space, time, and matter, and in that respect resembles physics, but it deals with them in a way that has shocked physicists for centuries. Accordingly, in dealing with Aristotle, one has to try the best one can to forget that there ever has been any physics at all. This is not easy. I am sure that I shall not succeed in that great act of forgetfulness, but I shall try. To assist me in this effort, I wish it to be remembered that my frequent use of the noun ‘physis’ and the adjective “physical” is a usage in the Aristotelian manner. He has a good

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years that followed, a renewed interest in Aristotle’s philosophy of nature has been expressed by scientists and philosophers of science, such as Werner Heisenberg,⁴ Patric Suppes,⁵ Milič Čapek,⁶ and Eftichios Bitsakis,⁷ all of whom have shed light on some exciting analogies between Aristotle’s philosophy of nature and contemporary Physics. The idea has thus been growing that Aristotle’s writings in natural philosophy and scientific theorizing deserve more careful study and closer attention. It is exactly this approach of Aristotle that persuaded me to join forces with those who found merit in his philosophy of nature, suggesting at the same time a neo-Aristotelian perspective on contemporary Physics.⁸ The eighty-two innovative papers, by Aristotle scholars and philosophers of science, presented at the “Aristotle and Contemporary Science” Conference, which I organized twenty years ago,⁹ was a sign for me that I was on the right track. This encouraged me to proceed to the publication of these papers in two volumes on Aristotle and Contemporary Science ¹⁰ and at the same time offered me the opportunity to present my understanding of Aristotle’s “prime matter” (πρώτη ὕλη) as a real factor in nature, which displays essential analogies with the image of matter in contemporary Physics. I must confess, that what inspired me most for this approach was my acquaintance, back in the seventies, with the work of Charles S. Peirce, when I discovered how profoundly influenced he was by Aristotle—whom he characterized as “the greatest intellect that human history has to show” (6.96)¹¹ and as the “prince of philosophers” (6.36; cf. 5.611, 5.423, 6.361). Peirce’s ontological categories are in many respects analogous to those of Aristotle, and there is, certainly,

claim on them historically. They are Greek words. They are not translations of English, French and German words. He is not responsible for their translation into other tongues nor for their use as names for an enterprise in which his writings show what he would call an accidental interest.” [Frederic J. E. Woodbridge (1966), 49 – 50].  See Werner Heisenberg (1971).  See Patric Suppes (1974), (1985).  See Milič Čapek (1979).  See Eftichios Bitsakis (1997), (2000).  Very recently an interesting book in defense of a neo-Aristotelian perspective on Science was edited by Simpson, Koons & The (2018).  International Conference “Aristotle and Contemporary Science,” 1– 4 September 1997, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, Thessaloniki-Greece.  Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (2000) and Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, Jagdish Hattiangadi and David M. Jonson (2001).  References of this form are to the Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce (193 – 58). The Collected Papers are referenced by volume and paragraph number.

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an interesting analogy with the Stageirite’s thought in the way Charles Peirce showed his deep concern to find a place for movement, change, becoming, time and potentiality in the physical world. This attitude, combined with his critical opposition to Newtonian Physics, was very similar to Aristotle’s opposition to the “Parmenidean a-temporal universe” and Democretian atomism. My research on Peirce’s Philosophy of probability and chance, in the seventies, at Oxford University, gave me the opportunity to have for a period as my supervisor Rom Harré, a brilliant philosopher of science, who had a decisive influence on my understanding of the dynamic character of nature. He was the one who taught me not to be afraid to stress in scientific discourse the importance of Aristotle’s idea of potentiality—an idea almost totally rejected by scientists and philosophers of science at those days—as an essential element of physical reality. Causal Powers ¹² of Rom Harré and Madden, published in 1975, served as a source of inspiration in my attempt to connect Aristotle with contemporary scientific thought. The anti-Humean theory of “causal powers,” combined with Charles S. Peirce’s high esteem for Aristotle’s dynamic vision of nature, had a decisive impact on my understanding of the Stageirite’s thought. This is how I started, and continued over the years, to explore various aspects of Aristotle’s philosophy of nature, such as those connected with the ideas of movement, change, time, continuity, potentiality and prime matter. I now propose, in this essay, to pull all these strings together, so as to arrive at a coherent picture of Aristotle’s dynamic vision of nature. My hope is to show, not only how far ahead of his time Aristotle was, but also to suggest that his insights have much to offer today in our effort to understand φύσις as a dynamic living whole, which is in constant movement, change and becoming.

1 Aristotle’s Opposition to the Parmenidean Static A-Temporal Universe I think that a useful starting point for our purpose would be a brief reference to Aristotle’s opposition to the philosophers of South Italy, Parmenides and Zeno, as well as to Democritus from Abdera. What characterizes all those thinkers is their effort to show that there is no real motion and change in the world, no coming to be and passing away. Parmenides argued that, if a real becoming were taking place in nature, then there should be a passage from being to non being, something impossible from a logical point of view, because only being exists.  Rom Harré & Edward H. Madden (1975).

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He thus refused to accept the idea of becoming and with this, the idea of the reality of time. According to the Eleat philosopher, the world in its totality is an unchanging whole in which nothing is moving, in which the flux of time is an illusion. His successor Zeno, who aimed at proving the impossibility of motion and the a-temporality of being, developed his famous paradoxes, the most famous of which is that of Achilles and the tortoise: Let us remember how it goes, in simple terms: In a race between Achilles and a tortoise, Achilles will never be able to catch up with the tortoise, if the tortoise starts before him. This is, because before he reaches the tortoise, he will have to traverse ½ of the distance A-B that separates him from the tortoise. Then he will have to traverse ½ of the remaining distance, i. e., the ¼ and then the ⅛ and so on. As a result, he must traverse an infinite number of parts of the distance. Since motion from one point to the other takes some portion of time and since an infinite number of distances must be traversed, the movement from point A to point B would take an infinite time. Thus, Zeno concludes that Achilles can never reach point B. The next most famous paradox, used by Zeno in order to prove that movement itself does not exist, is that of the arrow. The steps of his syllogism, in simple terms, are the following: Since an arrow which is moving to its target has a length—no matter how small—it occupies a part of space equal to its length. For this reason, exactly at that moment, it is not moving. And since this holds true for each separate instant of time, we must arrive at the logical conclusion that the arrow is never in motion. The rejection of motion was something that Aristotle could not accept. Against this view of Parmenides and Zeno, Aristotle, as I hope will be shown in what follows, tried to build a dynamic model of nature with a fundamental temporal structure.¹³

2 Aristotle’s Dynamic Vision of Nature: A Preamble Aristotle starts his Physics book II.1 by identifying natural things, “those that are by nature” / “τὰ φύσει ὄντα,” with those that are in movement “τὰ κινούμενα.” He then explains, that when he refers to “φύσει ὄντα,” he means the things that

 I have dealt with the issue of Aristotle’s time in the following: (2008a) (2008b), (2016b), (2018).

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belong in the sub-lunar (“κάτω τῆς σελήνης”)¹⁴ world and are connected with matter, i. e., all kinds of animals and their parts, all plants, as well as the simple bodies earth, air, fire, water (see Phys. 192b8 – 10). All these, he claims, have inside themselves a source of movement and rest:¹⁵ “Tὰ μὲν φύσει ὄντα πάντα φαίνεται ἔχοντα ἐν ἑαυτοῖς ἀρχὴν κινήσεως καὶ στάσεως….” / “And those that are by nature seem to have within themselves a principle of movement and rest” (Phys. 192b14– 15).¹⁶ On the basis of this, he proceeds to point out the importance of movement in our study of nature: “Ἐπεὶ δ᾽ ἡ φύσις μὲν ἔστιν ἀρχὴ κινήσεως και μεταβολῆς, ἡ δὲ μέθοδος ἡμῖν περὶ φύσεώς ἐστι, δεῖ μὴ λανθάνειν τί ἐστι κίνησις· ἀναγκαῖον γὰρ ἀγνοουμένης αὐτῆς ἀγνοεῖσθαι καὶ τὴν φύσιν.” / “Since nature is a principle of movement and change, and it is nature that we are studying, we must understand what movement is; for, if we do not know this, neither do we know what nature is” (Phys. 200b12– 15). To understand the central role of κίνησις, we must keep in mind that for Aristotle κίνησις is something much broader than “motion in place,” which has been the central idea of Democritean atomism, and subsequently of Modern Science since Galileo and Descartes. In Physics book V.1, Aristotle refers to three kinds of motion: 1. Alteration (ἀλλοίωσις), i. e., qualitative change, 2. Ιncrease and decrease (αὔξησις & φθίσις) and 3. Motion in place (φορά): “… ἀνάγκη τρεῖς εἶναι κινήσεις—τήν τε τοῦ ποιοῦ καὶ τὴν τοῦ ποσοῦ καὶ τὴν κατὰ τόπον.” / “…it follows that there are three kinds of motion—of quality, of quantity and of place” (225b8 – 9). In other places, however, he adds a fourth kind, that of Generation (γένεσις), the most fundamental kind of change, in which a new substance is created, or an old one perishes: … ἡ τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος ἐντελέχεια, ᾗ τοιοῦτον, κίνησίς ἐστιν. οἷον τοῦ μὲν ἀλλοιωτοῦ, ᾗ ἀλλοιωτόν, ἀλλοίωσις, τοῦ δὲ αὐξητοῦ καὶ τοῦ ἀντικειμένου φθιτοῦ (οὐδὲν γὰρ ὄνομα κοινὸν ἐπ᾽ ἀμφοῖν) αὔξησις καὶ φθορά, τοῦ δὲ γενητοῦ καὶ φθαρτοῦ γένεσις καὶ φθορά, τοῦ δὲ φορητοῦ φορά. (Phys. ΙΙΙ.1, 201a10 – 16) …movement is the process towards the realization of a potential being, qua potential [having this potentiality]. For example, the process of modification of a quality of a modifiable thing, qua modifiable; the process of growing or shrinking of something that is capable of

 See, “πάντα δὲ κάτω ταῦτα σελήνης γίγνεται”/ “all these take place under the moon” (Μeteor. 342a30).  Cf. “Ἐπεὶ δὲ ἡ φυσικὴ ἐπιστήμη τυγχάνει οὖσα περὶ γένος τι τοῦ ὄντος (περὶ γὰρ τὴν τοιαύτην ἐστὶν οὐσίαν ἐν ᾗ ἡ ἀρχὴ τῆς κινήσεως καὶ στάσεως ἐν αὐτῆ.”/ “Physics happens to be the science of that kind of being…which has inside itself the principle of movement and rest” (Metaph. V.1, 1025b20); “[physics is the science] about the first causes of nature” and its subject matter is “all natural motion.” (Meteor. I.1, 338a20).  I will be using my own translations unless otherwise noted.

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growing or shrinking; the process of coming to be or passing away of something which is capable of coming to be or passing away; the change of place of something which is capable of moving. (Phys. ΙΙΙ.1, 201a10 – 16)

It is true that Aristotle connected coming to be, generation (γένεσις), with change (μεταβολή)—a term sometimes he used as different from movement. However, we must not lose sight of the fact that in the majority of occasions Aristotle uses the two terms both in Physics, and in Metaphysics, as equivalent: “Ὥστε κινήσεως καὶ μεταβολῆς ἐστιν εἴδη τοσαῦτα ὅσα τοῦ ὄντος.” / “Therefore, there are as many kinds of movement and change as there are kinds of being” (Phys. 201a8 – 9). For this reason, we are entitled to use in place of κίνησις, both movement and change. I can thus proceed to my final remark: the connection of nature with movement and change cannot be completely understood in the context of Aristotle’s Philosophy of nature, unless we take into consideration a third factor, that of time. On numerous occasions Aristotle expresses his belief that time is interwoven with movement and change: In Physics book IV.11, he makes clear, that “… φανερὸν ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν ἄνευ κινήσεως καὶ μεταβολῆς χρόνος.” / “… it is obvious that there is no time without movement and change” (Phys. IV.11, 219a1)¹⁷ and in book IV.12 he continues, “Ὁ μὲν γὰρ χρόνος ὁρίζει τὴν κίνησιν ἀριθμὸς ὢν αὐτῆς, ἡ δὲ κίνησις τὸν χρόνον.” / “For the time taken defines the movement, since it is its number and the movement defines the time” (Phys. 220b16). To this connection of time with movement Aristotle adds one more interesting aspect of time: Time is characterized as an affection, or disposition (πάθος ἢ ἕξις) of motion “…κινήσεώς τι πάθος ἢ ἕξις, ἀριθμός γε ὤν”¹⁸ (Phys. 223a19) and, finally, both time and movement are connected with potentiality “…ὁ δὲ χρόνος καὶ ἡ κίνησις ἅμα κατά τε δύναμιν καὶ κατ᾽ ἐνέργειαν.” / “… time and movement are together both in respect of potentiality and of actuality” (Phys. 223a21). This is an extremely important idea, which calls for a deeper analysis. But before we come to this, it is important to keep in mind, that at the bottom of the atomists’ rejection of movement/change/becoming/time lies the rejection of the idea of real continuum; According to the Atomists’ view, time consists of separate, discrete, individual instants. To understand this, we could refer to an analogy between the discrete points movement is composed of in Zeno’s theory with a series of instantaneous photographs of a movie film. The film itself is a

 Cf. “οὔτε κίνησις οὔτ΄ ἄνευ κινήσεως ὁ χρόνος ἐστί͵ φανερόν.” / “it is obvious that time is not movement nor without movement” (Phys. 219a2– 3; cf. Phys. 219b12).  I have explained why I believe that we should not take literally Aristotle’s characterization of time as number in Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (2016).

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static collection of a series of separate photographs. So, in this case, “no matter how closely the separate photographs follow one another, there is no more motion visible in any one of them than if they were taken at intervals of centuries.”¹⁹

3 Continuity Let us now take a closer look at continuity, which according to Aristotle is an essential feature of nature. So, he understood, that in order to be able to establish the idea of movement/change/becoming—which is a corollary of his view that every process has inherent temporal parts and relations—it was necessary to introduce the idea of continuity ²⁰ as an element, both of the natural processes and of time: “συνεχοῦς δ’ ὄντος τοῦ χρόνου ἀνάγκη τὴν κίνησιν συνεχῆ εἶναι…” / “and since time is continuous, the movement must be continuous….” (Gen. corr. 337a23 – 4). A similar idea is expressed in Physics IV.11: “Ὅτι μὲν τοίνυν ὁ χρόνος ἀριθμός ἐστιν κινήσεως κατὰ τὸ πρότερον καὶ ὕστερον, καὶ συνεχής (συνεχοῦς γάρ), φανερόν.” / “That time, then, is the number of motion in respect to before and after, and is continuous, since movement is continuous, is evident” (Phys. 220a25 – 26; see also 223a28 – 223b2). It seems, therefore, that the way to a deeper understanding of movement/change and time in Aristotle, passes through the idea of continuity. Aristotle starts his analysis of continuity with the notion of a straight line in book V.3 of Physics: “…λέγω δ΄ εἶναι συνεχὲς ὅταν ταὐτὸ γένηται καὶ ἓν τὸ ἑκατέρου πέρας οἷς ἅπτονται, καὶ ὥσπερ σημαίνει τοὔνομα, συνέχηται. τοῦτο δ΄ οὐχ οἷόν τε δυοῖν ὄντοιν εἶναι τοῖν ἐσχάτοιν.” / “…for I mean by one thing being continuous with another that those limiting extremes of the two things in virtue of which they touch each other become one and the same thing, and (as the very name indicates) are ‘held together’ (συνέχηται), which can only be if the two limits do not remain two but become one and the same” (Phys. 227a10 – 12).²¹ In book VI.1 he adds one more extremely important idea: the continuum cannot consist of indivisible monads, e. g., points on a line: Points cannot be distinct, because between any two points there is always a line: “᾿Aλλὰ μὴν οὐδὲ ἐφεξῆς ἔσται στιγμὴ στιγμῆς…ἐφεξῆς μὲν γάρ ἐστιν ὧν μηθέν ἐστι μεταξὺ συγγενές, στιγμῶν δ΄ αἰεὶ τὸ μεταξὺ γραμμή….” / “Again, one point, so far from  I borrow this analogy from C. S. Peirce (1976).  For a detailed analysis of continuity, infinite divisibility and infinity in relation to time see Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (1997), (2008a).  For all texts on continuity, I use the translation of Philip H. Wicksteed & Francis M. Cornford (1996).

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being continuous (συνεχές) or contiguous (ἁπτόμενον) with another point, cannot even be the next-in-succession (ἐφεξῆς) to it, … for things are ‘next’ to each other when there is nothing of their own sort between them, and two points have always a line (divisible at intermediate points) between them….” (Phys. 231b6 – 10). Therefore, Aristotle concludes, that the continuum is that which can be divided into what can also be divided indefinitely: “Λέγω δὲ συνεχὲς τὸ διαιρετὸν εἰς αἰεὶ διαιρετά.”²² / “I mean by continuous capable of being divided into parts that can in their turn be divided again, and so on without limit” (Phys. 232b25).

4 Continuity-Infinity-Potentiality On Aristotle’s view, therefore, the idea of continuity involves that of infinite divisibility, and any attempt to provide a definition of continuity involves the idea of infinity; he thus claims that without a clear understanding of infinity there can be no clear answer to the issue of continuity and vice versa. In Physics book V, Aristotle makes clear: “εἰ μὲν τοίνυν συνεχές͵ πολλὰ τὸ ἕν εἰς ἄπειρον γὰρ διαιρετὸν τὸ συνεχές.” / “So, then, if their one is one in the sense of continuous it is many; for the continuum is divisible ad infinitum” (Phys. 185b10 – 12). And he continues: … τὸ δ’ ἄπειρον ἐμφαίνεται πρῶτον ἐν τῷ συνεχεῖ· διὸ καὶ τοῖς ὁριζομένοις τὸ συνεχὲς συμβαίνει προσχρήσασθαι πολλάκις τῷ λόγῳ τῷ τοῦ ἀπείρου, ὡς τὸ εἰς ἄπειρον διαιρετὸν συνεχὲς ὄν. (Phys. 200b18 – 20) …and the infinite presents itself first in the continuum. This is why in definitions of the continuum the account of the infinite frequently occurs, for what is infinitely divisible is continuous. (Phys. 200b18 – 22)

Aristotle uses the analysis of a straight line in order to show that the idea of infinite divisibility is connected with that of potentiality. He thus argues: points on a line have a potential being, not an actual existence. This can be explained on the basis of the following analysis: if we divide a line AD at point P into two equal parts AB and CD, it makes no sense to ask to which half, R (right) or L (left), the point of division belongs. This is because points do not belong to lines although they lie on them. They are rather conceptual divisions of the line.

 Cf. Phys. 231a21– 231b6.

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P

D

A

B

C

D

Fig. 2

Therefore, the end-points A and D are not to be regarded as members of the line AD, but simply as points that are located there because of the fact that our line ends there. Also, for Aristotle, a line interval defines its endpoints by the mere fact of existing as a line interval. So, in fig. 2 the L half AB of the original line AD still has two points. The same holds for the R half CD. As regards the two halves of a line, Aristotle claims that they, too, do not exist actually but only potentially (See Cael. III, 430b10 – 15).²³

5 Potential Infinite-Time The above analysis leads to Aristotle’s idea of a potential infinite, which, if connected with his conception of time, gives to time its dynamic character. The actual infinite is that whose infinitude exists or is given all at the same time. The potential infinite is that whose infinitude is given over time and is never present as a whole. In book III.5, the Stageirite claims, “Φανερὸν δὲ καὶ ὅτι οὐκ ἐνδέχεται εἶναι τὸ ἄπειρον ὡς ἐνεργείᾳ ὂν καὶ ὡς οὐσίαν καὶ ἀρχήν.” / “It is further evident, that the infinite cannot exist as an actualized entity and as substance and principle” (Phys. 204a20 – 21); and in Physics, book III.6, Aristotle gives an extremely interesting definition of the infinite: “Oὐ γὰρ οὗ μηδὲν ἔξω, ἀλλ’ οὗ ἀεί τι ἔξω ἐστί, τοῦτο ἄπειρόν ἐστιν.” / “For the infinite is not that which has nothing outside it, but that which has always something outside it” (Phys. 207a1– 2). This can only be understood, in the context of Aristotle’s idea of a potential infinite:

 A similar idea is expressed in Metaphysics, where Aristotle finds an analogue between the half of the line and the statue of Hermes that has a potential being in the wood: “Ἒστι δὴ ἐνέργεια τὸ ὑπάρχειν τὸ πρᾶγμα μὴ οὕτως ὥσπερ λέγομεν δυνάμει· λέγομεν δὲ δυνάμει οἷον ἐν τῷ ξύλῳ Ἑρμῆν καὶ ἐν τῇ ὅλῃ τὴν ἡμίσειαν, ὅτι ἀφαιρεθείη ἄν, καὶ ἐπιστήμονα καὶ τὸν μὴ θεωροῦντα, ἂν δυνατὸς ᾖ θεωρῆσαι.” / “Actuality means the existence of the thing, not in the sense in which we mean by potentially; we say that a thing has a potential being, like the one of Hermes in the wood, and of the half-line in the whole, because it could be separated from it, and even the man who is not studying we call a man of science, if he is capable of studying” (Metaph. 1048a30 – 4).

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Ἐπὶ δὲ τὸ πλεῖον ἀεὶ ἔστι νοῆσαι· ἄπειροι γὰρ αἱ διχοτομίαι τοῦ μεγέθους. ὥστε δυνάμει μὲν ἔστιν, ἐνεργείᾳ δ΄ οὔ· ἀλλ΄ ἀεὶ ὑπερβάλλει τὸ λαμβανόμενον παντὸς ὡρισμένου πλήθους. (Phys. 207b10 – 13) But [in the direction of largeness] it is always possible to think of a larger number; For the number of times a magnitude can be bisected is infinite. So, this infinite is potential, not actual: the number of parts that can be taken always goes beyond any definite amount. (Phys. 207b10 – 13)

I believe that special attention should be given to the fact, that for Aristotle the potential being of infinity in real time is not the same as the logical divisibility: The infinite connected with the idea of real time is a physical process progressively being actualized and never being able to exist as a whole. What Aristotle claims in the following passage is extremely suggestive: Ὅλως μὲν γὰρ οὕτως ἐστὶ τὸ ἄπειρον, τῷ ἀεὶ ἄλλο καὶ ἄλλο λαμβάνεσθαι͵ καὶ τὸ λαμβανόμενον μὲν ἀεὶ εἶναι πεπερασμένον, ἀλλ΄ ἀεί γε ἕτερον καὶ ἕτερον… ἀλλ΄ ἐν μεν τοῖς μεγέθεσιν ὑπομένοντος τοῦ ληφθέντος τοῦτο συμβαίνει͵ ἐπὶ δὲ τοῦ χρόνου καὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων φθειρομένων οὕτως ὥστε μὴ ἐπιλείπειν. (Phys. 206a25 – 206b3) In all these cases, the infinite (ἄπειρον) has this mode of being: one thing is always being taken after another and each thing that is taken is always finite, but always different and different… But in spatial magnitudes, what is taken remains, while in the succession of time and of men it takes place by the passing away of these in such a way that succession never fails. (Phys. 206a25 – 206b3)

Again, the idea of a potential infinite, seen in relation to that of continuity, can serve as a clue for our understanding of the flux of time. Time cannot be understood in terms of an indefinite succession of discrete points, as is the case with the atomists, but rather as a continuous flow, which is always in the making.

6 Movement-Time-Potentiality If we follow closely the above passages, the idea of potentiality can further be illuminated in this connection of time with continuity. But we must not forget that it is also connected with the idea of movement and change: “… ἡ τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος ἐντελέχεια͵ ᾗ τοιοῦτον͵ κίνησίς ἐστιν.” / “…we can now define motion/ change as the progress of the realizing of a potentiality, qua potentiality” (Phys. 201a 10 – 11). Thus, Aristotle continues: “Διὸ ἡ κίνησις ἐντελέχεια τοῦ κινητοῦ͵ ᾗ κινητόν.” / “For primarily the motion is the realization of the thing’s capacity for being in motion” (Phys. 202a7).

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The connection therefore of movement-change (κίνησις-μεταβολή) with time leads directly to the heart of Aristotle’s vision of nature. The physical world (φύσις), in its totality, is composed of things, which are in movement, in change of quantity and quality, which come into being and pass away, always in time: ᾿Aπορήσειε δ’ ἄν τις καὶ ποίας κινήσεως ὁ χρόνος ἀριθμός. ἢ ὁποιασοῦν· καὶ γὰρ γίγνεται ἐν χρόνῳ καὶ φθείρεται καὶ αὐξάνεται καὶ ἀλλοιοῦται καὶ φέρεται· ᾗ οὖν κίνησίς ἐστι, ταύτῃ ἐστὶν ἑκάστης κινήσεως ἀριθμός. διὸ κινήσεώς ἐστιν ἁπλῶς ἀριθμὸς συνεχοῦς, ἀλλ’ οὐ τινός. (Phys. IV.14, 223a30 – 223b1) One might further raise the question what kind of movement time is the number of, or of any kind; for things come into being and pass away and grow and change their qualities and their places in time; thus, it is each movement qua movement that time is the number of. Therefore, it is simply the number of continuous movement, not of any particular kind of it. (Phys. IV.14, 223a30 – 223b1)

Aristotle has already made clear in Physics IV.12, that when we say that movement is measured by time, what we mean is that movement is in time: “…τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἐν χρόνῳ εἶναι τὸ μετρεῖσθαί ἐστι χρόνῳ, ὁ δὲ χρόνος κινήσεως καὶ ἠρεμίας μέτρον.” / “…since to be in time is to be measured by time, and time is the measure of movement and rest” (Phys. 221b22– 23). In this respect, it must not escape our attention that Aristotle makes a distinction between things being in time (ἐν χρόνῳ), on the one hand, and eternal things (αἰεὶ ὄντα), on the other; the latter, he claims, are not ‘in time’ (οὐκ ἔστιν ἐν χρόνῳ). He then goes on to explain what he means by change being in time: “Mεταβολὴ δὲ πᾶσα φύσει ἐκστατικόν. ἐν δὲ τῷ χρόνῳ πάντα γίγνεται καὶ φθείρεται.” / “The nature of all change is to alter things from their former condition. And it is in time that everything begins and ceases to be” (Phys. 222b16 – 17).²⁴ The clarification made several lines below is highly illuminating: “Καὶ ταύτην μάλιστα λέγειν εἰώθαμεν ὑπὸ τοῦ χρόνου φθοράν. Οὐ μὴν ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ ταύτην ὁ χρόνος ποιεῖ, ἀλλὰ συμβαίνει ἐν χρόνῳ γίγνεσθαι καὶ ταύτην τὴν μεταβολήν.” / “Although we use to attribute the perishing of things to time, yet, it is not really time

 Cf. “Διὸ ἀνάγκη πάντα τὰ ἐν χρόνῳ ὄντα περιέχεσθαι ὑπὸ χρόνου, ὥσπερ καὶ τἆλλα ὅσα ἔν τινί ἐστιν, οἷον τὰ ἐν τόπῳ ὑπὸ τοῦ τόπου. καὶ πάσχει δή τι ὑπὸ τοῦ χρόνου, καθάπερ καὶ λέγειν εἰώθαμεν ὅτι κατατήκει ὁ χρόνος, καὶ γηράσκει πάνθ’ ὑπὸ τοῦ χρόνου, καὶ ἐπιλανθάνεται διὰ τὸν χρόνον.” / “So it is necessary that for all things that are in time, must be contained by time, just as other things also which are in something; as, for instance, the things in place, by place. And it will follow that things are in a way affected by time, just as we use to say that time crumbles things, and that all things grow old through time and we forget through the lapse of time” (Phys. IV.12, 221a26 – 30; cf. Metaph. 1072b14– 29).

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that does this, but this change, too, happens to take place in time” (Phys. 222b25 – 26). We are thus led to one of the most important Aristotle’s contributions to the study of nature: What characterizes the physical world, τὰ φύσει ὄντα, is an internal motion which is interwoven with time. Nature itself is a principle of motion: “Kαὶ γὰρ ἡ φύσις ἐν ταὐτῷ [γίγνεται· ἐν ταὐτῷ γὰρ] γένει τῇ δυνάμει· ἀρχὴ γὰρ κινητική͵ ἀλλ΄ οὐκ ἐν ἄλλῳ ἀλλ΄ ἐν αὐτῷ ᾗ αὐτό.” / “For nature also is in the same genus as potentiality (δύναμις); and this is because it is a principle of motion; however, not in some other thing, but in the thing itself qua itself” (Metaph. 1049b8 – 10). In other words, nature is a source of inherent powers.

7 Aristotle versus Hume: An Aristotelian Approach of Natural Necessity The above view, which marks one of the fundamental differences between the static model of the atomists and the Aristotelian dynamic vision of nature, is also the central point of disagreement in today’s debate between Humean empiricism/positivism/antirealism, on the one hand, and scientific realism, on the other, as regards the reality of properties (powers) of things. In Metaphysics, IX.3, we have an extremely important idea concerning the reality of powers of things. Aristotle brings to light a most significant distinction between δύναμις and ἐνέργεια. He starts with a criticism of the Megarians, who say that a thing has a δύναμις (power/potentiality/potency) only when it is functioning, and that when it is not functioning it has no power (ὅταν ἐνεργῇ μόνον δύνασθαι, ὅταν δὲ μὴ ἐνεργῇ οὐ δύνασθαι). For example, they say that a man who is not building cannot build, but only the man who is building, and at the moment when he is building; and similarly in the other cases…. The same is true of inanimate things. The cold, the hot, the sweet, in general, any sensible thing, will not exist, if we are not perceiving it; and so the result will be that they are affirming Protagoras’ theory.

And Aristotle continues: Thus, these theories reject both κίνησιν (motion) and γένεσιν (generation)…. Since, then, we cannot say these things, it is obvious that δύναμις and ἐνέργεια are different. But these doctrines make δύναμιν and ἐνέργειαν the same. Hence, it is not a trivial thing that which they are trying to abolish (ὥστε οὗτοι οἱ λόγοι ἐξαιρoῦσι καὶ κίνησιν καὶ γένεσιν…φανερὸν ὅτι δύναμις καὶ ἐνέργεια ἕτερόν ἐστιν. ἐκεῖνοι δ᾽ οἱ λόγοι δύναμιν καὶ ἐνέργειαν ταὐτὸ ποιοῦσιν, διὸ καὶ οὐ μικρόν τι ζητοῦσιν ἀναιρεῖν). (Metaph. 1046b29 – 1047a21)

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This is an excellent analysis of the difference between δύναμις and ἐνέργεια, which can contribute to a strengthening of the arguments of contemporary scientific realism against the Humean-positivist view. According to Hume’s doctrine of causality, as presented in his Treatise of Human Nature,²⁵ the only relations between what we call “cause” and “effect” are those of contiguity in space, succession in time, and constant conjunction. There is no other feature of experience (or beyond experience), such as powers or natures, as a basis of natural necessity, since our experience comes always in atomic impressions, which are nothing more than an independent succession of events. For Hume, therefore, causality is based on an association of ideas, reinforced by repetition²⁶ and thus establishing a “habit.” This idea was passed on to positivism, which has also been related, since Auguste Comte, with mechanistic determinism and the static model of physical reality. According to positivism, natural necessity is nothing more than a conjunction of given facts or events; the idea of powers or substances located beyond the level of experienced things, is rejected. As opposed to this, the realist trend in philosophy of science holds that there is an internal structure and relations between properties of things and events. It replaces the assumption of the constant conjunction of independent events with the idea of an internal bond linking cause and effect. For scientific realism, description of experienced phenomena is not all scientists are looking for; what they are mainly interested in, is to discover the permanent and real ties between phenomena, so as to provide explanations of a deeper level of reality not open to observation. If we restrict ourselves, realists claim, in the domain of the observed or observable material world, the world of experience, we will only have reached half-way. With this, the mechanistic model of Newtonian Physics is rejected and a dynamic explanation of physical reality takes its place. Causal Powers of Rom Harré and Edward H. Madden is one of those anti-Humean views developed almost four decades ago in support of a realist explanation of causality and laws of nature. The interesting thing about this theory, is that it has many analogies to the main idea expressed by Aristotle in the fore mentioned passage (Metaph. 1046b29 – 1047a21). Causality is defined by Harré and Madden as a generating process, the effect being the necessary product or outcome of the nature of the thing out of which it has been produced. The  David Hume (1967), particularly Book I, part III, §II – IV and (1902), particularly sect. VII and XIV.  “The necessary connection betwixt causes and effects is the foundation of our inference from one to the other. The foundation of our inference is the transition arising from the accustom’d union. There are, therefore, the same” [David Hume (1902), Bk. I, Part III, Sect. XIV].

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cause plays the role of an agent that has a power, springing from its very nature, to produce a certain effect. In other words, “causal power” is the potency in the things to produce certain effects, the action of causality appearing in …such images as a springtime plant forcing its way upwards towards the light, as the pulsing, surging movement of the protoplasm within an amoeba, of a flash of radiation as a positron and an electron meet, of the enormous flux of electromagnetic radiation from a star, of the mobility and imaginative control of his own actions exercised by human being, of the potent configuration of a magnetic field. [Harré & Madden (1975), 7]

8 Nature and Natural Kinds This brings us to Aristotle’s idea of “nature” (φύσις) as the source of these powers and the role it plays in his dynamic vision of nature. In this respect, I believe, that Aristotle’s idea of nature can also be read as that which is the immanent cause, or the “causal power” in virtue of which a property is manifested or is actualized: “for nature… is a principle of motion, although not in some other thing, but in the thing itself qua itself” (Metaph. 1049b9 – 11). For example, when a stone is left on its own it will fall down, because it is in the nature of a stone as a heavy body when left on its own to fall down. And “a human being begets a human being” (1032a25), because it is in the nature of a human being to beget a human being and not a cat or a dog. Nature (φύσις), thus, is also identified for Aristotle with οὐσία, εἶδος and τὸ τὶ ἦν εἶναι, all of which could be considered as the basis for the idea of a natural kind. In Biology,²⁷ for example, man, dog, fish, etc. are cases of natural kinds; this holds true not only in the case of Aristotle’s Biology, but also in scientific discourse today. The idea of natural kind can be used in Biology and in other disciplines. In Chemistry, for example, natural kinds would be the chemical elements—such as oxygen, hydrogen or helium— which are classified according to their essential properties (atomic weight, atom-

 The idea of natural kind is certainly more manifest in Biology, either in Aristotle’s biological treatises, or in contemporary discussion in Biology. Although Aristotle’s treatment of Biology could not be included in the present essay, for space restrictions, we should not lose sight of the fact that Aristotle’s Biology and Psychology—both of which are significant parts of his natural Philosophy—offers an excellent material for our understanding of his vision of nature as a living organism. The idea of εἶδος as it is connected with soul (ψυχή), nature (φύσις), and the role of the sperm, which is the carrier of εἶδος and a principle of movement in this capacity, is an excellent example which can contribute to our understanding both of the idea of natural kind and of the importance of the inner movement that takes place in all φύσει ὄντα.

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ic number, chemical similarities and so forth); water, composed of H2O, would also be an example of a natural kind.²⁸

9 Natural Necessity and Laws of Nature If the above connection of nature with the idea of natural kind be accepted, then we can make a step further and say that the idea of natural kind can serve as the basis of natural necessity, which, in its turn, is the grounds of laws of nature.²⁹ Aristotle, of course, did not deal with the problem of laws of nature, which seems to have appeared in the period of Descartes and Newton; we could, however, say that the Stageirite’s idea of φύσις, οὐσία, εἶδος can offer a firm ground for today’s scientific realists in defense of the reality of laws of nature. A contemporary form of scientific realism, as regards the connection of laws of nature with the nature of things, is the theory of universals put forward by David Armstrong (1983), Fred Dretske (1977) and Michael Tooley [(1977), (1978)], and some years later by James R. Brown (1991). All these philosophers of science have defended a Platonist version of realism, the main lines of which are the following: “Laws of nature are relations between universals. The idea that laws of nature link properties with properties and things with things, N (F,G) holds in virtue of a de re necessity linking the relation between universals and the uniformity it produces.”³⁰ The basis of such necessity is to be found “in what it is to be an F and in what it is to be a G,”³¹ namely in F-ness and in G-ness. In other words, if it is a law that, all swans are white, then the necessity is grounded in swanhood and in whiteness. This is what Armstrong means when he claims that “the necessity involved is a law of nature in a relation between universals.”³² The main characteristic of the Platonist version of realism is the idea that the universal (i. e., law of nature) exists a priori (ante res) and in separation from individual objects. Therefore, law of nature is not a convention or just a name; it has a physical reality, independent of the mind (extra mentem) and outside of place and time. This is based on the assumption of the existence of two different worlds: the world of abstract entities (Plato’s ideas) and the world of physical objects. The above theories, however, carry with them the weaknesses of Plato’s doctrine of ideas, one of which is the ontological problem,     

See James Brown (1991), 125. I elaborated on this view in Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (1994). Armstrong (1983), 85 – 6. Ibid., 77. Ibid., 78.

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as regards the relation of laws of nature to physical objects. Their approach, therefore, does not seem to be able to solve the problem of the interaction of those entities “up there in heaven” with the physical world: If it is the case that the cause is an abstract entity, outside of place and time, and that which is affected by the cause is a physical object, then how can an abstract entity causally interact with the physical world? In my opinion, the contemporary Platonist views cannot provide a satisfactory theory of laws of nature. On the contrary, I believe that an Aristotelean version of scientific realism would meet in a more promising way the challenge of the very same issue i. e., the relation of laws of nature to the physical world. Hence, I suggest that an alternative solution in contemporary Philosophy of Science would be that of a neo-Aristotelian approach,³³ according to which the nature of things is located in things (in rebus) as the common element (natura communis) shared by all members of the same kind or species. Accordingly, if it is accepted that law is a relation grounded in the nature of things, then it must be found in things (in rebus), as an inherent, immanent cause, directing from within the becoming of nature. This is in many respects analogous to the spirit of “causal powers” and certainly opens the way for an introduction of the idea of potentiality. We can thus paint a world-picture which creates space for the embodiment, not only of actual, individual things (τόδε τι), completely determined in space and time. The door opens for real properties of things, interpreted as dispositions, liabilities, tendencies, propensities, potentialities. The hardness of the diamond, the fragility of a piece of glass, the processes of transformations occurring in the microcosm, are all instances of the actualization of potentialities.

10 Prime Matter (πρώτη ὕλη) I shall now try to complete the picture by an appeal to that which serves as the “ultimate substratum” (ἔσχατον ὑποκείμενον) of all change in nature. This is Aristotle’s brilliant conception of πρώτη ὕλη, which, if properly investigated, can reveal an exciting aspect of his dynamic vision of nature and, at the same time, can show deep analogies with the image of matter emerging in contemporary Physics.³⁴

 See my (1994), (2010), in particular, chapter 3.  For an analysis of my reading of Aristotle’s prime matter and its conceptual relation to contemporary science, see Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (2000b), (2004), (2010).

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Let me start with three of the most puzzling and controversial definitions of Aristotle’s prime matter: Λέγω γὰρ ὕλην τὸ πρῶτον ὑποκείμενον ἑκάστῳ, ἐξ οὗ γίγνεταί τι ἐνυπάρχοντος μὴ κατὰ συμβεβηκός. /For what I mean by matter is this—the primary substratum of each thing, from which it comes to be and which is in there not accidentally. (Phys. 192a32– 33) Λέγω δ’ ὕλην ἣ καθ’ αὑτὴν μήτε τὶ μήτε ποσὸν μήτε ἄλλο μηδὲν λέγεται οἷς ὥρισται τὸ ὄν. / By matter I mean that which in itself is neither a particular thing nor a quantity nor assigned to any of the categories which define Being. (Metaph. 1029a20 – 22) ᾿Aλλὰ μὴν ἀφαιρουμένου μήκους καὶ πλάτους καὶ βάθους οὐδὲν ὁρῶμεν ὑπολειπόμενον, πλὴν εἴ τί ἐστι τὸ ὁριζόμενον. / But when length and breadth and depth are taken away, we see nothing, unless it be that bounded by them. (Metaph. 1029a17– 19)

These definitions have caused a long-standing dispute among Aristotle’s commentators and scholars over the centuries. The enigmatic way the Stageirite used to define πρώτη ὕλη invites several questions: Does Aristotle’s conception of prime matter correspond to something real in nature? What did the Stageirite have in mind when he claimed that matter is “that which in itself is neither a particular thing nor a quantity nor assigned to any of the categories which define Being”?³⁵ One view is that Aristotle’s prime matter is a “formal concept,” a “bare stuff,” a “fiction of the mind.” Barrington Jones, for example, claims that Aristotle’s prime matter has come to seem “more and more of a bad joke, the typical illusion of a metaphysician.”³⁶ It is nothing more than “a purely formal notion” and “a philosophical category used as a tool in charting the conceptual map of our everyday talk about change.”³⁷ Matter is thus just a “bare stuff” deprived of all physical reality. A second view is in favour of the reality of “prime matter”: Matter corresponds to something real in nature, which is the “relative” or “prox E. Zeller (1970) describes this aspect of matter as follows: “Becoming in general… presupposes a substratum whose essence it is to be pure possibility… presupposes some Being… which underlies as their subject the changing properties and conditions, and maintains itself in them… If we abstract entirely from everything which is a product of becoming… then we shall have pure Matter without any determination by Form. This will be that which is nothing, but can become everything—the Subject, namely, or substratum to which no one of all the thinkable predicates belongs, but which precisely on that account is receptive of them all” [E. Zeller (1970), 342– 247]. An even stronger emphasis on the character of indeterminability is given by Luyten: “We can say that matter, as opposed to substantial determination, cannot be anything more than mere determinability… Thinking this through, one seems compelled to say that such mere determinability must exclude any determination. In other words, it has to be pure indetermination.” [Luyten (1963), 106 – 7].  Barrington Jones (1974), 474.  Ibid., 476.

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imate” matter to the form.³⁸ What is definitely rejected, however, by the defenders of proximate matter is the view that prime matter is the ultimate, formless, characterless, undifferentiated stuff. Finally, there is a third view defending the reality of prime matter in the sense of the “ultimate substratum” of all change. These three positions derive their arguments mainly from Aristotle’s texts, as well as those of his commentators.³⁹ I must say that my reading of prime matter has deep affinities with the latter view. However, although I will also start my defense of the reality of prime matter in the context of Aristotle’s writings, in particular, his Physics and Metaphysics, I believe that the issue becomes even more challenging if we try to relate it to recent discoveries in Physics.⁴⁰ Therefore, my next move will be to try and shed light on the conceptual relationship between Aristotle’s prime matter and matter in Physics of Elementary Particles.

 William Charlton put forward the proximate matter view. In the Appendix to his (1970) Charlton develops interesting argumentation for the rejection of the traditional view of πρώτη ὕλη, as the underlying, indeterminate substratum of all change [(1970), 129 ff.]. Thomas Olshewsky (2000) develops one more rigorous defense of the proximate matter view. For detailed analysis of my view against this position, see my (2000b) and (2004).  Ernan McMullin has produced significant work in support of the reality of prime matter [see, e. g., (1963b) and (1963c)]. In particular, E. McMullin emphasizes the deep connection of prime matter with potency as “an original source of change in another thing or in the thing itself qua other,” and argues that Aristotle’s primary matter, as a metaphysical principle, is grounded on his doctrine of substance and substantial change. In this respect, matter is the “ontological grounds of potency for change.” Joseph Owens (1963), in dealing with prime matter in relation to substance, as the subject of predication, produces an excellent analysis of the concepts involved. However, in the last part of his paper, when he poses the question whether Aristotle’s matter can find a place in modern physics, is led to a rather negative answer. I believe that the reason that Owens arrives at this conclusion is because he has in mind classical physics and positivism, both of which consider quantitative determinations and measurements as a substantial characteristic of science. For more discussion on the issue of prime matter see: Hugh R. King (1956), Wilfrid Sellars (1957), H. M. Robinson (1974).  Patric Suppes is one of those who has produced an insightful work on this issue [see, e. g., his (1974), and (1985)]. In the latter, Suppes argues in favour of “an Aristotelian theory of matter as pure potentiality,” and develops the view that probabilistic notions need to be added to the general idea of matter and substance. For the conceptual relationship between Aristotle and contemporary science, with an emphasis on the idea of potentiality, see also, Milič Čapek, (1979), Eftichios Bitsakis [(1997), (2000)].

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10.1 Two Levels of Matter The first step in our investigation of Aristotle’s idea of πρώτη ὕλη is to try not to lose sight of the fact, that for the Stageirite there are two levels of the material world: (a) The level of our everyday experience, of actual, concrete, sensible, individual substances (οὐσίαι), is composed of ὕλη δευτέρα (materia secunda) with determinations hic et nunc. (b) Beneath this, there is a second and most fundamental level, that of πρώτη ὕλη (materia prima), which, according to Aristotle, is “το πρῶτον ὑποκείμενον” / “primary substratum” of all change (Phys. 192a32). Although prime matter itself is outside the sphere of generation and corruption, (ἄφθαρτον, ἀγέννητον 192a28 – 29), things that change, things that come to be and pass away, are only those made of matter. “There is no generation and corruption,” claims Aristotle, “without matter and perceptible bodies” (Gen. cor. 328b33 – 34).⁴¹ Finally, prime matter is completely formless (ἄμορφον) and, what is even more interesting, prime matter itself “…has a potential being, because it may attain to the species form (εἶδος), but when it exists actually, it is then in the species form (εἶδος).” / “… ἔστι δυνάμει, ὅτι ἔλθοι ἂν εἰς τὸ εἶδος· ὅταν δέ γε ἐνεργείᾳ ᾖ͵ τότε ἐν τῷ εἴδει ἐστίν” (Metaph. 1050a15 – 16).

10.2 Prime Matter, Metaphysics and Potentiality Let us now see how prime matter (πρώτη ὕλη) can be connected with the material world. I propose to start with Aristotle’s definition of Metaphysics as the science of first principles and causes. These causes, as the Stageirite claims, must be causes in relation to the nature of a thing, i. e., to the being qua being. Ἔστιν ἐπιστήμη τις ἣ θεωρεῖ τὸ ὄν ᾗ ὄν καὶ τὰ τούτῳ ὑπάρχοντα καθ’ αὑτό. αὕτη δ’ ἐστὶν οὐδεμιᾷ τῶν ἐν μέρει λεγομένων ἡ αὐτή… ἐπεὶ δὲ τὰς ἀρχὰς καὶ τὰς ἀκροτάτας αἰτίας ζητοῦμεν, δῆλον ὡς φύσεώς τινος αὐτὰς ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι καθ’ αὑτήν. εἰ οὖν καὶ οἱ τὰ στοιχεῖα τῶν ὄντων ζητοῦντες ταύτας τὰς ἀρχὰς ἐζήτουν, ἀνάγκη καὶ τὰ στοιχεῖα τοῦ ὄντος εἶναι μὴ κατὰ συμβεβηκὸς, ἀλλ’ ᾗ ὄν. διὸ καὶ ἡμῖν τοῦ ὄντος ᾗ ὄν τὰς πρῶτας αἰτίας ληπτέον. (Metaph. 1003a19 – 33) There is a science which studies Being qua Being, and the properties inherent in it in virtue of its own nature. This science is not the same as any of the so-called particular sciences…. But since it is for the first principles and the most ultimate causes that we are searching, clearly they must belong to something in virtue of its own nature. Hence if these principles

 Moreover, although primary matter is the underlying stuff of individual substances, itself has no separate existence: “it is not separable (οὐ χωριστήν), but always accompanied by a contrariety” (Gen. corr. 329a26 – 27).

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were investigated by those who investigated the elements of existing things, the elements must be elements of Being not incidentally, but qua Being. Therefore, it is of Being qua Being that we too must grasp the first causes. (Metaph. 1003a19 – 33)⁴²

It is thus obvious that Aristotle’s Metaphysics is intimately connected with his theory of causes (Metaph. 983a24– 32). At the same time, his theory of causes is central to his conception of the physical world. It, therefore, follows that Metaphysics, in Aristotle’s mind, is also connected with πρώτη ὕλη, which in its turn, is connected with things or substances that change: “nor does anything contain matter, but only such things as admit of generation (γένεσις) and change (μεταβολή) into each other” (Metaph. 1044b27– 28). Furthermore, it is important to remember, that Aristotle’s four causes—formal, material, efficient and final— are related to substance, which can best be understood in terms of the fundamental ontological categories of potentiality and actuality: And since the senses of being are analysable not only into substance or quality, or quantity, but also in accordance with potentiality (δύναμιν) and actuality (ἐντελέχεια) and function (κατὰ τὸ ἔργον), let us also gain a clear understanding about potentiality and actuality; and first about potentiality (περὶ δυνάμεως) in the sense which is most proper to the word, but not most useful for our present purpose—for potentiality and actuality extend beyond the sphere of terms which only refer to motion. (Metaph. 1045b33 – 1046a3)⁴³

Let us, now, see in more detail how all this can be connected with Aristotle’s idea of πρώτη ὕλη. To this purpose, we need to remember that potential being is that which lacks actuality, namely that which has not acquired its species form (εἶδος) yet, but has the ability to acquire it in the future. Potential being, therefore, is “such-as-is-capable-of-attaining-the-species form,” whereas actual being is “being-in-the-species form” (εἶδος). Accordingly, a piece of marble is potentially a statue; the unmusical man is potentially a musical man, an acorn is potentially an oak tree and the fetus is potentially a new-born baby. These two modes of being, far from being distinct, are interwoven in such a way as to represent two aspects of the same reality; and it is on this compound of potential and actual being that Aristotle has built his model of the becoming of nature, which is, at the same time, grounded on the corresponding ontological pair of ὕλη and εἶδος or μορφή: …ἡ ἐσχάτη ὕλη καὶ ἡ μορφὴ ταὐτό καὶ ἕν, 〈τὸ μὲν〉 δυνάμει, τὸ δὲ ἐνεργείᾳ. (Metaph. 1045b18 – 20)

 Translation by Hugh Tredennick (1996).  Translation by Hugh Tredennick, ibid.

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…the ultimate matter and the form are one and the same; the one existing potentially, and the other actually. (Metaph. 1045b18 – 20)

It is exactly this idea of the connection of ultimate matter (ἐσχάτη ὕλη) with potentiality (δύναμις) which, as already pointed out, stands as a most substantial indication of the dynamic character of Aristotle’s matter. And yet—it is interesting to note—this very same idea has led, in the long history of the dispute about the relation of matter to form, a significant number of Aristotle scholars to the negation of the reality of prime matter (πρώτη ὕλη): If matter, claim the defenders of this view, is potency (δύναμις) and if, according to Aristotle, potency is the privation (στέρησις) of the form, then matter should also be identified with στέρησις, and consequently with non being (μὴ ὄν). This, in my opinion, is a too narrow interpretation of the Stageirite’s doctrine, both of potentiality and of matter, for the following reason: Although it is true that δύναμις involves the privation of form, Aristotle, nevertheless, stresses the fact that it is of itself more than privation: Ἡμεῖς μὲν γὰρ ὕλην καὶ στέρησιν ἕτερόν φαμεν εἶναι, καὶ τούτων τὸ μὲν οὐκ ὂν εἶναι κατὰ συμβεβηκὸς—τὴν ὕλην—τὴν δὲ στέρησιν καθ᾽ αὑτὴν, καὶ τὴν μὲν εγγὺς καὶ οὐσίαν πως— τὴν ὕλην—τὴν δὲ στέρησιν οὐδαμῶς. (Phys. 192a4– 8) Now we distinguish matter and privation, and hold that one of these, namely the matter, accidentally is not, while the privation in its own nature is not; and that the matter is nearly, in a sense is, substance, while the privation in no sense is. (Phys. 192a4– 8)⁴⁴

We must, thus, be careful to notice that there are two aspects of δύναμις (potentiality) in general and of matter in particular: (a) the negative aspect of privation (στέρησις) on the one hand, and (b) the positive aspect expressing a tendency and a power (δύναμις) for the accomplishment of the end (τέλος). In other words, properly interpreted, matter is not simply that which lacks form (μορφή/εἶδος), but that which has the capacity to “take on” different forms. It is that which is in the state of becoming, while form is the end (τέλος) of this process. Matter, claims Aristotle, “is something the very nature of which is to desire or yearn towards the actually existent.” It is in this respect that matter as potentiality is identified with nature’s potentiality for change, and thus, together with the idea of nature, becomes the ontological grounds for Aristotle’s dynamic vision of the physical world:

 I use here The Revised Oxford Translation, Jonathan Barnes (1985).

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[for nature also]is in the same genus as potentiality (δύναμις); and this is because it is a principle of motion; however, not in some other thing, but in the thing itself qua itself (…ἐν ταὐτῷ γὰρ γένει τῇ δυνάμει· ἀρχὴ γὰρ κινητική, ἀλλ᾽ οὐκ ἐν ἄλλῳ ἀλλ᾽ ἐν αὐτῷ ᾗ αὐτό). (Metaph. 1049b9 – 10)

We can thus reach the conclusion that matter, far from being an empty concept, is the source and the moving power of the becoming of nature. In Physics III.2 Aristotle claims, “…the movement is the realization of the thing’s capacity for being in motion.” / “…διὸ ἡ κίνησις ἐντελέχεια τοῦ κινητοῦ ᾗ κινητόν” (Phys. 202a8). It thus becomes an internal distinguishing feature of nature; and in Physics III.1 the same idea is expressed as follows: “… ἡ τοῦ δυνάμει ὄντος ἐντελέχεια, ἧ τοιοῦτον, κίνησίς ἐστιν.” / “… the progress of the realizing of a potentiality, qua potentiality, is motion” (Phys. 201a10 – 11). In light of the above analysis of Aristotle’s idea of prime matter, let us now visit the micro-world of Physics of Elementary Particles, focusing on some features which, as my hope is to show, could illuminate our understanding of Aristotle’s πρώτη ὕλη, in the sense of the ultimate substratum of change.

11 Aristotle and Physics of Elementary Particles As already pointed out, for more than three centuries the dominant view in Physics was that of Newton’s Mechanics. An essential part of it was the atomic theory of matter—a revival of Democretian atomism—which was in complete disagreement with Aristotle’s vision of nature. Newton’s atomic theory left no real space for an Aristotelian account of physical reality up to the first decades of the 20th century. The totality of the material world was thought of to be composed of atoms, which interacted with each other as parts of a gigantic machine. Atoms were the tiny, rigid, indivisible “building blocks” of all material bodies. And since they were considered to be unchangeable, the only conceivable change in Newton’s world was that of quantity, which could only be explained in terms of movement in place. Even the discovery of an inner structure in the atom and the nucleus had no significant effect on the traditional picture. The dominant idea of the stability characterizing the elementary particles of matter remained substantially unchanged, because of the relative stability that electrons, protons and neutrons display. Electrons are known to be absolutely stable, while protons live at least 1030 years. Furthermore, they have definite properties, such as mass and charge. As research has proceeded during the past eight decades into deeper levels of the constitution of matter, the picture of what takes place in the sub-atomic

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world has changed dramatically. Some of the reasons are the following: (a) A great number of new particles, such as neutrinos, positrons, muons, pions and their antiparticles made their appearance. When bubble chambers for detecting particles were devised and huge accelerators, as CERN, were built, the number of the newly discovered particles increased dramatically, as a great variety of new hadrons were added to the list. (b) Elementary “particles” could no longer be thought of as the rigid, stable, “building blocks” of matter. Experiments showed the ephemeral and unstable presence of the sub-atomic “particles,” as there was a continuous change (μεταβολή), a transformation of particles into one another. For example, it has been found that a charged pion and an anti-pion decay respectively into a muon plus antineutrino and an antimuon plus neutrino with an average lifetime of 2.603x10-8 seconds. The neutral pion decays into two photons with an average lifetime about 0.8x10-16 seconds and the muon-anti-muon decay respectively into an electron or positron and a neutrino-antineutrino pair with an average lifetime of 2.197x10-6 seconds. Or, a high energy gamma-ray might scatter off an atomic electron losing some of its energy and producing an energetic recoiling electron and an electron-positron pair. It thus becomes obvious, that the idea of potentiality emerges as a central feature of matter in the subatomic world.⁴⁵ The fact that the term “particle” is still used should not mislead us into thinking that matter consists of well-defined particles, having an actual, stable existence, in the classical sense. This can be further illuminated by an appeal to the so-called virtual particles (δυνάμει σωμάτια) and quarks. It is interesting to see how virtual particles appear: when, for example, a positron and an electron approach each other very closely, they exchange a special type of particle, which is a force carrier. This particle all of sudden materializes through a quantum fluctuation, which by no means can directly be experimentally detected. Such virtual particles are the so-called bosons, each carrying one of the four fundamental forces of the universe: Gluons convey the strong nuclear force, which binds quarks as well as protons and neutrons. Intermediate vector bosons transfer the weak nuclear force, which changes one type of nuclear particle into another in the process of radioactive decay. Gravitons—yet undetected—are believed to carry gravity, and, finally, photons carry electromagnetism. All these four force carriers can also be called virtual particles, owing to the fact that they are characterized by an “existence,” which can never be directly

 I have argued for the central role of potentiality in contemporary science in Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (1989), (1990), (1993), (1994), (1996), (2000), (2016).

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detected. This, I believe, can give us the freedom to suggest, in Aristotelian terms, that they have a kind of a potential mode of being. An analogous case is that of quarks. According to the standard model of quarks, which is still the received view, all matter and the forces of our universe consist of fewer than 20 “particles.” As we have seen, up to the first four decades of the past century, the only known fundamental constituents of matter were three: the proton, the neutron and the electron, whereas the photon was the only known force carrier. Later in the century, the physicists discovered that protons and neutrons are not the elementary constituents of matter, for they themselves are composed of smaller particles. The latter come in several varieties and combine to make up some hundreds of other composite particles. Moreover, subsequent discoveries, as we have seen, indicated the existence of three more force carriers. The above mentioned “particles” are endowed with three values (mass, charge and spin) which are unique for each of them. Furthermore, each particle has an anti-particle equivalent, that has an opposite “property” (e. g., charge). According to their basic properties, particles are classified into two categories: The Gauge bosons, which, as we have seen, are carriers of force and the fermions, which are particles matter consists of. The latter come in two types: leptons and quarks. It is known that quarks come in six different types, which are grouped in three double sets: up and down, charm and strange, top and bottom (or truth and beauty). Each one of these double sets consists of one triplet (colours), so that now we have 18 varieties of quarks. What makes quarks so interesting for our purpose, is the fact that they can never be found as separately existing individual particles, for they have a mode of being, which consists in their always being the constituent elements of other particles, such as protons or neutrons. So, we could say, that when quarks pass to actuality, they exist in the form-of-proton just as πρώτη ὕλη exists actually in some particular species form: …matter exists potentially ( ἔτι ἡ ὕλη ἔστι δυνάμει), because it may attain to the species form; but when it exists actually (ἐνεργείᾳ), it is then in the species form (τότε ἐν τῷ εἴδει ἐστίν). (Metaph. 1050a15 – 16)

If all these amazing aspects of matter be taken into account, then it becomes extremely tempting to suggest that they can contribute, in at least some respect, to our understanding of Aristotle’s conception of πρώτη ὕλη. As Werner Heisenberg, one of the pioneers of Quantum Mechanics and a Nobel Laureate in Physics, pointed out in his Physics and Philosophy, The matter of Aristotle is certainly not a specific matter like water or air, nor is it simply empty space; it is a kind of indefinite corporeal substratum, embodying the possibility of passing over into actuality by means of form… [In modern physics we have] actually the

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final proof for the unity of matter. All elementary particles are made of the same substance, which we may call energy or universal matter: they are just different forms in which matter can appear. [Heisenberg (1971), 129 – 139]

I believe, therefore, that it has become obvious that in order to comprehend the character of matter and the way it behaves in the sub-atomic world, we have to abandon the basic schemes of classical Physics and make an appeal to some completely different explanatory patterns, which, as I have tried to show, are pointing to Aristotle.

Conclusion Let me now conclude by suggesting that, although we cannot identify quarks, or virtual particles, or any other sub-atomic particles, with Aristotle’s prime matter, still the amazing aspects of matter, that the discoveries in the sub-atomic world have revealed, combined with my preceding analysis of movement, change, time, laws of nature, natural kinds, and potentiality, can contribute to our understanding of Aristotle’s dynamic vision of nature. At the same time, Aristotle’s insights seen from this perspective have much to offer today, after 2400 years, for our understanding, both of contemporary Science and of physis as a dynamic living whole, thus opening a promising way for a neo-Aristotelian perspective on Science.

Works Cited Armstrong (1978a): David M. Armstrong, Nominalism and Realism: Universals and Scientific Realism, vol. 1, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Armstrong (1978b): David M. Armstrong, A Theory of Universals: Universals and Scientific Realism, vol. 2, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Armstrong (1983): David M. Armstrong, What is a Law of Nature?, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bacon (1902): Francis Bacon, by Lord Bacon, Joseph Devey (ed.), M. A., New York: P. F. Collier (1st edition: 1620). http://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/1432. Barnes (1984): Jonathan Barnes (ed.), The Complete Works of Aristotle, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bitsakis (1997): Eftichios Bitsakis, Le nouveau realism scientifique, Paris: L’ Harmattan. Bitsakis (2000): Eftichios Bitsakis, “The Potential and the Real. From Aristotle to Modern Physics,” in: Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, vol. I, New York: Peter Lang, 185 – 200.

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Brown (1991): James Brown, The Laboratory of the Mind: Thought Experiments in the Natural Sciences, London: Routledge. Čapek (1979): Milič Čapek, “Two Views of Motion: Change of Position or Change of Quality?” in: Review of Metaphysics 33, 337 – 46. Charlton (1970): William Charlton, Aristotle’s Physics, I and II, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dretske (1977): Fred I. Dretske, “Laws of Nature,” in: Philosophy of Science 44 (2), 248 – 268. Harré & Madden (1975): Rom Rom Harré and Edward H. Madden, Causal Powers, Oxford: Blackwell. Heisenberg (1971): Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Philosophy, London: Allen & Unwin (1st edition: 1959). Hume (1902): David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, L. A. Selby-Bigge (ed.), Oxford: Clarendon Press (1st edition: 1748). Hume (1967): David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, L. A. Selby-Bigge (ed.), Oxford: Clarendon Press (1st edition: 1739 and 1740). Jones (1974): Barrington Jones, “Aristotle’s Introduction to Matter,” in: Philosophical Review 83, 474 – 500. King (1956): Hugh R. King, “Aristotle without Prima Materia,” in: Journal of the History of Ideas 17, no. 3, 370 – 389. Luyten (1963): Norbert Luyten, “Matter as Potency,” in: Ernan McMullin (ed.), The Concept of Matter in Greek and Medieval Philosophy, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 102 – 123. McMullin (1963a): Ernan McMullin (ed.), The Concept of Matter in Greek and Medieval Philosophy, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame. McMullin (1963b): Ernan McMullin, “Matter as a Principle,” in: Ernan McMullin (ed.), The Concept of Matter in Greek and Medieval Philosophy, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 173 – 212. McMullin (1963c): Ernan McMullin, “Four Senses of ‘Potency’,” in: Ernan McMullin (ed.), The Concept of Matter in Greek and Medieval Philosophy, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 299 – 319. Olshewsky (2000): Thomas M. Olshewsky, “The Matter with Matter,” in: Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, vol. I, New York: Peter Lang, 203 – 219. Owens (1963): Joseph Owens, “Matter and Predication in Aristotle,” in: Ernan McMullin (ed.), The Concept of Matter in Greek and Medieval Philosophy, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 79 – 93. Peirce (1931 – 1958): Charles S. Peirce, Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, vols. 1 – 8, C. Hartshorne, P. Weiss and A. Burks (eds.), Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of the Harvard University Press. Peirce (1976): Charles S. Peirce, The New Elements of Mathematics, 4 vols., Caroline Eisele (ed.), The Hague: Mouton. Randall (1960): John Herman Randall, Aristotle, New York & London: Columbia University Press. Robinson (1974): H. M. Robinson, “Prime Matter in Aristotle,” in: Phronesis 19, no. 2, 168 – 188.

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Sellars (1957): Wilfrid Sellars, “Substance and Form in Aristotle,” in: The Journal of Philosophy, 54, no. 22, 688 – 699. Sfendoni-Mentzou (1989): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “Popper’s Propensities: An Ontological Interpretation of Probability,” in: Gavroglou et al. (eds.), Imre Lakatos and Theories of Scientific Change, Dordrecht-Boston-London: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 441 – 55. Sfendoni-Mentzou (1990): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “Models of Change: A Common Ground for Ancient Greek Philosophy and Modern Physics,” in: P. Nicolacopoulos (ed.), Greek Studies in the Philosophy and History of Science, Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 149 – 169. Sfendoni-Mentzou (1993): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “The Role of Potentiality in C. S. Peirce’s Tychism and in Contemporary Discussions in Q. M. and Micro-Physics,” in: E. Moore (ed.), Charles S. Peirce and the Philosophy of Science: Papers from the 1989 Harvard Conference, Tuscaloosa and London: The University of Alabama Press. Sfendoni-Mentzou (1994): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “Laws of Nature: ante Res or in Rebus?” in: International Studies in the Philosophy of Science 8, no. 3, 229 – 242. Sfendoni-Mentzou (1996): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “The Reality of Thirdness: a Potential-Pragmatic Account of Laws of Nature,” in: R. S. Cohen, Risto Hilpinen and Qiu Rensong (eds.), Realism and Anti-realism in the Philosophy of Science, Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 75 – 95. Sfendoni-Mentzou (1997): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “Peirce on Continuity and Laws of Nature,” in: Transactions of the Charles S. Peirce Society 33, no. 3, 646 – 678. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2000a): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, vol. I, New York: Peter Lang. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2000b): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “What is Matter for Aristotle: A Clothes-Horse, or a Dynamic Element in Nature?” in: Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, vol. I, New York: Peter Lang, 237 – 263. Sfendoni-Mentzou, Hattiangadi & Jonson (2001): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, Jagdish Hattiangadi and David M. Jonson (eds.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, vol. II, New York: Peter Lang. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2004): Δήμητρα Σφενδόνη-Μέντζου, “Η Αριστοτελική Πρώτη ύλη Μέσα από το Πρίσμα της Κβαντικής Φυσικής και Φυσικής των Στοιχειωδών Σωματίων,” in: Proceedings of the International Conference “Aristotle, a Bridge between East and West,” Athens: Panteion University. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2008a): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou , “C. S. Peirce and Aristotle on Time,” in: COGNITIO. Revista de Filosofia 9 (2), 261 – 280. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2008b): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou , “Aristotle’s Theory of Time in Relation to the ‘Time Arrow’ of Ilya Prigogine,” in: Proceedings of the International Conference “Aristotle and the Aristotelian Tradition,” Lecce: Centro Interuniversitario per la Storia della Tradizione Aristotelica, 391 – 404. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2010): Δήμητρα Σφενδόνη-Μέντζου, Ο Αριστοτέλης Σήµερα. Πτυχές της Αριστοτελικής Φυσικής Φιλοσοφίας υπό το πρίσµα της Σύγχρονης Επιστήµης, Θεσσαλονίκη: Εκδόσεις Ζήτη. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2016a): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Le Temps chez Aristote, Paris-Brussels: Vrin-ΟΥΣΙΑ/OUSIA.

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Sfendoni-Mentzou (2016b): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “Is Time Real?” in: Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Le Temps chez Aristote, Paris-Brussels: Vrin-ΟΥΣΙΑ/OUSIA, 69 – 87. Sfendoni-Mentzou (2018): Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou, “Aristotle on Time and the Becoming of Nature. A Dynamic Conception of Physical Reality,” in: Evanghelos Moutsopoulos and Maria Protopapas-Marneli (eds.), Proceedings of the International Conference “Aristotle, Timeless and Scientifically Timely,” Athens: Academy of Athens. Simpson, Koons & The (2018): William M. R. Simpson, Robert C. Koons, Nicholas J. The (eds.), Neo-Aristotelian Perspectives on Contemporary Science, New York: Routledge. Suppes (1974): Patric Suppes, “Aristotle’s Concept of Matter and its Relation to Modern Concepts of Matter,” in: Synthese 28, 27 – 50. Suppes (1985): Patric Suppes, Probabilistic Metaphysics, Oxford: Blackwell. Tooley (1977): Michael Tooley, “The Nature of Laws,” in: Canadian Journal of Philosophy 7, 667 – 698. Tredennick (1996): Hugh Tredennick (trans.), Aristotle. Metaphysics. 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Wicksteed & Conrford (1996): Philip H. Wicksteed & Francis M. Cornford (trans.), Aristotle. The Physics, 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Woodbridge (1966): Frederic J. E. Woodbridge, Aristotle’s Vision of Nature, John Herman Randall, Jr. (ed.), New York and London: Columbia University Press.

James G. Lennox

“For a Human Being Reproduces a Human Being”: A Mundane, Profound, Aristotelian Truth Introduction In recent years there has been a resurgence of interest in approaching issues in metaphysics and philosophy of science from an Aristotelian perspective, and this resurgence is beginning to have an impact on the philosophy of biology.¹ Yet from the standpoint of the writings of leading philosophers and historians of biology, the idea of a Neo-Aristotelian philosophy of biology is utterly incompatible with a post-Darwinian understanding of the living world. I will return to this alleged incompatibility at the close of this essay—but my central task lies elsewhere. In order to assess whether the views presented in works such as those mentioned in footnote 2 are genuinely Aristotelian, we need to fix a base line —and that base line is Aristotle’s philosophy of biology, and especially his metaphysics of living being. To that topic, I now turn. In this essay, I will focus my attention on Aristotle’s understanding of biological reproduction and development.

1 Taking Generation Seriously Aristotle’s search for the principles of change in Physics I begins simply as a generalization over the sort of responses to the Eleatic Challenge that you find in his predecessors—a proper response to Parmenides’ proscription on all kinds of

This essay is based on a plenary lecture delivered during the “Aristotle: 2400 Years” World Congress on May 27, 2016. This conference was organized by the “Interdisciplinary Centre for Aristotle Studies,” Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. I was given the distinct honor of delivering this lecture at the archaeological site of Stagira, Aristotle’s birthplace. I take this opportunity to thank Professor Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou for granting me this honor. I dedicate this paper to the two Aristotelian scholars who have most influenced my thinking on its central themes, Allan Gotthelf and Aryeh Kosman. Those who know their work will recognize that influence on every page; those who don’t, should.  Austin (2017); Lennox (2017); Nuño de la Rosa (2010); Walsh (2006), (2016), (2017). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-004

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coming to be requires something that remains the same and unchanged that can serve as the underlying subject for change, thought of as the passage between contraries. For changes in categories other than substance (οὐσία), the particular substantial being (this horse, this human being) of the Categories serves that purpose well. But unlike his predecessors, Aristotle’s particular substantial beings (at least sublunary ones) are not eternal beings that combine and recombine, differentiate out of a mixture, and so on—they too come to be and pass away, as Aristotle regularly says, without qualification. He promises us that if we investigate them diligently, the same analysis will apply to animals and plants that come to be from seed, but he does nothing more than wave his hands at a solution.² What is needed is a much richer ontology than he provides in Physics I, if he is to solve the problem posed by substantial coming to be—in particular, an ontology that can accommodate what one of his most ardent followers, William Harvey, in his Exercitationes de Generatione Animalium refers to as epigenesis, the unqualified realization of what is present only in potentia in the fertilized egg.³ For Aristotle, this process of realization begins (in blooded animals) as a portion of concocted residual blood, which transforms itself, through a continuous, complex, and orchestrated process of differentiation, into a complex, active, self-maintaining animal. There is nothing obvious that remains the same during this process, and what emerges from it is nothing like what was there at its beginning—certainly not a mere ‘contrary’ of the fertilized egg. Aristotle’s response to this challenge comes in two stages. On Generation and Corruption first responds to and rejects attempts to reduce generation to the other, less complicated forms of change in book I; and then outlines an account of elemental transformation and the emergence of uniform compounds in book II. Meteorology IV provides a much more detailed account of the emergence of the latter, including the uniform living parts out of which the instrumental parts (organs) are made; and finally, and relying on the results of these other works, Aristotle comes to grips with the amazing complexity of the development of living beings in the Generation of Animals.

 The hand-waving is at Physics I.7, 190b1– 5.  Harvey describes the fertilized egg as “not only that out of which, as out of material, but also that by which, as by an efficient cause, the chick arises. In it, however, there is no part of the future offspring actually in being, but all parts are indeed present potentially” [Harvey (1981, 1st ed. 1651), 136]. He later characterizes as “the chief problem of all, what is there in generation that…constitutes the parts of the chick in the egg in an established order by means of epigenesis, and produces a univocal creature like to its own self?” (ibid., 228).

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2 Generation for the sake of Being ‘A human being begets a human being.’ It is a simple enough truth—mundane, obvious, and surely as obvious 2400 years ago as it is now. I’m a human being; I have a daughter; she’s a human being. Phaestis and Nicomachus, human beings, gave birth to Aristotle, another human being—albeit a very special human being. How could it be otherwise? Yet Aristotle thinks this mundane truth is important enough to repeat regularly, always at key junctures in arguments—and the second word in these brief statements is nearly always γάρ, as if, by stating this mundane and obvious truth, he is clarifying or explicating something very important for us. In this section, I shall be arguing that his repetition of this phrase—almost as if a mantra—at key moments is because he recognizes that, as you begin to take this simple truth seriously, accept it for what it is, it turns out that it is not so simple after all. Aristotle repeats it so often and at such important junctures in his work precisely because he does not think that any of his predecessors took it seriously or accepted it for what it is. Aristotle noticed two, not-so-obvious corollaries of this apparently simple truth. The first is its diachronic regularity: Human beings reproduce human beings generation after generation after generation. The second is what I will call its systematic regularity, using that term in its biological sense: At any given time, organisms of all kinds are not just generating—they are replicating themselves. As he puts it in the first chapter of PA I.1 in criticizing Empedocles: He [Empedocles] failed to understand, first, that seed already constituted with this sort of potential [i. e. to replicate] must be present, and second, that its producer is prior—not only in account but also in time. For one human being reproduces another; consequently, it is on account of that one being such as it is that this one’s generation turns out a certain way. (640a22 – 27)

These two corollaries are interestingly intertwined in a passage a little later in PA I.1: Surely it is not any chance thing that comes to be from each seed⁴, nor a chance seed that comes from a chance body; rather, this one comes from that one. … But prior even to this is

 An important reminder about the use of the term σπέρμα in such contexts. To quote D. M. Balme [(1992), 131]: “ ‘Seed’ (σπέρμα) may refer to (i) seed of a plant; (ii) the male semen (strictly γονή); (iii) the female contribution to generation; (iv) the first stage of the foetus (strictly κύημα, foetus or conception). At this stage of the argument [i. e., 716a4– 17] ‘seed’ is necessarily vague

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what the seed is the seed of; for while the seed is generation, the goal is being. And prior again to both of these is what the seed is from. (641b26 – 33)

In selecting this passage, I faced a common dilemma when quoting the Stagirite —where do I start the quote, and where do I end it? For the point of this passage, that it is not a matter of chance which σπέρμα comes from which living thing (and vice versa), is meant to illustrate something about the goal-directedness of generation, as we can see by looking to the immediately preceding lines of text: We say ‘this is for the sake of that’ whenever there appears to be some end toward which the change proceeds if nothing impedes it. So it is apparent that there is something of this sort, which is precisely what we call a nature. (641b22– 26)

Aristotle sees the obvious regularity of biological replication as a consequence of a deeply controversial claim about natures: natures proceed toward ends unless impeded. Realizing this helps us to understand the initially puzzling assertion that the seed is a generation (γένεσις), while the τέλος, the end, is a being (οὐσία). The seed/egg/embryo is a process on its way to a goal that it will achieve, if nothing impedes it. We can, of course, ‘freeze frame’ it, examine its progress at a moment in time, as Aristotle does when he (famously) notes the first appearance of the heart in the developing chick embryo in HA VI.⁵ But this is an abstraction: there is one, continuous, process of transformation here; only when it reaches its full realization is it a being. But what, then, does Aristotle mean by saying this is what we refer to as a nature? This should remind readers of a remark in the first chapter of Physics II: Moreover, “nature” spoken of as generation is a path (ὁδός) toward nature. (193b12– 13)

Nature spoken of as generation is a path toward some other nature. And what is the sentence just prior to this one? Therefore if this is nature, then the form too is nature—for a human being comes to be from a human being. (193b11– 12)

because Aristotle has not yet analyzed…what exactly comes from the female and what from the male.”  HA VI.3, 561a4– 562a22.

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Our simple, obvious truth is here intended to help us better understand the quite controversial theme of this chapter, that nature refers both to the primary underlying matter of things which have a source of change in themselves (193a29 – 31), but also—and more so—to the forms of fully developed natural things. The nature toward which natural generation proceeds, and according to which it is to be identified, is the form of a natural thing. And so, in order to further explore the implications of this apparently uncontroversial idea that a human being generates a human being, we need to understand what the form of a living thing is. And matters may be even more complicated than that. For in Metaphysics Z.7, in discussing natural generation, Aristotle begins with the very general claim that all things which come to be come to be by something, from something, and come to be some thing. Focusing in on natural generation, he explains: And speaking generally, nature is both that from which and that according to which; for that which comes to be, e. g. a plant or an animal, has a nature; and that by which is the nature spoken of according to the form, the nature of what is like-in-form to that which comes to be (but in another)…

He then seeks to clarify what he has just said: …for a human being reproduces a human being. (1032a22– 25)

Here our mundane truth is invoked to stress the formal identity of the parent and the offspring-to-be in natural reproduction. And immediately after introducing the idea that the efficient cause of natural generation is one-in-form with the οὐσία that results, in Z.8 1033b27– 30, Aristotle makes the startling claim that for the purposes of understanding generations and beings (πρός τε⁶ τὰς γενέσεις καὶ τὰς οὐσίας) forms of the sort that Plato and his followers discuss, separate from particulars, are of no value. He explains: It is even obvious in some cases that the reproducer (τὸ γεννῶν⁷) is such as that which is reproduced (τὸ γεννώμενον), not, of course, the same nor one in number, but one in form, as in natural things…

 Reading τε with EJ rather than γε.  It is very common for translators to ignore the distinction in the Greek between γέννησις/γεννήσθαι and γένεσις/γενέσθαι, a practice encouraged by the fact that there is often disagreement in the manuscripts about which to read. But the former is typically restricted by Aristotle to acts of biological reproduction, while the latter refers to any process of coming to be, including the process that is part of the act of reproduction. When it is important to stress this, I will use restrictive terms such as begetting or reproduction for γέννησις and its cognates.

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After which, to illustrate what he has in mind, he says (you guessed it), …for a human being reproduces a human being… (1033b33)

Here, it will be noted, the formal nature under consideration is said to be that by which something alike in form to it comes to be. The generated product is alike in form to that which initiates that generative process—which is referred to here as the nature spoken of according to form (a phrase which echoes our Physics II.1 passage)! To take stock then: when one begins to think deeply about the implications of this simple, mundane truth, along with its diachronic and systematic corollaries, you are face to face with some distinctively Aristotelian theses about biological generation: it is goal-oriented, and both the initiator of biological generation and its goal are identified, in distinct ways, with the formal nature.

3 Souls as Formal Natures We thus come face to face with another distinctively Aristotelian thesis about biological generation: that three of the four answers to the causal question διὰ τί that the natural philosopher needs to seek often ‘coincide’: Since there are four causes, it is for the natural philosopher to know them all, and by referring to all of them—the matter, the form, the mover, and that for the sake of which—he will display τὸ διὰ τί in a way appropriate to natural science. But the [last] three often come to one; for the ‘what it is’ and ‘that for the sake of which’ are one, and the ‘whence comes the primary motion’ is the same in form as these…. (198a22 – 26)

And what does he say next? Right: …for a human being reproduces a human being… (198a26 – 27)

In this passage, it is noteworthy that he does not discuss what is distinctive about the form of a living substance. In De anima II.4, however, he pointedly instantiates the same idea, that three of the four causes often ‘come to one thing,’ by reference to the soul: …the soul is spoken of as a cause in three of the ways delineated: for the soul is a cause as the source of motion, as that for the sake of which, and as the substantial being (οὐσία) of the ensouled body. (415b10 – 12, Shields trans.)

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While form is not explicitly mentioned, we can be sure that it is form to which οὐσία refers in this passage, since Aristotle spends the entire first chapter of book II explaining the sense in which soul is the οὐσία in the sense of form of a natural organic/instrumental body (412a6 – 22, b10 – 15). The form of a living thing is its soul, that is, its hierarchically integrated capacities for life—and as Aristotle informs us in De anima II.4, this ability that natural things have to replicate themselves is “ most natural among the functions for living things” (φυσικώτατον τῶν ἔργων τοῖς ζῶσιν, 415a27). It is, more precisely, a function of the nutritive soul (415a23, 416a19 – 22), the first and most commonly possessed living capacity (415a24– 25), in that every living thing that is complete and not maimed or produced spontaneously partakes of it. But as common and natural as it is, it is also their link to immortality and divinity; living things produce another like themselves, …in order to partake of the eternal and the divine in the way that it is possible; for every living thing strives for this and does whatever it does in accordance with nature for the sake of this. (415a29-b3)

Aristotle explains how it is that the obvious act of reproducing accomplishes this goal. Self-evidently, no particular perishable being can persist as numerically one and the same being forever; what is possible, however, is that something like that perishable being can persist –what persists, he explains, is not one in number but one in form (415b7– 8)—it is a formal replicant of its producer. This passage is often misunderstood—this is not Aristotle saying that the act of reproducing is for the sake of the eternality of the species; this is Aristotle explaining what sort of participation in eternality is possible for you, me, and every other mortal, sexually reproducing organism. I had a daughter, and she is one in form with me; she gave birth to a son, and he is one in form with her, and (supposing transitivity reigns here) so one in form with me—something like me in form could persist indefinitely. Notice that Aristotle does not say either that this allows me to be eternal and divine, nor does he say that quasi-participation in eternality is guaranteed. My daughter might have been unable to reproduce, and that would have been it for my immortality. He says, precisely, “each [living thing] has a share [in eternality], in so far as it is able to partake in this, some more and some less” (415b5 – 7). He goes further than this, however. Just prior to this claim, he says: For most natural of the functions in living things, as many as are complete and neither deformed nor generated spontaneously, is the production of another like itself, animal animal, plant plant, in order that it may partake, as far as possible, in the always and the di-

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vine; for all [perfect living things] strive for this and do whatever they do in accordance with nature for the sake of this. (415a24-b4)

They do whatever they do according to nature (κατὰ φύσιν) for the sake of partaking, as far as possible, in the always and the divine. Now you might at first feel an almost irresistible urge to read this as rhetorial flourish or as Aristotle getting carried away by a sort of religious passion. I hope to convince you that not only does he mean what he is saying to be taken quite literally, but that there are deeply sound biological reasons for him doing so. I have found it common that when people think of passages like this, they immediately focus on human lives. This is understandable, but it is a mistake: Aristotle is discussing a function or activity common not just to animals, but to all living things, insofar as they reproduce ‘after their kind,’ as we say. The other common mistake that interferes with interpretive clarity here, despite Aristotle’s constant reminders, is forgetting that he is insisting that feeding and reproducing are functions of a single capacity of the soul. Given the methodological preamble (415a14– 22) to this discussion of the nutritive soul, this must mean that there is a single ‘correlate’ of this capacity and a corresponding single activity.⁸ A passage often cited as a companion to this one opens the second book of the Generation of Animals, and is of considerable help in understanding it. As Aristotle explains at the very beginning of GA I, its primary function is to present and defend an account of the efficient and material causes of animal generation, which he goes on to argue are, respectively, the male and the female contributions to generation. Aristotle thus opens book II by stating that he has earlier established that they, the male and the female, are the sources of generation and what their capacities are, providing the account of their being, i. e., their definitions; and that he will later (in book IV, in fact) also establish the efficient and material causes of some animals becoming male and others female (731b18 – 22). But here, by starting from a higher principle (ἄνωθεν),⁹ he wants to explain why it is better that there are males and females, by establishing the end for the sake of which such a distinction within kinds of animals exists.

 There is serious work to be done, of course, to bring this expectation into alignment with the claim in the passage just quoted that the nutritive soul has two ἔργα, and that reproduction is “the most natural” one. For valuable discussion see the discussion in Johansen (2012), chapter 5.  And here I agree with Balme [(1992), 155] about the meaning of ἄνωθεν, as against Peck [(1942), 129 and Appendix A], who takes it to be a reference to the heavens and ultimately to the Unmoved Mover.

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And indeed, the principles he starts from are more elevated, in a number of respects. First and most obviously, the final cause is in general prior to the efficient cause in the study of living things (PA I.1, 639b12– 21). Second, this passage begins, not with the question of why it is better that there are distinct sexes—it begins with a prior and more fundamental question: why is there biological reproduction at all? And finally, the explanation begins, not with a fundamental distinction among natural beings, but rather with a fundamental distinction among “the things that are”: some are eternal and divine, others are capable of being and not-being. That is, unlike PA I.5, which contrasts ungenerated and imperishable natural substances with others that partake of generation and perishing (644b23 – 24), GA II.1 begins by stating certain principles of being and then, at a specific point later in the argument, transitions into applying these principles to living being. The argument progresses, very roughly in the following way: [i]

The good and divine is a cause of what is better in things that are capable of being better. (731b24– 26)

[ii]

Beings that are non-eternal are capable of partaking in both worse and better. (731b27– 28)

At this point, though he does not explicitly draw this conclusion, I think he expects his readers to grant him the following implication of [i] and [ii] and to carry it forward. [iii]

If non-eternal things exist, what is good and divine must be responsible for this.

Only at this point does he take the step of applying these results to living beings: [iv]

Soul is better than body. (731b28 – 9)

and therefore [v]

Ensouled things are better than things without souls—because of their soul. (731b29 – 30)

Here we are to think back to the beginning premise and realize that soul must, then, be a beautiful and divine thing, since it is the cause of the better in ensouled beings. He then adds that [vi]

Being is better than non-being and living (a way of being) is better than non-living. (730b30)

And at this juncture he concludes:

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[vii]

“And for these reasons there is animal generation.”

However, while he has argued that the possession of soul, the form of a living thing, is responsible for living things being alive, he has yet to explain how these higher premises explain the presence of animal generation; and the γὰρ introducing [vii] makes it clear that the missing part of the argument is to follow. And we will get to it, I promise! David Balme’s commentary on this passage¹⁰ is titled “Reproduction is for the perpetuation of kinds.” But while Aristotle does say clearly that, as a consequence (διὸ) of the fact that organisms are able to replicate themselves, “there is always a genos of men, animals and plants” (731b35 – 732a1), he clearly does not say that this is what reproduction is for. The ‘higher’ teleological question in this passage is the question “Why is there generation of animals?” And the teleological answer to that question is that being is better than non-being, which for ensouled beings means living is better than non-living. What we now need is an argument that the soul’s capacity to reproduce allows individual ensouled beings to be eternally in the only way possible for them—in form. That is the better that the soul’s capacity to reproduce achieves—to be eternally, in a way. That is, there is generation so that perishable living things can be eternal in form, even if not in number—it opens up the possibility of participating in the eternal and divine. Here it is in Aristotle’s own words (or, actually, Balme’s translation of those words, with my interpretive interpolations!): For since the nature of such a kind cannot be eternal, that which comes to be is eternal in the way that is possible for it. Now it is not possible [for it to be eternal] in number (for the being of existing things is in the particular, and if this [the particular] were such [eternal in number] it [the particular] would be eternal) but it is possible in form. That is why (διό) there is always a kind of men and of animals and of plants. (731b31– 732a1)

That is, as a result of all this form replication there will be a γένος, which, as I argued many, many years ago¹¹, should be understood in light of the first sense of γένος specified in Metaphysics Δ.28¹²—“the continuous generation of things having the same form.” This is not, however, what generation is for, though it is a consequence of natural reproduction.

 See Balme (1992), 155.  Lennox (1985); reprinted in Lennox (2001), 135. I also offered a speculation about how to render the parenthetical aside in the translated passage so that it doesn’t end up stating a trivial truth—namely, that if the particular were eternal in number, it would be eternal—but I don’t need that speculative reading for the work I’m doing here.  1024a29 – 31.

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Of course, the ultimate goal of this argument was to identify the final cause of there being males and females! And so Aristotle goes on, And since the source of these [γένη] is the male and the female, it must be for the sake of generation that male and female exist in those that have them. And the proximate moving cause (in which is present the logos and the form) is better and more divine in its nature than the matter, and it is better that the superior be separated from the inferior. For this reason, the male is separated from the female wherever possible and as far as possible…. (732a1– 7; emphasis added)

This passage, then, does provide important background for the argument of De anima II.4.¹³ And it establishes beyond doubt that for Aristotle “A human being reproduces a human being,” while it may be an obvious truth, is anything but mundane. It encapsulates the very essence of an Aristotelian philosophy of biology. Why, then, does Aristotle see this ability of all ‘complete’ living things to reproduce as a function of the θρεπτικὴ ψυχή, the nutritive soul? Let’s look carefully at what he says: For most natural of the functions in living things, as many as are complete and neither deformed nor generated spontaneously, is the production of another like itself, animal animal, plant plant, in order that it may partake, as far as possible, in the always and the divine; for all [perfect living things] strive for this and do whatever they do in accordance with nature for the sake of this.

The first thing to which I draw your attention here is that, though he routinely refers to this most widely shared soul as ‘nutritive,’ the function that is most natural to a living thing is to produce another like itself. This is not a slip—here are two other passages, one from HA and one from GA, where he talks about this most widely shared soul capacity, and fails to mention nutrition at all! And it is the same way with respect to the activities that constitute their way of life [as it is with their parts]. For as many plants as come to be from seed appear to have no other function than to produce another like themselves; and similarly in certain animals [those without locomotion] too there is no other function to grasp apart from generation. Wherefore, while activities such as these are common to all, as soon as perception is added their ways of life differ in regard to mating (due to the [awareness of] pleasure) and with regard to birth and the rearing of young. (HA VII.1, 588b24– 30; emphasis added)

 Though I cannot go into the details here, I thus do not accept Devin Henry’s argument to the contrary in Henry (2008).

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Nature fashions all this reasonably. For plants have no other function or activity of their being (τῆς μὲν γὰρ τῶν φυτῶν οὐσίας οὐθέν ἐστιν ἄλλο ἔργον οὐδὲ πρᾶξις οὐδεμία) except the generation (γένεσις) of seed, so that since this is done through coupling of male and female nature has arranged them together by mingling them; this is why male and female are inseparable in plants. But the animal’s function is not only to generate (τὸ γεννῆσαι ἔργον) (for that is common to all living things), but also to participate in some sort of cognition (γνῶσις)… (GA I.23, 731a25 – 32; emphasis added)

Notice that, in both of these passages, when Aristotle goes on to mention another soul capacity, it is to point out that in addition to reproduction animals have perception, a form of cognition. That we all need nutrients to survive goes unmentioned. Now, return to the DA II.4 passage, and in particular to the claim that “all [perfect living things] strive for this [participating in the eternal and divine] and do whatever they do in accordance with nature for the sake of this.” Let us take this claim seriously—and remember we are talking about all living things, plants, insects, cephalopods, birds and so on. How far-fetched is it to say that whatever they do by nature is done for the sake of partaking in a sort of eternality? As my paradigm I will take the squirrels, chipmunks and birds that live around my house. Their lives do seem to be entirely focused on two things—feeding and reproducing. Feeding preserves their being numerically, reproduction preserves their being formally. These are two modes of continuous being for the reproductive organism. As he puts it later in the chapter: There is a difference between being for nourishment and for growth promotion; for insofar as the ensouled thing is a certain quantity, [nutrients are] growth promoting; while insofar as the ensouled thing is a this and a substantial being (τόδε τι καὶ οὐσία) [nutrients are] nutrition. For it preserves its substantial being and does so, so long as it is nourished; and it is productive of the generation not of that which is nourished, but of that which is like that which is nourished. For the substantial being itself already is, and nothing reproduces its own self, but preserves itself. So such a principle of soul is a power to preserve that which has it qua such, while nutrients prepare it for activity. (416a12– 20; emphasis added)

The last line is the clincher: there is a single principle of the soul under discussion, and it is the power or capacity to preserve being. When he says that “nothing reproduces its own self, but preserves itself,” this is not as trivial as it might at first sound. It is often rightly pointed out that this passage echoes, in many of its details, a passage on the very same topic in Plato’s Symposium,¹⁴ but there is one key point on which he and Plato diverge, and the divergence reflects their  Johansen [(2012), 110] rightly notes the almost identical formulation of this idea at Symposium 207c8-d5; cf. Shields (2016), 201; Polansky (2007), 205.

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metaphysical disagreements about being and becoming. For on this topic of generating oneself, Plato has Diotima explain to Socrates: … the mortal nature ever seeks, in so far as possible, to be forever and immortal. But this is possible in one way only, by generation; since generation leaves behind another young living thing in place of the old. It is only for a while that each of the living things is referred to as alive and the same, for example as a man is said to be the same from childhood until he is advanced in years: yet though he is called the same he does not at any time possess the same properties; he is continually becoming a new person, and there are things also which he loses…. And not only with respect to the body but with respect to the soul as well…. (Symp. 207d1-e1; emphasis added)

In that italicized expression, Diotima is reducing the difference between reproducing a being such as oneself and preserving one’s own being by suggesting that both are cases of on-going generation; by contrast, Aristotle reduces the difference by arguing that both are modes by which a living thing can be continuously—either numerically, or formally. It is here, precisely, that much recent work aimed at understanding the relation of the nutritive and reproductive functions goes wrong. Aristotle is not saying or implying that the goal is “to reproduce the species”¹⁵; nor that “living beings seek immortality by their participation in the eternal species via generation”;¹⁶ nor, finally, is “the body…for the sake of ‘[participating in] the eternal and divine’ as τὸ οὗ, the to-attain-which (by securing the eternity of the species)…”.¹⁷ Rather—by taking part in, and causally contributing to, a continuous lineage of individuals who are one in form, living things, though individually mortal, may participate, more or less, in “the always and divine.” It is for the sake of doing so, Aristotle claims, that they do everything that they do according to nature. It is not unusual, in the history of biology, for thinkers to ask the question: why do organisms reproduce? You might think it is a stupid question—if they didn’t, organisms would disappear! But there is a deeply puzzling fact about reproductive behavior that motivates the question. Plato mentions it in the Symposium and Aristotle makes reference to it many times in his biological writings: if you think organisms are by nature programmed to maintain themselves, to survive and flourish as the sort of thing they are, reproductive behavior may appear to be anomalous. Aristotle is acutely aware of the apparently self-sacrificial na-

 Johansen (2012), 110.  Shields (2016), 201.  Menn (2002), 113.

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ture of much reproductive behavior. About the female octopus, for example, he notes: The females, having laid their eggs, brood over them, which results in the females becoming very weak; for they do not feed themselves during this period. (HA V.12, 544a13 – 15)

As with other aspects of the reproductive behavior of the octopus, Aristotle is exactly right. He does not here mention that this lack of feeding leads to the female’s death shortly after her brood begins hatching. There appears to be a direct conflict between the activities of animals devoted to self-preservation and those devoted to reproduction. DA II.4 aims to dispel that appearance by arguing that engaging in activities that ensure you are one in form with beings that live on after you have passed away is a way of participating in everlasting being. We have been considering the question why Aristotle thinks it is so important to keep reminding us of the obvious fact that organisms produce not any chance thing, but something like themselves. That organisms consistently produce organisms alike to themselves is obvious enough—yet Aristotle recognizes that, once we come to ponder it and understand it, it has a number of anything but obvious implications. It is Aristotle’s reflections on those implications that have been my primary focus—one of which, of course, is the thought that reproducing is, in virtue of allowing something such as I am to come to be, one way in which I am self-maintaining.

4 Aristotle Resurgent As I noted at the outset of this discussion, the renewed interest in Aristotelianism in philosophy of science is now manifesting itself in philosophy of biology. For example, in a recent essay, Denis Walsh writes: From the “neo-Aristotelian” perspective, the modern synthesis commitment to chance looks ill-conceived. The “source of every innovation” is not random mutation, but the reactive, adaptive response of an organism’s myriad systems to influences from genes, cells, tissues, and environments. The influences may be chancy— mutations really are indifferent to an organism’s viability— but the responses are not. They are biased by the capacity of organisms to buffer themselves against perturbations, to adapt, to compensate, to orchestrate, to accommodate, to innovate. These are manifestations of organismal purposes.¹⁸

 Walsh (2017), 257. Cf. Woodford (2016).

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This paper contrasts ‘Neo-Democritean’ and ‘Neo-Aristotelian’ approaches to evolutionary biology, and argues that the latter better captures the way in which organisms, as he puts it here, are manifestly purposive agents. Similarly, but focused on the anti-essentialist strain in writings of ‘Modern Synthesis’ evolutionary biology and its philosophical defenders, Christopher Austin summarizes his defense of Aristotelian essentialism (Æ, in his symbolism) in the following words: I have argued that if we re-conceptualise Æ’s original ontology of capacities in the form of contemporary dispositional properties, and subsequently understand the Aristotelian “natural state‟ within the explanatory framework of evo-devo, we are afforded an essentialism that is not only theoretically plausible, in virtue of it being immune to its most prominent objections, but also empirically plausible, in virtue of it being in no way in conflict with, and perhaps even functioning as the conceptual foundation of contemporary evolutionary theory.¹⁹

My own contribution to this topic, recently published, is to insure that we do not lose sight of the richness of Aristotle’s own philosophy of biology, as well as reminding contemporary philosophers of biology sympathetic to an Aristotelian approach that they are not the first round of critics of Neo-Darwinism with sympathies to Aristotle.²⁰ For in the first half of the 20th century a group of biologists who referred to their approach as ‘organismal’ often looked to Aristotle for inspiration, and their leading philosophical spokesman, E. S. Russell, put their point of view in this way: …all [an organism’s] functions are directed to one or other of three great ends, namely the development of specific form and activities, the maintenance or restoration of such typical form and activities, and the reproduction of specific type. None of these broad characteristics of living things is shared by any machine.²¹

From 1930 – 1960, the integration of Mendelian genetics and a mathematical version of selection theory came to dominate biology—and evolution was often characterized in terms of statistical changes in gene frequencies in populations over time. For the purposes of mathematical modeling, the organism was idealized as a collection of phenotypic traits correlated with those genes. The functional unity of the organism and the coordinated, goal-directed nature of development continued to be an object of study, but not as part of evolutionary

 Austin (2017), 2553; Cf. Walsh (2006), 425 – 448.  See Lennox (2017), 33 – 51.  Russell (1930), 168 – 9.

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biology. With the advent of evolutionary-developmental biology, that is now changing. And with that change, biologists are looking for a philosophical framework that takes the organism and its development seriously. It is within that context that philosophers of biology are, 2400 years after his death, turning to Aristotle for inspiration.

Works Cited Austin (2017): Christopher Austin, “Aristotelian Essentialism: Essences in the Age of Evolution,” in: Synthese 194:7 (July), 2539 – 2556. Balme (1992): David M. Balme, Aristotle: De Partibus Animalium I and De Generatione Animalium I (with Passages from II. 1 – 3), Oxford: Clarendon Press. Harvey [1981 (1651)]: William Harvey, Disputations Touching the Generation of Animals: Translated with Introduction and Notes by Gweneth Whitteridge, Oxford: Blackwell Scientific Publications. Henry (2008): Devin Henry, “Organismal Natures,” in: John Mouracade (ed.), Aristotle on Life. [Apeiron: a journal for ancient philosophy and science, Special Issue 41(3)], Kelowna: Academic Printing & Publishing, 47 – 74. Johansen (2012): Thomas Johansen, The Powers of Aristotle’s Soul, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lennox (1985): James G. Lennox, “Are Aristotelian Species Eternal?” in: Allan Gotthelf (ed.), Aristotle on Nature and Living Things, Pittsburgh: Mathesis Publications, 67 – 94. [Reprinted in Lennox (2001): Aristotle’s Philosophy of Biology: Essays in the Origins of Life Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, chapter 6.] Lennox (2017): J. G. Lennox, “An Aristotelian Philosophy of Biology,” in: Acta Philosophica 1:26, 33 – 51. Menn (2002): Stephen Menn, “Aristotle’s Definition of Soul and the Programme of the De Anima,” in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy XXII (Summer), 83 – 139. Nuño de la Rosa (2010): Laura Nuño de la Rosa, “Becoming Organisms: The Organization of Development and the Development of Organization,” in: History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 32, 289 – 316. Peck (1942): A. L. Peck, Aristotle: Generation of Animals, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Polansky (2007): Ronald Polansky, Aristotle’s De Anima, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Russell (1930): E. S. Russell, The Interpretation of Development and Heredity, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Shields (2016): Christopher Shields, Aristotle: De Anima, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Walsh (2006): Denis Walsh, “Evolutionary Essentialism,” in: British Journal for Philosophy of Science 57, 425 – 448. Walsh (2015): Denis Walsh, Organisms, Agency and Evolution, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walsh (2017): Denis Walsh, “‘Chance Caught on the Wing’: Metaphysical Commitment or Methodological Artifact?” in: P. Huneman and D. M. Walsh (eds.), Challenging the

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Modern Synthesis: Adaptation, Development, and Inheritance, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 239 – 260. Woodford (2016): Peter Woodford, “Neo-Darwinists and Neo-Aristotelians: How to Talk about Natural Purpose,” in: History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 38, 23.

David Lefebvre

Aristotle’s Generation of Animals on the Separation of the Sexes Two contemporary biologists, Laurence D. Hurst and Joel R. Peck, begin their influential old paper published in 1996, “Recent Advances in Understanding of the Evolution and Maintenance of Sex,” with this sentence: “Sex remains an enigma within a mystery.”¹ The authors explored two mainstream theories: (1) “sex enables the spread/creation of advantageous traits” and (2) “sex enables the efficient removal of deleterious genes”. The investigation of the causes of the “prevalence of sexual reproduction in higher plants and animals” is now obviously made in the context of evolutionary theory². But the fact that, whereas the “mixture of sexual and asexual reproduction probably constitutes an optimal strategy, species are, for the most part, either sexual or asexual,”³ is a major theoretical challenge for contemporary biological and genetic research. This “enigma” actually has a long history behind it. In the field of ancient biology, the existence of two separate sexes, male and female, in most animals was a major difficulty for Aristotelian embryology and, generally speaking, Aristotelian philosophy. I am not talking of the logical distinction between male and female principles, but of the real separation of the two sexes, that is to say the separation of the male and female principles in two truly separate beings with specific functions (δυνάμεις) and distinctive anatomical features (ὄργανα). Aristotle is not of course an evolutionist, but his difficulty is not so different from the contemporary debate: the point is not to understand why two different sexes exist, but why they are separated in two different beings and why most of animals must have sex to reproduce, what is now called “obligate sex.” Thus, for Aristotle, like for other philosophers of Antiquity, as it is still the case for us, the very existence of two sexes is not a self-explanatory phenomenon; given that asexual reproduction exists (for us as for Aristotle), sexual reproduction must be explained in one way or another. First, the existence of sexual separation has to be explained and, then, its conservation from one generation to the next, during the reproduction of the species: animals breed and, in each generation, there are males and females. As we’ll see, the existence of this separation is much more difficult to explain

 Hurst and Peck (1996), 46.—I thank Sophia M. Connell for her helpful comments on a first draft of this text.  Williams (1975), v.  Gouyon (1999), 1030. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-005

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than its conservation. Here, Aristotle does not have the resource Plato has in the Timaeus. In this dialogue, as it is well known, females appear during a second generation: “Of those who were born as men, all that were cowardly and spent their life in wrongdoing were, according to the probable account, transformed at the second birth into women.”⁴ For Aristotle, the world is eternal and males and females have always existed. The question therefore arises for him to understand why this separation is necessary, or at least, how it can be explained. I will examine this question in two different cases: first, the explanation of the usefulness of the male in Generation of Animals (hereafter GA) II.5, and then the explanation of the separation of male and female principles in GA I.23 and II.1. I will briefly consider the first case and I will consider the second in more details.

1 Males do not Exist in Vain Aristotle addresses the problem of the separation of sexes at different places and for different reasons. In GA II.4 and II.5, he examines afresh the contribution of the female to generation and raises the question why females cannot generate offspring by themselves, without a male. The problem is this one: at the end of GA II.4, Aristotle has said that the male provides the principle of motion and the female, the matter. But what makes the embryo grow? Aristotle gives a first reply: what makes the embryo grow is the same principle, which later will make the adult grow: that’s the power of the nutritive soul. This power acts first on a specific nutritive matter, the menses, and, thereafter, it will use the food for the growth of the animal. It is this soul that acts on the menstrual matter in the same way that the motions of the instruments of the artist inform the matter of the statue. Therefore, the nutritive soul is generative. The problem is that Aristotle seems to admit that the menses of the female too possess the nutritive soul and convey it to the offspring. This explains why the unfertilized eggs (the wind-eggs) have nutritive soul. So the problem is that the female plays two roles: that of the agent and that of the patient; she has both the nutritional matter and the power of the nutritive soul. In its details, Aristotle’s discussion is not always the same, but he seems to accept that the female, in the case of birds, at least, is capable of generating something as complete as a plant, or at least a being that potentially has nutritive soul.⁵ Aristotle thus clearly sets the aporia

 Timaeus 90E. I quote Cornford’s translation (1935).  Treatments given in GA II.5 and III.7 should be analyzed together and compared.

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in GA II.5: under these conditions, “why has the female any need of the male in addition” (741a8)? Aristotle gives two answers. First, in the case of animals, only the male produces the sensitive soul. It is the male that actualizes in menses the sensitive parts that exist only potentially in the menses. Thus the nutritive soul and the sensitive soul collaborate in the formation and generation of the embryo. Without the latter, the animal is not completed as an animal, since “animal” is defined by perception. The separation of the male and the female does not mean that the male is useless; but this separation makes necessary a “community” (κοινωνία) between male and female for the formation of the embryo (GA II.5, 741a28). This first answer uses only mechanical necessity: since the menses, because the female has less heat, possess only the nutritive soul, the male is required to actualize the sensitive soul, which exists only potentially in the menses. Aristotle completes this explanation. He has observed that there are some kinds of fishes (e. g. the erythrinus) that have only females; other kinds of fishes are neither male nor female (e. g. the eels or the cestreus). Information is lacking on them, but if it is true for some kinds of fishes, it could therefore be the same for other animals. Only the female would be useful and the male would be useless. But this situation is impossible, precisely for the reason that there are two sexes in most animals, and we have detailed information on that. So it is impossible that one of the two, namely the male, plays no role in the generation, otherwise it would be useless, but nature never does anything in vain. This second explanation implies a teleological claim about nature: if nature has produced zoological groups with two separate sexes (which is the case for almost all the animals), it is impossible that the nature has made one of the two (the male for instance) in vain. That’s what we read in GA II.5, 741b2– 7: ἐν ὅσοις δὲ κεχώρισται τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρρεν ἀδύνατον αὐτὸ καθ’ αὑτὸ τὸ θῆλυ γεννᾶν εἰς τέλος· τὸ γὰρ ἄρρεν μάτην ἂν ἦν, ἡ δὲ φύσις οὐδὲν ποιεῖ μάτην. διόπερ ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις ἀεὶ τὸ ἄρρεν ἐπιτελεῖ τὴν γένεσιν. ἐμποιεῖ γὰρ τοῦτο τὴν αἰσθητικὴν ψυχὴν ἢ δι’ αὑτοῦ ἢ διὰ τῆς γονῆς. In all animals, however, where the male and female are separate, the female is unable by itself to generate offspring and bring it to completion: if it could, the existence of the male would have no purpose, and Nature does nothing which lacks purpose. Hence in such animals the male always completes the business of generation—it implants sentient Soul, either acting by itself directly or by means of semen⁶.

 I quote Peck’ translation (1990). Greek text is from Drossaart Lulofs (1965). Aristotle says “either acting by itself directly or by means of semen” because, in the case of certain kinds of insects, the

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With respect to the explanation of the separation of sexes, Aristotle’s second answer is interesting, but it does not reach the real issue we are concerned with. The question indeed is not to explain the usefulness of the male (or the usefulness of the female), but to explain why nature has separated the two sexes, and this is much more difficult: what explains the separation of the two sexes? Why has nature broken the complementarity between male and female and even, let’s say the unity between these two principles, into two different sexes, male animals and female animals?

2 How Can the Separation Itself Be Explained? 2.1 Two different kinds of generation: “from one” or “from two contraries” In order to understand the meaning these questions have in GA, one can take as starting points two texts of Kant. The first one is from Kant’s Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View (§.31 note): What is the reason for the fact that all organic beings that we know reproduce their species only through the union of two sexes (which we then call male and female)? We cannot very well assume that the Creator, simply for the sake of curiosity and to establish an arrangement on our planet that pleased him, was so to speak just playing. Rather it seems that it must be impossible for organic creatures to come into being from the matter of our world through reproduction in any other way than through the two sexes established for this purpose. In what darkness does human reason lose itself when it tries to fathom the origin here, or even merely undertakes to make a guess at it!⁷

The other one is an excerpt from Kant’s Critique of the Power of Judgment (§.82): There is only a single external purposiveness that is connected with the internal purposiveness of organization and is such that, without raising the question of for what end such an organized being must exist, nevertheless serves in the external relation of a means to an end. This is the organization of the two sexes in relation to one another for the propagation of their kind; for here one can always ask, just as in the case of an individual, why must such a pair have existed? The answer is that this is what here first constitutes an organizing whole, although not one that is organized in a single body⁸.

female introduces a part of its body in the male’s one in order to coagulate directly its menses through the heat of the male’s body (see GA I.22, 730b24– 32; II.4, 738b9 – 20).  Translation Louden (2006).  Translation Guyer and Matthews (2000).

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To some extent, Kant raises the same question as Aristotle. In the text from the Anthropology, Kant wonders why all organic beings reproduce by the union of two sexes. He wondered whether God would have created the two sexes for fun and concludes that it is impossible for living beings to reproduce in another way than through the two sexes that have been established for this purpose. This purposiveness is a special case that Kant discusses in the Critique of the Power of Judgment. The organization of the sexes for reproduction makes an “organizing whole” which is unique: this whole is not in one body but in two bodies. Each of the two bodies is itself a purpose that is connected to an external finality of this whole, which is the propagation of the species. Kant insists that this is a unique case. As can be seen, Kant’s explanation does not involve any particular embryological theory. He notes the uniqueness of the case of reproduction, and he does not try to explain it. In the GA, the problem is slightly different. The starting point is the same: male and female have each one a specific function and they have different generative organs to actualize this function; each function and each organ are part of a bigger whole, that itself has another function, the conservation of the species and ultimately its sharing in eternity. But this bigger whole only exists through the unity of the two parts. According to Aristotle, the question is not why generation needs the union of the two sexes, but it is this one: since reproduction needs the union of the two sexes, why the “organizing whole” (Kant’s words) is divided into two sexes. There is also another difference between Aristotle and Kant here: in the GA, the ultimate answer to this question is based on Aristotle’s embryological conception, the male brings the principle of motion, and the female the matter. So Aristotle does not take separation as a principle and seeks to explain it. He wants to explain it, because he knows that there are other modes of reproduction, even if they are not all equally well attested. These are the following: (1) As we have seen, some fishes are only females and some other fishes don’t have the difference between male and female. (2) Some animals reproduce by spontaneous generation⁹.

 GA I.1, 715a18 – 25: “Now of course some animals are formed as a result of the copulation of male and female, namely, animals belonging to those groups in which there exist both male and female, for we must remember that not all groups have both male and female. Among the blooded animals, with a few exceptions, the individual when completely formed is either male or female; but among the bloodless animals, while some groups have both male and female and hence generate offspring which are identical in kind with their parents, there are other groups which, although they generate, do not generate offspring identical with their parents. Such are

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(3) Plants reproduce without separation between male and female. Male and female principles are distinct, but they are not separated; they are united in a single being¹⁰. These three cases are not to be put on the same level: (1) As we have seen, there are indeed cases of animals where the whole kind is female or hermaphrodite, but these cases are a minority and are poorly documented. (2) Spontaneous generation is not sexual generation, but to explain it Aristotle uses the difference between the two principles or functions, male and female. Without going into details,¹¹ in GA III.11, Aristotle explains that the generation of shellfish (the ὀστρακόδερμα) assumes a material element, earth or water, and a principle of motion, the ambient heat which allows the concentration of pneuma in matter and the formation of a living being. So there is an analogous constitution to the female, which provides nourishment, and an analogous one to the male, which brings heat, and these two principles are separated in two different beings: water and earth, on one side; the sun or external heat, on the other. Therefore, the explanation of spontaneous generation shows the existence of a separation between a male principle and a female principle across the sublunary world. Thus spontaneous generation is not an exception to the separation of the two principles; on the contrary, its explanation by Aristotle confirms the separation of the two principles and the validity of the hylomorphic explanation of generation. (3) The case of plants and trees is unique in providing a mode of reproduction truly alternative to sexual reproduction. To understand why, we must briefly return to the principles of generation according to Aristotle. Aristotle argues that all kinds of generation imply the distinction between two principles, one that brings the matter, the other that brings motion and form. But this distinction, in some cases, is only a logical or formal distinction, in other cases, it results in a real distinction between two different beings: ἀνάγκη γὰρ εἶναι τὸ γεννῶν καὶ ἐξ οὗ, καὶ τοῦτ’ἂν καὶ ἓν ᾖ, τῷ γε εἴδει διαφέρειν καὶ τῷ τὸν λόγον αὐτῶν εἶναι ἕτερον, ἐν δὲ τοῖς κεχωρισμένας ἔχουσι τὰς δυνάμεις καὶ τὰ σώματα καὶ τὴν φύσιν ἑτέραν εἶναι τοῦ τε ποιοῦντος καὶ τοῦ πάσχοντος. εἰ οὖν τὸ ἄρρεν ἐστὶν ὡς κινοῦν καὶ ποιοῦν, τὸ δὲ θῆλυ ᾗ θῆλυ ὡς παθητικόν, εἰς τὴν τοῦ ἄρρενος γονὴν τὸ θῆλυ

the creatures which come into being not as the result of the copulation of living animals, but out of putrescent soil and out of residues.”  On the Aristotelian treatise on plants, see Rashed (2011) and Falcon (2015).  On spontaneous generation in Aristotle, see Gotthelf (2012); Lennox (2001a); Stavrianeas (2008).

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ἂν συμβάλλοιτο οὐ γονὴν ἀλλ’ ὕλην. ὅπερ καὶ φαίνεται συμβαῖνον· κατὰ γὰρ τὴν πρώτην ὕλην ἐστὶν ἡ τῶν καταμηνίων φύσις. (GA I.20, 729a24– 33) There must be that which generates, and that out of which it generates; and even if these two be united in one, at any rate they must differ in kind, and in that the logos of each of them is distinct. In those animals in which these two faculties are separate, the body—that is to say the physical nature—of the active partner and of the passive must be different. Thus, if the male is the active partner, the one which originates the movement, and the female qua female is the passive one, surely what the female contributes to the semen of the male will be not semen but material. And this is in fact what we find happening; for the natural substance of the menstrual fluid is to be classed as “prime matter.”

Plants and trees have two types of generation: spontaneous generation, as in animals, and generation from male and female principles. We will leave aside here the case of the spontaneous generation of plants (Aristotle is thinking of parasitic plants like mistletoe). In plants, when there is no the spontaneous generation, that is to say, in most of the cases, the two principles are combined or mixed in one being. So Aristotle can claim that there are two major types of generation: “from one” as Aristotle says, and from the contraries: φυσικὴ γὰρ καὶ ἡ ἐκ τῶν ἐναντίων γένεσις· τὰ μὲν γὰρ ἐξ ἐναντίων γίγνεται, ἄρρενος καὶ θήλεος, τὰ δ’ ἐξ ἑνὸς μόνου, οἷον τά τε φυτὰ καὶ τῶν ζῴων ἔνια ἐν ὅσοις μή ἐστι διωρισμένον τὸ ἄρρεν καὶ τὸ θῆλυ χωρίς. After all, formation from contraries as well as the other methods of formation is found in nature; some animals are formed from contraries —male and female, though some are formed from one parent only, as are plants and certain of the animals in which there is no definite separation of male and female. (GA I.18, 724b8– 12)

The first kind of generation is generation of the plants, the second of animals. Plants reproduce by producing a seed (σπέρμα) that contains the two principles: that seed is thus already an embryo (κύημα)¹². Plants do not produce on one side, the semen, on the other, a material residue, but a mixture of both already complete, that one can call σπέρμα or κύημα. In animals, both are produced by two different beings: the seed by the male, the menstrual residue by the female; neither the male nor the female can produce by itself the κύημα, which needs the cooperation of both principles to be formed. In GA I.20 (728b32– 729a4), Aristotle deals with the difference between the seed in the case of plants and in the case of animals. Thus, animals breed when the male and the female produce between them a κύημα. So the difficulty is the following: the case of plants shows that it is possible that the two principles are united, why is this not also possible in the  GA I.20, 728b32– 729a4.

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case of animals? Plants and animals both have a nutritional and reproductive soul; the function of the soul is the same in both: to generate a being like oneself. So why don’t plants and animals have the same mode of reproduction? This question arises because, as Aristotle points out, animal copulation imitates plant reproduction; animals must behave like plants to reproduce: τρόπον δέ τινα ταὐτὰ συμβαίνει καὶ ἐν τοῖς κεχωρισμένον ἔχουσι ζῴοις τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρρεν. ὅταν γὰρ δεήσῃ γεννᾶν γίγνεται ἀχώριστον ὥσπερ ἐν τοῖς φυτοῖς, καὶ βούλεται ἡ φύσις αὐτῶν ἓν γίγνεσθαι· ὅπερ ἐμφαίνεται κατὰ τὴν ὄψιν μιγνυμένων καὶ συνδυαζομένων ἕν τι ζῷον γίγνεσθαι ἐξ ἀμφοῖν. […] καὶ ἀτεχνῶς ἔοικε τὰ ζῷα ὥσπερ φυτὰ εἶναι διῃρημένα, οἷον εἴ τις κἀκεῖνα, ὅτε σπέρμα ἐξενέγκειεν, διαλύσειε καὶ χωρίσειεν εἰς τὸ ἐνυπάρχον θῆλυ καὶ ἄρρεν. And in a sort of way the same happens also in those animals where male and female are separate. For when they have need to generate they cease to be separate and are united as they are in plants: their nature desires that they should become one. And this is plain to see when they are uniting and copulating, that one animal is produced out of the two of them. […] Indeed, animals seem to be just like divided plants: as though you were to pull a plant to pieces when it was bearing its seed and separate it into the male and female present in it. (GA I.23, 731a9 – 14, 21– 24)

We can perceive here a clear reference to Plato’s Symposium ¹³. In animals, nature has divided the whole which, in plants, is formed by the male and female principles, the σπέρμα or κύημα; in animals, the σπέρμα has a part in an individual, called male, another part in another individual, called female. But this separation does not open the way to another mode of reproduction. Nature, that is to say the male and female, must reform the lost unity to enable reproduction. In other words, according to Aristotle, unity is first, the unity between the two principles; the separation of the principles in two beings is the result of the division of the unity of the σπέρμα, and the reproduction requires reconstructing its unity. The question is therefore clear: if, even in the case of the animals, generation remains ultimately a generation “from one being” (the κύημα), why does nature separate the two principles?

2.2 Natural Generation Before examining the answer given by Aristotle to this question, the particular nature of the generation of animals—to the eyes of Aristotle himself—should

 See especially 191C4-D4.

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be emphasized. In the quoted text above, Aristotle points out quite explicitly the peculiarity of sexual reproduction: φυσικὴ γὰρ καὶ ἡ ἐκ τῶν ἐναντίων γένεσις· τὰ μὲν γὰρ ἐξ ἐναντίων γίγνεται, ἄρρενος καὶ θήλεος, τὰ δ’ ἐξ ἑνὸς μόνου, οἷον τά τε φυτὰ καὶ τῶν ζῴων ἔνια ἐν ὅσοις μή ἐστι διωρισμένον τὸ ἄρρεν καὶ τὸ θῆλυ χωρίς. After all, formation from contraries as well as the other methods of formation is found in nature; some animals are formed from contraries—male and female, though some are formed from one parent only, as are plants and certain of the animals in which there is no definite separation of male and female. (GA I.18, 724b8– 12)

Aristotle characterizes sexual reproduction by saying that it is a reproduction “from the contraries”—not from one, and he adds that this kind of reproduction also is “found in nature”. Scholars have generally paid insufficient attention to this text. Aristotle claims explicitly that the generation from opposites is also (καὶ) “natural”. This means that one might think it is not. What would it be then? Why would generation from the opposites not be natural? And what does Aristotle mean by “generation from opposites”? According to Aristotle, change always occurs from contraries, that is to say from one opposite to another, from privation of form to possession. But this is not what Aristotle has in mind here when he talks about the “generation from contraries.” One might think that these contraries are the form (that the male transmits) and the matter (brought by the female). This is Balme’s interpretation¹⁴. It is easier to understand that these contraries are the male and the female themselves. There are enough parallel texts in GA and in other parts of Aristotle’s work to conclude that these contraries are the male and the female¹⁵: male and female belong to the same species (whatever it may be), but are contraries in this species. So why does Aristotle insist that generation from the contraries is “natural” too, as the generation “from one being”? To understand this, one can refer to Metaphysics book IX. There Aristotle defines δύναμις (power or capacity) in its first sense as a principle of change in another being or in the same being but as another. In Metaphysics IX.1 (1046a19 – 29), Aristotle emphasizes that the active power and the passive power must necessarily be distinct, even if these two powers are in the same being. Animals’ generation is characterized by the fact that these two powers are not only different, but separated into two different beings. Aristotle described these powers in GA I.2 and IV.1, with some slight differences between the two texts. Sometimes Aristotle opposes  Balme (1992), 145.  See Metaphysics X.9, 1058a30 – 31 and GA I.23, 730b33 – 35; II.5, 741a6.

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the “capacity” of the male to the “incapacity” of the female; sometimes he attributes to both of them a “capacity” or a “power”. The male is characterized by a certain power: the power to make the concoction of blood residue and to produce a seed that contains the principle of motion, the power to generate in another being; the female is characterized by the “inability” to produce a pure residue, but she has also a certain “power,” the “power” to generate in herself. It is the “inability” of the female to make the concoction of blood residue that leads it to generate in itself, and therefore to have also a particular capacity. We cannot dwell here in detail on this point. In any case, the fact that there is an opposition between the capacity of the male and the incapacity of the female explains why Aristotle can say that sexual generation is a generation “from the contraries.” But, in another way, male and female both have a determined capacity and these capacities are of course separated. Active power or passive power may be natural. But, at the beginning of Metaphysics IX.8, Aristotle defines more precisely the power as a principle of change. He writes: Ἐπεὶ δὲ τὸ πρότερον διώρισται ποσαχῶς λέγεται, φανερὸν ὅτι πρότερον ἐνέργεια δυνάμεώς ἐστιν. λέγω δὲ δυνάμεως οὐ μόνον τῆς ὡρισμένης ἣ λέγεται ἀρχὴ μεταβλητικὴ ἐν ἄλλῳ ἢ ᾗ ἄλλο, ἀλλ’ ὅλως πάσης ἀρχῆς κινητικῆς ἢ στατικῆς. καὶ γὰρ ἡ φύσις ἐν ταὐτῷ [γίγνεται· ἐν ταὐτῷ γὰρ] γένει τῇ δυνάμει· ἀρχὴ γὰρ κινητική, ἀλλ’οὐκ ἐν ἄλλῳ ἀλλ’ ἐν αὐτῷ ᾗ αὐτό. We have distinguished the various senses of ‘prior’, and it is clear that actuality is prior to potentiality. And I mean by potentiality not only that definite kind which is said to be a principle of change in another thing or in the thing itself regarded as other, but in general every principle of movement or of rest. For nature is also in the same genus as potentiality; for it is a principle of movement—not, however, in something else but in the thing itself qua itself. (Metaph. IX.8, 1049b4– 1049b10)¹⁶

Here φύσις receives an accurate definition: Nature is any principle of movement in the thing itself as itself. From this perspective, sexual generation presents a challenge, since the principles are separated: the male is not as such a natural principle in this sense, since it is a principle of movement in another, neither is the female, since it is a principle to be moved by another. This is confirmed in Physics II.1 where Aristotle defines the being by nature (φύσει) as a being which has “within itself a principle of motion and of stationariness (in respect of place, or of growth and decrease, or by way of alteration)”¹⁷. What characterizes menses is that they do not have, by themselves, such a principle of change: they are moved by something else; in the same way, the seed of

 I quote Ross’ Greek text and translation (1984).  Physics II.1, 192b13 – 16. I quote Hardie and Gaye’s translation (1984).

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the male does not have in itself a principle of motion: it moves something else; the male’s σπέρμα has the power to move the menstrual matter, but by itself it cannot become anything. Therefore, there is only φυσικὴ γένεσις (“natural generation”) in the true sense of the word φύσις, when the seed of the male has moved the menstrual matter and when the embryo starts to grow by itself, or, more exactly, through the nutritive principle located in its heart. Natural generation starts only with the embryo (κύημα). We understand then why plants have a generation that is clearly natural: plants produce a σπέρμα, which is also a κύημα and they do not need anything else to produce it. In contrast, male and female need to bring together their respective σπέρμα so that the result has in itself a principle of motion and so has a “natural generation” ¹⁸. Aristotle directly addresses this point in Metaphysics IX.7, in a text that contains textual issues that I cannot consider here. In the first part of this chapter, Aristotle raises the question “when something is potentially.” He doesn’t use the word “nature” or “natural” (φύσις or φυσικός), but he deals with the same problem: knowing when something is potentially something else is the same thing as knowing when something can become naturally something else. Aristotle asks whether σπέρμα is potentially a human being: Πότε δὲ δυνάμει ἔστιν ἕκαστον καὶ πότε οὔ, διοριστέον· οὐ γὰρ ὁποτεοῦν. οἷον ἡ γῆ ἆρ’ ἐστὶ δυνάμει ἄνθρωπος; ἢ οὔ, ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον ὅταν ἤδη γένηται σπέρμα, καὶ οὐδὲ τότε ἴσως; We must distinguish when a thing is potentially and when it is not; for it is not at any and every time. 〈For example〉 is earth potentially a man? No—but rather when it has already become seed (σπέρμα), and perhaps not even then. (Metaph. IX.7, 1048b37– 1049a3)¹⁹

The answer to this question is given at the end of the passage: οἷον τὸ σπέρμα οὔπω (δεῖ γὰρ ἐν ἄλλῳ 〈πεσεῖν〉 καὶ μεταβάλλειν), ὅταν δ’ ἤδη διὰ τῆς αὑτοῦ ἀρχῆς ᾖ τοιοῦτον, ἤδη τοῦτο δυνάμει· ἐκεῖνο δὲ ἑτέρας ἀρχῆς δεῖται, ὥσπερ ἡ γῆ οὔπω ἀνδριὰς δυνάμει (μεταβαλοῦσα γὰρ ἔσται χαλκός). For instance, the seed is not yet [a human being in capacity], because it must still undergo a change within something else. But when, through its own principle, it is already such [as to become a human being], then it is already in capacity [a human being]. But that [i. e., the seed] is in need of another principle, just as earth is not yet a statue in capacity, since, after it has undergone a change, it will be bronze. (Metaph. IX.7, 1049a14– 18)²⁰

 I don’t mean of course that Aristotle supports a “two-seeds” theory, according to which male and female bring σπέρμα. But nevertheless Aristotle very often calls the male and the female contributions σπέρμα. See Lefebvre (2016).  I quote Ross’ Greek text and translation (1984).  I quote Beere’s translation (2009), 251– 252.

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The σπέρμα needs another principle so that we can say that it is potentially a human being. It is not in itself a potential human being. It seems that, in the same way, we can say that there is natural generation only when the σπέρμα is potentially a human being, that is to say when the first embryo has been formed. Therefore, generation from contraries is a natural generation in so far as it produces a being with a natural principle, which has a principle of movement by nature, namely the embryo, that is potentially the same kind of being as the producer is in actuality. But sexual generation includes also a feature that is closer to ποίησις than to φύσις, namely the separation of the moving cause and of the matter in two different beings, the male and the female. The separation of the two principles, male and female, makes animal generation a special case among natural generation, and this makes it all the more necessary to give an explanation of this separation.

2.3 Two Explanations of Sex Separation: GA I.23 and II.1 Lets’ go back now to the main question for Aristotle: how can he explain the separation of the male and female principles? Aristotle had at his disposal several types of explanation. One can refer here to a passage from the beginning of Parts of Animals (I.1, 640a33-b1). Aristotle distinguishes three kinds of explanation: Διὸ μάλιστα μὲν λεκτέον ὡς ἐπειδὴ τοῦτ’ ἦν τὸ ἀνθρώπῳ εἶναι, διὰ τοῦτο ταῦτ’ ἔχει· οὐ γὰρ ἐνδέχεται εἶναι ἄνευ τῶν μορίων τούτων. Εἰ δὲ μή, ὅτι ἐγγύτατα τούτου, καὶ ἢ ὅλως (ὅτι ἀδύνατον ἄλλως) ἢ καλῶς γε οὕτως. Hence it would be best to say that, since this is what it is to be a human being, on account of this it has these things; for it cannot be without these parts. If one cannot say this, one should say the next best thing, i. e. either that in general it cannot be otherwise, or that at least it is good thus.²¹

Aristotle doesn’t infer the necessity of the separation of the two sexes from the essence of the human being. He cannot find the principle of his explanation in the essence of the human being, as male and female are both human beings. Aristotle has given up on this type of explanation. In the two texts that we have on this question in GA I.23 and II.1, it is not easy to identify the kind of explanation he uses. GA II.1 gives explicitly the final cause of the separation of male and female: it is better that both sexes be separate; in GA I.23, this is not so clear. But in both texts, it appears that Aristotle is facing a unique difficulty in  I used the Greek text edited by Louis (1956) and translated by Lennox (2001b).

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his biology: he doesn’t have to explain why some animal has such or such part, but why animals have parts that can’t actualize their function without the parts of another animal of the same species, which is a unique case of external teleology in one species. The first explanation is found in GA I.23, 731a24– 731b8: Καὶ ταῦτα πάντα εὐλόγως ἡ φύσις δημιουργεῖ. τῆς μὲν γὰρ τῶν φυτῶν οὐσίας οὐθέν ἐστιν ἄλλο ἔργον οὐδὲ πρᾶξις οὐδεμία πλὴν ἡ τοῦ σπέρματος γένεσις, ὥστ’ ἐπεὶ τοῦτο διὰ τοῦ θήλεος γίγνεται καὶ τοῦ ἄρρενος συνδεδυασμένων, μίξασα ταῦτα διέθηκε μετ’ἀλλήλων· διὸ ἐν τοῖς φυτοῖς ἀχώριστον τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρρεν. ἀλλὰ περὶ μὲν τούτων ἐν ἑτέροις ἐπέσκεπται, τοῦ δὲ ζῴου οὐ μόνον τὸ γεννῆσαι ἔργον (τοῦτο μὲν γὰρ κοῖνον τῶν ζώντων πάντων), ἀλλὰ καὶ γνώσεώς τινος πάντα μετέχουσι, τὰ μὲν πλείονος τὰ δ’ ἐλάττονος τὰ δὲ πάμπαν μικρᾶς. αἴσθησιν γὰρ ἔχουσιν, ἡ δ’αἴσθησις γνῶσίς τις. ταύτης δὲ τὸ τίμιον καὶ ἄτιμον πολὺ διαφέρει σκοποῦσι πρὸς φρόνησιν καὶ πρὸς τὸ τῶν ἀψύχων γένος. πρὸς μὲν γὰρ τὸ φρονεῖν ὥσπερ οὐδὲν εἶναι δοκεῖ τὸ κοινωνεῖν ἁφῆς καὶ γεύσεως μόνον, πρὸς δὲ φυτὸν ἢ λίθον θαυμάσιον· ἀγαπητὸν γὰρ ἂν δόξειε καὶ ταύτης τυχεῖν τῆς γνώσεως ἀλλὰ μὴ κεῖσθαι τεθνεὸς καὶ μὴ ὄν. διαφέρει δ’ αἰσθήσει τὰ ζῷα τῶν ζώντων μόνον. ἐπεὶ δ’ ἀνάγκη καὶ ζῆν, ἐὰν ᾖ ζῷον, ὅταν δεήσῃ ἀποτελεῖν τὸ τοῦ ζῶντος ἔργον, τότε συνδυάζεται καὶ μίγνυται καὶ γίγνεται ὥσπερ ἂν εἰ φυτόν, καθάπερ εἴπομεν. In all her workmanship herein Nature acts in every particular as reason would expect. A plant, in its essence, has no function or activity to perform other than the production of its seed; and since this is produced as the result of the union of male with female, Nature has mixed the two and placed them together, so that in plants male and female are not separate. Plants, however, have been dealt with in another treatise; here we are concerned with animals, and generation is not the only function which an animal has—that is a function common to all things living. All animals have, in addition, some measure of knowledge of a sort (some have more, some less, some very little indeed), because they have sense-perception, and sense-perception is, of course, a sort of knowledge. The value we attach to this knowledge varies greatly according as we judge it by the standard of human intelligence or the class of lifeless objects. Compared with the intelligence possessed by man, it seems as nothing to possess the two senses of touch and taste only; but compared with entire absence of sensibility it seems a very fine thing indeed. We should much prefer to have even this sort of knowledge to a state of death and non-existence. Now it is by sense-perception that animals differ from the creatures which are merely alive; since, however, if it be an animal, its attributes must of necessity include that of being alive, when the time comes for it to accomplish the function proper to that which is alive, then it copulates and unites and becomes as it were a plant, just as we have said. (GA I.23, 731a24– 731b8)

The standpoint of this explanation is very specific. The explanation is given in the context of a comparison between the generative modes of animals and of plants. The separation of male and female is explained by a rather elaborate argument, which uses the εὔλογον: the fact that, in the case of the plants, male and female principles are already (and always) joined together and united, whereas, in the case of most of animals, they are separate, can be explained sat-

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isfactorily by means of more general physical principles. What are these principles? It is not easy to say: is it the continuity of the scala naturae, from plants to testacea and then to viviparous animals? Is it the definition of the plant and of the animal? The point is that the εὔλογον argument of GA I.23 is not clearly a teleological argument and it might not be completely conclusive²². The explanation is the following one: plants possess only a nutritive soul, whereas animals have a nutritive and a sensitive soul; so, in addition to mere life, animals share a kind of knowledge, i. e. perception (no matter how poor it is). The value of this knowledge varies depending on the way that we appreciate it: from the point of view of the human knowledge or of the insensibility of the stone. Plants do not have another soul apart from the nutritive and generative soul; therefore their function is only to reproduce themselves and to produce seeds. For this reason, nature brought together the male and female principles. One can suppose that the unity of the two principles is somehow more economical and makes the production of seeds easier. The case of animals is different, since they have two functions: to reproduce as a living being and to perceive as an animal; so male and female do not need to be always united in one being. They have to unite in order to generate, as any living being does. But to live like animals, that is to say, to perceive and to know, they do not need to unite. Therefore, male and female animals are separated. But one could ask: why? It is true that it is easier for plants to be united, if they have no other function but to produce seeds. However, the unity of the two principles would not be necessarily an obstacle to the perception for the animals. It could be that the principle of the explanation given in GA I.23 is reminiscent of Plato’s Timaeus 73A. Timaeus explains the convolutions of the intestines by the will of the demiurge to allow time for human beings to do philosophy: They appointed the lower belly (as it is called) as a receptacle to hold the superfluity of food and drink, and wound the bowels round in coils, in order that the nourishment should not pass so quickly through as to constrain the body to crave fresh nourishment too soon, and thus making it insatiable render all mankind incapable, through gluttony, of all cultivation and philosophy, deaf to the command of the divinest part of our nature.²³

There are obviously many differences between the two texts, but the principle is similar in both: in the light of Plato’s text, we could understand that, if the sexes

 On the εὔλογον argument, see Falcon and Leunissen (2015) and Connell (2016), 288 on GA I.23.  I quote Cornford’s translation (1935).

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are separated in animals, it is so that animals not be prevented from perceiving and thereby knowing. For reproduction, animals must become one, as if they were plants, but the rest of the time they can devote their life to perception. One could think that Aristotle’s explanation falls under the first type mentioned in Parts of Animals I.1. But Aristotle does not proceed in this way. He does not deduce the separation of the two sexes from the definition of animals. His explanation is comparative. Aristotle explains the separation of the two sexes in animals from the fact that they are united in plants and he argues that, if they are united in the case of plants, it is normal that they are separated in the case of animals. This explanation has two other characters: it does not imply any axiological difference between male and female and it stays inside nature. In GA II.1, Aristotle chooses a totally different strategy to explain the separation of male and female. At the beginning of GA II, once more, Aristotle deals with the same problem: why are male and female animals separated? Here, I just quote the end of this explanation: ἐπεὶ δὲ τούτων ἀρχὴ τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρρεν, ἕνεκα τῆς γενέσεως ἂν εἴη τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρρεν ἐν τοῖς οὖσιν ἑκάτερον τούτων. βελτίονος δὲ καὶ θειοτέρας τὴν φύσιν οὔσης τῆς αἰτίας τῆς κινούσης πρώτης, ᾗ ὁ λόγος ὑπάρχει καὶ τὸ εἶδος, τῆς ὕλης, βέλτιον καὶ τὸ κεχωρίσθαι τὸ κρεῖττον τοῦ χείρονος. διὰ τοῦτ’ἐν ὅσοις ἐνδέχεται καὶ καθ’ ὅσον ἐνδέχεται, κεχώρισται τοῦ θήλεος τὸ ἄρρεν· βέλτιον γὰρ καὶ θειότερον ᾗ ἀρχὴ τῆς κινήσεως [ἣ τὸ ἄρρεν ὑπάρχει] τοῖς γιγνομένοις· ὕλη δὲ τὸ θῆλυ. συνέρχεται δὲ καὶ μίγνυται πρὸς τὴν ἐργασίαν τῆς γενέσεως τῷ θήλει τὸ ἄρρεν· αὕτη γὰρ κοινὴ ἀμφοτέροις. […] and since the principle of these is “the male” and “the female”, it will surely be for the sake of generation that “the male” and “the female” are present in the individuals which are male and female. And as the proximate motive cause, to which belong the logos and the Form, is better and more divine in its nature than the Matter, it is better also that the superior one should be separate from the inferior one. That is why wherever possible and so far as possible the male is separate from the female, since it is something better and more divine in that it is the principle of movement for generated things, while the female serves as their matter. The male, however, comes together with the female and mingles with it for the business of generation, because this is something that concerns both of them. (GA II.1, 732a1– 11. I quote Peck’s Greek text and translation.)

This text is explicitly devoted to the explanation of the separation of male and female. As it is known, there are two types of explanation: by necessity and by the good or the better. The explanation by necessity will be given in GA IV.3²⁴. Aristotle gives here a teleogical explanation. His explanation is quite dif On the explanation given in GA IV.3, see Cooper (1990); Henry (2006); Lefebvre (2014); Connell (2016), 292– 324.

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ferent from that given in I.23. First, it clearly relies on the content of his embryology, which was not explicited in the text of GA I.23. In GA II.1, Aristotle explains the separation by the difference of causal function of the male and the female. Since the male brings the principle of motion and the female, the matter, and since the principle of motion is “better and more divine” than matter, then it is better, wherever it is possible, that the two be separated. This explanation is also more general than the first one; it includes it as a special case. This one states that, wherever it is possible, male and female are separated; Aristotle leaves room for the case of the plants (or animals) where this separation is not possible, for the reason given in GA I.23: plants have no other functions, but that of generation. The principle of this explanation is also different: it is based on the fact that it is better that the principle of motion be separated from matter, as it is better that the best is separated from the less good. This argument is very surprising. At first sight, it seems difficult to square with Aristotle’s hylomorphism and it seems to go back to a Platonic dualism: the principle of motion and the form are “better”, “more divine”; the matter is “less good”. This conception of form (or motion) and matter as two opposite terms seems far away from the theory of the three principles exposed in Physics I. Aristotle appears to be guilty of the Platonic mistake he criticizes in Physics I.9: the confusion of matter and privation. In itself the matter is not bad; what is bad is the privation (191b35 – 192a25). So one must recognize the very special character of Aristotle’s explanation. To explain the separation of male and female, he is constrained to provide a reply more comprehensive and more global than the one given in GA I.23. His answer overcomes explicitly the limits of nature. As Aristotle says, the principle of his explanation is “on a higher level” (ἄνωθεν, 731b23); that means on a level that includes nature and involves being in general. His explanation defines states or things than are better than others (βέλτιον): being is better than not being; what is eternal is better than what is not eternal and takes part in the better and in the worse. Aristotle therefore establishes an axiological order, which exceeds nature and deliniates the whole of being. According to this argument, the principle of motion and the form are said to be “better” and “more divine” than the matter. The use of the term “more divine” (θειότερον, 732a8) suggests that Aristotle is thinking of the pneuma and of the heat that is in the male’s seed, which is precisely the moving cause. In GA II.3, pneuma is said to have something “more divine” (736b31) than the four natural elements, and this is probably the reason why here, in GA II.1, the moving cause (that is the male’s seed) is said to be “better” and “more divine” than the matter of the messes. So Aristotle explains the separation of male and female by a hierarchical order of beings that applies to nature and to the whole of being in general.

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The fact that Aristotle needs to use such a general and—in many ways— problematical explanation seems to demonstrate two things: first, the importance of the issue of the separation of the male and female for Aristotle, and, secondly, the great difficulty of explaining it in terms of final cause. It is difficult to demonstrate that the separation of the sexes is a good for animals. The first explanation (GA I.23) is not fully conclusive; the second one (GA II.1), which for Aristotle leads him to say that it is better when matter and form are separate, seems hardly compatible with hylomorphism. The explanation “by necessity” given in GA IV.1 and IV.3 explains how sexual difference is transmitted from parents to offspring; it leaves open the question of why it is good that male and female are separate. Let’s conclude. Aristotle emphasizes the specificity of the kind of generation where male and female are separate: since natural generation implies the union of male and female principles, this kind of generation (i. e. animal generation) must be explained. Why has nature separated what must be one and united to be able to reproduce oneself? Why do animals have to have sex to reproduce? If generation implies unity, why is this unity broken in the case of animals? Aristotle gives two explanations. In GA I.23, he explains the unity of male and female in the case of the plants: since plants have no other function than reproduction, nature, acting reasonably as a craftsman, brought the two principles together. As for the animals, the two principles do not need to be united, since reproduction is not the only function of animals; what defines animals is to be able to perceive, which is a certain kind of knowledge. One might conclude that separation is better for perception and knowledge, even if Aristotle does not say so explicitly. Thus GA I.23 explains why it is better for plants to have male and female principles united, and why, on the contrary, it is better for animals to be obligated to have sex in order to reproduce: that leaves them with free time for knowledge, that is to say to perform their definitional function in the meanwhile. In GA II.1, Aristotle explains not why animals are obligated to have sex to reproduce, but why they are separated. And he offers there a teleological explanation of the separation: it’s better that what is best be separated from the less good. This explanation accounts for the separation of male and female, but exhibits a number of difficulties. One of these is that the need Aristotle has to explain the separation of male and female leads him to emphasize the axiological inferiority of females, at the expense of the complementarity and even of the unity that exists between the two principles, between male and female, the formal movements and the matter. From this point of view, looking for an explanation of the separation of male and female leads Aristotle to reinforce inequality between the two principles, and the two sexes. It is well known how Ar-

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istotle characterizes women and in general females in GA: female is as an “infertile male,” a “mutilated male,” and a “child.”²⁵ It is not easy for Aristotelian scholars to deal with such assumptions.²⁶ One of the sources of Aristotelian conception of female could be precisely the difficulty of explaining why nature has separated males and females and thereby has obligated animals to have sex to reproduce.

Works Cited Balme (1992): Aristotle, De Partibus Animalium I and De Generatione Animalium I (with passages from II, 1 – 3), translated with Notes by D. M. Balme, with a Report on Recent Work and an Additional Bibliography by A. Gotthelf, Oxford: Clarendon Press (first edition 1972). Beere (2009): Jonathan Beere, Doing and Being, An Interpretation of Aristotle’s Metaphysics Theta, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Connell (2016): Sophia Connell, Aristotle on Female Animals: A Study of the Generation of Animals, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cooper (1990): John M. Cooper, “Metaphysics in Aristotle’s Embryology,” in: Daniel Devereux and Pierre Pellegrin (eds.), Biologie, logique et métaphysique chez Aristote, Paris: Éditions du CNRS, 55 – 84. Cornford (1935): Francis M. Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, The Timaeus of Plato, Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett. Drossaart Lulofs (1965): Aristoteles, De Generatione animalium recognovit brevique adnotatione critica instruxit Hendrik J. Drossaart Lulofs, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Falcon (2015): Andrea Falcon, “Aristotle on the Study of Animals and Plants,” in: Brooke Holmes and Klaus-Dietrich Fischer (eds.), The Frontiers of Ancient Science: Essays in Honor of Heinrich von Staden, Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 75 – 91. Falcon and Leunissen (2015): Andrea Falcon and Mariska Leunissen, “The Scientific Role of Eulogos in Aristotle’s Cael. II 12,” in: David Ebrey (ed.), Theory and Practice in Aristotle’s Natural Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 217 – 240. Gotthelf (2012): Allan Gotthelf, “Teleology and Spontaneous Generation: A Discussion,” in: Allan Gotthelf (ed.), Teleology, First Principles, and Scientific Method in Aristotle’s Biology, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 142 – 150. Gouyon (1999): Pierre-Henri Gouyon, “Sex: a pluralist approach includes species selection (One step beyond and it’s good),” in: Journal of Evolutionary Biology 12 (6), 1029 – 1030. Guyer and Matthews (2000): Immanuel Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, translated by Paul Guyer and Eric Matthews, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hardie and Gaye (1984): Aristotle, Physics, translated by Robert P. Hardie and Russel K. Gaye in: Jonathan Barnes (ed.), Aristotle, Complete Works of Aristotle, Vol. 2, The Revised Oxford Translation, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

 GA I.20, 728a17– 18; II.3, 737a27– 28; IV.6, 775a15 – 16; V.3, 784a5.  On this issue, see Mayhew (2004) and Connell (2016).

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Henry (2006): Devin Henry, “Understanding Aristotle’s Reproductive Hylomorphism,” in: Apeiron 39, 269 – 299. Hurst and Peck (1996): Laurence D. Hurst and Joel R. Peck, “Recent Advances in Understanding of the Evolution and Maintenance of Sex,” in: Trends in Ecology & Evolution 11(2), 46 – 52. Lefebvre (2016): David Lefebvre, “Le sperma: forme, matière ou les deux ? Aristote critique de la double semence”, Philosophie antique 16, 31 – 62. Lefebvre (2014): David Lefebvre, “La Jument de Pharsale. Retour sur De Generatione animalium IV.3,” in: Cristina Cerami (ed.), Nature & Sagesse, Les rapports entre physique et métaphysique dans la tradition aristotélicienne, Recueil en hommage à Pierre Pellegrin, Louvain: Peeters, 207 – 271. Lennox (2001a): “Teleology, Chance, and Aristotle’s Theory of Spontaneous Generation,” in: James G. Lennox, Aristotle’s Philosophy of Biology: Studies in the Origins of Life Science, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 229 – 249. Lennox (2001b): Aristotle, On the Parts of Animals, translated with a Commentary by James G. Lennox, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Louden (2006): Immanuel Kant, Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View, translated and edited by Robert B. Louden, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Louis (1956): Aristote, Les Parties des animaux, Texte établi et traduit par Pierre Louis, Paris, Les Belles Lettres. Mayhew (2004): Robert Mayhew, The Female in Aristotle Biology, Reason or Rationalization, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Peck (1990): Aristotle, Generation of Animals, translated by Arthur L. Peck, Cambridge, Mass./London: Harvard University Press (1942). Rashed (2011): Marwan Rashed, “Aristote à Rome au IIe siècle: Galien, De indolentia, §§ 15 – 18,” in: Elenchos 32, 55 – 77. Ross (1984): Aristotle, Metaphysics, translated by David Ross in: Jonathan Barnes (ed.), Aristotle, Complete Works of Aristotle, Vol. 2, The Revised Oxford Translation, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Stavrianeas (2008): Stasinos Stavrianeas, “Spontaneous Generation in Aristotle’s Biology,” in: Rhizai: A Journal of Ancient Philosophy and Science 5, 303 – 338. Williams (1975): George C. Williams, Sex and Evolution, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Tomás Calvo

On the Notions of Ψυχή and Ζωή in the Aristotelian Biology Introduction Two of the most outstanding and original features of the Aristotelian conception of the soul are, on the one hand, its definitive location in the field of biology and, on the other hand, the explanation of its nature by means of some metaphysical concepts such as substance or entity (οὐσία), essence (τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι), matter and form, potentiality and actuality. The strict location of the soul in the field of biology raises many interesting questions about Aristotle’s psychology, like the traditional and most debated issues concerning his philosophical evolution from an early Platonic stance to his mature doctrine of the soul. However, that is not the issue that I will address in this paper. I am only taking into account his conception of the soul as it appears in Metaphysics, in De Anima and in his biological treatises. And I am focusing on some theoretical problems concerning the notions of life (ζωή) and of soul (ψυχή) which arise from the application of these ontological concepts—substance, essence, matter and form, potentiality and actuality—in the field of biology.¹

 The use of these metaphysical concepts also raises several hermeneutic questions. Thus, looking at the Aristotelian biology from the point of view of his metaphysics, some scholars think that the application of such metaphysical concepts in the field of biology implies an unsuitable and dangerous μετάβασις εἰς ἄλλο γένος. Inversely, that is, looking at the Aristotelian biology from the point of view of his metaphysics, some other scholars conclude that Aristotle’s work on biology contributed to a fuller elaboration of these ontological categories. In this paper, I’m not dealing with this issue either. However, I would like only to suggest that perhaps both views are partly right and complementary to each other. Thus, one could say, on the one hand, that the concerned metaphysical concepts certainly have a broader application beyond biology, and, on the other hand, that they became enriched when considered and elaborated from the perspective of the living beings. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-006

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1 Ψυχή, εἶδος and μορφή Let’s then start by remarking that Aristotle’s thought and doctrine on life develops around the notion of the soul.² As is well known, Aristotle defines the soul as the form of the living beings: The soul must, then, be substance qua form (οὐσία ὡς εἶδος) of a natural body which has life (ζωή) potentially. (DA II.1, 412a19 – 21)

The soul, we are told, is the form of a living being. Now, what are the implications of this definition for the explanation of life as well as for the constitution of biology as a science? To clarify these issues, one has previously to analyse and to understand the Aristotelian notion of form. Actually, when Aristotle states that the soul is the form of a living being, he uses the Greek word εἶδος. And, what is εἶδος, what is the proper meaning of this word which became translated into Latin as species and which is usually translated into our languages as form? In my opinion, in order to specify the meaning of εἶδος, we have to take into account the use and meaning of another word, namely the word μορφή, since unfortunately both terms—μορφή and εἶδος—are usually translated simply as “form.” No doubt, both terms often appear as quasi-synonymous in the Aristotelian writings and, therefore, one has to acknowledge that Aristotle himself is somehow responsible for some misunderstandings about them. However, one has to immediately remark that they become synonymous only in those texts and passages in which their distinction is not contextually significant. On the contrary, in the contexts which are relevant to us—I mean, the metaphysical context of

 Aristotle’s permanent reference to the idea of soul in the field of biology is not to be considered as something odd or peculiar, given his cultural and philosophical context. Actually, from Homer on, life had been traditionally associated with the word ψυχή. And let’s also remember that no Greek philosopher rejected—or even questioned—the existence of the soul. Its existence was taken for granted even by those materialistic philosophers, like Democritus, who tried to define it as a very special kind of mobile matter. For Aristotle—as for Democritus—the question was not whether there is soul or not. There is soul, indeed. The very problem is to identify it, to explain what is it that radically distinguishes living (ἔμ-ψυχοι) beings from not living (ἄ-ψυχοι) beings. And within this cultural and philosophical context, Aristotle’s approach to the notion of soul contributed to the research on life in two relevant ways. (1) Firstly, he contributed to the definitive naturalization of the soul. In Aristotle’s philosophy, the notion of soul has already lost all its religious connotations to become a strictly and exclusively biological category. (2) Secondly, the Aristotelian approach implies a definitive extension of its application to any and every kind of life, the vegetative life included.

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notions like substance (οὐσία), essence (τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι) and definition (λόγος)—as well as in the biological context of life and living substances, the distinction is entirely significant, and therefore, εἶδος and μορφή are not—and cannot be— synonymous at all. Let’s see it. Within this metaphysical context, a basic Aristotelian statement is that the essence of something is the content of its definition. The definition or account, in its turn, is a sentence, a complex expression (λόγος). Let’s consider the usual Aristotelian definition of man as a rational animal living being. In a shortened way, this account or definition of the human being states that he is “something that is born, feeds, grows up, breeds, gets old and dies.” All this is meant by the word living. In addition to this, our account says that a man “has sensitive knowledge, feelings, imagination, memory and appetite, and he moves around.” All this is meant by the word animal. And the account finally adds that “a man understands, thinks, speaks, lives in societies, etc.,” all this being meant by the word rational. These activities as a whole are the essence of a human being, all they constitute his οὐσία κατὰ τὸν λόγον, his οὐσία ὡς εἶδος, according to the Aristotelian ontological terminology. These two expressions—οὐσία κατὰ τὸν λόγον and οὐσία ὡς εἶδος—are technical, and as such, they are used by Aristotle himself in his definitions of the soul. The first of them, οὐσία κατὰ τὸν λόγον, can be found in the definition proposed in Metaph. VII.10 where Aristotle says that “the soul of animals (for this is the substance of living beings) is their substance according to the account (ἡ κατὰ τὸν λόγον οὐσία), i. e., the form (καὶ τὸ εἶδος) and the essence (καὶ τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι) of a body of a certain kind” (1035b14– 16).³ And the same words can also be found in De Anima: “It has then been stated in general what the soul is; for it is substance according to the account (οὐσία κατὰ τὸν λόγον). And this is the essence (τὸ τί ἦν εἶναι) for a body of such a kind” (DA II.1, 412b9 – 10). As for the second expression, οὐσία ὡς εἶδος, it can also be found in the already quoted definition from De Anima II.1, 412a19 – 21. It is worth remarking that in the proposed definition of man—as a rational animal living being—there is no mention or reference to the physical members and organs of the human body at all. No doubt, a physical definition of man

 Cf. also Metaph. VII.11, 1037a24–31: “and we have stated that in the account of the substance the material parts will not be present (for they are not even parts of that substance, but of the composite substance; but of this there is in a sense an account, and in a sense there is not; for there is no account of it with its matter, for this is indefinite, but with respect to the primary substance there is an account: e. g., of a man the account of the soul—for the substance is the indwelling form (τὸ εἶδος τὸ ἐνόν), from which along with the matter the composite substance is said to be.”

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must take into account the organic constitution of his body. As a natural researcher, the biologist has to explain not only the vital activities or functions of man (that is, his εἶδος, his οὐσία ὡς εἶδος), but he also has to explain the μορφή, the structure and form of the human organism. However, the Aristotelian point of view in the Metaphysics is not the physical one, and therefore, he emphatically states that the parts of the definition are not the parts of the compound, of the σύνολον, but only the parts of the εἶδος. What is then εἶδος? From the remarks laid out above, it clearly follows that we should reasonably understand μορφή as structure and εἶδος as function. To my mind, this is wholly appropriate and highly clarifying in the specific field of the Aristotelian biology. Obviously, the functions performed by a living organism are not independent of its bodily structure. However, Aristotle finally thinks that natural species are primarily defined by the set of functions they are capable of performing. Let’s come back once more to the already proposed definition of man as a rational-animal-living being. As I pointed out above, this definition summarises the set of activities performed by a man, such as feeding, growing up, breeding, etc. as any living being, plus feeling, seeing, hearing, remembering, desiring, moving around, etc., as he is an animal, plus thinking, speaking, and any other activities belonging to his rationality. Thus, the εἶδος or specific form is the set of vital activities or functions performed by the individual members of a natural species. And let me underline once more that in this context the term εἶδος is not opposed to matter as such, without qualification. The body (σῶμα)—to which the soul (ψυχή) is systematically opposed and related—is always understood as an organism endowed with a specific structure, that is, as structured matter, which means “matter plus μορφή.” Among several examples we could adduce, we can remember the definition itself of the soul as the first actuality “of a natural body which has organs (σώματος φυσικοῦ ὀργανικοῦ)” (DA II.1, 412b5). Later on (at the end of my exposition) I’ ll come back to the notion itself of organ and organism to remark that this very notion essentially connotes the idea of finality, that it points to the function or activity that the organ is expected to perform, and therefore its matter has to be properly constituted in order to perform its function.⁴

 In PA I.1, 642a 9 – 13 Aristotle clearly states: “For if a piece of wood is to be split with an axe, the axe must of necessity be hard; and, if it is hard, it must of necessity be made of bronze or iron.” Also and in the same way, “since the body is an instrument (ἐπεὶ τὸ σῶμα ὄργανον)—for its several parts as well as itself as a whole are for the sake of something—if it is really to be an instrument, must of necessity be such and such and made out of such and such materials (ἀνάγκη ἄρα τοιονδὶ εἶναι καὶ ἐκ τοιωνδί).” When commenting on the Aristotelian paradigm of instruments,

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To my mind, this distinction between μορφή and εἶδος is substantial to the Aristotelian explanation of living beings and therefore it is wholly relevant to an appropriate understanding of his doctrine of the soul. The soul is located at the level of the εἶδος, not at the level of the structure of the living body. This can be confirmed by the very fact that the soul is never defined as μορφή by Aristotle. No doubt, in some contexts related to the soul, we can find the formula μορφή καὶ εἶδος. However, this formula doesn’t appear directly and explicitly applied to the soul. And as far as I know, the word μορφή is never used by Aristotle to qualify the soul; he always uses the word εἶδος.

2 The Soul as the Actual Life of an Organism This so apparently clear account of the living beings through the categories of bodily structure (μορφή) and vital functions or activities (εἶδος) immediately arises the question of whether Aristotle’s explanation of living organisms wouldn’t be more coherent and more satisfactory if he had done without the soul. Let’s eliminate any reference to it and we’ll be left with the following view which perfectly fits the Aristotelian theory of substance, as well as his statements concerning the life of living beings. 1. In the first place, we may accept the Aristotelian statement that a living being is a body having life and therefore, it is a composite substance. So it is explicitly said by Aristotle in De Anima in a passage to which I’ll come later again: “Hence, every natural body which partakes of life will be a substance, and substance of a composite kind”: ὥστε πᾶν σῶμα φυσικὸν μετέχον ζωῆς οὐσία ἂν εἴη, οὐσία δ’ οὕτως ὡς συνθέτη (DA II.1, 412a15 – 6). Looking at the wording of this sentence, we are induced to understand that in a living being the body is the matter and the life is the form, the εἶδος, since it is said to be composite of body and life. This Aristotelian statement brings us to conclude that since every entity or substance has to be defined by its εἶδος, the definition of a living being must be the account of its kind of life, of its specific vital activities. Nevertheless, in some relevant passages Aristotle doesn’t say that the definition of a living being is the account of its life, he rather says that it is the account of its soul.

Lennox [(2009), 352] rightly remarks that “the unity of matter and form in animals is to be understood as the unity of an instrumental structure and its functional capacity” (emphasis mine).

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Thus, in Metaph. VII.11 he states that “the definition or account (λόγος) of man is the definition or account of the soul (ὁ τῆς ψυχῆς λόγος)” (1037a28 – 31).⁵ 2. To my mind, all this textual evidence leads us to a second question. Since Aristotle insistently states that the εἶδος of a living being is its soul, it seems that the soul has to be identified with the whole set of the vital activities or functions of the organism. Let’s go now to the two most significant passages in De Anima. The first of them is the passage where Aristotle qualifies the soul as the εἶδος of the body of living beings: It is bodies especially which are thought to be substances, and of these especially natural bodies; for these are sources of the rest. Of natural bodies, some have life and some do not; and it is self-nourishment, growth, and decay that we speak of as life. Hence, every natural body which partakes of life will be a substance, and substance of a composite kind. Since it is indeed a body of such a kind—for it is one having life—the soul will not be the body; for the body is not something predicated of a subject, but exists rather as subject and matter. The soul must, then, be the substance qua form of a natural body which has life potentially. (ΙΙ.1, 412a12– 23)

Let’s pay attention to this sentence in the text: “Since it is indeed a body of such a kind—for it is one having life—the soul will not be the body”: ἐπεὶ δ’ ἐστὶ καὶ σῶμα καὶ τοιόνδε, ζωὴν γὰρ ἔχον, οὐκ ἂν εἴη σῶμα ἡ ψυχή. In the premise or πρότασις, Aristotle resorts to the lexical system body/life in order to state that the living being is a composite substance: it is a body having life. Nevertheless, the body/life system immediately disappears in the conclusion or ἀπόδοσις: it becomes substituted by the system body/soul. Actually, he concludes that the soul cannot be the body. Looking carefully at the traditional reading of this passage, what I find most surprising is that no ancient commentator seems to have noticed this significant turn in Aristotle’s explanation. Only the late Sophonias seems to pay attention to it. At least, he restores the coherence of the sentence from the lexical point of view. This is his comment on this passage: That which has life is a body, and it is such a kind of body since it is composed of life and body (σύνθετον γὰρ ἐκ ζωῆς καὶ σώματος), the latter as subject and matter, the former as that which is in a subject and as form. Therefore, we immediately have to question which of them is the soul, and we shall accept that it is the former: for necessarily the life in such a kind of body is a soul (τὴν γὰρ ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ σώματι ζωὴν ψυχὴν εἶναι ἀνάγκη).⁶

 Cf. the whole passage supra n.3.  Sophonias, In libros Aristotelis de anima paraphrasis, comm. ad loc.

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This paragraph by Sophonias starts by explicitly assuming that a living body is “composed of life and body” and ends by stating that “necessarily… the life is a soul.” As can be seen, he seems clearly to assume that according to Aristotle soul and life are the same. And he doesn’t seem to find any problem with it.⁷ The second substantial passage immediately follows the text I have already quoted. It is the one where Aristotle qualifies the soul as actuality, as ἐντελέχεια: The soul must, then, be the substance qua form of a natural body which has life potentially. Substance is actuality (ἐντελέχεια). The soul, therefore, will be the actuality (ἐντελέχεια) of a body of this kind. But actuality is spoken of in two ways, first as 〈having〉 knowledge and second as the exercising of knowledge. It is clear then that the soul is actuality as knowledge; for both sleeping and waking take place when the soul exists, and waking is analogous to the exercising of knowledge, while sleeping is analogous to 〈having〉 knowledge without actually exercising it. In the same individual, knowledge is in origin prior. Hence, the soul is the first actuality of a natural body which has life potentially. Whatever has organs will be a body of this kind. (DA ΙΙ.1, 412a19 – 29)

Let us now pay attention to the last two lines: “the soul is the first actuality (ἐντελέχεια πρώτη) of a natural body which has life potentially.” I cannot but remark that in this passage we are again confronted with the same lexical turn from life in the πρότασις to soul in the ἀπόδοσις. What finally is ἐνέργεια or ἐντελέχεια according to Aristotle? In the most accurate Aristotelism actuality is the appropriate coming into existence, the accomplishment or actualization of something which previously existed only potentially. Hence, for a body which potentially has life the actuality (ἐντελέχεια) has to be life, and nothing else. Nevertheless, Aristotle doesn’t say that it is life. He says that it is soul. Once more, the logical and lexical coherence seems to call for a full identification of soul and life, of ψυχή and ζωή.⁸  J. L. Ackrill [(1981), 69] apparently seems to point to this when he translates the concerned Aristotelian sentence this way: “But since it is a body of a certain character—namely, having life—the body cannot itself be soul [i. e., life]” (emphasis mine).  The identification of ψυχή and ζωή perfectly fits many Aristotelian physiological passages where he discusses the vital functions of the heart as an organ. In connection with this, the following texts are worth considering: (1) All sanguineous animals have a heart; and it is there that both motion and the controlling sense-perception have their principle (source, origin): πάντα γὰρ τὰ ἔναιμα καρδίαν ἔχει, καὶ ἀρχὴ ἄρα τῆς κινήσεως καὶ τῆς αἰσθήσεως τῆς κυρίας ἐντεῦθέν ἐστι (Somm. Vig. 2, 456a3–7). (2) Hence in sanguineous animals the principle (origin, source) both of the sensitive and the nutritive soul must be in the heart: ὥστ’ ἀνάγκη καὶ τῆς αἰσθητικῆς καὶ τῆς θρεπτικῆς ψυχῆς ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ τὴν ἀρχὴν εἶναι τοῖς ἐναίμοις (Juv. 3, 469a5 – 7). (3) Thus according to the observed facts, it follows from our explanation that the principle (origin, source) of the sensitive soul, as well as of the one causing growth and nutrition (ἥ τε τῆς αἰσθη-

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3 The Soul as the Actual Capability of an Organism to Live The process to reduce the soul to the life, and finally to eliminate it, within the Aristotelian trend of thought, could be accomplished in a different logical way. Since the soul was conceived as something “located” between the organism and the life, it was possible to reduce it, not to actuality, but to potentiality, that is, not to the actual life, but to the capacity or capability of an organism to live. This qualification of the soul as the capability of an organism to live also seems strongly supported by some texts in De Anima. In order to realise it, I want to consider again the above-quoted passage where the soul is defined as ἐντελέχεια of an organism. And let’s now pay attention to the Aristotelian distinction between ἐντελέχεια and ἐνέργεια. As is known, the word ἐντελέχεια connotes the idea that something is complete, that it is fully actualised. We may generally translate it as actuality or as full actuality. As for the word ἐνέργεια, it means more properly activity. Thus, life, i. e. the different vital functions from growing to thinking, are ἐνέργειαι, they all are activities. But the soul is not this kind of actuality; it is not ἐνέργεια. According to Aristotle, it is a different kind of actuality, of ἐντελέχεια. Actually, he distinguishes two meanings of ἐντελέχεια: as a state, a habit or disposition to perform a certain activity, and as the present exercise of this activity, that is, as the corresponding ἐνέργεια. Let’s remember how it is stated by Aristotle himself:

τικῆς ψυχῆς ἀρχή ἐστι καὶ ἡ τῆς αὐξητικῆς καὶ θρεπτικῆς), is located in this organ and in the central one of the three divisions of the body (Juv. 4, 469a24– 7). In these texts, Aristotle refers to the principle, ἀρχή, either of the nutritive and the sensitive functions, or of the nutritive and the sensitive soul, and states that this principle is located in the heart. To my mind, these texts raise some interesting hermeneutic questions. In the first place, a question about the meaning of the word ἀρχή: does it mean “causal principle” and “source?” Or does it just mean the “initiation,” the beginning of these vital activities? Obviously, the ἀρχή as the causal principle of nutrition and sense-perception is the soul, and this allows us to understand the first text as referring to the soul (or these parts of the soul) as located in the heart. But, to my mind, this interpretation doesn’t work well in the case of the texts (2) and (3) where Aristotle doesn’t explicitly refer to the principle of any vital function, but instead to the principle of the soul, to the ἀρχή τῆς ψυχῆς. Which implies that if the soul is understood as the “causal principle” of life, then Aristotle would be asking for the causal principle of the causal principle of life. In my opinion, these texts become much more understandable if we assume that ψυχή means “life” (i. e., the vital functions of perception and nutrition) and ἀρχή means the initiation of these functions. Thus, Aristotle’s statement would be that perception and nutrition originate in the heart as their bodily organ.

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But actuality (ἐντελέχεια) is spoken of in two ways, first as 〈having〉 knowledge and second as the exercising of knowledge. It is clear then that the soul is actuality as the exercising of knowledge; for both sleeping and waking take place when the soul exists, and waking is analogous to the exercising of knowledge, while sleeping is analogous to 〈having〉 knowledge without actually exercising it. In the same individual, having knowledge is in origin prior. Hence, the soul is the first actuality (ἐντελέχεια πρώτη) of a natural body which has life potentially. Whatever has organs will be a body of this kind. (DA ΙΙ.1, 412a22-b1)

Aristotle immediately resorts to two examples in order to explain his conception of the soul as a habit or disposition. The first of them is an instrument, an axe: if one could say that an axe has an εἶδος (a soul), we should say that its soul is its capacity to cut, since as an instrument the axe is defined by its capacity to cut. And we must add that it is an axe in so far as its matter is constituted and conformed in such a way that it can be used to cut, even if it is not actually cutting anything. The second example is an organ, the eye: “if the eye were an animal— he says—sight would be its soul.” Once again, like in the example of an axe, the eye is defined by sight, that is, by the capacity to see, not by actually seeing. And Aristotle finally invites us to apply this example of an organ to the whole of the organism: We must now apply to the whole living body that which applies to the part; for what the part is to the part, that perception as a whole is to the whole perceptive body as such. (ibid., 412b22– 25)

The soul is, then, actuality, not as an activity (not as vital functions) but as the disposition or capacity to perform these vital activities. Now, following this line of reasoning, are we not compelled to identify the soul with the potentiality, that is, with the actual capability of the body to live? And this potentiality or capability couldn’t be reduced, in its turn, to the appropriate composition and disposition of the body, to the equilibrium and harmony of its constitutive elements?⁹

 As is known, this way was followed immediately after Aristotle by Aristoxenus and Dichaearcus. As far as we know, Aristoxenus maintained that the soul is just the bodily harmony or equilibrium. And Dichaearcus, in his turn, also resorted to the notion of bodily equilibrium to state that the soul doesn’t really exist, that it lacks entity, that it is unsubstantial (ἀνούσιος). No doubt, it is easy to understand how this early Peripatetic position fits the demands of the Aristotelian thought since it is the structural harmony, i. e., the appropriate mixture of its material elements that makes an organism to be capable of leaving, and therefore, to have life potentially. (This explains the startling fact that a late doxographer like Nemesius could attribute to Aristotle himself the statement that the soul is ἀνούσιος: οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι τὴν ψυχὴν οὐσίαν εἶναι λέγουσιν· ᾿Aριστοτέλης δὲ καὶ Δείναρχος ἀνούσιον. Cf. De natura hominis 2, 13 – 27).

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Aristotle explicitly and emphatically rejects this last “materialistic” reduction since he thinks that the actual and effective capability to perform the vital functions doesn’t belong to the body as such, but to the body which is already alive. To my mind, Aristotle points to this when he says that “it is not that which has lost its soul which is potentially such as to live, but that which possesses it. Seeds and fruit are potentially bodies of this kind” (ibid., 412b25 – 27). A corpse (something already dead) doesn’t have the actual and effective capability to perform the vital activities anymore. Seeds do not have this capability yet, although they are naturally prepared to have it. Hence, only an actually living body possesses this capacity actually and effectively. ¹⁰ For Aristotle, then, the soul finally becomes characterised as the actual effective capability to live.

4 The Soul as the Subject that Lives However, and in spite of all of this Aristotle didn’t carry out any of these two possible reductions of the soul, neither to life as the set of the vital activities, nor to an appropriate disposition of the body. And as a consequence of it, his theory of the soul appears remarkably ambiguous.¹¹ Look, for example, at the different ways Aristotle refers to the subject of the vital functions and activities. Which is the subject which performs them? On the theoretical level, the answer

 Hence, the paradoxical and so much discussed Aristotelian statement that, properly speaking, the eyes (or the hands; in fact, any part or organ) of a corpse are not eyes, hands, etc. anymore. Like those in a sculpture or painting, it is only homonymously that they can be named “eye” or “hand,” etc. And by analogy, it is only homonymously that the word organism can be applied to a corpse as a whole, since an organism (an organic body) only exists when it is alive. (Concerning this claim about homonymy, cf., PA I.1, 640b33 – 41a5; Metaph. VII.10, 1035b25; GA I.19, 726b22– 4; II.1, 734b24– 7, 735a4– 8). Ch. Shields [(2009), 301] has emphasised the paradoxical nature of this Aristotelian remark which, he says, “threatens to vitiate the very hylomorphic framework….” In this connection, he quotes his own article Shields (1975). He also quotes Ackrill (1973), as well as Whiting (1992), and Cohen (1992).  Concerning this ambiguity, the most surprising evidence can be found at the end of DA II.1. After having already proposed his own definitions of the soul as εἶδος and ἐντελέχεια of an organism, Aristotle adds this striking remark: “it is not clear yet whether the soul is the actuality of the body like the sailor is of the ship” (413a7– 9). Once hylomorphism and the notions of potentiality and actuality have been introduced, it becomes really difficult to understand how Aristotle could even suggest the possibility of comparing the soul-to-body relationship with that of a sailor to his ship. Actually, as I’ll later remark, this seems to indicate that Aristotle didn’t leave behind the conception of the soul as an agent using the body to perform its own activities.

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seems to be simple and clear. The subject performing the vital activities is neither the soul, not the body. It is the substance composed of them both, as Aristotle himself explicitly states saying that “it is surely better not to say that the soul pities, learns, or thinks, but that the man does this with the soul” (DA I.4, 408b14– 15). This proposal is theoretically perfect. In agreement with it, we find hundreds of passages in which the grammatical subject of verbs related to vital activities is either a noun for living beings (man, or plants, or animals) or it is a personal pronoun, which obviously happens most often for cognitive activities.¹² Nevertheless, we also find the soul as the subject of verbs for cognition, for example, when he says that “the soul never thinks without an image (οὐδέποτε νοεῖ ἄνευ φαντάσματος ἡ ψυχή)” (DA III.7, 431a16 – 7), etc. And also there are, indeed, many passages in which the soul is the subject of verbs expressing vital functions. Let me adduce only one from Metaphysics IX.8 where Aristotle distinguishes the actions which produce something other from themselves (transitive activities) from those in which the result is the action itself (immanent activities). They are explained in this way: But where there is no other result besides the activity, the activity resides in the subject: e. g., seeing in the seer, and speculation in the speculator and life in the soul (καὶ ἡ ζωὴ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ). (Metaph. IX.8, 1050a30-b1)

If seeing is in the subject that sees and speculation is in the subject that speculates, life has to be in the subject that lives. Aristotle says that it is in the soul. The subject that lives and the soul are, then, interchangeable and they are actually interchanged in this Aristotelian passage.

5 The Soul as an Agent and the Organism as its Organ or Instrument These variations I have remarked concerning Aristotle’s way of referring to the subject of vital activities are not trivial, indeed. To my mind, they cannot be explained just as the result of any lack of care. I rather think that they are a symptom as well as a consequence of the Aristotelian attempt to maintain a somehow “traditional” conception of the soul within the framework of a line of thought

 Also when he says about the common-objects of perception that “we perceive all these through movement (ταῦτα γὰρ πάντα κινήσει αἰσθανόμεθα)” (DA III.1, 425a16 – 7), etc.

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which clearly seems to reject it. This situation invites us to ask which could have been the reasons for Aristotle to maintain the soul without reducing it to the life, to the vital activities themselves. To conclude, I want to suggest only two of these possible reasons.¹³ 1. In the first place, we have to take into account the features of totality and finality shown by the vital functions as a whole. Actually, all the vital functions harmoniously contribute to the development of a program without getting out of it, as Aristotle himself has often pointed out. And in this connection we can remember the following passage in De Anima where Aristotle criticises Empedocles’ account of growth: In addition to this, what is it that holds together the fire and the earth which tend in opposite directions? For they will be torn apart, unless there is something to prevent them; but if there is, then this is the soul and the cause of growth and nourishment (εἰ δ’ ἔσται, τοῦτ’ ἔστιν ἡ ψυχή, καὶ τὸ αἴτιον τοῦ αὐξάνεσθαι καὶ τρέφεσθαι). (II.4, 416a6 – 9)

This important remark seems to imply that the soul, the εἶδος, is neither merely the program nor the programmed vital functions. The soul seems rather to be an agent, an immanent cause which maintains the bodily elements united and makes the program to become accomplished. 2. In the second place, and closely related to this role of the soul as an agent, we can also consider the notion itself of ὄργανον, of an organ or instrument. The no-

 One could also take into account some other circumstances, for example, the fact that the mere and simple identification of “soul” and “life” doesn’t fit well the ordinary use of Greek language. Actually, using both words—ψυχή and ζωή—as synonyms would have appeared very odd to the Greek speakers of the time. The word ζωή—as so many others belonging to this field, like τροφή, etc.—express a specific activity: life (ζωή) means the activity of living, as feeding (τροφή) means the activity of feeding, etc. On the contrary, the word soul (ψυχή) doesn’t properly refer to an activity but to “a thing.” It is a noun with no corresponding verb of action. (Obviously, the verb ψύχειν was already too far, at best, as an etymological piece of erudition, as it was explicitly pointed out by Aristotle himself). There is also the obvious fact that animals don’t perform some vital functions when they are asleep. This also was explicitly remarked and adduced by Aristotle as a piece of empirical evidence: “for both sleeping and waking take place when the soul exists, and waking is analogous to the exercising of knowledge, while sleeping is analogous to having knowledge without actually exercising it” (DA II.1, 412a23 – 26). To my mind, however, within the Aristotelian conceptual framework, this empirical remark seems to be trivial and cannot be logically used to grant a distinction between the soul and the capability of a living organism to perform its vital functions, as I’ve explained above (section III).

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tion of ὄργανον essentially includes the idea of finality. Every organ is for the sake of a specific function. As Aristotle says in PA, As every organ is for the sake of something (ὄργανον πᾶν ἕνεκά του), and each part of the body is for the sake of something, and that “for the sake of which” is an action, so the whole body must evidently be for the sake of some manifold action (καὶ τὸ σύνολον σῶμα συνέστηκε πράξεώς τινος ἕνεκα πολυμεροῦς).¹⁴ Thus the saw is made for sawing, for sawing is an action, and not sawing for the saw. Hence, the body too must somehow or other be for the sake of the soul (ὥστε καὶ τὸ σῶμά πως τῆς ψυχῆς ἕνεκεν), and each part of it for the sake of some subordinate function, to which it is naturally adapted. (PA I.5, 645b14)

Note that the teleological approach to the notion of ὄργανον doesn’t exclude the possibility of identifying soul and life. On the contrary, it seems to favour their identification, as the text itself seems to indicate. Actually, since the function of each particular bodily organ is a particular and specific vital activity, we may conclude the general statement that the manifold activity of the organism as a whole is life as a whole, that is, the whole set of the vital activities performed by it. Here, then, soul seems to mean life. ¹⁵ Nevertheless, there is another feature in the notion of ὄργανον, which seems to prevent the identification of soul and life. In so far as ὄργανον means instrument, every organ as such seems to demand an agent to use it and to make it work. And this agent finally is the soul. In De Anima I.3, we find a text where Aristotle criticises those doctrines of soul—like the Pythagorean—which do not care about the bodily conditions and structure: This theory, as well as most theories about the soul, is affected by the following absurdity: they all join the soul to a body, or place it in a body, without explaining either the reason of their union, or the bodily conditions required for it […] Their doctrine is as absurd as to say

 In the manuscripts, we find not only πολυμεροῦς (πράξεώς τινος ἕνεκα πολυμεροῦς), i. e., for the sake of a complex or manifold action, but also πλήρους (πράξεώς τινος ἕνεκα πλήρους), i. e., for the sake of a complete action. However, this difference doesn’t affect the question concerning the synonymy of soul and life.  The identification of the soul with this manifold action (or complete action: see above n. 13) has been noticed and assumed by some scholars. Thus, for example, J. G. Lennox [(2009), 354] introduces his analysis of the notion of βίος in PA IV.12 with the following remark: “As we examine the pattern of explanation in PA IV.12 in which bios is central, the dominant question will be: what is the relationship between bios and soul understood as that ‘complete action’ for the sake of which the body has the parts organised as it does?” (emphasis mine). Anecdotally we could also remember—among others—J. H. Randall, Jr. [(1960), 234] who directly translated ψυχή as life in the sentence “Ὥστε καὶ τὸ σῶμά πως τῆς ψυχῆς ἕνεκεν: so in some way the body is for the sake of life.”

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that the art of carpentry could embody itself in flutes. But necessarily each art must use its instruments, and the soul its body (δεῖ γὰρ τὴν μὲν τέχνην χρῆσθαι τοῖς ὀργάνοις, τὴν δὲ ψυχὴν τῷ σώματι). (DA I.3, 407b13 – 17, 24– 27)

Here we have the soul again as an agent which uses the body to perform its specific functions or activities. Finally, I would like to remark that all this textual and conceptual evidence is meant to show that there is a strong inner tension in the Aristotelian conception of the relationship between soul and life, ψυχή and ζωή. An internal tension which somehow explains the plurality and diversity of developments and tendencies in the fields of psychology and anthropology within the Aristotelianism.

Works Cited Ackrill (1973): John Lloyd Ackrill, “Aristotle’s Definition of Psuchê,” in: Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 1973, 119 – 133. Ackrill (1981): John Lloyd Ackrill, Aristotle the Philosopher, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cohen (1992): S. Marc Cohen, “Hylomorphism and Functionalism,” in: Martha C. Nussbaum and Amélie O. Rorty (eds.), Essays on Aristotle’s “De Anima,” Oxford: Clarendon Press, 57 – 73. Lennox (2009): James G. Lennox, “Form, Essence and Explanation in Aristotle’s Biology,” in: Georgios Anagnostopoulos (ed.), A Companion to Aristotle, London: Blackwell Publishing, 348 – 367. Randall (1960): John Herman Randall, Jr., Aristotle, New York: Columbia University Press. Shields (1975): Christopher Shields, “The Homonymy of the Body in Aristotle,” in: Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 75, 1 – 30. Shields (2009): Christopher Shields, “The Aristotelian Psuchê,” in: Georgios Anagnostopoulos (ed.), A Companion to Aristotle, London: Blackwell Publishing, 292 – 309. Whiting (1992): J. Whiting, “Living Bodies,” in: Martha C. Nussbaum and Amélie O. Rorty (eds.), Essays on Aristotle’s “De Anima,” Oxford: Clarendon Press, 75 – 91.

Abraham P. Bos

Aristotle on Life-Bearing Pneuma and on God as Begetter of the Cosmos 1 The Word “Organikon” as Crowbar and Lever for Changing our View of Aristotle’s Philosophy In this paper, I present the results of a project which I started twenty years ago, when I suddenly realized that the words “sôma organikon” (σῶμα ὀργανικόν) in Aristotle’s definition of “the soul” should not be explained as “body equipped with organs,” but as “instrumental body.”¹ This correction² has since been accepted by a growing number of experts and today the traditional translation is no longer defended. As far as I know, all the translations and commentaries published after 2000 translate “σῶμα ὀργανικόν” as “an instrumental body,” “a body that is the instrument (of the soul).”³ There are still people who fail to attach major consequences to this correction and continue to assume that Aristotle describes the soul as the first entelechy of the flesh and bones of the visible body. For me, however, this insight meant that Aristotle’s definition of soul, already from the days of the famous commentator Alexander of Aphrodisias, had been misinterpreted in the context of an unhistorical interpretation of Aristotle’s entire philosophy. We often say that the early commentators were closer to Aristotle’s Greek and that Alexander of Aphrodisias was an “orthodox” Aristotelian. But on this point, he was demon-

 On that occasion, I added to the proofs of G. Reale and A. P. Bos [(1995), 288] the remark: “Forse possiamo trarre addirittura la conclusione—almeno come ipotesi—che la definizione dell’anima in De Anima II 1, 412b5 .. debba essere interpretata come segue: l’anima è l’ “entelechia” del “pneuma” che è l’organo dell’ anima.”  This suggestion was already made by L. A. Kosman (1987), 376.  Cf. S. Menn (2002), 110 n. 40; L. P. Gerson (2005), 136; R. Polansky (2007), 161; K. Corcilius (2008), 31: “werkzeughaft”; F. Buddensiek (2009), 311; T. K. Johansen (2012), 9, 12, 120; C. Shields (2009), 282– 3: “The word has this meaning [i. e. ‘equipped with organs’—APB] nowhere in Aristotle”; R. W. Sharples (2010), xi: “.. it has increasingly come to be realised that many doctrines which have for nearly two millennia been regarded by students and critics of Aristotle as central to his philosophy are in fact interpretations by Alexander of Aphrodisias, and only questionably held by Aristotle himself, ….” See also A. P. Bos (2012), 140 – 55. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-007

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strably mistaken⁴ and predecessors came closer to the truth about Aristotle’s view of the soul.⁵ From that time (1995) I developed into an anti-developmentalist and an antiJaegerian and started to investigate whether “instrumental body” in Aristotle may, in fact, refer not to the visible body, but to a different kind of body.⁶ And I started to suspect that the criticism that Aristotle levels in book I of On the Soul against Plato’s doctrine of soul as the principle of self-motion was, in fact, the preparation for this challenging proposition.

2 Pneuma as Instrumental Natural Body of the Soul Because Aristotle’s definition talks about a “natural body” that is the soul’s instrument, I began to investigate whether Aristotle may have been alluding to πνεῦμα,⁷ which in any case in several of his writings is closely connected with soul and with living and ensouled creatures. The reason why Aristotle avoided mentioning the word “πνεῦμα” in his definition of “soul” and instead used the description “instrumental body of the soul” may have been that “ether” is an instrumental body of the soul as well (in the sphere of the divine celestial beings). Πνεῦμα holds this position in the sphere of entities living under the moon.⁸ It may also be designated as “ship” (πλοῖον),⁹ as “vehicle” (ὄχημα)¹⁰ of

 “A body equipped with organs” is itself already an ensouled body. It cannot be referred to in a definition of “soul.” P. Aubenque [(1962), 5] already noticed that the commentators were separated from Aristotle by “une éclipse totale de son influence proprement philosophique.”  From Plutarch, Quaestiones Platonicae 8, 1006D (ed. H. Cherniss, 1976), Pseudo-Hippolytus, Refutatio Omnium Haeresium VII 24, 1– 2 (ed. M. Marcovich, 1986) and Diogenes Laertius V 33 it is evident that before Alexander of Aphrodisias a different exegesis of “ὀργανικόν” was known and accepted. The really remarkable thing is that these texts have never been mentioned in modern commentaries on Aristotle, De Anima.  I presented the first results of my research in Thessaloniki in 1997 at the conference “Aristotle and Contemporary Science.” Cf. A. P. Bos (2001), 187– 201.  Cf. A. P. Bos (2003); (1999). See now also A. P. Bos (2018).  Aristotle calls πνεῦμα in Generation of Animals II.3, 736b29 – 7a9 the carrier of “that which causes semen to be fertile (γόνιμον)” and of “vital heat,” but also says of “the nature which is in the πνεῦμα”: “this nature is analogous to the nature of the element of the stars.” This means that, like the ether of the souls of the divine astral beings, πνεῦμα is an “instrumental body,” to wit of souls in the sublunary sphere. But this also implies that πνεῦμα has more in common with the divine ether than with the four elementary bodies of the sublunary sphere. However, πνεῦμα is never presented as an extra, sixth element. Πνεῦμα stands for ether in com-

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the soul in the two meanings of “chariot” and “ship”; but also as “lever” (μοχλός)¹¹ for moving the visible body, and as “winding mechanism” (αὐτόματον).¹² Next, the hypothesis that “the instrumental body” of the soul refers to πνεῦμα, which Aristotle repeatedly describes as an “instrument” (ὄργανον) of nature or of the soul and as the carrier of psychic heat, guided me towards an intensive study of Aristotle’s doctrine on the reproduction of human beings, animals and plants.

3 The Crucial Role of Pneuma in Reproduction and Spontaneous Generation The most striking aspect of πνεῦμα is that, according to Aristotle, it must be necessarily present in the semen of male animals belonging to higher species and in the menstrual fluid of females. It also plays an essential role in the processes of reproduction and spontaneous generation, not just in animals but in the world of plants and trees as well, where Aristotle also speaks of “life” and “being ensouled.” It is therefore significant that he draws attention in On the Soul II.1, 412b27 to “semen and seeds” (σπέρμα καὶ καρπός) as instruments of the soul and possessors of soul (including the soul-parts in the case of animal or human semen¹³), though they do not yet possess life in reality but “in power.” For the traditional interpretation of Aristotle’s theory of soul, this remark about “semen and seeds” as “possessing soul” was absurd, because in semen the soul cannot possibly be connected with “a body equipped with organs.” For those who question or reject the standard interpretation, it is a strong indication that Alexander of Aphrodi-

mixture with the sublunary elements. The quality of life which πνεῦμα may realize depends on the mixture with the sublunary elements.  Cf. Anim. II.1, 413a9.  Cf. Motu anim. 7, 701b4; b11: “τὸ ἁμάξιον.”  Cf. Phys. VIII.6, 259b18 – 20.  Cf. Motu anim. 7, 701b2; b10; Gener. anim. II.1, 734b10; b13.  Anim. II.1, 412b17: “Θεωρεῖν δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν μερῶν δεῖ τὸ λεχθέν” to 413a5 is an argument in which Aristotle demonstrates that the parts of the soul are also inextricably bound up with the instrumental body. As an example, he mentions the sensitive soul-part. Cf. A. P. Bos (1999b), 112– 28.

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sias’ hylomorphistic explanation was incorrect.¹⁴ This radical change of perspective is summed up by Aristotle in his slogan: “a human being begets a human being.”¹⁵ From the moment of fertilization, the εἶδος (as intelligible plan) is present in πνεῦμα, which is receptive to it.

4 Pneuma is not Breath but the Life-Bearing Spirit in Animals and Plants By drawing attention to the semen of animals and seeds of plants and trees, Aristotle makes it clear that he also attributes “life” to plants and trees and regards them as ensouled entities; and that he sees similarities between plants and animals as regards digestion, nutrition and reproduction. This means that, for Aristotle, life and being ensouled do not begin when a living creature is born, but before that, when fertilization takes place.¹⁶ Animal semen and vegetable seed, but also the resulting plants and animals (already in their embryonic phase) and fish (which Aristotle believes do not possess a respiratory system) therefore contain soul and an instrumental body of the soul. However, this implies that in Aristotle’s biological writings the notion of “πνεῦμα,” because it is an essential component of semen and seeds, and because it is the carrier of vital heat and even of “psychic” heat, does not (exclusively or preferably) have the meaning “breath,” but has been expanded into the notion of “life-bear-

 We may well link this to a sentence found in several manuscripts of On the Soul II.4, 415b7 in which Aristotle explicitly says that “the seed of animals and plants is an instrument of their soul.” This sentence agrees with what Aristotle says in other places, and the fact that this sentence does not occur in some of the manuscripts could be seen as an adaptation of the text to the interpretation promoted by Alexander of Aphrodisias. Cf. A. P. Bos (2010), 276 – 87.  “Ἄνθρωπος ἄνθρωπον γεννᾷ.” Phys. II.1, 193b6 – 7 and b12; 2, 194b13; 7, 198a24– 7; III.2, 202a11– 2; Gener. corr. II.6, 333b7– 14; Part. anim. I.1, 640a25 – 6; II.1, 646a33; Gener. anim. II.1, 735a20 – 22; Metaph. VII.7, 1032a24– 5; 8, 1033b30 – 32; IX.8, 1049b24– 26; XII.3, 1070a5 – 8; 1070a26 – 8; 4, 1070b32– 4; XIV.5, 1092a15 – 7; Eudem. Eth. II.6, 1222b15 – 8. Cf. D. M. Balme (1990), 20 – 31.  The thrust of Anim. II.4, 415a24– 5: “the nutritive function is the first and most widely shared soul-power, in virtue of which all have life”—πρώτη καὶ κοινοτάτη δύναμίς ἐστι ψυχῆς, καθ᾽ ἣν ὑπάρχει τὸ ζῆν ἅπασιν is that there are vegetative processes in all that lives which do not involve respiration. This is also the import of Phys. VIII.6, 259b8 – 9: “there are other natural motions in animals, which they do not experience through their own agency, e. g., increase, decrease, and respiration”—ἔνεισι ἄλλαι κινήσεις φυσικαὶ τοῖς ζῴοις, ἃς οὐ κινοῦνται δι᾽ αὑτῶν, οἷον αὔξησις φθίσις ἀναπνοή (i. e., these motions have priority over locomotion). Cf. D. M. Balme (1990), 30.

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ing πνεῦμα” and “vital heat” and “psychic heat.” Respiration does not produce πνεῦμα, but the heat of πνεῦμα makes respiration necessary for some animals!

5 Aristotle’s Innovative View of Pneuma Substantiated in his De Spiritu Given that nobody before Aristotle had defended such a view of πνεῦμα, and given that Plato’s dialogues, especially the Timaeus, indicated the moment of birth as the moment of the soul’s entry, and respiration as the basic process of all vital functions, it was essential for Aristotle to conduct a debate with his teacher on what can be called the real carrier of life and soul. He did this in the treatise De Spiritu, a discussion with Plato and his predecessors on πνεῦμα as the instrumental body of the soul.¹⁷ Unfortunately, this brief work has been denied to Aristotle in the later tradition, because it is presented as a debate with one “Aristogenes.”¹⁸ In my view, however, this figure is to be identified with “the son begotten by Ariston,” i. e., Plato.¹⁹ In the same playful way, Plato himself had used the word ἀρτιτελής in the Phaedrus 251a2 to hint at young Aristotle.

6 Semen is the Carrier of a Guiding Power (Δύναμις) Semen, therefore, plays a role in reproduction; and according to Aristotle semen must contain πνεῦμα. Indeed, πνεῦμα is indispensable even in “spontaneous” generation. But in his great treatise Generation of Animals Aristotle also insists: reproduction is not about πνεῦμα but about the power (δύναμις) that it transfers. In reproduction, the male does not contribute a material substance to the κύημα

 Cf. A. P. Bos and R. Ferwerda (2008).  Cf. W. Jaeger (1913), 29 – 74; repr. in id. (1960), 57– 102. In A. L. Carbone (2003), and in the new handbook by C. Rapp and K. Corcilius (2011) it is not even mentioned. See now P. Gregoric, O. Lewis and M. Kuhar (2015), 101– 124; P. Gregoric and O. Lewis (2015), 159 – 167; O. Lewis and P. Gregoric (2015), 125 – 149.  A probable factor in the rejection of this work was that followers of Alexander of Aphrodisias could not regard πνεῦμα as the carrier of soul since πνεῦμα is not “equipped with organs.” Cf. A. Torstrik (1862), 134.

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(embryo) but only a power.²⁰ This is a very special feature of Aristotle’s theory of reproduction, that he views the role of the male partner in the process of reproduction as the transmission of a life-generating power (δύναμις) to the menstrual fluid of the female partner. Male semen is only and exclusively an instrument for passing on this life-generating power, also specified as the soul-principle. The material substance constituting semen does not become part of the growing embryo.²¹ But the begetter plays no further role either. The development of the new specimen (of the same species as the male and female) is solely activated by the power transferred to the menstrual fluid of the partner. Aristotle applied this ground-breaking insight to all that lives and functions in the sublunary sphere, from the highest living beings to the lowly products of spontaneous generation. It means that the reproductive process conveys an (immaterial) operative rational form-principle to a form-less but form-desiring substance appropriate to this operative force.

7 Not the Moment of Birth but the Moment of Fertilization is Crucial We have already indicated one important point here on which Aristotle criticized his teacher: new life is not formed by the entry of an immaterial soul in a baby that starts to breathe. No, new life is formed at the moment when menstrual fluid is fertilized. From this moment, it is clear what the result of this fertilization will be: a new specimen of the same species as the begetter and his female partner. And in the embryo, from this moment of fertilization, the soul is active as power and guides its instrumental body, the vital heat of πνεῦμα. However, the soul is not the principle of motion for this new living creature, but the principle that con-

 Cf. J. G. Lennox (1982), 219 – 38, 221; D. M. Balme (1990), 23 – 4.  In Gener. anim. II.3, 737a7– 12 Aristotle emphasizes that the moist substance of semen disappears completely through evaporation. See in particular a11– 2: “This physical part of the semen, being fluid and watery, dissolves and evaporates”—τὸ σῶμα τῆς γονῆς διαλύεται καὶ πνευματοῦται φύσιν ἔχον ὑγρὰν καὶ ὑδατώδη. Also, fertilization may take place when a female specimen introduces a part of her body into the male and receives the goal-orientated motion via this prolonged contact. Aristotle devotes all of Generation of Animals I.21 to this crucial fact, which he believes can be deduced from the biology of certain small insects.

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trols the motion of the instrumental body. For the soul uses its instrumental body as a craftsman uses his tools.²²

8 Aristotle’s Strict Distinction between Intellect and Soul So far, we have determined that the generation of a new living being is explained by Aristotle as the result of a power (δύναμις) which is transferred to the πνεῦμα of the female’s menstrual fluid, and which then uses this πνεῦμα as an instrument for realizing the εἶδος, the blueprint for the new specimen, and allowing this new specimen to function. According to Aristotle, the soul itself is not a body, but it is always connected with a body, and it is the entelechy of this instrumental body, but also a power (δύναμις). How are we to understand this notion of soul as power (δύναμις)? This is best approached as the second point of criticism that Aristotle urged against Plato. Aristotle believed that Plato’s concept of “soul” was profoundly ambivalent and internally contradictory.²³ According to Aristotle, what Plato considers to be most important in “the soul” is not “soul” but “intellect.” And what Aristotle calls “soul” is, (although in itself immaterial and immortal, as Plato said) always inextricably bound up with a “natural body” and, as regards animals and plants, mortal. A meaningful, rational philosophy ought to distinguish between intellect on the one hand and soul on the other. It is not the soul that “knows” or “contemplates” the Ideas, but the intellect.²⁴ However, activities like perception and setting in motion are not possible for something immaterial; they are possible only for a principle that is connected with a (special) body. But how is the relation of the intellect to the soul? In Plato, in his myth of the Phaedrus, this is a guiding influence of the charioteer who stands still on a chariot that is moved by two horses. Aristotle attributed a guiding power to the intellect and to the soul as entelechy. The soul as entelechy uses its body by guiding it

 Anim. I.3, 407b25 – 7. That is why translations of “ἐντελέχεια” as “actuality,” “activity,” “realization,” “réalisation,” “actualization,” “verwezenlijking,” “fulfillment,” “complete reality,” “verwerkelijking,” “having its end in itself” etc. are misleading.  Cf. Ps.-Hippolytus, Refutatio Omnium Haeresium I 20, 3 – 6 and Cicero, De Natura Deorum 1, 13, 33 = Arist. On Philosophy fr. 26 Ross; 25, 1 Gigon, where I read “multa turbat a magistro uno dissentiens” in stead of “a magistro suo Platone dissentiens.”  Aristotle argued in his dialogue Eudemus fr. 2 Ross; 58 Gigon that Plato’s arguments for the immortality of the soul should rather be understood as arguments for the immortality of the intellect.

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as its instrument. Just as the charioteer guides his horses via the reins which he holds, so the soul leads its pneumatic body by keeping it oriented to its goal. Aristotle’s neologism “ἐντελέχεια” is his alternative to Plato’s “chariot-driving” (“hèniocheia”—ἡνιοχεία). It should be understood as “goal-pointing system” (G.P.S.).²⁵ The introduction of the fifth element (and with it the introduction of πνεῦμα in the sublunary sphere) as a body to be used by the soul / entelechy is the consequence of Aristotle’s fundamental criticism of Plato’s doctrine of the soul as the principle of (loco‐) motion and his doctrine of respiration as the basic process of life. Now, the notorious chapter II.1 of Aristotle’s On the Soul contains a sentence about the twofold meaning of “entelechy.” But entelechy has two senses, analogous to “knowledge” and “theorizing.” Clearly, we intend “entelechy” in the sense of “analogous to knowledge.” For ἐν τῷ ὑπάρχειν τὴν ψυχήν there is sleep and waking, and waking is analogous to theorizing, sleep to its possession without exercising it. And (entelechy analogous to) knowledge comes first in the order of becoming in relation to the same subject.

This sentence has always been misunderstood. Aristotle meant this sentence not to express that something which possesses soul can be sleeping or waking, but that soul itself is always present in one of two conditions, either sleeping or waking. So the sentence: “For ἐν τῷ ὑπάρχειν τὴν ψυχήν there is sleep and waking” should be translated: “for in being soul there is sleep and waking.”²⁶ This implies: in a plant and an animal the soul works as “first” entelechy, that is to say, “sleeping,” as if on automatic pilot. But in an adult human being the soul works as “second” entelechy and as “waking,” because this soul, in rationality, makes choices and directs the existence of the living being. However, all souls, in both conditions, direct their instrumental bodies, because all are distinguishing and deciding and leading principles, and in this regard show a greater or lesser resemblance to the Intellect.²⁷

 Cf. A. M. Leroi [(2014), 170], who uses “the CIOM model, which stands for Centralized Incoming Outgoing Motions.”  Anim. II.1, 412a22– 6: “Αὕτη δὲ λέγεται διχῶς, ἡ μὲν ὡς ἐπιστήμη, ἡ δ᾽ ὡς τὸ θεωρεῖν. Φανερὸν οὖν ὅτι ὡς ἐπιστήμη· ἐν γὰρ τῷ ὑπάρχειν τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ ὕπνος καὶ ἐγρήγορσις ἐστιν, ἀνάλογον δ᾽ ἡ μὲν ἐγρήγορσις τῷ θεωρεῖν, ὁ δ᾽ ὕπνος τῷ ἔχειν καὶ μὴ ἐνεργεῖν· προτέρα δὲ τῇ γενέσει ἐπὶ τοῦ αὐτοῦ ἡ ἐπιστήμη.” Cf. A. P. Bos (2012b), 35.  Anim. II.4, 415b16 – 7. This is the foundation of Aristotle’s teleological view of nature. On its basis we may overcome the pessimism of D. Sedley (2010), 6: “Pretty well everything in nature has a purpose, despite the fact that no intelligence either conceived that purpose or administers

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9 Aristotle’s Theology of the All-Governing Intellect So far, we have mainly looked at Aristotle’s innovations in the fields of psychology and biology. But what was his view of the cosmos and what role does God play in it? Another question that urges itself: why didn’t Aristotle ever produce a great alternative to Plato’s Timaeus? Here, first of all, we need to point to the obvious fact that during his lifetime Aristotle wrote magnificent dialogues that have been lost.²⁸ But in his extant writings, it is also clear that he presented God as pure Intellect and as the source of all power which preserves the cosmos and all that lives.²⁹ The notion of the “dependence” of all things on a first Principle is underlined by Aristotle in Motion of Animals 4, 699b32– 700a6, with a reference to the famous passage in Iliad 8 on “the Golden Rope,” which ends with the expression of Aristotle’s point of view: “if it depends on an Origin which is unmovable”—εἰ ἐξ ἀκινήτου ἤρτηται ἀρχῆς.³⁰ This Intellect is free of all corporeality; it is unmoved and unchanging. Yet it is the great Governor, the Ruler and Leader (κοίρανος) of all things. God is un-willing (because “willing” is a matter of the soul and its soul-body), but the unwilling God remains the Boss. For Aristotle, the will of God has been replaced by the concept of rational law.

it”; Allan Gotthelf (1976), 226 – 54; repr. with addition (1987), 204: “One would expect to find, somewhere in the vast Aristotelian corpus, a thorough analysis and explicit definition of this notion. Surprisingly, it is not there to be found. Readers of the corpus will search in vain for a detailed analysis of what it is to be (or come to be) for the sake of something”; I. Düring (1966), 552: “Sobald Bedingungszusammenhänge vorliegen, betont er, dass das Naturgeschehen von teleologischer Formbestimmtheit gesteuert wird; wie es gesteuert wird, sagt er nie”; D. Charles (2012), 228 and 235: “To his critics, these claims appear wholly mysterious.”  Cf. A. P. Bos (1989). Alexander of Aphrodisias voiced the opinion that Aristotle’s dialogues did not represent his own philosophy! For W. Jaeger they represented a platonizing and immature philosophy.  See also, Polit. VII.4, 1326a31– 3: “But a very great multitude cannot be orderly: to introduce order in such a number is the work of a divine power—of such a power as holds together the universe”—ὁ δὲ λίαν ὑπερβάλλων ἀριθμὸς οὐ δύναται μετέχειν τάξεως· θείας γὰρ δὴ τοῦτο δυνάμεως ἔργον, ἥτις καὶ τόδε συνέχει τὸ πᾶν.  See also Cael. I.9, 279a28 – 30; Metaph. XII.7, 1072b13; III.2, 1003b16 – 7. In a passage from On the Cosmos, a work addressed to Alexander of Macedonia (with whom Aristotle had read Homer’s Iliad in Mieza, near the “Cave of the Nymphs”), Aristotle compares the cardinal importance of God for the cosmos with that of the Persian Great King for his empire, and in using the words “the supreme” and “on the highest peak” refers subtly to this text from Iliad 8, which Alexander must have relished.

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10 God as Begetter of Life through his Life-Generating Power In my view, Aristotle’s blueprint for human, animal and vegetable reproduction also covers God’s relationship with the cosmos, over which he wields absolute dominion. In Aristotle, God is the great leader and οἰκονόμος of the universal system who preserves the dependent cosmos through his all-pervading Power. How is this to be understood? A work we could consult here is On the Cosmos (De Mundo). Recently someone has said that this work was composed by an obscure author from the early imperial age to make up for the lack of an Aristotelian equivalent of Plato’s Timaeus! ³¹ It is clear in this work that the author rejects Plato’s concept of the Demiurge.³² Instead, he posits the divine, self-sufficient Intellect on the one hand and the Power (Δύναμις) that emanates from him and pervades the entire cosmos on the other. This aspect of On the Cosmos agrees entirely with Aristotle’s very special theory about the controlling power in the process of reproduction.³³ And, significantly, the author avoids the names of “Demiurge” and “Father” there, choosing instead the term “Begetter” (γενέτωρ). The distinction between God and his efficient Power is the result of Aristotle’s criticism of Plato’s doctrine of the World Soul and of the world-creating Demiurge. At the same time, however, Aristotle stays on Plato’s side in his view that the Intellect and the intelligible Forms have a controlling power over everything material.³⁴ He compares the power emanating from God with the power operative in a winding mechanism that carries out its constructor’s plan. This comparison connects the cosmo-theology of On the Cosmos with the theory of procreation in Generation of Animals, where the power functional in an embryo is compared

 Cf. T. Kukkonen (2014), 326 – 7.  Plato’s Demiurge, in the opinion of Aristotle, was devised too much as a human craftsman who first thinks out a project and then orders the unordered material available. Cf. Cael. I.10, 279b32– 8a10. Therefore the Demiurge falls short of Aristotle’s dogma of absolute immutability of the First Principle.  Interestingly, Alexander of Aphrodisias in his own work On the Cosmos, passed down only in Arabic, fully accepted this distinction between God’s essence and power, as he did the authenticity of Aristotle’s On the Cosmos. Cf. C. Genequand (2001), 6; 17– 9. Genequand himself follows P. Moraux and the modern tradition by continuing to speak of “the pseudo-Aristotelian On the Cosmos.”  Cf. J. Beere (2009), who explains Aristotle’s Metaphysics Θ against the background of the famous text on “the Battle of the Giants” in Plato, Sophist 246a-249d. See also L. A. Kosman (2013).

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to the drive mechanism of an automaton.³⁵ Once we have properly understood the structure of Aristotle’s theory of reproduction in Generation of Animals, we can no longer maintain that the doctrine of God as the “Begetter” of all life through his all-pervasive Power, as found in On the Cosmos, is not Aristotelian.³⁶

11 “Everything Full of Soul” There is a remarkable connection between two texts from acknowledged Aristotelian writings and one from the controversial work On the Cosmos. (a) In On the Soul I 5, 411a7– 9 Aristotle refers to Plato’s doctrine of the World Soul in the Timaeus, according to which the soul is intermingled in the entire universe. Aristotle repudiates this, because it would mean that the Intellect is also intermingled in the entire cosmos, and because something immaterial cannot be “mingled” with natural bodies. (Aristotle is convinced that the soul is always located in the center of a living being.) In this context, he says that Thales of Miletus was thinking of something similar when he said that “everything is full of gods.” (b) In Generation of Animals III.11, 762a18 – 21 Aristotle alludes to this theme. He says there that earth contains water and water contains πνεῦμα and all πνεῦμα contains psychic heat, so that in a certain sense “everything is full of soul.”³⁷ That is to say, in explaining his alternative to Plato’s doctrine of soul, Aristotle puts forward his doctrine of πνεῦμα, which can be controlled and used by the soul. This πνεῦμα pervades all things by being “mixed” with other natural bodies³⁸ in the sublunary sphere. The soul itself, however, is not mixed with earth and water, but is the “controller” of the πνεῦμα appropriate to it.³⁹ (c) Precisely the author of On the Cosmos 6, 397b16 – 20 cites one of the ancients as saying that “everything is full of gods.” Thales’ maxim is called to mind there in order to be fundamentally corrected: not God’s being (οὐσία) is ev-

 Gener. anim. II.1, 734b4– 17.  M. Wilson [(2013), 73] concluded: “One of the most remarkable developments of the last thirty years in scholarship on Aristotle has been the successful reintegration of his biological works into the mainstream of his corpus.” This “development” should be brought to completion by recognizing the link between Aristotle’s biology and his theology.  Gener. anim. III.11, 762a19 – 21: “ἐν γῇ μὲν ὕδωρ ὑπάρχειν ἐν δ᾽ ὕδατι πνεῦμα, ἐν δὲ τούτῳ παντὶ θερμότητα ψυχικήν, ὥστε τρόπον τινὰ πάντα ψυχῆς εἶναι πλήρη.”  Spir. 9, 485b18.  Motu anim. 10, 703a36-b2.

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erywhere, but God’s power (δύναμις). We are then told that this power of the divine Intellect manifests itself in the divine element of the stars and in the πνεῦμα of all sublunary living beings. For an open-minded observer, Aristotle’s criticism of Plato’s soul doctrine thus led to an immaterial principle that has a controlling effect on a receptive instrumental body (ether in the astral sphere and πνεῦμα in the sublunary sphere). The quality of the guiding principles is correlate to the quality of their instrumental bodies. But the guiding principles are connected with the transcendent Intellect, just as the power of a magnet is connected with the source of this power.

12 Aristotle on the Male and the Female If we look back from a certain distance (2400 years now already!) at Aristotle’s philosophy as a whole, it must strike us that he speaks much more positively about material reality than Plato. For Plato, there was always a world of Ideas and another, constantly changing, non-scientifically knowable, material reality. Sometimes he characterized this material reality as a “prison,” an abode of custody for the soul; and sometimes as an object of its attention and care.⁴⁰ In his surviving works, Aristotle never explains to what the natural bodies owe their existence. But he calls them “complete” (τέλειον) and judges their quality so positively that they are “usable” (ὀργανικόν) for soul-principles. At the highest level, Aristotle will always talk about the divine Intellect, “separate from” and “free” of corporeality. However, he introduces a continuous chain of guiding principles in all that lives, as the form-giving, male soul-principles or entelechies, as opposed to the female “underlying” principles of matter.⁴¹ Everything that exists below the divine Intellect is characterized by “desire” (ὄρεξις), just as the female desires the male.⁴² The divine Intellect is so utterly self-sufficient that it does not have any “desire.” Yet all the “female” depends on the Intellect.

 In Alcibiades I 130a it is said that the soul “uses” the body! But this dialogue has often been denied to Plato.  Phys. I.9, 192a31: “For my definition of matter is just this—the first underlying of each thing”—λέγω γὰρ ὕλην τὸ πρῶτον ὑποκείμενον ἑκάστῳ. For Aristotle, there is always a sexual metaphor in the term “the subject,” “the underlying.” The Latin translation “materia,” “materies” has retained this connotation.  Physics I.9, 192a13 – 9.

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We should, therefore, note that Aristotle praises the natural complementarity of the female and the male and considers them both to be equally necessary as “principles of generation” in all that exists.⁴³ Against this background it is understandable that On the Cosmos 7, 401b2 approvingly cites an Orphic poem with the remarkable words: “Zeus is a man, Zeus an immortal maid” -Ζεὺς ἄρσην γένετο, Ζεὺς ἄμβροτος ἔπλετο νύμφη-.⁴⁴

Nevertheless, the fact remains that the male takes precedence. It is the symbol of the fullness of being (πλήρωμα). The female is characterized by a “deficiency” (πήρωμα).⁴⁵ Ultimately, according to Aristotle, the soul must transcend itself towards the intellect; the female must become male.

Works Cited Aubenque (1962): P. Aubenque, Le Problème de l’Être chez Aristote, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Balme (1990): D. M. Balme, “Ἄνθρωπος ἄνθρωπον γεννᾷ. Human is Generated by Human,” in: G. R. Dunstan (ed.), The Human Embryo. Aristotle and the Arabic and European Traditions, Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 20 – 31. Barnes (1984): J. Barnes (ed.), The Complete Works of Aristotle. The Revised Oxford Translation, 2 vols, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Beere (2009): J. Beere, Doing and Being: An Interpretation of Aristotle’s Metaphysics Theta, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bos (1989): A. P. Bos, Cosmic and Meta-cosmic Theology in Aristotle’s Lost Dialogues, Leiden: Brill.

 Gener. anim. II.1, 732a1– 3. On this text, see A. P. Bos (2010b), 373 – 4.  In the same work On the Cosmos 5, 396b7– 11 the author, who in any case wants to appear Aristotelian, has a strikingly positive appreciation of the conjunction of opposites. He sees it as evidence of the “harmonious community” (ὁμόνοια) in nature and the cosmos: “It may perhaps be that nature has a liking for contraries and evolves harmony out of them and not out of similarities (just as she joins the male and the female together and not members of the same sex), and has devised the original harmonious community by means of contraries and not similarities”—Ἴσως δὲ τῶν ἐναντίων ἡ φύσις γλίχεται καὶ ἐκ τούτων ἀποτελεῖ τὸ σύμφωνον, οὐκ ἐκ τῶν ὁμοίων, ὥσπερ ἀμέλει τὸ ἄρρεν συνήγαγε πρὸς τὸ θῆλυ καὶ οὐχ ἑκάτερον πρὸς τὸ ὁμόφυλον, καὶ τὴν πρώτην ὁμόνοιαν διὰ τῶν ἐναντίων συνῆψεν, οὐ διὰ τῶν ὁμοίων [transl. E. S. Forster, in J. Barnes (1984) vol. 1, 633].  There is only one Form of “human being” (ἄνθρωπος). Whether the new born baby will be male or female depends not on the soul but on the degree of vital heat of the πνεῦμα in the embryo. Cf. Gener. anim. I.21.

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Bos (1999): A. P. Bos, De Ziel en Haar Voertuig. Aristoteles’ Psychologie Geherinterpreteerd en de Eenheid van zijn Oeuvre gedemonstreerd, Leende: Damon. Bos (1999b): A. P. Bos, “Het Gehele Lichaam dat Waarnemingsvermogen Bezit (Aristoteles, De Anima II 1, 412b24 – 25),” Algemeen Nederlands Tijdschrift voor Wijsbegeerte 91, 112 – 28. Bos (2001): A. P. Bos, “Aristotle’s De Anima II 1: the Traditional Interpretation Rejected,” in: D. Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, vol. 2, New York: Peter Lang, 187 – 201. Bos (2003): A. P. Bos, The Soul and its Instrumental Body. A Reinterpretation of Aristotle’s Philosophy of Living Nature, Leiden: Brill. Bos (2010): A. P. Bos, “A Lost Sentence on Seed as Instrument of the Soul in Aristotle, On the Soul II 4, 415b7,” Hermes 138, 276 – 87. Bos (2010b): A. P. Bos, “Aristotle on God as Principle of Genesis,” British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 18, 363 – 77. Bos (2012): A. P. Bos, “Aristotle’s Definition of the Soul: Why Was it Misunderstood for Centuries? The Dubious Lines Anim. II 1, 412b1 – 4,” Museum Helveticum 69, 140 – 55. Bos (2012b): A. P. Bos, “Plutarch on the Sleeping Soul and the Waking Intellect and Aristotle’s Double Entelechy Concept,” in: L. Roig Lanzillotta and I. Muñoz Gallarte (eds.), Plutarch in the Religious and Philosophical Discourse of Late Antiquity, Leiden: Brill, 25 – 42. Bos (2018): A. P. Bos, Aristotle on God’s Life-Generating Power and on Pneuma as Its Vehicle, Albany NY: SUNY Press. Bos and Ferwerda (2008): A. P. Bos and R. Ferwerda, Aristotle, On the Life-Bearing Spirit (De Spiritu). Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Leiden: Brill. Buddensiek (2009): F. Buddensiek, “Aristoteles’ Zirbeldrüse? Zum Verhältnis von Seele und Pneuma in Aristoteles’ Theorie der Ortsbewegung der Lebewesen,” in: D. Frede and B. Reis (eds.), Body and Soul in Ancient Philosophy, Berlin/New York: W. de Gruyter, 309 – 29. Carbone (2003): A. L. Carbone, Aristotele, L’Anima e il Corpo. Parva Naturalia. Introduzione, Traduzione e Note, Milano: Bompiani. Charles (2012): D. Charles, “Teleological Causation,” in: C. Shields (ed.) The Oxford Handbook of Aristotle, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 227 – 66. Cherniss (1976): H. Cherniss, Plutarch’s Moralia with an English Translation vol. XIII, 1, Cambridge MA.: Harvard University Press. Corcilius (2008): K. Corcilius, Streben und Bewegen. Aristoteles’ Theorie der Animalischen Ortsbewegung, Berlin: W. de Gruyter. Düring (1966): I. Düring, Aristoteles. Darstellung und Interpretation seines Denkens, Heidelberg: Carl Winter—Universitäts Verlag. Genequand (2001): C. Genequand, Alexander of Aphrodisias, On the Cosmos, Leiden: Brill. Gerson (2005): L. P. Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Gigon (1987): O. Gigon, Aristotelis Opera liber III. Deperditorum Librorum Fragmenta, Berlin: W. de Gruyter. Gotthelf (1976): A. Gotthelf, “Aristotle’s Conception of Final Causality,” Review of Metaphysics 30, 226 – 54; repr. with addition in A. Gotthelf and J. G. Lennox (eds.) (1987): Philosophical Issues in Aristotle’s Biology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 204 – 42.

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Gregoric, Lewis and Kuhar (2015): P. Gregoric, O. Lewis and M. Kuhar, “The Substance of De Spiritu,” Early Science and Medicine 20, 101 – 124. Gregoric and Lewis (2015): P. Gregoric and O. Lewis, “Pseudo-Aristotelian De Spiritu: a New Case against Authenticity,” Classical Philology 110, 159 – 167. Jaeger (1913): W. Jaeger, “Das Pneuma im Lykeion,” Hermes 48 (1913), 29 – 74; repr. in id. (1960): Scripta Minora, Roma: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 57 – 102. Johansen (2012): T. K. Johansen, The Powers of Aristotle’s Soul, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kosman (1987): L. A. Kosman, “Animals and Other Beings in Aristotle,” in: A. Gotthelf and J. G. Lennox (eds.), Philosophical Issues in Aristotle’s Biology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 360 – 91. Kosman (2013): L. A. Kosman, The Activity of Being. An Essay on Aristotle’s Ontology, Cambridge MA.: Harvard U.P. Kukkonen (2014): T. Kukkonen, “On Aristotle’s World,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 46, 311 – 51. Lennox (1982): J. G. Lennox, “Teleology, Change and Aristotle’s Theory of Spontaneous Generation,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 20, 219 – 38. Leroi (2014): A. M. Leroi, The Lagoon. How Aristotle Invented Science, London: Bloomsbury Circus. Lewis and Gregoric (2015): O. Lewis and P. Gregory, “The Context of De Spiritu,” Early Science and Medicine 20, 125 – 149. Marcovich (1986): M. Marcovich, Hippolytus, Refutatio Omnium Haeresium, Berlin/New York: W. de Gruyter. Menn (2002): S. Menn, “Aristotle’s Definition of Soul and the Programme of the De Anima,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 22, 83 – 139. Polansky (2007): R. Polansky, Aristotle’s De Anima, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rapp and Corcilius (2011): C. Rapp and K. Corcilius (eds.), Aristoteles-Handbuch: Leben, Werk, Wirkung, Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler. Reale and Bos (1995): G. Reale and A. P. Bos, Il Trattato Sul Cosmo per Alessandro Attribuito ad Aristotele, Milano: Vita e Pensiero. Ross (1955): W. D. Ross, Aristotelis Fragmenta Selecta, recognovit brevique adnotatione instruxit, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sedley (2010): D. Sedley, “Teleology, Aristotelian and Platonic,” in: J. G. Lennox and R. Bolton (eds.), Being, Nature, and Life in Aristotle. Essays in Honor of A. Gotthelf, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 5 – 29. Sharples (2010): R. W. Sharples, Peripatetic Philosophy 200 BC-AD 200. An Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shields (2009): C. Shields, “The Priority of Soul in Aristotle’s De Anima: Mistaking Categories?” in: D. Frede and B. Reis (eds.), Body and Soul in Ancient Philosophy, Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 267 – 90. Torstrik (1862): A. Torstrik, Aristotelis De Anima, libri tres, Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung; repr. (1970): Hildesheim: G. Olms. Wilson (2013): M. Wilson, Structure and Method in Aristotle’s Meteorologica: a More Disorderly Nature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Ron Polansky and John Fritz

Aristotle on Accidental Perception Aristotle’s De anima seeks to disclose the nature of the soul and what comes along with it. Near the opening of the work, he states, Our aim is to grasp and understand, first its [the soul’s] essential nature, and second what comes along with it; of these, some are thought to be affections proper to the soul itself, while others are considered to attach to the living things owing to the presence of soul. (ἐπιζητοῦμεν δὲ θεωρῆσαι καὶ γνῶναι τήν τε φύσιν αὐτῆς καὶ τὴν οὐσίαν, εἶθ᾿ ὅσα συμβέβηκε περὶ αὐτήν· ὧν τὰ μὲν ἴδια πάθη τῆς ψυχῆς εἶναι δοκεῖ, τὰ δὲ δι᾿ ἐκείνην καὶ τοῖς ζῴοις ὑπάρχειν. (402a7– 10)¹

This treatise provides definitions of soul and then focuses on the soul’s principal faculties or powers—such as the nutritive, perceptive, intellective, and locomotive—and their operations and objects. These are what primarily come along with soul. More derivative faculties, such as memory, recollection, sleep, and dream, are treated in subsequent treatises. In announcing that he deals with what the soul is and so many things as have come together with it (ὅσα συμβέβηκε), Aristotle discloses one of his uses of “accident” or συμβεβηκός: what follows from something necessarily, or for the most part, as a triangle has its angles necessarily summing to two rights (see Metaph. V.30, 1025a30 – 34). Such essential accidents can receive scientific treatment, and they along with the account of the soul itself are the main subject matters of the De anima. But there is another usage of “accident” for what comes along neither necessarily nor for the most part (see Physics II.4– 6; cf. Metaph. V.30, 1025a4– 30 and VI.2).² Such accidents comprise those things merely happening to be conjoined with something. Among beings accidentally conjoined, some seem more

 Barnes (1984) modified.  See Henry (2015) for a recent discussion of being, for the most part, the case. The term for “accident,” συμβεβηκός, derives from the common Greek verb βαίνω, which appears frequently prior to Aristotle. A TLG search indicates, however, that Aristotle may be the first to use the phrase referring to that which is according to accident (τὸ κατὰ συμβεβηκός), though Aristotle speaks of the sophist Antiphon in a way indicating that he had the notion whether or not he used the phrase: δοκεῖ δ’ ἡ φύσις καὶ ἡ οὐσία τῶν φύσει ὄντων ἐνίοις εἶναι τὸ πρῶτον ἐνυπάρχον ἑκάστῳ, ἀρρύθμιστον καθ’ ἑαυτό, οἷον κλίνης φύσις τὸ ξύλον, ἀνδριάντος δ’ ὁ χαλκός. σημεῖον δέ φησιν ᾿Aντιφῶν ὅτι ε ἴ τ ι ς κ α τ ο ρ ύ ξ ε ι ε κ λ ί ν η ν καὶ λάβοι δύναμιν ἡ σ η π ε δ ὼ ν ὥστε ἀνεῖναι βλαστόν, οὐκ ἂν γενέσθαι κλίνην ἀλλὰ ξύλον, ὡς τὸ μὲν κατὰ συμβεβηκὸς ὑπάρχον, τὴν κατὰ νόμον διάθεσιν καὶ τὴν τέχνην, τὴν δ’ οὐσίαν οὖσαν ἐκείνην ἣ καὶ διαμένει ταῦτα πάσχουσα συνεχῶς (Physics II.1, 193a9 – 17). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-008

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accidental than others (see Physics 195b1– 3 and Metaph. 1014a4– 6 and 1027a5 – 8). For example, a full eclipse of the sun occurring when we cough is even more accidental than going to the market and running into someone who owes us money. Accidental beings of this sort, since neither necessarily nor for the most part conjoined with the kind of thing they happen to come along with, cannot be demonstrated, and therefore they do not lend themselves to scientific sort of treatment (see esp. Physics 197a21– 25; Metaph. 1026b2 – 27). Nonetheless, such accidental beings, taken quite broadly, allow for general discussion (as in Metaph. VI.2– 3). Our main interest is exploring perception in connection with what are accidental sensibles. While Aristotle announces in his division of kinds of sensibles in De anima II.6 a crucial class of accidental sensibles, we disclose that he elsewhere in the De anima suggests several additional types of accidental sensibles. Consequently, some of the accidental sensibles may be necessary or for the most part the case, whereas others are neither necessary nor for the most part the case. Therefore, in considering what are the accidental sensibles, we shall also be exploring the way in which they are accidental, and ways in which some seem more accidental than others. If the most accidental sensibles as accidental do not lend themselves to scientific treatment, considered universally they permit some general reflection. Why we may be interested in accidental perception is that it figures in our most everyday perceptive life, even if the constraints of treatment in the De anima do not give it much attention.³ We aim to draw out some of Aristotle’s suggestions regarding accidental perception: that there are several kinds of accidental perception, that it turns out the most important sort of perception that animals can engage in, and that it connects with memory and φαντασία.⁴ To reach an understanding of accidental perception, we also give accounts of proper and common perception and display ways in which both proper and common perception can be considered accidental.

 In NE VI.8, 1142a25 – 30 Aristotle says (Crisp trans.), “It [phronesis] is therefore opposed to intellect (nous), since intellect is concerned with the first terms, of which there is no rational account to be given while practical wisdom is concerned with the last thing; and this is the object of perception, not of scientific knowledge. This is not the perception concerned with objects peculiar to any particular sense, but like that with which we perceive that the last mathematical object is a triangle; for it will stop here as well. But this is more perception than practical wisdom, though it is another species of perception.” Practical life seems to involve accidental perception, and theoretical life begins with wonder at such perception.  Cashdollar (1973) treats all cases of accidental perception the same: perceiving x as y, where x is a sensible perceived in virtue of itself. He wishes to defend the claim that accidental perception is perception, which we also accept, but we will challenge his overly unified view of all accidental perception.

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1 The Three Sorts of Sensibles in De anima II.6 When Aristotle investigates a faculty of the soul that has a variety of operations and more than one sort of object in relation to these operations, he concentrates upon the operation most closely connected with the faculty in virtue of itself and its most basic sort of object. In considering the sense power in terms of perceiving and its sensible objects, he distinguishes three major kinds of objects (DA II.6). Two sorts of sensible objects are perceived in virtue of themselves (καθ᾿ αὑτά), while another type of sensible object is perceived merely accidentally (κατὰ συμβεβηκός). The two kinds of objects perceived in virtue of themselves are the proper (ἴδιον) and the common (κοινόν) sensible, leaving the accidental sensible to be perceived accidentally. Aristotle, as we should expect, concentrates upon perception of what is perceived in virtue of itself, and only very limitedly what is perceived accidentally. Why is it that the two sorts of perceptibles are said to be perceptible in virtue of themselves? If each sense perceived only its proper sensible, e. g., sight perceived color exclusively, then such sensibles would pertain to the sense in virtue of itself inasmuch as this was its sole object. Then the sense for X would perceive, if and only if it perceived X. Such mutual entailment of the object and the sense would mean that X is in virtue of itself the object for this sense, or this sense in virtue of itself perceives X. But none of the senses has such an exclusive sort of object since the common sensibles pertain to it as well, and each of these is also, according to Aristotle, perceptible in virtue of itself. It seems clear, then, that being a sensible in virtue of itself must have a different basis than exclusivity. Aristotle indicates why the sensibles in virtue of themselves are such by what he says about accidental sensibles. The accidental sensible he illustrates with the case of perceiving the pale or white (τὸ λευκόν) thing as the son of Diares.⁵ Regarding this case Aristotle emphasizes that the son of Diares is perceived accidentally by way of perceiving the pale, and that the perceiver is not acted on by the son of Diares as such: We speak of an accidental object of sense (κατὰ συμβεβηκὸς δὲ λέγεται αἰσθητόν) where, e. g., the white object that we see is the son of Diares; here because being the son of Diares

 We may look to DA 430b4– 5 about the likely changeability of paleness and Metaphysics VIII.5, 1044b25 – 26 and XI.10, 1058b34– 35 for evidence that the pale pertains to lack of suntan rather than racial description. Referring to pale persons probably carries on the humor of Aristophanes’ jibe that philosophers grow pale through speaking with youths hidden indoors from the sun (see Clouds 103, 119 – 120, 185 – 186, 198 – 199; cf. Plato Gorgias 485d–e).

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is accidental to the white which is perceived, we speak of the son of Diares as being accidentally perceived. That is why it in no way as such affects the senses (διὸ καὶ οὐδὲν πάσχει ᾗ τοιοῦτον ὑπὸ τοῦ αἰσθητοῦ). (418a20 – 24; cf. 425a25 – 27)

The son of Diares does not as this very man act upon the senses, but he is perceived through being pale and also having some magnitude and configuration. The sensibles in virtue of themselves, then, are those acting upon the senses, and by their means we are enabled to perceive such accidental sensibles as the son of Diares. So both proper and common sensibles, as the very sensibles they are, move the senses, and they are sensible in virtue of themselves. Are accidental sensibles accidental because they do not themselves act upon the senses, or because they come along with sensibles that do act upon the senses? This proves crucial to ascertaining what accidental sensibles are. The quoted lines 418a20 – 24 should make clear that accidental sensibles are those that come along with sensibles that act on the senses. These lines do not make it fundamental that accidental sensibles do not act upon the senses, for not acting upon the senses hardly makes something sensible.⁶ They are sensible by being perceived as coming along with proper and common sensibles that are perceived in virtue of themselves. We expect that these accidental sensibles coming along with other sensibles will come along neither necessarily nor for the most part with the other sensibles, for it is neither necessary nor for the most part the case that something pale is the son of Diares. As thus accidental, such sensible objects do not lend themselves as sensibles to scientific treatment. There are two classes of sensibles perceptible in virtue of themselves, and so both may lend themselves as sensibles to scientific treatment. But the proper sensibles, we shall be demonstrating, are most strictly sensible objects (τὰ ἴδια κυρίως ἐστὶν αἰσθητά, 418a24– 25). Therefore, to understand the being of each of the five senses, Aristotle must consider each in terms of its most proper sort of sensible.

 Here we oppose the suggestion in Owens [(1982), 228 – 229] that “Aristotle seems to recognize only one type of the latter [i. e., accidental sensible], with but the one criterion, namely failure to act upon the senses.” Owens defends the view going back to the ancient commentators that Aristotle does not really allow in 425a14– 15 that common sensibles are at all accidental. Owens relies on the view of accidental sensibles as not acting on the sense and Aristotle’s never in the context indicating that “accidental” has more than one meaning. For more on this, see our section 3, esp. n14.

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2 Proper Sensibles The proper sensible is “proper” or “private” (ἴδιον) since it is perceptible in virtue of itself exclusively by a single sense, i. e., the sensible moves only this sense. Color can be seen, sound heard, odor smelled, flavor tasted, and tangibles touched. Since these sensibles are perceived by the one sense, no other sense can judge them as to accuracy of perception. And because they are acting upon the sense to bring it into actuality, Aristotle says it is not possible to be deceived about proper perception. This follows from his general account of action and passion, the way the agent assimilates the patient to itself, and his account of perceptive capacity as being in potentiality what sort of thing the perceptible object is in actuality (see De gen. et corr. I.7 and DA II.5, 418a3 – 6). The proper sensible objects act directly upon a sense medium, which in turn acts upon the sense organ that acts upon the sense. The sensible object acts upon the sense, by way of sense medium and organ, such that the animal typically perceives them as they are in actuality. The sense medium, sense organ, and sense are receptive to sensible forms, though only the sense is receptive to sensible forms without the matter (see DA II.12). When the proper sensibles act on the medium and organ, or any body that is receptive to them, they do so materially, i. e., the sensible form is re-enmattered in the body of the medium, organ, or other body. So, the medium and sense organ receive the sensible object as it is in potentiality. Media, such as air and water, which are also the main constituents of the distance sense organs, are receptive to the action of sensible objects along with their matter, i. e., the matter of the sensible object and the matter of the sense organ.⁷ But the sense, as a power of the soul, is receptive to sensible forms or acted upon by them without the matter, for the soul has no matter in which the sensible may be re-enmattered. Rather than being acted upon by any substratum in which the sensible form inheres or receiving the sensible form in matter of its own, and hence foreign to the sensible object, the sense is receptive to the sensible form just as it is in actuality. Proper sensibles without the matter can act only upon a sense, though strictly the animal perceives.⁸

 The media for the distance senses are esp. water and air, which are most neutral regarding the sensible objects, and so best prepared to be receptive to them. The same applies analogously for human flesh as medium for the reception of the contact sensibles. Nonetheless, since there needs to be the medium and organ to be acted upon materially by the sensible object, poor receptivity of these intermediaries under some conditions, such as disease, distance, or wind, may lead to inaccuracy even of proper perception.  See Polansky (2007), 338 – 349.

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Because only a sense is receptive to be acted upon by the proper sensible forms without the matter, i. e., without re-enmattering the proper sensible, the sense perceives the sensible as it is in actuality and the proper sensibles have a remarkable sort of being. These sensible objects are in potentiality as sensible objects even if no sentient being perceives them, but they are only in actuality when perceived in actuality by a sentient being, i. e., when they are moving some sense to cause the animal to perceive them. Aristotle can then say regarding them, Since the actualities of the sensible object and of the sensitive faculty are one actuality in spite of the difference between their modes of being, actual hearing and actual sounding appear and disappear from existence at one and the same moment, and so actual savor and actual tasting, etc., while as potentialities one of them may exist without the other. The earlier students of nature were mistaken in their view that without sight there was no white or black, without taste no savor. This statement of theirs is partly true, partly false: ‘sense’ and ‘the sensible object’ are ambiguous terms, i. e., may denote either potentialities or actualities: the statement is true of the latter, false of the former. This ambiguity they wholly failed to notice. (DA III.2, 426a15 – 27)

Without animals to perceive the proper sensibles, the proper sensibles could definitely never be perceived in actuality. Thus being only in potentiality as sensible, and having hardly any capacity to affect anything but the senses of animals, the proper sensibles would have no real actuality, since they are in actuality only in being perceived.⁹ The important exceptions to this are the tangible objects. In De anima II.12, 424b3 – 18 Aristotle argues that proper sensible objects besides the tangibles do not impact on things other than sense media, sense organs and the sense, and only in perceiving in actuality is the sensible object in actual A proper sensible such as color is what has the potentiality or power to move the sense apparatus. When perceived in actuality it is in actuality, but there is no reason to speak of the “second actuality of color” as does Marmodoro [(2014), 43], for first and second actuality, terms employed by commentators based on DA II.5, really only apply to the capacities of living beings, such as perception and thought. When the sense perceives its object in actuality, the perceiving is second actuality and strictly an activity (ἐνέργεια) complete at every moment rather than a motion (κίνησις), as distinguished in Metaph. IX.6, 1048b18 – 35. Such perceiving is complete at every moment and yet continuable, because it involves reception of form without the matter, and forms as such are partless. On the distinction and why it does not appear prominently in the De anima, see Polansky (2007), 12– 17. Burnyeat (2008) argues against the Metaphysics passage, in fact, belonging in this text, but Polansky (2017) responds to his argument and contends that the distinction fits into both theoretical and practical sciences. Since perceiving is activity due to receptivity to sensible form without the matter, while the medium and sense organ are moved, the sense itself is not strictly moved when it enters activity by becoming cognitively what sort the sensible object is in actuality (soul is strictly immovable).

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ity as perceived. Tangibles, such as heat, cold, moist and dry, however, are fundamental for bodies whether perceived or not (see De gen. et corr. II.2 esp. 329b7– 10 for the likelihood that this explains why the elemental bodies are primarily tangibles). The proper sensibles other than tangibles have their being entirely in being perceptible or being perceived, as acting on the intermediaries or senses, while the tangibles have such being as sensibles but also the sort of being enabling them to act on bodies generally and to enter the determination of the form of the natural simple bodies.¹⁰ This means that the tree falling in the forest with no sentient being to hear it makes only the potentiality for sound rather than sound in actuality. And the tangibles that significantly impact upon bodies even when not perceived, can only be perceived in actuality, i. e., felt, by the sense of touch. Proper sensibles, then, have a peculiar sort of being as sensibles: they are in actuality only as sensible beings and only when they are in actuality perceived. When proper sensibles are being perceived, they are acting on the sense receptive to them in the way that the sense has been assimilated to the sensible form, while no other sense can perceive them. Such sensibles are, therefore, for the most part, perceived unerringly.¹¹ The way the proper sensibles move the senses, through media and organs, to cause perception, the way they are strictly perceived only through the single sense receptive to them, the way they have their being in actuality only in being perceived, and the way they are generally perceived unerringly, makes them the primary sensibles in virtue of themselves. It is in fact due to them that all the other sensibles are perceived, they are the necessary and sufficient conditions of all perception, and so animals by means of them have access to all that is perceptible.

3 Common Sensibles and Common Sense Besides the proper sensibles perceived in virtue of themselves, the other sorts of sensible objects perceived in virtue of themselves are the common sensibles: mo-

 Xenophon Mem. I 4.5 has Socrates asking what would be the use of sensibles without our senses to perceive them. Xenophon here shows Socrates’ defense of purpose and divine providence, but it may be suggestive of Aristotle’s reflection that many sensibles only have being in potentiality until perceived in actuality by an animal.  Such is the case, as we indicated, when the animal is sufficiently close to the perceived object, not sick, and there are not other unusual conditions impairing the perception (see 418a12 and 428b18 – 19).

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tion, rest, magnitude, shape, and number.¹² These are called “common sensibles” because they are perceived not merely by one sense but by all the senses. These common sensibles are perceived in virtue of themselves inasmuch as they too move the senses through acting upon sense media and organs. But the common sensibles can only act upon the senses along with and by means of proper sensibles. For example, when an animal sees or touches motion, it is seeing something colored in motion or feeling something tangible in motion. And when it sees or touches magnitude, it sees the extension of something colored or touches something with some hardness. The animal has perceptual access to the common sensibles solely along with and by way of proper sensibles, so that without perception of proper sensibles there would be no perceptive access to common sensibles. Coming along as they do with all the proper sensibles of the five senses, the common sensibles are common to the five senses. As previously recounted, the proper sensibles are only in actuality as sensible beings when in actuality perceived. The common sensibles, despite only being perceived along with and by way of the proper sensibles, have being in actuality whether or not they are perceived in actuality. Here they more resemble the tangible beings that impact upon bodies beyond being perceived. There is motion and rest in actuality, magnitude in actuality, figure in actuality, and number in actuality whether or not an animal perceives them. The common sensibles have actuality as sensibles when perceived, of course, but they do not have their being in actuality entirely in their being perceived. They are not fundamentally sensibles. Not their very being in actuality but only their being sensibles in actuality depends on being perceived. This argument about the being of the proper sensibles and common sensibles may appear to draw Aristotle close to the position of the atomists, who have quantitative features, such as size, shape, and motion, as the real properties of bodies, and the qualitative features, such as color, sound, odor, and flavor, as merely derivative, due to interactions of the perceiver with the quantitative features of bodies. Aristotle only agrees insofar as he has the proper sensibles as most especially sensible features. But Aristotle does not “reduce” the proper sensibles in any way to the common sensibles. Rather he has perception of the common sensibles due to perception of the proper sensibles. For example, size and shape in virtue of themselves are acting upon the senses, but they are doing so only in conjunction with such proper sensibles as color and hardness. The edge of a body can be seen to have a shape due to perception

 Since number is a common sensible and one is for ancient mathematicians the principle of number, Aristotle can sometimes also add that one is a common sensible (see, e. g., 425a15 – 16).

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of color and felt to have a shape because of the hardness of the body when touched. The common sensibles are perceptible in virtue of themselves, because they can act upon the senses, though by way of and along with the proper sensibles. But this way that the common sensibles have of being perceptible along with the proper sensibles explains that, while genuinely having their own being in actuality and being perceived in virtue of themselves, the common sensibles as sensibles are yet also in a way accidental to the perceiving of proper sensibles. As coming along with and by virtue of the perception of proper sensibles, there is a manner in which their perception is accidental. Aristotle indicates this when he argues that there is no sixth sense, and in particular no special sixth sense for the common sensibles, Further, there cannot be a special sense-organ for the common sensibles either, i. e. the objects which we perceive accidentally through this or that special sense (ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐδὲ τῶν κοινῶν οἷόν τ᾿ εἶναι αἰσθητήριόν τι ἴδιον, ὧν ἑκάστῃ αἰσθήσει αἰσθανόμεθα κατὰ συμβεβηκός), e. g., movement, rest, figure, magnitude, number, unity;¹³ for all these we perceive by movement, e. g., magnitude by movement, and therefore also figure (for figure is a species of magnitude), what is at rest by the absence of movement: number is perceived by the negation of continuity, and by the special sensibles (τοῖς ἰδίοις); for each sense perceives one class of sensible objects. So that it is clearly impossible that there should be a special sense for any one of the common sensibles, e. g., movement; for, if there were so, our perception of it would be exactly parallel to our present perception of what is sweet by vision. That is so because we have a sense for each of the two qualities, in virtue of which when they happen to meet in one sensible object we are aware of both contemporaneously. If it were like this our perception of the common qualities would always be accidental, i. e., as is the perception of Cleon’s son, where we perceive him not as Cleon’s son but as white, and the white thing happens to be Cleon’s son. But in the case of the common sensibles there is already in us a common sensibility which enables us to perceive them non-accidentally (τῶν δὲ κοινῶν ἔχομεν ἤδη αἴσθησιν κοινήν, οὐ κατὰ συμβεβηκός); there is, therefore, no special sense required for their perception: if there were, our perception of them would have been exactly like what has been above described. (425a13 – 30)

This extended passage arguing against a sixth sense first says that the common sensibles are perceived accidentally by the proper senses. This should be because the common sensibles are perceived in conjunction with and by way of the proper sensibles, since the common sensibles are always only perceptible along with perception of the proper sensibles, though the common sensibles

 Owens [(1982), 218 – 219] argues against amending the text by inserting the negative particle μή or οὐ into 425a15 since this appears only in a very few inferior manuscripts most likely influenced by medieval interpretation.

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do themselves act upon the senses by way of these. But to reject that there is a special sense organ for the common sensibles, Aristotle further argues that the common sensibles are perceived by way of motion, for this supports that they are perceived by all the proper senses. Motion comes into play here in two ways. One way is that the perception of common sensibles may depend on the motion of the object itself. An object in motion leads to our perceiving motion, and motion or its privation in the object leads to perception of magnitude, figure, number, or rest as well. Another way perception of common sensibles can relate to motion is dependence on motion of the sense organs themselves, because we often have to move our proper sense organs around so that we are able to perceive common sensibles. For example, we shift our eyes around to take in something large or a number of things, or we run our fingers along a surface to determine its figure or how many things we are touching. Hence, perception of the common sensibles is in a manner accidental as coming along with motion of the object and the motion of the sense organs. Aristotle is utilizing the way the common sensibles come along with motion to support that they are perceived along with the proper sensibles. Thus the common sensibles are common to all the proper senses. Therefore, no special sense is devoted just to them, which would make their perception by any of the other proper senses as accidental as perception of the proper sensible of a different sense is accidental or as perception of Cleon’s son. Hence the common perception of the common sensibles is not accidental. Whereas Aristotle first allowed perception of the common sensibles is accidental by means of a proper sense, he here denies that it is accidental to common perception. This ensures that it is not accidental to the common perception of common sensibles that they are perceived.¹⁴

 We can reject both considerations Owens (1982) offers against taking “according to accident” to be equivocal. He seems incorrect to insist that in De anima II.6 “according to accident” means not to act upon the senses (see n6 above) and that we should expect Aristotle in 425a14 ff. to announce that “according to accident” is used in more than one sense were it in fact so used. We see that Aristotle does in effect announce this by showing how perception of the common sensibles comes along with motion and might be accidental either as perception of one proper sensible by another proper sense or as the perception of the son of Cleon. Our interpretation accepts Owens’s embrace of the interpretation of the ancient commentators that Aristotle can speak in 425a15 counterfactually that common sensibles are perceived accidentally by each proper sense as the proper sense perceives proper sensibles of another proper sense or perceives the son of Cleon. But we wish to add the interpretation that “according to accident” can be ambiguous, which permits our richer interpretation. On our view the passage allows for the two different, and though seemingly incompatible, supplementary arguments. We are also objecting to Gregoric [(2007), 69 – 71] who follows Owens. Gregoric supposes that those allowing “according

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If we are correct that perceiving the common sensibles often involves motion or rest of the sensible object or of the sense organs, then this fits with perception of the common sensibles often taking time. It might seem that only motion would take time to perceive, since motion is in time, and we could perceive rest, magnitude, figure, and number instantaneously. Yet, motion, magnitude, figure, and number may take time for an animal to perceive as the animal moves its sense organs to take in the common sensible or the object is in motion, and rest must take time to perceive that the object does not change in place.¹⁵ Given that the common sensibles can be viewed as accidentally perceived along with the proper sensibles, the treatment of common sensibles remains only secondary in the De anima. Since they come along with the proper sensibles and frequently are perceived with motion of the sense organs in perceiving the proper sensibles, the common sensibles are not the primary objects of any particular sense or combination of senses. The main treatment of each of the five senses in De anima II.7– 11 therefore hardly mentions the common sensibles. Their being accidental to perception of proper sensibles, as coming along with perception of proper sensibles, really makes common sensibles less readily scientifically studied as sensibles. And this is true even if many of the common sensibles lend themselves to mathematical treatment. Natural science and mathematical sciences give careful treatment to common sensibles, which fits with their not being actualities fundamentally as sensibles, but they are not a primary concern of the De anima. The common sensibles only emerge for limited consideration in De anima III.1– 2 where Aristotle contends that we have merely the five senses. If the five senses in a world such as ours perceive all the proper sensible features of the simple bodies—fire, air, water, earth, and their compounds—then the five senses

to accident” to be ambiguous “think that the individual senses alone do not suffice for the perception of the common perceptibles, so that an additional perceptual capacity is required, and the phrase ‘common sense’ introduces just that” (71). But our interpretation does not distinguish a higher common sense power beyond the proper senses. Instead, we hold that Aristotle has all perception take place by a common sense power, and what we are insisting upon is that the common sensibles do in virtue of themselves act upon the proper senses, though also along with the proper sensibles.  Rest cannot be perceived instantaneously since Aristotle in Physics VI.3 shows that neither motion nor rest can be in the ‘now.’ Rest in place, quality, or quantity is remaining for some time in the same condition. Now if time is a common sensible by coming along essentially with motion, this supports our construal of common sensibles as accidental to proper sensibles. Consider that alteration in color, sound, odor, flavor, or tangible, as opposed to change of place, is not a common sensible inasmuch as perceptible exclusively by one sense. Yet as a kind of motion, it has time coming along with it, and time is most likely a common sensible.

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suffice for proper perception.¹⁶ But do the five senses suffice in addition for perceiving the common sensibles? Yes, the five are definitely all that are needed, if the common sensibles are only perceptible along with the proper sensibles. So, if any further sensibles depend upon those perceived in virtue of themselves, and even the common sensibles are perceptible by way of the proper sensibles, the proper sensibles are most fundamental as sensibles and necessary and sufficient to give access to all other sensibles. By considering the adequacy of the five proper senses to perceive both proper and common sensibles, it becomes clear that the five proper senses are subfaculties of the central sense faculty, which Aristotle sometimes calls the “the primary power with which one perceives objects in general” (τῷ πρώτῳ ᾧ αἰσθάνεται πάντων 455b10), sometimes the “supreme of the senses” (τό γε κύριον τῶν αἰσθήσεων 469a10), and sometimes the “common sense” or “common power” (αἴσθησιν κοινήν 425a27, κοινὴ δύναμις 455a16).¹⁷ The five senses must come together to explain both discrimination of proper sensibles and that each and all of the proper senses can perceive the common sensibles. Because the five senses come together in a central sense capacity, this common sense is the seat of all perception. Though called “common sense,” it perceives not just the common sensibles but also all sensible objects, including the proper sensibles by means of which and along with which the common sensibles are perceived. Even if perceiving common sensibles takes time and may involve φαντασία, this all comes within the operation of the central sense capacity. Moreover, the sensing of sensing, which occurs in all perception, requires no further sense beyond the five, as each sense perceives its object and its sensing of it, which means that the central sense faculty does these (see 455a12–b13). Now if all sense thus comes together in a central capacity, in speaking of accidental perception we are considering accidental perception for one of the five proper senses or for the central or common sense power.¹⁸

 Aristotle emphasizes that in a world such as ours, which has just the four sublunary elements that can all, in fact, be perceived and in which the sense media and organs are relatively elemental, e. g., the distance sense organs and media are mainly air or water, there can be but the five senses that humans have (see DA III.1).  In rejecting the view that the five senses are in us completely separate, like the heroes in the Trojan horse, such that there is no unification of sense, Aristotle follows Plato Theaetetus 184– 186. It is clear that the proper senses must be united or there would be no way we could discriminate, e. g., white and sweet (see DA 426b17– 24).  In uniting all sense perception under the power of the central or common sense, we take ourselves to be agreeing with Gregoric (2007).

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4 Several Meanings of Accidental Perception and Accidental Common Sensibles After speaking of each of the five proper senses and proper perceptive power in De anima II.7– 12, Aristotle in De anima III.1– 3 delimits the realm of sense perception to give room for intellection. He does this by showing that the five proper senses suffice for all perception and are sub-faculties of the central or common sense. This allows room for intellection, but also interestingly permits various sorts of accidental perception. The initial demarcation of the sensible objects in De anima II.6 sets out simply the three sorts of sensible objects we have mentioned, proper, common, and accidental sensibles. But it turns out on further consideration that there are more sorts of accidental sensibles than this simple division discloses. In fact, there are at least three sorts of accidental sensibles explicitly mentioned in the De anima, and we also locate a fourth and fifth possible type. (1) We have already discussed one sort of accidental sensible. Common sensibles are in a way accidentally perceived since they only come along with the proper sensibles and generally through the motion of the object and sense organs, though they themselves act upon the sense apparatus and are thus also perceived in virtue of themselves. Also (2) the proper sensibles that are most clearly perceived in virtue of themselves can be accidental sensibles. Though each of the five proper senses has its own proper sensible objects perceived by this single proper sense, there is a way in which the proper sensibles can be perceived accidentally. Each of the proper sensibles is merely an accidental sensible of any of the other senses than its own proper sense. For example, we see something sour. Thus, the very sensibles perceived in virtue of themselves, the proper and common sensibles, can in some ways, as seen in (1) and (2), also be accidental sensibles. (3) Then there are the major sorts of accidental sensibles referred to in De anima II.6, such as the son of Diares. (4) A fourth sort of accidental sensible only hinted at in the De anima is any universal entity, such as color, square, or human. What an animal perceives in actuality is particular (417b22– 23), but accidentally it then perceives universals since the particular happens to be an instance of a universal kind (see 429b10 – 18).¹⁹ (5) If the transparent is seen in virtue of another’s color (418b4– 6), the transparent might be seen only accidentally, though Aristotle does not say this explicitly.

 In Metaphysics 1087a19 – 20, Aristotle says, “Accidentally sight sees universal color, because this particular color which it sees is color.”

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We wish to discuss each of the three sorts of accidental sensibles explicitly introduced in the De anima. We already have indicated the way in which common sensibles are accidental as coming along with proper sensibles and the motion of the object and sense organs. Since we rarely perceive a proper sensible without also perceiving a common sensible, we may well wonder why we give precedence to the proper sensibles. Why might we not say that perceiving the proper sensibles is accidental to the perceiving of the common sensibles rather than the reverse? But precedence has to be given to the proper sensible, because the proper sensible can only strictly be perceived in virtue of itself by its own definite proper sense, whereas the common sensible can be perceived in virtue of itself by any of the several senses. Hence the common sensibles do not have a single and consistent causal explanation as sensibles, and were we to attempt to account for perception of the proper sensibles by way of the common sensibles, there would not be a single consistent explanation for perception of the proper sensibles. Clearly in the case of proper perception, such as vision of color or hearing of sound, there is a definite causal account in terms of receptivity to specific sensible forms without the matter, e. g., there is only visible color, while perception of a common sensible can occur by five different senses in different ways, e. g., there is visible and tangible shape.²⁰ This is really another way of getting to the point we have already made, that common sensibles have their most significant being in actuality whether perceived or not, and so being perceived by one or more of the five senses is considerably more accidental to the being of the common sensibles, but the proper sensibles only have being in actuality when perceived in actuality. These proper sensibles are the pure and fundamental sensibles. As we have been saying, perception of proper sensibles typically has perception of common sensibles coming along with them. We never perceive any common sensible without a proper sensible, but there are some bizarre circumstances, such as impenetrable fog or smoke, where there is no visible difference

 Aristotle also considers the possibility that the human might have some medium completely surrounding it and attached, as we can have a glove on our hand, in which case he thinks we might not be too aware of the five different senses (423a2– 11). Still, this would not prevent our distinguishing the proper sensibles, though failing to distinguish the different sense organs. But we would be much less likely to be at all clear about the common sensibles. Also, as we point out in the next paragraph, we can under unusual circumstances perceive proper sensibles without any common sensibles, though not vice versa, and proper sensibles are much more immediately perceived than some of the common sensibles, not requiring that the object be in motion or that we move the sense organ around or any further action taking time, which we shall also speak about below.

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perceptible, and there is nothing else perceptible to our other senses, when we might have some perception of a proper sensible, the color of the haze, without accompanying common sensibles. But apart from such unusual occasions, we nearly always perceive common sensibles along with proper sensibles. If this is the case, common sensibles are accidental inasmuch as they are not peculiar or proper to any one of the five senses to perceive. But insofar as the five senses almost always perceive common senses along with the proper sensibles, such perception of common sensibles hardly seems merely accidental.²¹ Here we recognize that the particular common sensible perceived is somehow accidental to the sense perceiving it, for it might be perceived by the other senses and its being in actuality does not depend upon its being perceived. But the class of common sensibles and the kind of common sensible that is perceived is not just accidental to this kind of sense, for the common sensibles act upon and can be perceived by all five of the senses, and each kind of common sensible is necessarily perceptible by this kind of sense. Whereas a proper sensible is necessarily perceived in order to be in actuality in any way at all, and just by this kind of sense, the class of common sensibles has actuality in the most significant way whether perceived or not, and each kind of common sensible is necessarily perceptible by this kind of sense. Might we also suggest that regarding the proper sensibles an animal immediately discriminates them and discriminates them as soon as it can utilize its senses?²² This discrimination can be immediate because the sensible is not essentially temporal. For though, for example, color can be lasting, color can be seen instantaneously (see n9). Thus in 426a15 – 27 quoted above Aristotle said that sounding and hearing in actuality are simultaneous. With the common sensibles, however, and especially because some are temporal and require time to be perceived, especially since they are motion or are perceived along with motion or its absence, we expect that an animal needs some experience before it can much discriminate these. That to perceive these common sensibles may require

 Hence Socrates can say in Plato’s Meno 75b that figure is what alone always accompanies color (ὃ μόνον τῶν ὄντων τυγχάνει χρώματι ἀεὶ ἑπόμενον). But we might add that magnitude, number, and rest or motion must also accompany color, and at least as much as figure! And while it may seem that the animal moves its sense organ to perceive either proper or common sensibles, in the case of the proper sensible moving the sense organ may assist in getting in position to perceive the object or perceive it better, as we turn our head to see or hear, but in the case of common sensibles the motion of the sense organ may enter into the perceiving itself, as in turning our head to follow an object in motion.  Such discrimination does not depend on naming, which requires learning and putting particulars in universal classes.

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the object or sense organ to be moved around fits with this suggestion that the animal only becomes at all adept at employing the common sensibles through some experience with them. To become used to perceiving sensible objects in motion and moving around the sense organs appropriately likely takes some learning and familiarity of the animal. This involves memory and φαντασία to anticipate how to move the sense organs to follow the motion of an object.²³ That the common sensibles are perceived by all the five senses and combinations of the senses also indicates that the animal has to have some experience with common perception to get much clarity about it. So most of the common sensibles take time to perceive, both because they are perceived by virtue of some motion of the object and sense organ, and because some experience is requisite for learning to perceive them.²⁴ Are the common sensibles in fact perceived by all five of the proper senses, as we have been assuming? When confirming that the common sensibles are perceived by more than one sense, Aristotle points out that we at least can see and touch a common sensible such as motion (418a19 – 20; cf. 442b4– 7). We may wonder whether merely these two senses, sight and touch, have a special connection with the common sensibles and whether the other senses can perceive the common sensibles at all. Why sight and touch have a definite connection

 Cashdollar [(1973), 167– 170] argues that accidental perception is strictly perception rather than thought, memory, or recollection. We are not disagreeing with him quite as much as it seems. He argues that perception is of what is present, but memory of what is past, so accidental perception of what is present cannot be memory. Yet since he holds that accidental perception is perceiving x as y, he allows that y is being associated with x, and y is something of which we have a φάντασμα, memory, or have thought about. He says, “Indeed, the ultimate source of the predicate [i. e., what is accidentally perceived by way of what is perceived in virtue of itself] is hardly relevant to the fact of incidental perception itself” (168). Thus he allows that φαντασία enters into accidental perception, though without keeping it from being perception. We might further observe that Aristotle deliberately defines memory and remembering in terms of ἕξις, which can mean dispositional storage of memories or remembering by way of them (see De mem. 451a14– 17). Hence we can speak of φαντασία and memory as involved in accidental perception. We are emphasizing the involvement of time and hence φαντασία in perceiving common and accidental sensibles much more than does Cashdollar. Since we have all perception taking place for Aristotle by way of the central or common sense, we need not worry that the complex perception involved in perceiving common or accidental sensibles goes beyond being perception simply.  Aristotle interestingly observes in 425b6 – 11 that were animals to have but one sense, say vision, all the common sensibles would come along with color vision, so the animal could hardly discriminate the proper and common sensibles. Having several senses, allowing that common sensibles are perceived by each of the senses, permits the ready discrimination of the various sensibles.

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with the common sensibles is that surface is the primary substratum of color, with surface generally being the surface of a body, and body is the primary substratum of the tangibles (see Cat. 1a24– 28 and Metaph. 1022a16 – 17). Surface and body that are the primary substrata for color and tangibles are also substrata for motion, rest, magnitude, figure, and number. Consequently, it is almost necessary upon perceiving a color or a tangible that the animal will also perceive a common sensible that inheres in the substratum along with the color or the tangible. The common sensibles all inhering in body thus nearly always come along with vision and touch, but do they clearly always go along with the proper sensibles of the other three senses? Perceiving sound, odor, or flavor also surely gives the animal some access to the common sensibles, yet, hardly as obviously as with sight and touch. Consider how we may perceive motion by sound or odor: first we hear or smell the object in one direction and then another, or what we hear or smell becomes progressively more or less perceptible. Such perception of common sensibles by way of taste, hearing, or smell is less precise or more obscure than the perception of common sensibles by way of sight or touch.²⁵ Does this mean that the perception of common sensibles by way of senses other than sight and touch is even more accidental, since the common sensibles come along with their proper sensibles less distinctly? Aristotle does not discuss this, but it seems likely that the answer is yes. We repeat that much perception of common sensibles requires memory and φαντασία on the part of the animal. These enter because of the motion or its absence involved with the common sensibles. If the object or sense organ has to be moved to perceive common sensibles, and the perception takes time, there has to be some retention by memory, and φαντασία from past perception comes into play in anticipating how to move the sense organs to follow the motion. This way that past perception enters into present perception may apply also for the other two types of accidental perception, when one proper sense perceives the sensible objects of another sense, or an animal perceives accidental sensibles. Let us consider both of these types of accidental perception.

 In DA 428b18 – 25 Aristotle discusses the relative vulnerability of the different sorts of perception to error. Perception of common sensibles is most vulnerable to error, but he here probably speaks of errors in seeing magnitude and shape rather than the kind of indistinct perception of common sensibles that we now are discussing. We are vulnerable to errors regarding common sensibles due to obscurity introduced by distance from what is seen.

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5 Accidental Perception of Proper Sensibles Aristotle tells us that each sense perceives its own proper sensibles in virtue of itself, and that the proper sensibles cannot be perceived by another sense (418a10 – 12). But he also indicates that a sense may perceive the sensibles of a different sense accidentally. He illustrates this by suggesting the perception of what is sweet by vision or the perception of bile as both yellow and bitter. He says, The senses perceive each other’s special objects accidentally (κατὰ συμβεβηκός); not because the percipient sense is this or that special sense, but because all form a unity: this accidental perception takes place whenever sense is directed at one and the same moment to two disparate qualities in one and the same object, e. g., to the bitterness and the yellowness of bile; the assertion of the identity of both cannot be the act of either of the senses; hence the illusion of sense, e. g. the belief that if a thing is yellow it is bile. (425a30–b4)

Because all sense, as we have argued, takes place by the unified common sense and each of the five senses is not part of a distinct universe, along with the fact that sensible objects tend to come together in things, the senses may be said accidentally to perceive each other’s objects. Aristotle’s example may leave us wondering how it is likely or possible that we can both see and taste bile, or the same instance of it, at once. Perhaps we have a quantity large enough that we may taste one portion’s bitterness while looking at the other portion’s yellowness. So we both taste yellow bile and see bitter bile, as we may see some large cake that we also taste. Each sense can thus accidentally perceive the other’s object. But the examples also allow that we may merely see cake and thereby perceive a sweet thing by vision. When Aristotle suggests that illusions of sense can be thus explained, he must mean that from experiencing perceptible features together, such as bitterness and yellowness in bile, we subsequently mistakenly suppose from perceiving but one of these, say yellowness, that we perceive bile or we also mistakenly expect the yellow object to be bitter tasting. Without being explicit about doing so, Aristotle has introduced φαντασία and possibly anticipation along with perception, and he deals here with two sorts of accidental perception, the accidental perceiving of sensibles of other proper senses and the perceiving of accidental perceptibles, such as bile. The proper senses accidentally perceive each other’s object when both are perceived together, as we have illustrated with seeing and tasting simultaneously yellow and bitter bile. But also there is accidental perception when we perceive merely one of these, yellowness, and mistakenly suppose that we perceive bitter bile (or we do see the bile). Since we do not really taste bitterness, but by seeing

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yellow have the expectation of bitterness awakened in us, we may still say that we accidentally perceive this bitterness in conjunction with seeing yellowness. In such cases of only perceiving one of the sensible features, φαντασία deriving from past perception has come into play. But whether we merely see yellowness and have no accompanying taste of bitterness, or we both see yellowness and taste bitterness, we perceive, or suppose that we perceive, bile that is bitter and yellow. Perceiving bile is the kind of accidental perception of accidental sensibles that is introduced in De anima II.6 and that we most wish to clarify.

6 Accidental Perception of the General Sort Aristotle’s example of an accidental sensible in De anima II.6 is the son of Diares. From perceiving a pale thing and a thing of a certain size and configuration, we perceive that it is the son of Diares. Aristotle uses this example of the son of Diares, and subsequently the son of Cleon (425a25 – 27), so that we do not suppose that only substantial beings, such as a human, are accidental sensibles. By speaking of the son of a human, Aristotle makes clear that relations can also be accidental objects of perception, as well as that we are perceiving some particular person, i. e., this very son of Diares, rather than merely any of his sons or some human or the human kind.²⁶ If we consider the various categories of being, it seems that beyond the proper sensibles and common sensibles, much else perceived is an accidental sensible. All substantial beings, qualities (other than figure and affective qualities), relations, actions and passions that are not simply motions (or possibly activities), and maybe places and times can all be accidental sensibles as particular beings. Yet, we may well wonder about places and times as accidental sensibles, for time is perceived in close relation to motion, a common sensible, and place is the inner boundary of the encompassing body that will be figured like the encompassed body. Time and place thus approach being common sensibles (De memoria 450a10 includes time with the common sensibles). Moreover, place and time seem common to all five senses, like the common sensibles. Yet, our usual very inexact senses of time and place may perhaps make them accidental sensibles. For example, I saw this before the sun set, and I saw it in Athens. Activities, such as thinking and  We thank Dr. Thérèse-Ann Druart for drawing this point to our attention. Perception even of accidental sensibles has us perceiving particulars. Cashdollar [(1973), 168, n24] observes that we might recognize the son of Diares without knowing his name or even having seen him before. The way we see the son of Diares by acquaintance with Diares may also suggest how perception can be accidental.

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choosing justly and engaging in action, that are not too readily perceived, are only perceived accidentally, and the enjoyment of any such activities also seems merely accidentally perceived. And if we turn from particular beings to consider universals, i. e., universal as what is predicated of many (see De int. 17a38–b1), every universal is an accidental sensible, so even proper sensibles and common sensibles taken universally will be accidental sensibles. This is because what we perceive in fact are particular beings, whereas universal beings are strictly objects of knowledge (see 417b22– 23). These are the fourth sort out of the five possible types of accidental sensibles that we listed above. The accidental sensibles that are particular or universal beings thus may belong in all the various categories of being. Since the categories of being for Aristotle comprise basically all the beings that can be in actuality or potentiality, we expect that most of the accidental sensibles have their primary being in actuality, whether or not they are perceived in actuality. In this way they resemble the common sensibles, which we recall have being in actuality whether or not they are perceived in actuality. The exceptions to this may be time and pleasure, for time seems only in potentiality until counted or measured by a sentient being, and pleasure seems to exist in actuality only for an animal enjoying something in actuality.²⁷ All the accidental sensibles and even the proper and common sensibles, as beings, depend for Aristotle upon substantial being, since for him all the beings in the various categories of beings, either are substantial beings or depend upon substantial beings for their being (see Metaph. IV.2, 1003a33–b19 and XII.6, 1071b3 – 6). So all being as beings are substantial beings or accidents of substance. All sensible beings as beings are or depend upon substances, whereas all sensible beings as sensible are proper sensibles or depend for being sensible on some connection with proper sensibles. As sensibles, there is in a rough way a progression from proper to common to accidental sensibles. Due to having the proper senses, animals also perceive common sensibles, and due to both proper and common sensibles, they perceive the accidental sensibles. The proper sensibles, except for tangibles, have being in actuality only when perceived in actuality. The common sensibles have being in actuality even when not perceived, but like the proper sensibles, the common sensibles cause sense perception, though they do so by way of and along with the proper sensibles. Because some bodily being has motion or

 It may seem that time and pleasure are both common sensibles since both can be perceived by all five senses. Yet, while the same time seems perceptible by all five senses, the pleasure of the different senses has to be different, as enjoying a walk or enjoying eating are different.

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rest, magnitude, figure and number in actuality, which impacts upon the senses along with proper sensibles, the common sensibles act upon the senses, and are then also perceived in actuality. Now, the particular accidental sensibles have being in actuality even when not perceived, in this way resembling common sensibles. But unlike the common sensibles, the accidental sensibles do not as such act upon the senses. What acts upon the senses are proper and common sensibles. What has these proper and common sensibles as its features is thereby perceived, as for example the son of Diares. It is not as the son of Diares that he acts upon the senses, but as a pale thing having some magnitude and figure. The odd accidental sensibles may then be time and enjoyment, which seem accidental sensibles as coming along with other sensibles, but only existing in full actuality when perceived in actuality.²⁸ Now we might ask, why it is not the supposed accidental sensible that acts upon the senses and that by means of these we perceive the common and proper sensibles. Yet, we recognize that a human can be perceived by various and varying proper and common sensibles, e. g., pale or tanned, standing upright or crouched, and so on. Hence it is not the human as a human that acts upon the senses, but the proper and common sensibles perceived in the ways they are by means of the senses, serve to make the accidental sensible perceived, as well. And we have to see the human fairly sharply to recognize that he is the son of Diares, or we may just see that he is a human without recognizing him as the son of Diares. Since the accidental sensibles are not as such acting upon the senses, should we suppose that they are not really sensibles at all, but intelligible or opinable objects? Though accidental perception is perception, its objects are somehow intelligible or opinable objects. Nonetheless, not only humans perceive accidental sensibles, but the beasts do, as well. A puppy perceives its mother and the mother its pup. And the beasts have some perception of many other accidental perceptibles, including time (concerning time, see De mem. 449b28 – 30). So it does not require thought to perceive accidental sensibles. Yet, the accidental sensibles are fundamentally and more genuinely opinables or intelligibles that belong comfortably to opinion and thinking. The really pure sensibles, as already indicated, are the proper sensibles, as only being in actuality as perceived. By way of perception of proper and common sensibles, animals have perceptual access to the accidental sensibles that are more prominently objects of opinion or knowledge. As particu Transparency for Aristotle seems to be seen only accidentally along with another’s color, yet like the proper sensibles it is only the potentiality for being perceptible and is only perceived when in actuality illumined. Universals are entities somehow only with being in the soul (417b23 – 24).

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lar, the accidental sensibles are most importantly opinables; as universal or as the essence, the accidental sensibles are suitably intelligibles. Maybe time and pleasure are somewhat difficult since they only have actuality as perceived in actuality, and so they seem perceptibles more than opinables. Yet, there are intellectual pleasures, and the sharp counting of motion that measures time as the number of motion requires mind (see Phys. IV.11, 220a24– 26 and 14, 223a16 – 29).²⁹ Given our suggestion that accidental perceptibles are primarily opinables or intelligibles rather than sensibles, we might suppose that animals are most mistaken about these accidental sensibles. Aristotle insists, however, that animals are most vulnerable to error regarding common sensibles (428b17– 25). Since the common sensibles have actuality without being perceived, in this way being like the accidental sensibles, the common sensibles can also be opinables. And distance, perspective, and rapidity of perception seem to impact upon the perception of common sensibles even more than upon accidental sensibles. Because the common sensibles are generally quantities or quantifiable, they are capable of particularly precise perception, but only under good conditions and in conjunction with measuring, and consequently inappropriate distance, perspective and rapidity of perception especially distort perception of them. We have been tracing the way the order of, or priority within sense perception reverses the order of being. The primary perceptibles are the proper sensibles, but the primary beings are substantial beings, i. e., accidental sensibles.³⁰

 If the measurement of time depends upon perception of motion, then time seems only in potentiality until perceived. There is motion whether perceived or not, and hence the potentiality for time even when not perceived. But the actuality of time, i. e., the measurement of motion, requires perception and even thought for more precise numbering. In this way the being of time resembles that of the proper sensibles rather than the common sensibles. Yet as perceiving motion requires φαντασία, perceiving time, unlike perceiving proper sensibles, requires φαντασία. Hence Aristotle may be ambivalent about speaking of time as a common sensible. The pleasure involved with perceiving a proper sensible may not be disentangled from the perception, and therefore a type of proper sensible. Thus we do not wish to say, as does Cashdollar (1973), that any case of perceiving x as y is accidental perception, e. g., perceiving this odor as pleasant. Similarly enjoying perceiving a common sensible or an accidental sensible would also seem to be very closely joined with these types of sensibles. Pleasure as so closely connected with perceiving may be each of the kinds of sensibles. But pleasures, like proper sensibles, only have being in actuality in being perceived in actuality.  This relates to the claim of Marmodoro [(2014), 2] that “Aristotle’s metaphysics of perception is fundamentally different from his metaphysics of substance,” but does not go the way she claims. She says, “In view of the fact that for Aristotle everything in physical nature is built out of the four simple elements and their mixtures, and the simple elements are built out of the primary properties, it follows that all there is in nature is built out of powers. All physical changes in nature derive from changes in the combinations of the primary powers” [(2014),

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Clearly, animals manage to go from perceiving what is perceptible in virtue of itself, proper and common sensibles, to perceiving the accidental sensibles. Aristotle need not develop a full account of this in the De anima but merely suggest what is necessarily involved, which is perception of the sensibles in virtue of themselves through the functioning unification of the sense power of animals. And for humans this is supplemented by the power of speech and thought.³¹

7 The Importance of Accidental Perception From the standpoint of the natural human desire to know, which builds from sense to memory, to experience, to the attainment of art and science—see Posterior Analytics II.19 and Metaphysics I.1—accidental perception should hardly seem at all trivial. Knowledge is of universals (DA 417b22– 23), and universals develop in our soul, starting from sense, where the sense meant is surely the sense of particular proper sensibles accompanied by common sensibles. From perceiv-

9]. Now this is a bottom-up account of the “matter” of bodily beings and that which moves the senses to perceive, but it misses the top-down account of the prominence of the nature and form of natural beings as the primary source of the motion and rest, unless, which it does not seem to mean, the “primary powers” mainly refers to the nature of the body. In dealing with Aristotle’s initial definition of δύναμις in Metaph. 1046a9 – 11 [(2014), 10], she overlooks [see (2014), 65, n10] his later comment that “nature also is in the same genus as potentiality; for it is a principle of movement—not, however, in something else but in the thing itself qua itself” (1049b8 – 10), so the nature is a potentiality or power of a different sort from the “primary powers” focused upon by Marmodoro, and it is too limited to say “powers for Aristotle are dependent entities” [(2014), 22], which applies to the sorts of potentialities specified in 1046a9 – 11, but not to the nature as a power, as indicated in 1049b8 – 10. And while Aristotle recognizes four types of causes, Marmodoro [(2014), 30] states way too narrowly, “In a nutshell, for Aristotle, causation is the activation of reciprocal causal powers. Aristotle considers causal powers as relatives; namely, the agent and patient in a causal pair are causal relatives.”  Marmodoro [(2014), 267] asks and answers about perceiving ordinary sensible things such as plants and animals: “how does multimodal perceptual awareness arise from modally dedicated sense organs? Aristotle’s answer is simple: the awareness of sensibles perceived by the special senses is thereby also available to the perceptual faculty centrally, as a constituent of complex perceptual contents. The complex contents arise either as a result of how the world is, or as a result of how we perceive it. And this is possible on account of, broadly speaking, two perceptual mechanisms for complex multimodal perceptual content: the first is the mechanism of perceiving common sensibles (e. g., shape, size, number, movement, etc.) and the second is the mechanism of perceiving differences between various sensibles (e. g., discerning white from sweet). The awareness of differences between sensibles is the most fundamental perceptual ability, whereas the perception of the common sensibles is the ground for our awareness of objects in the world.”

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ing the particular sensible objects perceptible in virtue of themselves, we come to perceive the accidental sensibles that comprise the more important objects of opinion and knowledge (see also Physics VII.3 on knowledge). Though the beasts perceive accidental sensibles, humans combine their perception of such sensibles with speech, so that they treat them as the opinables and intelligibles that they more genuinely are. Accidental perception, thus, hardly seems trivial, since such sensibles enter prominently into the development of thought, knowledge, and action. Aristotle’s examples of proper sensibles may be of bare qualities, e. g., red or warm, or possibly of such qualified things, e. g., the red or warm thing. We have emphasized that the bare sensible has its being in actuality in being perceived in actuality. Common sensibles have being in actuality beyond being perceived, but in being perceived, they are necessarily coming along with the perception of proper sensibles. Accidental sensibles, such as the son of Diares, play a fundamental role in the life of the animal despite their extremely brief treatment in the De anima. Animals typically have definite sorts of food, are natural prey to other animals, some live in groups and some have care for offspring, which all demand some accidental perception. Much as the perception of common sensibles comes along with and depends on the perception of proper sensibles, accidental perception depends on and comes along with the perception of common and proper sensibles. But we have seen that the perception of most common sensibles involves φαντασία and memory, and the perception of accidental sensibles also depends even more on φαντασία and memory.³² Likely, even the simplest animals that merely have contact sense require φαντασία, if indefinite φαντασία, to go from immediate touching to desire to ingest the food (see DA III.11). Only through the repetition of the two more basic sorts of perception and through memory,

 We may compare Plato’s Philebus 35a6– 9, which proves that memory is needed for desire. Socrates asks, “But what about this problem? If someone is emptied for the first time, is there any way he could be in touch with filling, either through sensation or memory, since he has no experience of it, either in the present or ever in the past?” The newborn feels the pain of emptying, but the newborn has no perception or memory of filling. So this first emptying is experienced merely as pain rather than as desire. The newborn mammal cries and is nursed. The animal desiring always desires something, and the animal cannot desire what it is presently undergoing but the opposite of this. The thirsty animal is emptying but desires filling. If there is to be desire for filling, there must be some way that the animal is in contact with filling. But this is the opposite condition from that which the body is undergoing. Desire involves anticipation of what may not presently be perceived, so it must be by memory in the soul of previous filling that the animal can anticipate the affection opposite to that the body is experiencing. All desire, then, must require soul and be by means of memory and φαντασία: there are no strictly bodily desires.

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does an animal relate its perception of colors, sounds, odors, tastes, or tangibles, and magnitudes, figures, number, motion, and rest to the substrata of these sensible features, and to other features of the substrata. Thereby the animal is enabled to do much that is useful for its life. Accidental perception is significantly more complicated than the simpler types of perception that serve as its basis, yet it seems ultimately to be the most important sort of perceiving that animals capable of it engage in. While proper and common sensibles have causal priority, and especially proper sensibles, from the perspective of animal practical application and eventually in human understanding and theorizing, it is accidental perception that seems the most important phenomenon. What initially is merely accidental ultimately serves the higher end. According nicely with this is Aristotle’s contention that hearing is accidentally the most important sense for humans (De sensu 437a3 – 15). While sight introduces the most differences to the animal, the rather limited significance of hearing in this respect, along with its close connection with motion and temporality and its ready availability, makes it conducive for speech. Accidentally, then, hearing becomes the most important sense, as accidental perception is ultimately the most important perception for us.³³ The way we have shown that much perception of common sensibles and all perception of accidental sensibles requires φαντασία and memory helps explain why Aristotle in the De anima wishes to concentrate in his accounts of the faculties upon their most fundamental objects. Perception of proper sensibles is most basic and most purely perception. Proper sensibles have their being more fundamentally by being perceived. When we get to perception of common sensibles and accidental sensibles much would need to be brought in that interferes with the straightforward and scientific account.

Conclusion We have given accounts of the perception of both common and proper sensibles in order to support the causal priority of these types of perception over accidental perception. There is no accidental perception without the perception of common and proper sensibles, just as there is no perception of common sensibles without the perception of proper sensibles. Yet, accidental perception seems to be the most important sort of perception in which animals can engage. While

 Understanding the speech that we hear is surely accidental to hearing or a sort of accidental hearing.

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it does not have causal priority in terms of perception itself, it seems to have priority for the life of the animal, including humans. We suggest that the reason for the brief treatment of such an important sort of perception is that it does not admit of scientific treatment in the same way that the proper or common sensibles do. Yet, taken universally, accidental perception does admit of some reflection and intelligibility, as seen in our and Aristotle’s discussion. We have shown that this sort of perception also depends on both memory and φαντασία. In addition, we have shown ways that both proper and common sensibles might be understood as accidental. We have touched on the way in which time and pleasure are sensible objects.³⁴

Works Cited Barnes (1984): Jonathan Barnes (ed.), The Complete Works of Aristotle, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Burnyeat (2008): Myles Burnyeat, “Kinesis vs. Energeia: A Much Misread Passage in (But Not of) Aristotle’s Metaphysics,” in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 34, 219–292. Cashdollar (1973): Stanford Cashdollar, “Aristotle’s Account of Incidental Perception,” in: Phronesis 18, 156 – 175. Gregoric (2007): Pavel Gregoric, Aristotle on the Common Sense, Oxford. Henry (2015): Devin Henry, “Holding for the most part: the demonstrability of moral facts,” in: Devin Henry and Margrethe Nielsen (eds.), Bridging the Gap between Aristotle’s Science and Ethics, Cambridge, 169 – 189. Marmodoro (2014): Anna Marmodoro, Aristotle on Perceiving Objects, Oxford. Owens (1982): Joseph Owens, “Aristotle on Common Sensibles and Incidental Perception,” in: Phoenix 36, 215 – 236. Polansky (2007): Ronald Polansky, Aristotle De anima, Cambridge. Polansky (2017): Ronald Polansky, “Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics Is a Practical Science,” in: William Wians and Ronald Polansky (eds.), Reading Aristotle: Argument and Exposition, Leiden, 277 – 314.

 Earlier versions of this paper were presented at the Catholic University of America and at the University of Pittsburgh.

Theodossios P. Tassios

Mechanical Properties of Solids in Aristotle’s Meteorologica Preamble a) Μετεωρολογικά (Meteorologica) seems to be the one of the most multidisciplinary works by Aristotle: Astronomy, Geography, Physics, Geometry, Optics, Mineralogy, Seismology, Vulcanology, Chemistry, and of course Meteorology, are the scientific fields touched upon in this treatise. Nevertheless, a small but substantial part of it is devoted to an important chapter of Applied Mechanics which is nowadays called Strength of Materials—a field of tangible technological interest. In this respect, it is not our intention to re-open the question of the Stagirite’s attitude towards Technology—although his (probably genuine) work Μηχανικά Προβλήματα (Mēchanica Problēmata) and his social belief in the liberating potential of high technology, constitute a positive assertion of his technophilia…. In any event, we may very well understand Aristotle’s interest in the “science of materials,” since his entire Cosmology is based on matter. b) More specifically, in the fourth book of Meteorologica, his interest starts with the physical processes which led to the generation of the various categories of natural bodies. This subject is central to Aristotle’s philosophical plan to offer (at any cost) a rational exegesis of the creation of the material world. Thus, it is not surprising that the entire fourth book of Meteorologica deals with the mechanisms of generation of various materials—despite the seemingly disparate character of this subject, compared to the other topics of the Meteorologica. ¹ One of the truly new ideas introduced in this book IV is the explanation of the solidification of materials: either by means of the “cool” (e. g., in the case of ice), or by means of the “hot” (e. g., in the case of ceramics), depending on the main constitutive element of the material under consideration (“water” or “earth”). The book also deals with the “dissolution” of materials by water, as well as with putrefaction. Generally speaking, Aristotle insists on examining “natural change” as a fundamental characteristic of the World.

 Such observations have been sufficiently discussed in the literature [see, i.a., Louis (2002), xiv – xvi]. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-009

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c) In doing so, however, he is not indifferent to the solid state itself; with Aristotelian perspicacity, various properties of solid bodies are examined. The Stagirite shows a specific interest in the mechanical properties of bodies —and this constitutes this paper’s subject.

1 Enumeration of Mechanical Properties A mere enumeration of these properties is needed first, in view of their required classification. The text (385a11) proposes a characterisation of the materials, suggesting appropriate adjectives to describe their properties—and “adjectives” means concepts, knowledge: a) b) c) d) e) f) g) h) i) j) k) l) m) n) o) p)

πηκτόν, apt to solidification τηκτόν, apt to softening by heat or dissolution by water μαλακτόν, malleable by heat τεγκτόν, apt to softening by water καμπτόν, flexible κατακτόν, breakable θραυστόν, apt to be shattered θλαστόν, apt to be squashed whole, or locally impressible πλαστόν, malleable by hand πιεστόν, temporarily (reversibly) compressible ἑλκτόν, tractile ἐλατόν, ductile σχιστόν, fissile τμητόν, scissile γλίσχρον, viscous πιλητόν, permanently (irreversibly) compressible

It should be noted that, for some of these English translations, several additional comments included in other paragraphs of the book have been relied on, as will be explained subsequently.² In Table 1, these characterisations are classified according to: (i) basic properties of materials and (ii) relevant levels of temperature. This paper however will focus on the mechanical properties of solid materials under normal temperatures, i. e., on part II of Table 1.

 It is also worth noting that, with the exception of terms “d,” “f” and “p,” all these adjectives have preserved their use and meaning in modern Greek, too.

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Table 1: Mechanical characterization of solid materials in Mete., IV, 385a11. I. STATE—CHANGE Properties

Softening

II. SOLID—STATE

Solidification

Deformation (elastic Rheology Rupture or plastic)

Temperature a apt to be solidified

Cold

Normal

b dissolvable d apt to be softened by water

Hot

b apt to be soft- a apt to be ened by heat solidified

e flexible h apt to be squashed (impressible) f breakable i malleable by hand m fissile j reversibly como viscous n scissile pressible g apt to be p irreversibly comshattered pressible k tractile l ductile

The finesse of the scientific terminology offered by Aristotle in this field is admirable, especially because of its pragmatic character, developed in a period of rather cloudy generalities, such as the famous four elements of Nature and the like…. Nevertheless, the terms initially used by Aristotle in 385a11– 18, needed some explanation which he offered himself in subsequent parts of the text. It is our intention to follow these explanations, one by one, in order to clarify the concepts and to better evaluate the validity of Aristotelian views under the light of actual scientific knowledge.

2 Comments Offered by Aristotle on Deformation (i) Flexible [καμπτόν] (385b27– 30)³: The reed and the withy can be bent; pottery and stone cannot.

 Greek text according to Fobes (1919).

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It is clear that the Aristotelian term “flexible” is applicable only to large macroscopic bendings (Fig. 1a). However, the concept of flexure as a load-effect was instated. But now comes a rather strange statement: (386a7– 6): The transition leading to the straight is not bending. Bending is one thing, and straightening is another.

Unless I have misunderstood the text, this affirmation is not particularly flattering for the Aristotelian spirit. And it is all the more surprising, as the transition from convex to concave form admitted by the same text (a few lines earlier), is, in fact, bending (Fig. 1b).

(ii) Apt to be squashed (impressible) [θλαστόν] (386a17– 20): Some, like copper and wax, are inapt to be squashed—some others not (like pottery and water). Impression is a partial sinking of a surface because of a pressure or a blow (or generally of a contact).

Here, a differentiation is implied: If the pressing object covers the entire surface of the loaded material, the term “inapt to be squashed” is proposed for “θλαστόν.” If the pressing object is smaller than the loaded surface, the term “impressible” is more appropriate (Fig. 2). However, the use of the term “squashed” in translating “θλαστόν” is indispensable; even surface-broken olives were called “θλασταί” in Antiquity. On the other hand, since these drastic compressive deformations of the material are meant to be permanent, the yield-limit of the material has been surpassed, and all deformations are plastic (in the actual meaning of the term).⁴

(iii) Malleable by hand [πλαστόν] And it is precisely this Greek term “plastic” (πλαστόν, that is, malleable) that our Author uses to describe another category of naturally soft bodies—in fact, a sub-

 And it is interesting to note that Aristotle correctly observes (386b22) that most of the “apt to be squashed/impressible” materials are ductile (ἐλατά, point “l” in §1 above).

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category of apt to be squashed/impressible materials: those that are malleable by hand (see, 386a26).

(iv) Reversibly compressible [πιεστόν] Another subcategory of apt to be squashed/impressible materials are the following: (386a28 – 29): They are not easily impressible (like stone or wood), or they are only temporarily impressible (like wool or sponge). […] Those are “compressible.” (386a30 – 32): Compressible (materials) are those that under compression are submitted to contraction, while their compressed surface is solidly displaced without parts interchanging positions, as in the case of water).

This seems to be the case of the, actually called, elastic behaviour under uniaxial compression (Fig. 3). A physical explanation of the mechanism of such a “compressibility” is then offered: (386b2– 3): Compressible are those bodies that, containing pores empty of the material of these bodies, can contract into their voids or into their pores.

This is a mechanically appropriate explanation of deformability: internal “discontinuities” is the broader term that Aristotle seems to insinuate here with his seeming hesitation between the words “pores” and “voids.” After all, “pore” in Greek is not mainly an orifice but a “passage.” Thus, even the modern “dislocation theory” of metals might be included in the aforementioned Aristotelian explanation of compressibility [although our Author denies the compressibility of iron (see, 386b10)]. The explanation we are examining here becomes more attractive because of its generalization that the Stagirite offers in 386b4 – 8: “Sometimes, the pores into which the body contracts are not empty […], but they are full of a softer material. Thus, compressible are also the (i) sponge [since its pores are filled with (water)], (ii) the wax and (iii) the flesh.”⁵

 Although flesh may not be an “ὁμοιομερές” (homogeneous) body, according to the Aristotelian definition.

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Another very important point in this part of book IV is the recognition of the basic principle of the incompressibility of liquids; this is of course an approximation, but sufficiently precise for practical applications, even today.⁶ (386b11): Water and all liquids are incompressible.

Obviously, what is meant is that such a liquid is submitted to pressure while contained in an impermeable container, without any possibility of leakage. And, in this respect, a reference should also be made to the aforementioned behaviour of water included in a wet sponge: This water is not tightly contained, and therefore may easily escape under pressure; here, it behaves as a “soft” material included in pores.

(v) Irreversibly compressible [πιλητόν] (387a15): Those of the [previously mentioned] compressible [materials] that undergo permanent compression are [called] permanently compressible.

Under the actual knowledge of Mechanics, this definition is grossly empirical: All materials, after their yield-limit of pressure stress, are submitted to some permanent (irreversible) deformations. Similarly, the opposite of this category of “πιλητά”—materials], (i. e., the “ἀπίλητα”) mentioned by Aristotle, does not seem to make much sense either (387a16): It is defined as “those completely incompressible or temporarily compressed;” but these are practically covered by the previous category of “πιεστά.” Consequently, this passage of book IV has only a practical significance in illustrating a remarkable situation of permanent compression⁷ of soft materials under moderate pressure, or of strong materials under very high pressures.

(vi) Tractile [ἑλκτόν] After these deformational states under compressive forces, the text then moves on to traction (under tensile forces).

 The modulus of elasticity of water is ten times higher than that of steel.  Of materials “inapt to be flattened” according to the translation of Louis (2002).

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(386b11– 14): Tractile are those that displace [their] plane surface sideways; since being under traction consists in displacing [their] plane surface towards the direction of the motive [force], without disruption.

This definition suffers from some vagueness because of the notion of the “plane surface” (ἐπίπεδον in the original): When this plane-surface (or, as we would call it today, this cross-section of the body) is used for the second time in explaining how an elongation is effected along the direction of the mover (τὸ κινοῦν), the text is clear. In its first appearance, however, the displacement of such a plane surface “sideways” may produce a confusion: (i) In fact, it is difficult to admit that the Author wished to express twice the same phenomenon with two different formulations: first by the adverb “sideways” (εἰς τὸ πλάγιον), and then by the phrase “towards the direction of the mover.” (ii) The principal direction being that of the traction, it is hard to understand how it coincides with its “sideways” direction! This difficulty was felt in at least two translations of the original text: One in English⁸ where this “sideways” notion is merely skipped over, and one in French⁹ where, instead of the expression “the surface is displaced,” the verb “modified” is used; which, however, may insinuate a physically correct phenomenon: The lateral contraction (Δt in Fig. 4a) of the cross-section of an elongated body (the so-called “Poisson” phenomenon)—a deformation that could not have escaped the perceptivity of Aristotle. Who, on the other hand, had described verbatim the analogous phenomenon under compression of ductile bodies, saying (386b20): “[Their] plane surface, under the same blow, may be partially displaced both across the width and along the depth [of the body]” (Δw and Δd in Fig. 4b). Thus, when considering compression, the Stagirite was conscious of the Poisson phenomenon; consequently, we may more easily accept that he was also aware of the same phenomenon in the opposite direction—i. e., under tension. It is worth noting that both in traction (386b11) and in compression (386b20), Aristotle is using precisely the same words to express the deformation of the cross-section of the loaded body: “μεθίστασθαι τὸ ἐπίπεδον.” In conclusion, we may sustain that our proposed translation of the debated passage could be somehow improved by substituting the term “displacement” by the more generic one of “deformation,” as follows:

 See Webster, part 9.  See Louis (2002), 59.

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(386b11– 14): Tractile are those whose plane surface [i. e., their cross-section] deforms sideways; since being under traction consists in deforming the plane surface along the direction of the motive [force], without disruption.

(vii) Ductile [ἐλατόν] This subcategory of compressible materials was already introduced in the preceding paragraph. In addition to the previous definition of 386b20, Aristotle continues with the following explanations: (386b22– 26): All ductile materials are simultaneously apt to be squashed/impressible; [however] all apt to be squashed/impressible materials are not ductile (e. g., wood). Yet, generally speaking, the two [subcategories] are mutually interchangeable. On the other hand, of the compressible materials, some are ductile (like wax and clay), and some others not (like wool).

Copper is also categorised among the ductiles, and stone among the non-ductiles (see, 386b18). We are reminded that the basic characteristic of ductile materials was their large lateral expansion under quasi-comparable longitudinal compressive deformation—both deformations being permanent, after an intensive blow (Fig. 4b). But this is precisely the property of a good hammered material—and all good metals in Ancient Greece should be amenable to hammering (for strength-increase, for welding purposes, or merely in order to modify the form of an object).

(viii) Viscous [γλίσχρον] It is remarkable that Aristotle makes a separate mention of viscous bodies (in 385b5) in a passage dealing with solidified, softened and dissolvable materials. His examples for this subcategory are pitch and mistletoe, i. e., the waxy berries of the parasitic shrub Viscum album. Later on (387a12– 14) he comes back to the subject: “Viscous is a body when, liquid or soft, it is tractile thanks to an interlacing of its parts as in a chain; such bodies are inapt to be much elongated and contracted again.” According to modern knowledge, the main particularity of these materials consists in their rheological behaviour, i. e., their sensitivity to the rate of flow or shear loading. Our Author does not describe such a particularity; the fact, however, that he has coined a separate label for these materials, indicates some knowledge about their particular properties.

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3 Comments Offered by Aristotle on Rupture After this rather detailed reference to the deformational characteristics of various categories of materials, book IV of Meteorologica refers to distinct properties of rupture of our subcategories of materials.

(i) Breakable [κατακτόν] (386a12– 16): Fracture (breaking) is a division and separation [of the body] into large parts. Solidified [bodies] containing many interrelated pores break [along these pores].

Wood is indicated as an example of such “breakable” material (Fig. 5a). It is interesting to observe that, in modern Greek, the fracture of bones is called “κάταγμα”—having the same root with κατακτόν (breakable), i. e., of the category of solids we are examining here. Similarly, in the original Greek text of the Scriptures, the Roman soldiers “κατέαξαν” (have broken) the legs of the two crucified brigands. This means that bones, too, belong to the category of “κατακτόν,” i. e., of bodies breakable in few parts (instead of being shattered).

(ii) Apt to be shattered [θραυστόν] As opposed to the previous subcategory, ice and stone under pressure burst suddenly into many small pieces (see, 386a10), as in Fig. 5b. This is attributed by Aristotle to the fact that the pores of these bodies are “unrelated,” i. e., they do not communicate with each other—thus, they do not offer privileged lines of discrete rupture in large parts. The Author also observes that pottery may be shattered or breakable, occasionally.

(iii) Fissile [σχιστόν] Now, for the first time (after compression, tension and bending), Aristotle deals with shear loading. (386b27– 387a2– 3): Fissile is a body able to be divided farther than the cutting instrument; in fact this body is split (i. e., the act of division advances more than the cutting instrument)…. Such are the bodies that have their (interre-

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lated) pores arranged along the direction [of cutting], rather than across it.

As an example of this category, wood (Fig. 6a) is again mentioned (see, 386b26), as opposed to pottery.

(iv) Scissile [τμητόν] As a parallel morphological category of rupture always under shear, Aristotle describes the condition of more homogeneous bodies when submitted to sawing. (387a4– 8): Scissile are those hard or soft solid bodies that can be cut without necessarily a splitting proceeding farther than the cutting, nor a shattering during their division; liquids are not scissile. Some bodies are both scissile and fissile, like wood; which is fissile along its length and scissile across it.

Once again, the orthotropy of wood is very interestingly observed by Aristotle (Fig. 6b).

4 Discussion At the start, I was not certain about the suitability of such a subject for a Congress devoted to the Philosophy of Aristotle. With time, however, I came to think that Philosophy should be given the full content that the Stagirite himself gave to his work. From this point of view, we have observed in our Preamble that the central philosophical plan of Aristotle (to offer a natural exegesis of the material World) could not be served without a more detailed consideration of the mechanical behaviour of solid bodies; his Cosmos was made of them…. Despite a similarity in their projects, the Presocratics did not offer such an organised introduction to the properties of solid bodies. And it seems that, even with its imperfections, the Aristotelian introduction to the subject, paved the way¹⁰ for further scientific developments.

 “Aristotle’s chapter in the Meteorologica is the starting-point of the De lapidas, and his remarks provide a foundation for Theophrastus’ own theory on the formation of stones and mineral earths.” [Eichholz (1965), 4].

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Addendum 1. Regarding “flexural” deformations, it may be interesting to refer also to the probably aristotelian views included in Mechanical Problems ([Mech.], 26). There, the flexural deformation of a long timber beam is described, when it is carried on one’s shoulder. The following problem is formulated and possible answers are offered in the text 857a5 – 11: “Why is it harder to carry on one’s shoulder long timbers, holding them at their ends rather than at their middle (although the weight is the same)? Either (i) because the end of the timber oscillates and the carriage is hampered. Or (ii) (even if the timber is not bended or if it is short in length), it is still harder to carry it at its end, since it is easier to lift a timber from its middle rather than from its end; for the same reason [this is valid] for its easier carriage [on one’s shoulder].” 2. Two possible conclusions can be drawn from this passage. a) It is probable that Aristotle had realized the notion of elasticity of materials, which explains the oscillation: The verb “σαλεύεσθαι” (in passive voice) is closer to “tremble” and it was also used in the case of earthquakes.¹¹And in this passage cannot mean an “up-and-down motion due to a simple rotation” of a rigid timber beam: This is verbatim excluded by the text itself [Mech., 1, (ii) above], where the “σάλευσις” is considered as a consequence of “κάμψις” (bending), whereas the case of the rigid beam is treated separately. Nevertheless, several scholars seriously question this interpretation of “oscillation,” and they merely accept only the case of “rigid body rotation,” invoking 27 of Mechanical Problems, where the text goes as follows (857a22– 23 and 29 – 33): Why is it harder to carry on one’s shoulder a very long [object] as compared to a shorter one having the same weight—even if it is carried at its middle? [The cause is the oscillation]: The shoulder is the stable center “A,” and [the distances] AB and ΑΓ from the center; the longer the distance from the center (AB or ΑΓ), the larger the displacement.

We maintain that this “displacement” is not necessarily a “rigid body motion”: The flexural displacement of a timber beam protruding by a length “l” in front of your shoulder is a function of the third power of this length. Thus, if the thinner object is longer by 50 %, its deflexion will be seven times larger than the deflexion of the shorter object, taking also into account the increased flexibility of

 See, Montanari (1995).

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the thinner beam of equal total weight. Such differences in “oscillation” are so impressive, that the interpretation of mere rigid-body-motion seems less probable. b) Since the theory of levers and balances was known to Aristotle (Mech., 1, 18, 20, 22) we maintain that his qualitative judgement “harder” (χαλεπώτερον) in 26, could also be explained in terms of the disproportionally high force exerted by the timber beam on one’s shoulder if held by one of its ends: If you carry a heavy timber log 1,75 m long, having 0,25 m in front of you, and 1,50 m behind you, your shoulder will feel more than three times the weight of the log, because of the big effort you put with your hand to keep the timber in equilibrium. It is true, however, that Aristotle himself does not further explain this cause of difficulty in the case of such an asymmetrical carriage of a beam.

Works Cited Eichholz (1965): D.E. Eichholz, Theophrastus, De Lapidas, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ferrini (2010): Maria Fernanda Ferrini (trans.), [Aristotele] Meccanica, Milano: Bompiani. Louis (2002): P. Louis (trans.), [Aristote] Météorologiques, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Montanari (1995): Franco Montanari, Vocabolario della Lingua Greca, Torino: Loescher. Webster: E.W. Webster, trans., “[Aristotle] Meteorology,” in: The Internet Classics Archive, http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/meteorology.html

Fig. 1: Flexible (καμπτόν)

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Fig. 2: a) Squashed, b) Impressible (θλαστόν)

Fig. 3: Reversibly compressible (πιεστόν)

Fig. 4: a) Tractile (ἑλκτόν), b) Ductile (ἐλατόν)

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Fig. 5: a) Breakable (κατακτόν), b) Shattered (θραυστόν)

Fig. 6: a) Fissile (σχιστόν), b) Scissile (τμητόν)

II Philosophy of Human Action

Theodore Scaltsas

Extended and Embodied Values and Ideas We have all inherited the conception of “external goods” from the Aristotelian ethical tradition. There are some clear cases of external goods, such as money, which is the means for exercising many kinds of good dispositions, such as being helpful or benevolent. But one may well wonder to what are the “external goods” external? Furthermore, where is the goodness of “external goods” seated, in view of the fact that they are not inherently good as they are not moral agents? These are good aporias with which to begin our investigation. Are external goods external to the soul? To the body? To the moral action? Or to the moral goodness of the moral action? And how are we to comprehend the “externality” of their goodness? Goodness follows virtue, in Aristotelian Virtue Ethics. Virtues are dispositions of the soul; hence, the soul is where goodness is to be found. But virtue is dispositional and manifested in action; external means facilitate action, and “external goods” are the means that facilitate good action. So the question arises, what is the role of manifestation of virtuous dispositions? Also, how does manifestation relate to goodness? Let us explore these questions and examine their consequences. Aristotle examines what virtue is, and distinguishes it from passions, such as “appetite, anger, fear, confidence, envy, joy, friendly feeling, hatred” etc., and “in general, the feelings that are accompanied by pleasure or pain.” He further distinguishes virtues from faculties of the soul, faculties that enable us to have such feelings, e. g., “of becoming angry, or being pained, or feeling pity” (EN, II.5). Virtues are defined as states of character, which are that: in virtue of which we stand well or badly with reference to the passions, e. g., with reference to anger we stand badly if we feel it violently or too weakly, and well if we feel it moderately; and similarly, with reference to the other passions. (1105b25 – 28)

Our emphasis here should be in the conception of “standing.” How does our soul “stand” towards anything? What Aristotle is trying to capture is the readiness of the soul to respond in particular ways to situations. In a sense, his explanation above might mislead us to think of it in reverse, as if virtues follow feelings. Rather, the soul is not passive, e. g., waiting until it feels feelings, first, and then responding to the feelings it feels through the virtues. On the contrary, the soul’s ‘standing’ towards, e. g., anger is the soul’s being disposed to feel anger moderately or violently. The virtues are constitutive of the soul’s https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-010

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“standing” towards feelings; the soul’s states of character are dispositions for feeling feelings; of the soul’s readiness to feel feelings in particular manners in response to types of circumstances. Aristotle describes ethical virtue as a “state,” a “condition,” a “disposition,” i. e., as a tendency induced by our habits, to have appropriate feelings (1105b25 – 6). The capacity to feel feelings is innate; but the manner of feeling feelings is not innate. We are neither blamed nor praised for our passions, for the man who feels fear or anger is not praised, nor is the man who simply feels anger blamed, but the man who feels it in a certain way. (1105b31– 1106a1)

This is Aristotle’s core conception regarding building moral character: the manner is up to us. We can train ourselves to feel feelings in particular ways. The significance of this is that the way we feel feelings regulates the impact these feelings have on our decision making and actions. Thus, we learn not to get angry at what children do, but to become angry if adults behave the same way. We do not control the nature of each type of feeling; but we do have significant control of what can stimulate each type of feeling, and to what degree of intensity the feeling is experienced. It follows that much about virtue is up to us, namely, about our developed dispositions to feel and behave in certain ways, which is why virtue grounds our responsibility for our decisions and actions. Aristotle tells us: Excellence [of character], then, is a state concerned with choice, lying in a mean relative to us, this being determined by reason and in the way in which the man of practical wisdom would determine it. It is a mean between two vices, that which depends on excess, and that which depends on defect. (1106b36 – 1107a3)

Desires and passions motivate us to act, but it is virtues that shape the way we experience motivations to act. It follows that virtues (at least in our pre-neuroscientific era) manifest themselves only in our decisions and actions. If, then, virtues are the ground of moral goodness, although moral goodness belongs to the developed moral character in the soul, goodness will be detectable only in decisions and actions, namely, in behaviour. Our goal, in developing moral character, is to train ourselves to aim at what society deems is the right way to behave, which is grounded on reasoned experience.¹ Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean tells us that excellence:

 I have argued for the truth of reasoned experience in Scaltsas (1996), 292– 305.

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aims at the mean. Excellence of character is concerned with emotions and acts, in which there can be excess or deficiency or a mean. For example, one can be frightened or bold, feel desire or anger or pity, and experience pleasure and pain generally, either more or less than is right, and in both cases wrongly; while to have these feelings at the right time, on the right occasion, toward the right people, for the right purpose and in the right manner, is what is both intermediate and best, and this is characteristic of virtue. (1106b15 – 23, my emphasis)

The right time, the right occasion, the right people, the right purpose and the right manner are all at least partly externally determined, rather than internally by the soul of the agent. But despite their externality, these complex conditions for the right decision and action are not what Aristotle considers the “external goods.” To encounter the Aristotelian external goods, we need to look at the very nature of moral goodness, which is expounded by Aristotle in his Function Argument. I will not here discuss the Function Argument,² which would take us in different directions, but only focus on its central conclusion. What Aristotle is looking for is to determine what human excellence is, specifically, distinctively human excellence—“we are seeking what is peculiar to man” (1097b34). And this turns out to be “an active life of the element that has a rational principle… ‘life’ in the sense of activity” (1098a3 – 6). It is therefore not epistemological reasons that drive Aristotle’s account to the conclusion that goodness is to be found in action, but the very nature of virtue in the sense of excellence requires it to characterise living, rather than merely the soul: The human good turns out to be activity of soul in accordance with virtue, and if there are more than one virtue, in accordance with the best and most complete. But we must add “in a complete life.” (1098a16 – 18)

On the virtue ethics conception of moral goodness, activity is essential to the realisation of goodness. This point us towards an “enactive” conception of moral goodness. Aristotle defines virtue in terms of a conception he develops in his foundational, for his moral theory, Functional Argument. Although I will not offer an analysis of the argument here, I will point to a conclusion of it, which entangles goodness with performance. The idea Aristotle is conveying in this argument is that anything with a purpose or a preference that is engaged in any activity, generates, thereby, criteria for the good or not good performance of the activity. The purpose or preference will themselves determine the criteria of good or bad performance; goodness and badness will not be judged on the  Ibid., 293 – 304.

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basis of external criteria. The ultimate test of goodness, for Aristotle, is determining what the most choice-worthy lifestyle is. So, it is not necessary for the activity of an organism to be aiming at something other than the organism, for the activity to have a function: if the organism aims at an internal state, or has a criterion of preference for internal states, e. g. well-being, that in itself suffices to endow the activity with an internal function. Virtue then is the development, through habituation, of a disposition to perform such activities well, according to the internal criterion. Possessing such virtues, or excellences of life activities, both defines what is good, and motivates goodness in the agent: all virtue has a twofold effect on the thing to which it belongs; it not only renders the thing itself good, but it also enables it to perform its function well. For instance, the excellence of an eye makes the eye good and enables it to function well as an eye; having good eyes means being able to see well.… If this is true in all cases, then, the excellence of a human being will be that disposition which makes him a good human being and which enables him to perform his function well (1106a16 – 25).

Performing his function well is achieving well-being. So virtuous activity makes the agent good, but it is also good for the agent by enabling her to perform well. Therefore, virtue is both a character feature and a motivational feature. The double role of virtue establishes an intimate relation: the goodness of the agent’s character motivates the agent’s actions and is manifested in the agent’s actions. Does this make the actions “external?” Let us examine Aristotle’s conception of “external goods.” His theoretical background is what Plato had set in the Cave Simile—the contemplation of the Forms is the highest end of life: this organ of knowledge must be turned around from the world of becoming together with the entire soul… until the soul is able to endure the contemplation of essence and the brightest region of being. And this… is the good…. (Pl., Rep., 518c5-d1; my emphasis)

Reaching a similar result, of a contemplative life, through different argumentation, Aristotle describes in his conclusion the most desirable form of life for human beings: If happiness is activity in accordance with virtue, it is reasonable that it should be in accordance with the highest virtue; and this will be that of the best thing in us. Whether it be reason or something else that is this element which is thought to be our natural ruler and guide and to take thought of things noble and divine, whether it be itself also divine or only the most divine element in us, the activity of this in accordance with its proper virtue will be perfect happiness. That this activity is contemplative, we have already said. (EN, 1177a13 – 18)

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…the activity of reason, which is contemplative, … will be the complete happiness of man, if it be allowed a complete term of life. (EN, 1177b19 – 25)

Nevertheless, Aristotle immediately following says that: But such a life would be too high for man; for it is not in so far as he is man that he will live so, but in so far as something divine is present in him; and by so much as this is superior to our composite nature is its activity superior to that which is the exercise of the other kind of virtue. (1177b26 – 29)

The life of contemplation is possible, in so far as we have a divine aspect to our natures; but when it is not achievable, because we are composites of body and soul, then we have to turn to the exercise of the other kinds of virtue the soul possesses. Here Aristotle gives us a full account of how the exercise of excellences constitutes our happiness. It is not a surprise that happiness consists in life-activity, well-being. The new element is what this activity involves: He is happy who lives in accordance with complete virtue and is sufficiently equipped with external goods, not for some chance period, but throughout a complete life. (EN, 1101a14– 16; my emphasis)

So what is needed is virtue—dispositions for actions that make life most choiceworthy—a complete life, but also, being equipped with external goods. At first, Aristotle defines external goods as different from the goods of the soul, and different from the goods of the body. He says: Now goods have been divided into three classes, and some are described as external, others as relating to soul or to body; we call those that relate to soul most properly and truly goods, and physical actions and activities we class as relating to soul. (1098b12– 16)

But we can detect a tension: how can the bodily goods be a different class from the goods of the soul, if the goods of the soul include physical actions and activities? Aristotle does change his classification, by introducing a division into two classes rather than three. External goods are the goods which are external to the soul; it follows that bodily goods are external goods, as the body is external to the soul. We need here assume that the activities and actions which belong to the soul belong only because they depend on the motivation and character of the agent; we shall see that the bodily goods that Aristotle considers external to the soul are primarily goods that do not depend on the agent’s moral character:

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Yet evidently, as we said, it needs the external goods as well; for it is impossible, or not easy, to do noble acts without the proper equipment. In many actions we use friends and riches and political power as instruments; and there are some things the lack of which takes the lustre from happiness, as good birth, goodly children, beauty; for the man who is very ugly in appearance or ill-born or solitary and childless is not very likely to be happy, and perhaps a man would be still less likely if he had thoroughly bad children or friends or had lost good children or friends by death. As we said, then, happiness seems to need this sort of prosperity in addition. (1099a31-b8)

In all these cases, the external goods do not depend on the goodness of the character of the agent. In fact, the term Aristotle uses, translated here as “lack of equipment,” is “ἀχορήγητος,” meaning “not provided, externally, with the necessary means.” The meaning of the term itself presupposes that such goods are the type that would have to be provided externally to the agent, rather than developed by the agent. So the relevant emerging division for our investigation seems to be, on the one hand, that between the soul and the life activities motivated by the soul; and on the other hand, the bodily, social and instrumental means, by which the life activities of the soul can be realised. Does this mean that Aristotle reserves all goodness for the soul and the activities it motivates, but excludes from moral goodness anything that would serve as the means for such activities? Aristotle surprises us by developing the conception, not of “external means,” but of “external goods” (τὰ ἐκτὸς ἀγαθά). How does the goodness in the soul reach out and engulf the means through which the activities the soul motivates are realised? To this we shall now turn, to investigate the ontology of the goodness of means.

1 Enactive Virtue In their well-known theory of the Extended Mind, Andy Clark and David Chalmers³ have argued that objects in the environment can be engulfed into the furniture of the mind. Their theory of extended cognition claims that there is no sharp criterion that determines the boundaries of the mind, and in particular, we have no arguments that support the position that the mind is in the head. Their central position is that cognitive activities depend in vital ways on items in the agent’s environment. Slicing up the cognitive activities into internal and external is arbitrary, which entails that the activities of the mind, e. g., thinking, incorporate

 Clark & Chalmers (1998), 7– 19, and Andy Clark (2008).

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parts of the agent’s environment. But which part of the environment? Is this arbitrary too? Clark and Chalmers argue that our cognitive system and items in the environment cooperate in such an intimate way, to achieve cognitive tasks, that they constitute what they call a coupled system. There is a principle which determines the constitution of a coupled system: the human organism is linked with an external entity in a two-way interaction, creating a coupled system that can be seen as a cognitive system in its own right. All the components in the system play an active causal role, and they jointly govern behavior in the same sort of way that cognition usually does.⁴

This is critical for the equivalence between the coupled system’s activity and the mental activity. The goal of the activity of the coupled system must be the same as the goal that a mental activity would have for the agent’s cognition. The by now famous example Clark and Chalmers offer is that of Otto and Inga. Otto forgets, so he relies on his notebook to remember directions, while Inga remembers them. The mechanisms for remembering are different, but their processes and their success are comparable. Otto plus his notebook function cognitively in the way Inga does on the basis of her memory, alone. Otto’s notebook is trusted by Otto, the way Inga trusts her memory, and Otto relies on his notebook for directions in the way that Inga relies on her memory. This is why Otto and his notebook are a coupled system. Turning to our own purposes, it might be objected that whereas Clark and Chalmers compare equivalent cognitive processes, we, in the Aristotelian external goods, are not. More specifically, it may be objected that the criterion for the extension of the mind requires that the coupled system has the same purpose as the equivalent internal process, e. g., remembering the directions. Yet, in the case of moral actions, e. g., an act of benevolence by philanthropy, the philanthropic process cannot be replicated by any process that we would traditionally call purely mental (e. g., like Inga’s remembering). Therefore, it seems we cannot compare two equivalent processes, a purely mental and a coupled system process, which have the same purpose, since we cannot have a purely mental process of, e. g., giving money. The difference between the cognitive cases and the moral cases invites slippery-slope type of thinking. Yes, we cannot give money mentally, but we can be philanthropic mentally. So by a comparison of equivalent cases, we could gradually argue that the difference between the Clark and Chalmers case and the  Ibid., 8.

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Aristotelian case is not unbridgeable. Since we can find moral examples that do not involve external means, which function in the way that the Otto and Inga cognitive case does, and since these moral examples are intimately parallel to the moral examples that do involve means, we could build arguments showing that e. g., the money in the philanthropic example functions causally in a comparable way to the way that Otto’s notebook functions. In particular, it seems that the money and the philanthropic action are equally intimately coupled causally as the coupling of the notebook and Otto’s remembering his directions. We should not need to find an equivalent purely-mental process, in order to deem a process of the mind that uses external objects a coupled system. Clark and Chalmers do say something that seems to allow for such mindworld coupled systems: …the individual brain performs some operations, while others are delegated to manipulations of external media. Had our brains been different, this distribution of tasks would doubtless have varied.⁵

This indicates that it is something of an accident what the current limits of the capacities of our brains are, which would allow for instances of coupled systems which are not presently replicable as purely mental ones, e. g., as the Aristotelian philanthropy. An extension of the Clark and Chalmers theory was developed by Richard Menary, Cognitive Integration, which would fit the Aristotelian model of moral actions even more closely than the original Extended Mind theory did. Menary argued that: Simply to think of this emerging view of cognition as externalist is misleading. This is because the payoff from extended mind style arguments is the integration of the bodily “internal” and “external” aspects of cognition into a whole. Therefore, I will refer to this emerging approach to cognition as cognitive integration.⁶

This is the concept of the coupled system taking on a life of its own. It is not the ‘goal equivalence’ of the purely mental and the coupled processes that are essential here, but the causal efficacy of the mental. If external processes are systematically required in order to realise mental processes, then the mental should be seen as being systematically coupled, systematically integrated with the external, for the performance of its activities.

 Ibid.  Menary (2010), 268.

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My claim is that Aristotle’s conception of morality is encapsulated in the conception of Enactive Virtue. Although it can be argued that there are some virtues which have aspects that are realised in feelings alone, and hence, do not involve the external world for their realisation, the majority of virtues do depend on items in the agent’s environment for their realisation. For virtuous activity to be enactive, it is not sufficient that it should involve external objects. The requirement is that virtuous activity be a coupled system with certain types of object in the environment; that it should be integrated with items in the environment for its realisation, e. g., in the way that voting is integrated with ballots (or ὄστρακα, in the Aristotle’s Athens).

2 Extended Goodness The functional role of external goods in Aristotle supports an understanding of virtues as integrated systems of the dispositional character of an agent and the means by which these dispositions can be manifested. But is the requirement mentioned above too strict? Are particular objects necessary for the realisation of moral virtues? Or particular types of object? Let us look at this problem from the vantage point of Aristotle’s moral theory. The shape or the material constitution of a ballot ticket is irrelevant for the functional implementation of the voting procedures. We can, therefore, thereby conclude that it is not the token objects, or even the type of objects that are necessary for realising virtuous activity. For instance, even if we broaden the type “ballot” to include both paper ballots, plastic ballots and ostraca, we still fail to take account of, e. g., electronic ballots. What suggests itself, therefore, is that it should be the function of the artefact needed for the realisation of a virtuous activity that should define the integration system needed for that activity; e. g., something that can function as a ballot in the process. Yet, there is a grey area that emerges here. As we have seen, Aristotle includes bodily goods in the cluster of external goods. Let us consider health. The role of health is not similar to the role of, e. g., money, for the realisation of good actions by the agent. It certainly is an important factor in the agent’s ability to perform and act well, and achieve her goals in society, but we would not consider health the means by which the agent achieves them. Her health condition contributes to the achievement of good actions, but not as means to them, but rather as a performative condition.

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Can we understand health’s contribution to good deeds as an adverbial modifier, following Donald Davidson’s analysis of events?⁷ Would it be true to say that agent participated in the athletic competition “healthily?” Rather, the contribution health makes to her performance in the competition is explanatory: she performed well, because she was healthy, rather than because she did it in a healthy way. For someone who is… childless is certainly not a very good candidate for happiness; and presumably even less so is one whose children… are totally bad or were good but died. (1099b2– 6)

These are conditions which affect one’s happiness, namely, their well-being, not as means, but rather as conditions or lack of them. It would be truer to Aristotle’s explanation to call them enablers of well-being, rather than means for it. How do these enablers of well-being relate to the goodness of the agent? So far, we have seen that the goodness of an agent, which is seated in the agent’s moral character, is realised in the actions motivated by the agent’s character. Following the account of Clark and Chalmers, we can think of the goodness of the agent’s character being extended to the actions motivated by her character. But when we are trying to understand why this agent whose good children died did not achieve well-being, the option of “goodness or lack of goodness being extended to the agent’s actions” is not relevant or applicable. We can only talk of enabling, or not, the agent’s well-being. We can find a comparable type of extension in the contemporary literature on the extended mind, in Donald Peterson, when he lists the following forms of representation that enable knowledge to grow. Some are closer to means, other closer to enablers, or in-between: Algebras, alphabets, animations, architectural drawings, choreographic notations, computer interfaces, computer programming languages, computer models and simulations, diagrams, flow charts graphs, ideograms, knitting patterns, knowledge-representation formalisms, logical formalisms, maps, mathematical formalisms, mechanical models, musical notations, numeral systems, phonetic scripts, punctuation systems, tables and so on.⁸

I would like to register that Aristotle got here first; he realised that goodness is extended to external conditions which are not means of action; the vehicles of goodness may be conditions that enable the actions or conditions, instead.

 See Davidson (1985).  Peterson (1996), 7.

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3 Embodied Goodness What happens when everybody uses pencils for writing is that expressing ourselves in language is extended to writing-activities involving pencils. Thereby, the pencil becomes a symbol of linguistic expressiveness. If in 100 years we do not use pencils any more, encountering a pencil in a museum would evoke representations of expressing oneself linguistically in writing. This means that linguistic expression was not only extended to writing with a pencil, when such activities were occurring; it also became embedded in the pencil. The systematic use of a type of object as an external good for a type of good activity, not only extends the goodness of the activity to the object as an external good; but it also embeds the goodness of the activity in that type of object. The cultural values of a society become embedded in the external goods in that culture, that is, in the artefacts to which this culture was systematically extended and in which this culture was embodied. This generates an opportunity for other cultures, or even the same one, to encounter the dimension constitutive of that culture in these artefacts. This is the foundation of a new manner of cultural exhibition, namely, the exhibition of abstractions in the artefacts that embody them. We have the means to “see” abstract ideas and abstract values embodied in the collections of artefacts that survive from a culture. This pioneers museum exhibits which exhibit abstractions rather than artefacts, even if artefacts or representations of artefacts and historical events are involved in the exhibit. Systematic extension of ideas and values to external goods in some culture leads to the extension and embodiment of the cultural ideas and values in that environment, and the resulting possibility of exhibiting ideas and values in museum collections of the surviving artefacts from that culture.

Works Cited Clark & Chalmers (1998): Andy Clark and David J. Chalmers. “The Extended Mind,” in: Analysis 58, no. 1, 7 – 19; reprinted at https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/3328150.pdf. Clark (2008): Andy Clark, Supervising the Mind, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Davidson (1985): Donald Davidson, “Adverbs of Action,” in: Bruce Vermazen and Merrill Hintikka (eds.), Essays on Davidson: Actions and Events, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 230 – 241. Menary (2010): Richard Menary, “Cognitive Integration and the Extended Mind,” in: Richard Menary (ed.), The Extended Mind, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 267 – 288 Peterson (1996): Donald Peterson (ed.), Forms of Representation: An Interdisciplinary Theme for Cognitive Science, Exeter: Intellect Books.

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Scaltsas (1996): Scaltsas Theodore, “Good, Reason, and Objectivity in Aristotle,” in: D. Koutras (ed.), Aristotelian Ethics and its Influence, Athens: Εταιρία Αριστοτελικών Μελετών “Το Λύκειον”, 292 – 305. https://www.era.lib.ed.ac.uk/bitstream/handle/1842/ 3125/Good%2c%20reason%20and%20objectivity%20in%20Aristotle_web.pdf?sequence= 1&isAllowed=y

Myrto Dragona-Monachou

The Relevance of Aristotle’s Views of Ethics and Medicine to Bioethics The importance of medicine to the formulation of Aristotle’s practical ethics has been emphasized long ago.¹ The relevance of his ethics and his views of medicine on bioethics was also pointed out recently, given the fact that the term “bioethics” was formulated and set up approximately fifty years ago² due to the rapid development of the biosciences and biotechnology. In another context, however, the term “bioethics” was used earlier by Fritz Jahr in 1927.³ A certain prelude of bioethics in ancient Greek philosophy, in the Hippocratic corpus, in Plato’s dialogues and Aristotle’s treatises can be dawned from some contributions in Mark Kuczewski’s and Ronald Polansky’s very interesting edition,⁴ and some other scholars have also paid particular attention to some Aristotelian terms and creeds that prove opportune in the field of bioethics. The teaching of bioethics in undergraduate and postgraduate courses in Departments of Philosophy and Medicine during the last decades and some recent UNESCO Declarations,⁵ rendered a fresh reading of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics very interesting and fruitful. Given the fact that Aristotle’s expertise in the “art of medicine” is manifest both in his ethical and his numerous scientific works, it seems strange that medicine was perhaps the sole subject Aristotle failed to deal with, although he was the son and the nephew of famous physicians, members of the Guild of the Asclepiadae. This might perhaps be explained by the fact that in his time medicine, either as a science or as an art, was already coded and established. Aristotle mentions Hippocrates in his Pol. 1326a15 in a very complimentary manner, adopting several medical terms, such as έξις, μεσότης, καιρός, etc., in his ethics.

 See, particularly, Jaeger (1957) 54– 61 and Lloyd (1968), 68 – 83, discussed in my paper Dragona-Monachou (2016), 52– 82.  See Potter (1970). See also, Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2002a), 1– 26.  See Jahr (1927). See also, Kalokairinou (2016), 149 – 156 and Kalokairinou (2017), 83 – 92.  See Kuczewski and Polansky (2000). For an assessment of this book see, Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2002b), 277– 286.  Such as the UNESCO “Universal Declaration on the Human Genome and Human Rights” (1997), “The International Declaration on Human Genetic Data” (2003) and particularly the “Universal Declaration on Bioethics and Human Rights” (2005), in the elaboration of which I served as a delegate of Greece, in my capacity as a member of the Greek National Bioethics Commission and a teacher of Bioethics in postgraduate courses in the Universities of Crete and Peloponnese. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-011

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In this paper I discuss (1) some “Aristotelian” ethical views echoed in the “Universal Declaration on Bioethics and Human Rights,” (2) certain papers allowing to see Aristotle as a sort of herald of bioethics and (3) some contributions included in the above mentioned edition of Kuczewski and Polansky, pointing out the importance of certain Aristotelian terms and ideas anticipating the bioethical speculation and showing Aristotle’s oblique contribution to the discussion of bioethical problems. 1. The “Universal Declaration on Bioethics and Human Rights” was voted in Paris by the General Assembly of the representatives of almost all National Commissions on Bioethics in December 2005 after more than two years of intense elaboration and many long, drawn-out annual meetings. During the elaboration of that Declaration, I had the impression that the text of the preamble of its Preface echoed some Aristotelian views, despite the fact that Aristotle assented to “natural slavery” and that moreover “in the interest of the slave.” Reading parts of that text, I still have the feeling that I am holding in my hands some parts of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, in which the philosopher labelled man as a “by nature civic being/political animal” (ΕN 1097b11), “whose nature is to live with others” (EN 1126b31), “the originator of his actions as he is of his children” (EN 1113b18), considering justice “the complete excellence” or “perfect virtue in relation to another person” (EN 1129b26 – 32), not to mention what he had written about these matters in his two books on friendship (EN 1155a1– 1172a15) and on man as a civic animal in the Politics. Although Stoic global ethics is closer to the spirit of modernity, I think that Aristotle would have not disagreed with most of the endowments of man set forth in that Declaration, since it is only man, compared with all other animals, who possesses speech and reason, capacities that enable him to know what is profitable and harmful, fair and unfair, uniquely endowed with moral principles, according to what he also says in the Pol. 1253a15: “It is a characteristic of man, compared with the other animals, that he alone has sense of good and evil, of just and unjust and the like.” Thus, although many things have been changed in modern times, “the age of globalization,” and respect for human rights concerns all human beings without any discrimination, I believe that Aristotle would have not disagreed, at least with many points made in the preface of that Declaration.⁶ 2. Apart from the edition of Kuczewski and Polansky⁷—of which some references to Aristotle, relevant to my subject, I shall discuss at the end of my paper— interesting essays have been written by eminent scholars after the recession of

 On this Declaration, see Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2006), 58 – 68.  See fn. 4.

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the Analytical Ethics or Metaethics, the explosion of Applied and Medical Ethics⁸ and the establishment of Bioethics,⁹ some of which I shall try to discuss here. The first one is A.W. Price’s short paper “Aristotle’s Εthics,”¹⁰ the first paragraph of which runs as follows: The phrase “medical ethics” is ambiguous between (a) the application of moral concepts to medical practice, and (b) the application of medical concepts to moral thinking. Aristotle leaves (a) to others (and to us); (b) is for him a rich and recurrent theme. Only if we understand Aristotle’s emphasis on (b) can we hope to pursue (a) ourselves in an Aristotelian manner. [Price (1985), 150]

Having dealt with (b) elsewhere,¹¹ I have dared in what follows to pursue (a), i. e., to give briefly a few answers regarding point (a), “the application of some moral concepts and principles to biomedical practice,” reviewing some interesting views of contemporary bioethicists relevant to this subject. Price himself refers to the analogy between happiness and healing, to the emphasis on the particulars rather than on theory, to the experience gained by elderly men, particularly by the φρόνιμον, in perceiving what exactly should be done in each case, without appealing to a priori principles but adapting to facts, nor being bounded by the letter of the law, but trusting their own direct experience in taking rational decisions, adopting the doctrine of the mean, etc. Since Price’s point (a) has already been answered by specialists in medicine and particularly by experts in ancient medicine, I tried to read Price’s point (a) not so much as “the application of Aristotle’s moral concepts to medical practice” but rather as “the application of some Aristotelian moral concepts and principles to decision making in bioethics,” in as much as subsequent papers encouraged me to discuss a certain relevance of Aristotle’s ethics to bioethics, although bioethics have emerged only after the latest advances of biosciences and biotechnology. During my involvement with bioethics, convinced that philosophy—at least practical and applied ethics, if not analytical metaethics—has pride of place in the interdisciplinary realm of bioethics, I was impressed by both the title and the content of Stephen Toulmin’s article “How Medicine Saved the Life of Eth-

 See Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (1995), 353 – 399.  See Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2002a), 1– 26. As it is well-known, the term “bioethics” was established in the U.S. in 1970 – 1971 by Van Rensselaer Potter, but in Europe, it was conceived by Fritz Jahr in 1927. See, Kalokairinou (2011) and Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2012). Cf. Jonsen (1998), VII.  Price (1985), 150 – 152.  See Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2016), 52– 82.

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ics”¹² as well as by Richard Hare’s one “Medical Ethics: Can the Moral Philosopher Help?” which begins like this: “I should like to say at once that if the moral philosopher cannot help with the problems of medical ethics, he ought to shut up shop.”¹³ Toulmin, still writing in the spirit of medical ethics, does not speak specifically of bioethics, mentioning this term only once in the end of his paper and that with explicit reference to Aristotle. He says: Certainly, it would be foolhardy to claim that the discussion of ‘bioethics’ has reached a definitive form, or to rule out the possibility that novel methods will earn a place in the field in the years ahead. At this very moment, indeed, the style of current discussion appears to be shifting away from attempts to relate problematic cases to general theories— whether those of Kant, Rawls, or the utilitarians—to a more direct analysis of the practical cases themselves, using methods more like those of traditional “case morality”…. Whatever the future may bring, however, these 20 years of interaction with medicine, law, and the other professions have had spectacular and irreversible effects on the method and content of philosophical ethics. By reintroducing into the ethical debate the vexed topics raised by particular cases, they have obliged philosophers to address once again the Aristotelian problems of practical reasoning which had been on the sidelines for too long. In this sense, we may indeed say that, during the last 20 years, medicine has saved the life of ethics, and that it has given back to ethics a seriousness and human relevance which it had seemed—at least, in the writings of the interwar years—to have lost for good. [Toulmin (1986), 278 – 279]

Toulmin wonders: How did the fresh attention that philosophers began paying to the ethics of medicine, beginning around 1960, move the ethical debate beyond this stand off? …it pointed philosophers back to the ideas of “equity,” “reasonableness” and “human relationships,” which played central roles in the Ethics of Aristotle. (ΕΝ 1136b30 – 1137b32)

He further argues that “case history” and other methods of the revived traditional case morality would have not been “any surprise to Aristotle,”¹⁴ since the theoretical rigor of geometrical argument is unattainable: fields in which we should above all strive to be reasonable rather than insisting on a kind of exactness that “the nature of the case” does not allow. (ΕΝ 1094b12– 27)

And he claims:

 Toulmin (1986), 265 – 281.  Hare (1977), 49 – 62. Cf. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2013), 31.  Toulmin (1986), 271– 272.

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Once brought to the bedside, so to say, applied ethics and clinical medicine use just the same Aristotelean kinds of “practical reasoning,” and a correct choice of therapeutic procedure in medicine is the right treatment to pursue, not just as a matter of technique but for ethical reasons also. [Toulmin (1986), 273]

Toulmin brings forward “two final themes… presented in clear enough terms by Aristotle in the ΕΝ.… Aristotle’s own Greek terms επιείκεια and φιλία…commonly translated ‘reasonableness and friendship’,” arguing that “they correspond more closely to the modern terms ‘equity’ and ‘personal relationship’.”¹⁵ He acknowledges the difficulties readers may have with “the style of Aristotle’s Ethics” asking, e. g., to “mark off right from wrong” without taking into consideration “what kind of a person the agent is and what relationships he stands in toward the other people who are involved in his actions”¹⁶ and in explaining the kinds of friendship between people which allow different kinds of actions, without a “common scale in which we can measure the corresponding kinds of conduct.”¹⁷ As to the notion of equity (επιείκεια), Toulmin says, “Aristotle pioneered the general doctrine that principles never settle ethical issues by themselves” as do “general considerations of fairness, of maxims of equity,”¹⁸ allowing “some degree of partiality,” so that “questions of personal standing and relationship have been recognized and taken into account.”¹⁹ In referring to William Whewell’s comments of Henry Sidgwick’s views as “ignoring all of Aristotle’s cautions about the differences between the practical modes of reasoning appropriate to ethics and the formal modes appropriate to mathematics,”²⁰ he obviously has in mind ΕΝ, 1094b25 – 28. The Conclusion of this article, with which I began my review of Toulmin’s paper on Aristotle’s relevance both to applied medical ethics and to bioethics, although somewhat exaggerated in arguing that “during the last 20 years, medicine has ‘saved the life of ethics’”—is eloquent enough for the appreciation of the importance of Aristotle’s practical ethics to this field attesting the matchmaking of philosophy and medicine in as much as it is in the conclusion expressed in this epilogue that he refers clearly not only to applied ethics but also to “bioethics.”²¹

      

Ibid., Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., Ibid., Ibid. Ibid.,

275.

276. 277. 278 – 279.

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This approach has also been reinforced by several other works of contemporary philosophers and bioethicists and particularly by an early—perhaps the earliest—paper on that subject that I had read, which had greatly impressed me. It was an article of the eminent philosopher and former president of F.I.S.P., Peter Kemp, entitled “Aristotle in Bioethics.”²² Kemp’s paper was presented during the International Conference “The Actuality of Ancient Greek Philosophy,” one I had organized as a newly elected member of F.I.S.P., at the University of Crete in 1995, the Proceedings of which I edited and published two years later.²³ Re-reading this paper 20 years after it was published and under the light of 10 years of my academic involvement in bioethics, I decided to entitle my paper in the present conference, “The Relevance of Aristotle’s Views of Ethics and Medicine to Bioethics”, to discuss Kemp’s excellent paper and the assessments in brief of some other bioethicists concerning Aristotle’s relevance to bioethics, with the purpose to point out the most important Aristotelian ethical views, the ones I think that can be proved appropriate in decision making on bioethical dilemmas. Kemp in the beginning of his paper “Aristotle in Bioethics”²⁴ notices: An important reason why ethics have acquired such a momentum nowadays is the bioethical issues that deeply affect human beings. Contemporary biotechnology promises a radical change in the relationship of human beings with nature in general and human bodies in particular, since it enables us to manipulate living organisms from their DNA down to the biosphere as a whole. The entire living world has been turned into a laboratory, and the crucial problem and an ethical issue is to answer where exactly should be drawn the limits of man’s power over nature. [Kemp (1997), 289]

Kemp’s modification of Stephen Toulmin’s dictum “How Medicine Saved the Life of Ethics” into “How Biotechnologies Have Saved Ethics” is characteristic since biotechnologies saved ethics from non-binding assumptions, eliminated them from the metaethics of analytic philosophers and some views of theologians, showing “that there are difficulties nowadays which nobody is allowed to ignore or leave them to the specialists: they are extremely close to us to be set aside.” Kemp rightly remarked that bioethics covers a much larger ground than medical

 Kemp (1997), 289 – 305.  See Δραγώνα-Μονάχου/Ρουσσόπουλος (1997).  Kemp (1997), 289 – 305. I should mention that the citations of Kemp’s paper quoted here have been drawn from the translation of this article into Greek by a student of mine Demetra Papoutsaki, under my supervision, because after so many years the initial inital English text has unfortunately been lost and I have not discovered if the initial English version was published elsewhere.

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ethics facing the question to what extent are our interventions into living beings fair or unfair, stressing the indisputable influence of the Aristotelian ethics on contemporary bioethics. He made clear that ethics nowadays is “an orientation towards the good life,” demanding an answer to the question “what is a good or bad action” and “where respect for human life in community with the others lies,” questions that radically concerned Aristotle. Kemp emphasized that Aristotle rejected ethics as a speculative theory, focusing on practice and laid emphasis on practical wisdom (φρόνησις) that can be acquired through experience. He noticed that Aristotle was not familiar with technical science based on experiments, analogous to the productive-poetic sciences; nevertheless, his virtue ethics proves appropriate and useful in the confrontation of bioethical dilemmas as an art of equilibrium between extremes. This is how Kemp sees “An Aristotelian Bioethics”: Given that technology is not always innocent, the central point in every bioethical case should be to mark the limit, the borderline between the good life accomplished by technology and its catastrophic usage. [Kemp (1997), 298]

It is not always easy, he argued, to “deduce the proper morality from ethics when a new situation does not admit given moral rules, prohibitions and consensus.”²⁵ The view “all or nothing” seems here the easier one but does away with morality, the choice between good and evil. What is important is to find the limit between acceptable and not acceptable forms of biotechnology. Kemp considers the discovery of the mean between extremes, i. e., between the use of technology as a whole and its overall prohibition to be the most basic idea in Aristotle’s ethics, although Aristotle spoke of the middle between emotional extremes and acts, the “mean relative to us,” and thus of virtue as a kind of intermediacy (EN 1106b7– 28). Of course, it is not easy to attain the mean as “the wise person would determine it” (EN 1107a1), or as what “right reason prescribes” (EN 1138b20). Ethics cares about the boundaries of the technological operations. It is more difficult to find the right mean than the extreme technological manipulations. This is the reason why various committees are entitled to find the mean between extremes and to reach acceptable decisions, but the philosophers are entitled to make clear what proper bioethics would be like. Kemp concludes:

 Kemp (1997), 298.

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Ethics is neither a science nor a technology but the vision of experience and narrative imagination about what man and his world is…. What we can learn from Aristotle is that there should be a narrow relation between action and vision in ethics. [Kemp (1997), 304]

Needless to say, that I fully agree with Kemp’s assessment of Aristotle’s relevance to bioethics, despite the social, scientific, and technological gap that exists between Aristotle’s and our own world, i. e., between Aristotle’s “city” / “πόλις” and present cosmopolitanism, as well as the respect of human rights due to all human beings. Kemp’s emphasis on the doctrine of the mean, a concept inherent in medicine, which one must choose in most cases in order to avoid excess and deficiency (EN 1106a28), to which Aristotle often resorts in order to define key concepts such as “the just/right” (τὸ δίκαιον), intermediate as proportionate (EN 1131b11– 12), is fully justified. In fact, Aristotle, who made extensive use of medical analogies to lay the foundations of his ethics, proves to be extremely useful nowadays for bioethics in guiding decision making in some socalled hard cases among current bioethical dilemmas. Relevant to bioethics can also be considered some Aristotelian ideas pointed out by professor Enrico Berti, an authority on Aristotle, who in his paper “The Actuality of Aristotle’s Thought,”²⁶ proceeded beyond Aristotle’s overall importance on modern and contemporary philosophy, logic, science, physics—thanks in particular to Prigogine—on psychology—thanks to Putman and Nussbaum— and on other philosophical and scientific fields. Berti particularly emphasized Aristotle’s contribution to biology on the basis of the genetic perspective, according to which M. Delbrück sees in Aristotle’s notion of “form” (μορφή) his discovery of the DNA, arguing that contemporary biologists reinstate Aristotle’s teleology, used as the basis of a new eco-ethics by H. Jonas. According to Berti, phrases such as “we are all Aristotelians,” “Aristotle’s return,” etc. together with many manifestations of “Neo-Aristotelianism,” are not lacking. He also pays particular attention to Aristotle’s “practical philosophy” as delineated in his Ethics and Politics, referring to H.G. Gadamer’s hermeneutics and to the reevaluation of the virtue of φρόνησις thanks to its susceptibility to connect the ends of the actions with the means necessary for their accomplishment. What I assumed from rereading the above volume of the proceedings from my Cretan conference, is the realization that Aristotle has pride of place regarding the present relevance of his thought, since from the twenty-eight papers focusing on most—if not all—ancient Greek philosophers, eight were dedicated exclusively to Aristotle, who was also mentioned in papers dealing with other philosophers.

 Δραγώνα-Μονάχου/Ρουσσόπουλος (1997), 306 – 316.

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An aptly documented relevance of Aristotle’s philosophy to bioethics can be verified from several essays contained in the edition of Kuczewski and Polansky, Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, mentioned above.²⁷ Many of the essays contained in this volume draw from ancient Greek philosophy and medicine in general and from Aristotle’s relevant work as a whole, and not only from his Nicomachean Ethics. As it is stated in the “Introduction”: This collection of essays explores themes from ancient Greek philosophy and medicine and their implications for contemporary ethics and biomedical ethics…. The essays in this volume are written by established classical scholars and bioethicists…classical scholars examine… the import of the concept of practical wisdom (φρόνησις) for clinical medicine and bioethicists reinterpret²⁸ phronesis based upon their observations of medical practice. [Kuczewski/Polansky (2000), IX]

It is also stated that “everywhere one looks in current bioethics literature, references to Aristotle and remarks about the need for practical wisdom abound.”²⁹ And it is said that “the classical theme of a kind of practical wisdom that deals with a variable knowledge of particulars has proven especially appealing.”³⁰ According to Ronald Polansky, Aristotle distinguished the sciences into theoretical, practical and productive on the basis of the status of their principles (Metaph. 1025b18 – 28), considering truth to be the end of theoretical and action that of practical knowledge³¹ and taking medicine as an unusual art closely resembling “the use of practical wisdom in moral and political life,” aspiring to attain the mean and “avoid doing too little or too much—only what is appropriate for re-establishing equilibrium.”³² In fact, Aristotle in the ΕΝ 1103b26 – 1104a10 speaking of the lack of precision in both the sphere of action and that of health is very eloquent regarding the methodology common to medicine and tο ethics and the need “to take into account the circumstances relating to the occasion” (τὰ πρὸς τὸν καιρὸν σκοπεῖν). What here applies to medicine can equally apply to decision making in bioethics regarding abortion, euthanasia, and other bioethical dilemmas. According to Polansky:

 See footnote 4.  See, e. g., Thomasma (2000), 76: “The notion of φρόνησις is hermeneutically reinterpreted to stand for individual moral probity….”  Kuczewski/Polansky (2000), IX.  Ibid., XI.  Polansky (2000), 33.  Ibid., 46.

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Methodologically, medicine thus resembles politics in its use of practical wisdom, since it takes account of ways of life and may require assessment of character of those who are to be treated, and also because the medical treatments that are possible may vary considerably. [Polansky (2000), 46]

It is practical wisdom (φρόνησις) that guides the physician/bioethicist to do what is right in any particular case. In fact, the Aristotelian virtue of φρόνησις has an important bearing not only on ethics and medicine but principally on bioethics. We read in Kathryn Montgomery’s article “Phronesis and the Misdescription of Medicine: Against the Medical School Commencement Speech” that “The split into science and art does not do justice to its character as a practice: the scientifically informed, experienced, well-reasoned care of sick people.”³³ The author praises the intellectual virtue φρόνησις – the practical wisdom that is the pride of the good clinicians,”³⁴ taking medicine as “a learned practice that describes itself as a science,” referring to EN 1104a3 – 9. Distinguishing φρόνησις, or practical reason, from επιστήμην she defines it in medical—or let us say in bioethical situations—as the virtue of working out how best to act in particular circumstances that are not (and cannot be) expressed in generally applicable rules,” since “practical reason enables the reasoner to distinguish the better from the worse choice in a given situation” and “act wisely for the good of the patients.”³⁵ And she proposes that “φρόνησις be recognized as the culminating virtue toward which medical education and the profession itself aim.”³⁶ Thus, Montgomery sees medical education as a “moral education that has as its aim the cultivation of φρόνησις.” Apart from “a knowledge of human biology, a store of clinical experience, good diagnostic and therapeutic habits… phronesiology deserves understanding and recognition.”³⁷ The relevance of φρόνησις to bioethics in the context of the revived interest in Aristotle from the viewpoint of virtue ethics, neo-Aristotelianism, anti-foundationalism and postmodernism, has also been discussed with a critical view in this volume by David Thomasma, in his article “Aristotle, Phronesis and Postmodern Bioethics.”³⁸ Thomasma points out the inherent difficulties to practice φρόνησις in procedural terms in clinical ethics, although methodologically this is its appropriate place as the basic, if not its single, possibility. He argues

     

Montgomery (2000), 57– 58. Ibid., 58. Montgomery (2000), 60 – 61. Ibid., 61. Ibid., 64. Thomasma (2000), 67– 91.

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that clinical medicine is more than an ἐπιστήμη or a kind of φρόνησις, i. e., a virtue, “neither totally objective nor totally subjective.” Yet, in reference to the human good in EN 1094b21, he remarks that “this is the greatest and only form of “objectivity” that ethics can approach: “generally for the most part true.”³⁹ Bioethics is typically defined briefly as: a set of researches, discourses and practices, generally multi-disciplinary and pluralistic, having as its object to clarify and, if possible, to resolve questions of ethical importance, that arise from biomedical and biotechnological research and development within societies characterized by diverse degrees as being individualist, multicultural and developing. [Hottois (2004), 22. The translation is mine.]

As such it is sometimes accused of principlism concerned with what we ought to do in the face of novel problems open to alternative decisions and whether what we ought to do depends upon philosophical methods and theories. After the emergence of Μetabioethics,⁴⁰ it has been debated whether virtues, norms, rules or principles may be considered as proper philosophical tools for bioethics.⁴¹ I have argued that after the Universal Declaration of Bioethics and Human Rights (UNESCO 2005) whose seventeen principles were unanimously accepted and sanctioned by the world bioethical community, principles and virtues rather than norms, rules and current ethical and metaethical theories, should have a prominent place in this domain, without underestimating the relevance of virtue ethics and other strategies. Kemp has already spoken in favor of principles.⁴² According to him “ethical principles… are quite different from moral norms… they express highly valuable aspects of the good life from which norms must be constructed.” The ethical principles pertaining to bioethics are not according to Kemp theoretical but “practical… regulative of our understanding of good practices and the good life…in that they express the aspects of practice and life we ought to respect….”⁴³ In fact, we should not forget that both in the emblematic “Hippocratic Oath” as well as in the well-known “Belmont Report” (1979) at least the three basic principles, those of beneficence, non-maleficence, and justice were considered as fundamental. These principles are not alien to Aristotle’s virtue ethics. The Aristotelian προαίρεσις, moreover – taken by most scholars as “free personal choice”—is not in the last resort completely     

Ibid., 83. See Hayry/Tuija (2003). Cf. Dragona-Monachou (2008a), 4– 22. See Dragona-Monachou (2007d). Kemp (2000), 13 – 22. Kemp (2000), 13 – 14.

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alien to the nowadays perhaps excessively respectable “autonomy,” given the patient’s vulnerability.⁴⁴ Recently, Ronald Polansky and Joe Cimakasky in their paper “Aristotle and Principlism in Bioethics”⁴⁵ remarked that “principlism, a most prominent approach in bioethics, has been criticized”⁴⁶ for lacking an underlying moral theory. Hence, they proposed that the four principles of principlism can be related to the four traditional cardinal virtues wisdom, courage, moderation and justice appearing prominently in Aristotle and—I may add—partly in the Hippocratic Oath with the exception of autonomy.⁴⁷ Polansky and Cimakasky show how this connection can be made so that principlism has its own compelling ethical basis, arguing that “this approach in fact has an important philosophical background” and plays a key role in the ethics of Aristotle, with courage as the first cardinal virtue (EN III.6 – 9), moderation (EN III.10 – 12), justice (EN V) and practical wisdom (φρόνησις) (EN VI) as the basis of a happy life.⁴⁸ They argue that Aristotle’s ethics, that focuses on the best sort of life, are superior to theories such as the ones by Kant and Mill that focus on the right or the useful;⁴⁹ moreover, they underline the fact that the good in Aristotle has priority over the right and express the wish “the relation of the principles of principlism to the cardinal virtues of the philosophical tradition will enrich the future teaching of principlism in connection with bioethics.”⁵⁰ Aristotle’s notion of potentiality and actuality proves pivotal in the perennial problem of abortion and also in the current question of the medically assisted reproduction and the future of embryonic stem cells. In a paper I presented in 2006 in Istanbul,⁵¹ I noticed that despite Hippocrates’ prohibition of abortion, Aristotle allowed abortion particularly for demographical reasons (Pol. 1335b20 – 26). His view of potentiality and actuality and his doctrine of the gradual ensoulment of the human embryo still dominates the debates of the moral status of the embryo on account of his distinction between vegetative, sentient and rational soul, and that of “essential, substantial and state potential-

 Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (1978 – 9).  Polansky/Cimakasky (2015), 59 – 70.  This was particularly done also by the famous bioethicist Tristram Engelhardt Jr. See, Engelhardt (2006), 3. See, also, Dragona-Monachou (2007d); and Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2012).  See also Beauchamp/Childress (1979).  Polansky/Cimakasky (2015), 62.  Ibid., 67.  Ibid., 69.  See Dragona-Monachou (2007c), 32– 39.

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ity,”⁵² referred to the article of Christopher Megone “Potentiality and Persons: An Aristotelian Perspective.”⁵³ Having Aristotle’s views in my mind concerning the “medically assisted reproduction” I claimed in that conference that “on the basis of scientific data a certain consensus has been reached among most bioethicists that the 14th day from fertilization constitutes a crucial point in the development of the embryo that marks the distinction between its identity as an organism and a potential human being with its own identity as a singular human being, while for some other bioethicists, the decisive point for the moral consideration of the fetus is sensibility to pain, quickening, viability or birth.”⁵⁴ As far as moral theories befitting bioethics are concerned, it was primarily deontology that acquired pride of place, due to the prominence of autonomy among bioethicists, although rule utilitarianism has also been favored, as well as pragmatism, and even casuistry. Soon, however, it became clear that what was mostly needed in this realm were ethical principles and the first four principles such as beneficence, non-maleficence, justice and autonomy, were proposed by Beauchamp and Childress (1979)⁵⁵ followed by the seventeen principles of the UNESCO Universal Declaration on Bioethics and Human Rights (2005). It has also been argued by Robert Holmes⁵⁶ that “analytical ethics have limited relevance to the problems of bioethics” and to substantive morality needing sound moral judgments on particular moral problems and bioethical dilemmas. The application of theories does not always help the solution of practical moral problems nor does it provide moral wisdom. On the other hand, Tom Koch⁵⁷ questioned the assumption that “high philosophy is a necessary groundwork for a practical guide to dilemmas that arise at the bedside of the ill or at the workbenches of researchers. Nobody carries Kant to a clinical consult,” focusing, however, not on Aristotle but “on the famous Hippocratic Oath as an ethical covenant.”⁵⁸ Finally, Peter Allmark in his paper “An Argument for the Use of Aristotelian Method in Bioethics”⁵⁹ argues that Aristotle’s “method,” as outlined in his Nic-

 Dragona-Monachou (2007c), 34.  Megone (2000), 155 – 178. On Aristotle’s view on abortion see Pol. 1335b20 – 26 and Engelhardt (1996), 32, 64.  Dragona-Monachou (2007c), 37.  See footnote 47.  Holmes (1990), 143 – 159.  Koch (2012).  Ibid., XVI.  Allmark (2006), 69 – 79.

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omachean Ethics in dealing with particular cases, constitutes an appropriate and credible method to use in bioethics, superior to such alternative methods as utilitarianism or casuistry. Emphasizing the practical character of knowledge in bioethics, Allmark remarks that Aristotle’s virtue ethics is often applied to bioethical issues. He sees this process to proceed in three stages: from opinions on happiness and virtue accepted by everyone (ἔνδοξα) to puzzles (ἀπορίαι) and to resolution of the puzzle-explanation of the phenomena through the dialectical method proceeding from the ένδοξα towards first principles and ending with points of agreement as exposed in Aristotle’s Topics. Comparing Aristotle’s method with theory-led methods of other philosophers and bioethicists (e. g., Hare, Singer and those in the Kantian tradition) he sees “the imposition of ethical theory unpromising,” although he also finds Aristotle’s method “subject to criticism from both theory-led and practice-led commentators.”⁶⁰ He claims that in Aristotle’s “empirically rooted bottom-up approach,” autonomy can be substituted by appeal to authority in Aristotle’s ethics, meaning perhaps the Aristotelian σπουδαῖον, “the excellent person who sees what is true in every set of circumstances, as a carpenter’s rule or measure for them” (EN 1113a32– 33) as well as the φρονίμους, the wise ones… “because they have an eye, formed from experience and they see correctly.” Therefore, the virtuous and excellent persons are entitled to act wisely and to decide correctly in the face of hard cases in bioethics. I wish this paper has by now achieved its goal: to provide strong support— or, even, concrete evidence—for the view that Aristotle is present today not only in ethical or moral debates, but also in bioethical ones.

Works Cited Allmark (2006): Peter Allmark, “An Argument for the Use of Aristotelian Method in Bioethics,” in: Medicine, Health Care and Philosophy 9 (1), 69 – 79. Bartz (2000): Robert Bartz, “Remembering the Hippocratics: Knowledge, Practice, and Ethos of Ancient Greek Physician-Healers,” in: Mark Kuczewski and Ronald Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, Cambridge, MA-London: The MIT Press, 3 – 29. Beauchamp/Childress (1979): T. Beauchamp and J. Childress, Principles of Biomedical Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Berti (1997): Enrico Berti, “The Present Relevance of Aristotle’s Thought,” in: Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου and Γιώργος Ρουσόπουλος (eds.), Η Επικαιρότητα της Αρχαίας Ελληνικής Φιλοσοφίας, Αθήνα: Ελληνικά Γράμματα, 306 – 317.

 Allmark (2006), 75.

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Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (1978 – 9): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Η Προαίρεσις στον Αριστοτέλη και τον Επίκτητο: Μια Συσχέτιση με την έννοια της Πρόθεσης στη Φιλοσοφία της Πράξης,” in: Φιλοσοφία 8 – 9, 265 – 310. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (1995): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, Σύγχρονη Ηθική Φιλοσοφία: Ο Αγγλόφωνος Στοχασμός, Αθήνα: Ελληνικά Γράμματα. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου/Ρουσσόπουλος (1997): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου and Γιώργος Ρουσσόπουλος (eds.), Η Επικαιρότητα της Αρχαίας Ελληνικής Φιλοσοφίας, Αθήνα: Ελληνικά Γράμματα. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2002a): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Ηθική και Βιοηθική,” in: Επιστήμη και Κοινωνία 8 – 9, Αθήνα: Εκδόσεις Σάκουλα, 1 – 26. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2002b): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Βιβλιοκριτική of Mark Kuczewski and Ronald Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues” (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press), in: Επιστήμη και Κοινωνία 8 – 9, 277 – 286. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2006): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Οι Αρχές της Βιοηθικής. Η Οικουμενική Διακήρυξη για την Βιοηθική και τα Ανθρώπινα Δικαιώματα,” in: Ιατρική και Φαρμακευτική Επιθεώρηση 4, 58 – 68. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2007a): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Πρόλογος,” in: Mark Kuczewski and Ronald Polansky (επιμ.), Βιοηθική: Αρχαία Θέματα σε Σύγχρονους Προβληματισμούς, μετάφραση Μιχάλη Κατσιμίτση, Αθήνα: Τραυλός, 13 – 23. Dragona-Monachou (2007b): Myrto Dragona-Monachou, “Teaching Bioethics,” in: Review of Bioethics 1, 48 – 57. Dragona-Monachou (2007c): Myrto Dragona-Monachou, “Humanism, Secularism and Embryos,” in: Ethics, Law and Moral Philosophy of Reproductive Medicine 14 (9), 32 – 39. Dragona-Monachou (2007d): Myrto Dragona-Monachou, “Bioethics: Principles, Norms, or Ethical Theory?” in: International Academy for Philosophy, Series: News, Views and Reviews, News and Views 16, 10 – 24. Dragona-Monachou (2008a): Myrto Dragona-Monachou, “Do We Need Metabioethics as a Metaphilosophy of Bioethics?” in: International Academy for Philosophy, Series: News, Views and Reviews, News and Views 21, 4 – 22. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2008b): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Φιλοσοφία και Ιατρική στην Αρχαιότητα και οι Απαρχές της Ιατρικής Βιοηθικής,” in: ΝΕΥΣΙΣ 17, 64 – 79. Dragona-Monachou (2009a): Myrto Dragona-Monachou, “Is Bioethics a Professional, a Non-Philosophical or a Philosophical Ethics?” in: Ioanna Kucuradi (ed.), Philosophical Society of Turkey, 2007 World Philosophy Day, Istanbul 2007, Ankara, 63 – 70. Dragona-Monachou (2009b): Myrto Dragona-Monachou, “Need for Global Bioethics,” in: Spepsis XX, 75 – 89. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2012): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Από τον όρκο του ‘Ιπποκράτη’ στην Ιατρική Ηθική και τη Βιοηθική,” in: Ε. Μουτσόπουλος and Μ. Πρωτοπαπά (eds.), Διαλέξεις Φιλοσοφίας, Αθήνα: Ακαδημία Αθηνών, Κ.Ε.Ε.Φ., 145 – 190. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2013): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Βιοηθική και Φιλοσοφία,” in: Στ. Τσινόρεμα and Λ. Κίτσος (eds.), Θέματα Βιοηθικής, Ηράκλειο: Πανεπιστημιακές Εκδόσεις Κρήτης, 27 – 51. Δραγώνα-Μονάχου (2016): Μυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου, “Ο Ρόλος της Ιατρικής στην Ηθική Φιλοσοφία του Αριστοτέλη,” in: Φιλοσοφία 46 (2), 52 – 82. Edelstein (1943): Ludwig Edelstein, The Hippocratic Oath, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press.

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Engelhardt (1996): Tristram Engelhardt Jr., The Foundations of Bioethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Engelhardt (2006): Tristram Engelhardt Jr. (ed.), Global Bioethics: The Collapse of Consensus, Salem: M&M Scrivener Press. Hare (1977): R.M. Hare, “Medical Ethics: Can the Moral Philosopher Help?” in: Stuart F. Spicker and Tristram Engelhardt Jr. (eds.), Philosophical Medical Ethics: Its Nature and Significance. Proceedings of the Third Trans-Disciplinary Symposium on Philosophy and Medicine, Held in Farmington, Connecticut, December 11 – 13, 1975, 1, Boston: Reidel, 49 – 62. Hayry/Tuija (2003): Matti Hayry and Takala Tuija (eds.), Scratching the Surface of Bioethics, Amsterdam-New York: Rodopi. Holmes (1990): Robert Holmes, “The Limited Relevance of Analytic Ethics to the Problems of Bioethics,” in: The Journal of Medicine and Philosophy 15 (2), 143 – 159. Hottois (2004): Gilbert Hottois, Qu’est-ce que la bioethique?, Paris: Vrin. Jahr (1927): Fritz Jahr, “Bio-ethics: Reviewing the Ethical Relations of Humans Towards Animals and Plants,” in: Kosmos 24, 1. Jaeger (1957): Werner Jaeger, “Aristotle’s Use of Medicine as Model of Method in his Ethics,” in: Journal of Hellenic Studies 77, 54 – 66. Jonsen (1998): Albert Jonsen, The Birth of Bioethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kalokairinou (2011): Eleni Kalokairinou, “Tracing the Roots of the European Bioethics back to the Ancient Greek Philosophers-Physicians,” in: JAHR 2 (4), 445 – 456. Kalokairinou (2016): Kalokairinou Eleni, “Fritz Jahr’s Bioethical Imperative: Its Origin, Point and Influence,” in: JAHR, European Journal of Bioethics 7 (2), 149 – 156. Kalokairinou (2017): Kalokairinou Eleni, “Η Βιοηθική Προστακτική του Fritz Jahr,” in: Amir Muzur and Hans-Martin Sass (eds.), Fritz Jahr’s Bioethics. A Global Discourse, Zurich: Lit Verlag, 83 – 92. Kemp (1997): Peter Kemp, “Aristotle in Bioethics,” in: Mυρτώ Δραγώνα-Μονάχου and Γιώργος Ρουσόπουλος (eds.), Η Επικαιρότητα της Αρχαίας Ελληνικής Φιλοσοφίας, Aθήνα: Eλληνικά Γράμματα, 289 – 305. Kemp (2000): Peter Kemp, “Four Ethical Principles in Biolaw,” in: Peter Kemp, Jakob Rendtorff and Niels Mattson Johanson (eds.), Bioethics and Biolaw, vol. II, Copenhagen: Rhodos International Science and Art Publishers and Centre for Ethics and Law in Nature and Society, 13 – 22. Koch (2012): Tom Koch, Thieves of Virtue: When Bioethics Stole Medicine, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kuczewski/Polansky (2000): M. Kuczewski and R. Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kuczewski/Polansky (2007): M. Kuczewski and R. Polansky (eds.), Βιοηθική: Αρχαία θέματα σε Σύγχρονους Προβληματισμούς, Αθήνα: Τραυλός. Lloyd (1968): G.E.R. Lloyd, “The Role of Medical and Biological Analogies in Aristotle’s Ethics,” in: Phronesis 13, 68 – 83. Longrigg (1993): James Longrigg, Philosophy and Medicine: Philosophy and Medicine from Alcmaeon to the Alexandrians, London-New York: Routledge. Megone (2000): Christopher Megone, “Potentiality and Persons: An Aristotelian Perspective,” in: M. Kuczewski and R. Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 155 – 179.

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Montgomery (2000): Kathryn Montgomery, “Phronesis and the Misdescription of Medicine: Against the Medical School Commencement Speech,” in: M. Kuczewski and R. Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 57 – 66. Owens (1977): Joseph Owens, “Aristotelian Ethics, Medicine and the Changing Nature of Man,” in: St. Spicker and H. Tristarm Engelhardt, Jr. (eds.), Philosophical Medical Ethics: Its Nature and Significance, Boston: Reidel, 127 – 142. Polansky (2000): Ronald Polansky, “Is Medicine Art, Science or Practical Wisdom?” in: M. Kuczewski and R. Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 31 – 56. Polansky/Cimakasky (2015): R. Polansky and J. Cimakasky, “Aristotle and Principlism in Bioethics,” in: Diametros 45, 59 – 70. Potter (1970): Van Rensselaer Potter, “Bioethics, The Science of Survival,” in: Perspectives in Biology and Medicine, 127 – 153. Potter (1971): Van Rensselaer Potter, Bioethics: Bridge to the Future, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Price (1985): A.W. Price, “Aristotle’s Ethics,” in: Journal of Medical Ethics 11 (3), 150 – 152. Thomasma (2000): David Thomasma, “Aristotle, Phronesis, and Postmodern Bioethics,” in: M. Kuczewski and R. Polansky (eds.), Bioethics: Ancient Themes in Contemporary Issues, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 67 – 92. Toulmin (1986): Stephen Toulmin, “How Medicine Saved the Life of Ethics,” in: Joseph P. De Marco and Richard M. Fox (eds.), New Directions in Ethics: The Challenge of Applied Ethics, New York-London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 265 – 281.

Pierre Pellegrin

Aristotle and Democracy In his study of the constitutions, Aristotle considers democracy as a deviant regime, which corresponds to the correct regime which he calls “by the name common to all constitutions, namely a πολιτεία (polity)” (τὸ κοινὸν ὄνομα πασῶν τῶν πολιτειῶν).¹ Such a terminological choice is quite important, and I shall come back to this, especially since, according to Aristotle, the right constitutions are prior to the deviant ones, and therefore, polity is prior to democracy.² According to the well-known Aristotelian distinction between what is prior to us and what is prior by nature (or per se), a polity may come from a previous democracy (priority to us), but democracy is a deviation of a polity and not polity a deviation of democracy (priority by nature). Aristotle is not the only one to criticize democracy. Socrates and Plato were also very critical. But, if Aristotle shares some of their criticisms, he does not accept the main reproach they addressed to democracy, namely that democracy is a bad regime because it gives power, or some power, to people technically incapable of making right decisions because of their ignorance.

1 A deviant Constitution In Aristotle’s classification of constitutions, then, that democracy be a deviant regime, means that a legislator cannot consider he has accomplished his task well, if the city he is dealing with has a democratic regime. This means that democracy does not aim at the “common advantage,” but is directed towards the satisfaction of the interests of a given class, namely “the people” (δῆμος). This also means that the ruling part of the city does not take into account, or does not sufficiently take into account, the point of view of the other classes, particularly that of the wealthy. A correct constitution, on the other hand, is a constitution which, by its very functioning, speads virtue within the civic body, making citizens more and more virtuous, and, by the same token, more and more happy. In principle, then, a right constitution gives the power to virtuous people, their virtue being a special kind of

 Pol. III.7, 1279a38. Some translations are mine, sometimes I use the translation by C.D.C. Reeve (2017).  Cf. Pol. III.1, 1275b1. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-012

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virtue, which Aristotle calls the “political virtue.” What political virtue really means is a difficult question I don’t want to consider here. There are three great kinds of right regimes, namely kingship, aristocracy and polity, and, consequently, three great kinds of deviant constitutions, tyranny, oligarchy and democracy. Tyranny, however, can hardly be considered a deviant constitution, since it is not a constitution at all: “tyranny, being the worst [of the deviant constitutions] is furthest removed from being a constitution.”³ Aristotle considers a political world characterized by two kinds of confrontation: first the confrontation between oligarchic and democratic cities, wich is punctuated by tyrannic episodes (which was actually the Greek world he had before him); second, the confrontation within each city of an oligarchic party and a democratic party, struggling for power. Aristotle proposes a unified explanation for the fact that both oligarchy and democracy are deviant constitutions, viz., that both the democratic and the oligarchic parties consider absolutely just, and therefore a just basis for the control of the constitution, what is merely just from their own point of view. More precisely, democrats think that political power should be shared on the basis of free birth, whereas oligarchs think that the distribution of power in the city should be proportional to the wealth of the citizens. Consequently, in oligarchies the wealthy people who have the power in the city deprive the multitude of the poor of significant political participation, and, on the other hand, in democracies, the mass of the poor who control the constitution dispossesses the rich. Deviant constitutions are not immobile realities, but are instable states “full of sound and fury,” that is full of contradictions and struggle. In fact, two directions are actually open to deviant constitutions: “where there is an oligarchy, the aim may be to make the government more oligarchic or less so; where there is a democracy, the aim may be to make it more democratic or less so; and similarily in the case of the remaining constitutions, the aim may be to tighten or loosen them.”⁴ As to the tightening of the constitution, in democracies as well as in oligarchies, there is a tendency of the ruling class to monopolize the power. There is a very interesting passage at Pol. IV.6, 1293a21 in which Aristotle considers different kinds of oligarchy, from the less to the more tightened forms: if property owners are fewer and their properties greater than those mentioned before (…) the property owners being more powerfull, expect to get more. Hence, they themselves elect from among the rest of the citizens those who are to enter the governing class. But as they are not yet powerfull enough to rule without law, they pass a law of this sort, (Pol. IV.6, 1293a21)

 Pol. IV.2, 1289b2.  Pol. V.1, 1301b14.

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i.e., presumably, a law which makes legal this mode of election of the magistrates. Aristotle clearly suggests that, if they had had the power to do so, they would have suspended the laws. But a city which is no longer governed by laws is no longer a political community, but a “δυναστεία.” From this, we may draw two conclusions. The first one is explicitly considered by Aristotle: the last stage of deviant constitutions, oligarchies as well as democracies, is tyranny, tyranny being typically a regime which is not led by laws but by the desire of the tyran. Tyranny establishes itself by different means, for instance with the help of demagogues, and this is why it may come from a democratic regime. But I don’t want to consider this here. The second conclusion is not explicit in Aristotle: if the spontaneous tendency of oligarchy and democracy is to tend towards a form of tyranny, i. e., to depart from political life; if, on the other hand, the only obstacle capable of preventing such an exit from political life is that the people in power are not strong enough to govern without laws (because, in the case of an oligarchy, for instance, the democratic party in the city is strong enough to oppose such an enterprise), then we must conclude that it is the resistance of the ruled class to the hegemonic enterprises of the ruling class which maintains the possibility of a political life for cities and citizens. Presumably, the resistance of the ruled class may be the reason for which a constitution should be loosened: if, for instance, the democratic party in an oligarchy is strong, the oligarchs in power have to take the democratic requirements into account, and, therefore, make the constitution less oligarchic, i. e., to loosen it. That most of the actual constitutions are deviant constitutions is as much of a riddle as the fact that most people are vicious, even though virtue is the main condition for happiness. In addition to the difficult problem of the presence of evil in a good nature, we may find in Aristotle’s definition of democracy a social cause of the democratic deviation. In Pol. III.8, Aristotle points out a difficulty. Etymologically, “oligarchy” means the “domination of the few.” What then shall we say about a city in which the majority having the power in the constitution is rich, and only a few citizens are poor? Would it be just to call it a democracy? No, answers Aristotle, because in the very concept of democracy is included the condition that people in charge of the constitution are poor (or, at least, are not rich), whereas in an oligarchy it is wealth that gives access to power. But, according to Aristotle and most of the Greek philosophers, poor people cannot be virtuous for many reasons that we have not to consider here. The populace, because of its desire for revenge against the wealthy, but also because of the necessity for the poor to be paid if they want to be full-time members of the assembly, etc., cannot but dispossess the rich.

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Concerning oligarchy, things seem to be simpler, because the desire to have more, which is characteristic of the oligarchic Weltanschauung seems to be quite common in the human race, and especially among the rich. Therefore, if the power is left in the hands of the poor or of the rich alone, this will end in a tyranny.

2 No Constitution is Completely Bad Aristotle’s doctrine concerning the deviant constitutions is a balanced one, and this has been insufficiently noticed by commentators. Commentators on the Politics have mainly focused on the critical aspect of Aristotle’s judgment, which states that oligarchs are wrong to think that citizenship should depend only on wealth, just as democrats are wrong to think that any freeborn man should have an equal share of power in the city. That is why, in Aristotle’s words, none of them grasps “the whole of what is just in the most authoritative sense” (οὐ πᾶν τὸ κυρίως δίκαιον).⁵ But in saying, in the same sentence, that “all grasp a justice of a sort, but they go only to a certain point” (μέχρι τινὸς προέρχονται), Aristotle recognizes that they are partially right. In fact, the democrats are right to consider freedom and equality the basis for political life, because Aristotle defines political power, which is perhaps the main topic of his political investigation, as “a kind of power exercised over people who are similar to each other, i. e., free.”⁶ But the oligarchs also are right to think that political participation to power should depend on the contribution of each to the welfare of the city, even if they are wrong to consider that the only factor to be taken into account is wealth. We come here to one of the most salient features of Aristotle’s political philosophy. Of course, Plato, before him, already had the idea that the legislator may, and sometimes should, combine some characteristics of different constitutions. But Aristotle’s version of this is unprecedented. He considers the combination of democratic and oligarchic traits to be possible in two opposite ways. If the constitution combines the oligarchic greed of gain with the democratic tendency to despoil and oppress wealthy people, the natural tendency of such a constitution will surely lead to a kind of tyranny, regardless of whether oligarchs or democrats prevail over each other and are strong enough to impose their own point of view. But if the legislator is wise enough to combine the democratic taste

 Pol. III.9, 1280a10.  Pol. III.4, 1277b7.

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for freedom and the oligarchic idea that power is something which should be merited, this results in a right constitution. More precisely, Aristotle’s doctrine is that a proper mixture of democracy and oligarchy results in a polity. But a polity is a right constitution, i. e., an excellent constitution in given circumstances. In fact, all right constitutions are excellent, because they give power to virtuous people, the effect of this being that virtue diffuses in the civic body and that, at the end of the day, the citizens reach a happy life. The differences between right constitutions are mainly due to the number of virtuous people: when one man is virtuous, it is just and advantageous to make him a king, whereas when a small number of citizens are virtuous, the city should be governed by an aristocracy. Polity is the excellent constitution adapted to a city with many virtuous citizens. My intention is neither to give an account of this extraordinary doctrine, which makes excellence the result of a mixture of bad components, nor is it to outline the unprecedented field of action it opens to the legislator. For the main way to obtain such a mixture is progressive change in the laws of the city. In an oligarchy, for instance, the legislator and/or the stateman should counterbalance the oligarchic character of the executive power by introducing some democratic elements in the judiciary part of the constitution. Parallel measures should be taken in order to mitigate a democracy. But, of course, the reaction to an excessive oligarchy or an extreme democracy may take the form of a revolution, a solution that Aristotle, though reluctant to encourage it in many cases, does not absolutely rule out. Let me just remind you that this dosage enterprise of the legislator may also combine deviant and right constitutions, at least as intermediary stages towards excellence. It is in such a way that at Pol. V.1, 1317a2, for example, Aristotle considers “oligarchic aristocracies and democratically inclined polities.” Up to this point, democracy and oligarchy can be described as the two sides of the same coin: both are partially wrong and partially right, and excellence results from the right mixing of their positive sides. What I want to show now, is that even though democracy and oligarchy are equal, one is more equal than the other.

3 Democracy is Essential to Aristotle’s Political Philosophy We should first be aware that Aristotle is the first political philosopher in the full sense, and may be the last one. This means, first, that the πόλις is, according to

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him, the framework and the condition of a fully human life. From the very beginning of the Politics, Aristotle departs from other political philosophers on two points: first, in considering that political power is a specific form of power (this means that the sateman does not, or rather should not govern his fellowcitizens in the same way a father governs his wife and children, or the master governs his slave); and, second, in claiming that the stage of the πόλις in human history is its final stage, because the city is the natural society in which men may find the happy life (“while coming into being for the sake of living, the πόλις exists for the sake of living well.”⁷) This means, among other things, that a man can find his self-fulfillment only as a citizen, and more precisely as a citizen of a πόλις governed by a right constitution. It is at least curious that a philosopher who was the master of Alexander the Great, the gravedigger of the political era in Greece, adopted such a position. It is quite easy to acknowledge that there is a kind of kinship between politics (understood in the etymological and proper sense of what concerns the πόλις) and democracy. This is true in history as well as in Aristotle’s political philosophy. Today’s historians are aware of the differences which exist between ancient Greek democracies and what we today consider a democracy ought to be. The main difference is the exclusion of the vast majority of the inhabitants of the city from citizenship. In 317 BC, Demetrius of Phaleron ordered a census in Athens, the result of which was: 21, 000 citizens, 10,000 metics, 400,000 slaves. I think that women slaves were compted among the slaves, but that free women were not compted among the citizens. This means that there were more than 20,000 additional people (wives and daughters of citizens) who were deprived of civil rights. The second difference is that, in Athens, but also elsewhere as we see at Pol. III.2, the basic condition for being a citizen was “blood,” i. e., being born of two citizens. In fact, these differences are not as big as some have thought they are. After all, the modern apartheid systems are often democratic: South Africa in the time of apartheid was a democracy, contrary to its African neighbors who were, and still are, tyrannical regimes. And until recently great democracies, like Germany, also based their citizenship on a genetic basis (Turks of the fourth generation in Germany could not acquire citizenship, whereas the Germans on the Volga, who do not even speak German, got it easily). Germany recently changed its legislation under pressure from the European Union.

 Pol. I.2, 1252b29.

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And, more importantly, these differences do not rule out the fact, which the Greeks were aware of, that democracy is more properly political than any other regime. Jean-Pierre Vernant pictures the new situation initiated by the establishment of the polis in this way: besides private and particular houses, there is a center where the public affairs are discussed, this center representing what is “common,” i. e., community as such. In this center everyone is equal to everyone, no one is subjected to anyone. In the free debate which takes place in the center of the ἀγορά, all citizens define themselves as ἴσοι, equal, ὅμοιοι, similar. This is the birth of a society in which the relation of man to man is conceived of as a relation of identity, of symmetry, of reversibility.⁸

We clearly see, in the very famous speech by Pericles, reported by Thucydides, that democracy pretended to be, compared to other regimes, the essential form of political life. Now, what about Aristotle? He obviously shares the common conception of democracy as the political regime par excellence. Indeed, all the other regimes do mix a political orientation and some pre-political aspects. This is obvious in the case of kingship, although there is a key difference between an archaic king, whose power has religious roots, and a political king who submits to laws. Aristocracies and oligarchies have to make a difference between firstclass citizens, who in effect share political power and free indigenous men who cannot be considered slaves or aliens, and who should, therefore, have some limited participation in political power. The popular regime alone makes all free men citizens in a full sense. That Aristotle spontaneously defines political power as a democratic one may be seen in the remarkable chapter III.1 of the Politics. Making a fresh start, this chapter first replaces the original question of the (best) constitution with that of the city: “what is really a city?” (τί ποτέ ἐστιν ἡ πόλις;)⁹ because a constitution is a “certain taxis of people living in a city” (ἡ δὲ πολιτεία τῶν τὴν πόλιν οἰκούντων ἐστὶ τάξις τις¹⁰); and, second, this chapter elaborates the question of the city in terms of citizen, because a city is “a kind of multiplicity of citizens” (ἡ γὰρ πόλις πολιτῶν τι πλῆθός ἐστιν). Then, the basic political question the political philosopher has to answer is: “who should be called a citizen, i. e., what is a citizen?” (τίνα χρὴ καλεῖν πολίτην καὶ τίς ὁ πολίτης ἐστὶ σκεπτέον).¹¹  Jean-Pierre Vernant (1966), 154. My translation.  Pol. III.1, 1274b33.  Ibid. 1274b38.  Ibid. 1275a1.

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The question of who should be accepted as a citizen is, indeed, the crucial question for the legislator and the political philosopher, because the answer to this question determines the form of the constitution of the city under consideration: if there is no restriction to citizenship but that of birth, we have a democracy, but if the access to citizenship is more or less conditional, we have an aristocracy or an oligarchy. Aristotle’s definition is quite realistic: the citizen is a man who shares in power: “the unqualified citizen is defined by nothing else so much as by his sharing in judgement [or decision] and office” (πολίτης δ’ ἁπλῶς οὐδενὶ τῶν ἄλλων ὁρίζεται μᾶλλον ἢ τῷ μετέχειν κρίσεως καὶ ἀρχῆ).¹² This obviously goes against the Greek linguistic usage, which used to apply such a definition not to citizens, but to officials (magistrates and politicians). In fact, Aristotle says, the assemblymen and the jurors are the real magistrates, because they have the real power. And, as there is no name to designate people who are both assemblymen and jurors, Aristotle proposes to call them holders of “indefinite office” (ἀόριστος ἀρχή).¹³ Finally, “the definition that would best fit all called citizens”¹⁴ is, therefore: those who participate in indefinite office. Then comes an often neglected passage: “things which belong to underlying subjects differing in kind, and for which one [of theses subjects] is prior and the other posterior, have nothing or very little in common.”¹⁵ If we apply this to the topic under consideration, we see that the constitution is the underlying subject of the citizen; but constitutions differ in kind (the only difference mentioned here is that between right and deviant constitutions); therefore citizens of different constitutions at the best have little in common, which means, as Newman says,¹⁶ that “no definition can be made to suit all the types of the thing equally well.” This means that “holder of an indefinite office,” which has been presented by Aristotle as “the definition that would best fit all called citizens,” is not the definition of any citizen (many citizens in an oligarchy, for instance, cannot be defined in this way). But, Aristotle says, “consequently, the citizen will be different in each constitution. This is why the citizen as defined earlier is above all a citizen in a democracy, and may possibly be one in other constitutions, but not

    

Ibid. 1275a21. Ibid. 1275a32. Ibid. 1275a33. Ibid. 1275a35. Newman (1887– 1902), I, 242.

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necessarily. For some constitutions have no demos.”¹⁷ I think, as Newman does, that δῆμος here means “popular assembly.” Here Aristotle has recourse to a theoretical schema which is quite frequent in his corpus. This schema includes a series of cognate realities, one of which is prior to the others. The remaining entities in the schema relate to the prior entity as imperfect states are related to the corresponding perfect one. In ethics, for instance, the virtues of women, children, and barbarians are incomplete versions of the virtues of the free Greek adult man. All the possible definitions of the citizen which apply to the different constitutions, even though they have little in common, should be considered by reference to the democratic definition. This is why, when considering the nondemocratic constitutions, Aristotle writes that the assemblyman and the juror are so in definite offices. But Aristotle presents this definition as a “correction” (διόρθωσιν)¹⁸ of the basic one. From this text, and from some others, we can conclude that according to Aristotle, democracy is the “normal” version of political rule. Let me now come back to the relationship between democracy and oligarchy, which I have already claimed to be both right and wrong in some respect. In fact, polity is generally a democracy with some oligarchic characters rather than an oligarchy with a touch of democracy. Of course, the latter case may exist in reality, but we should now see that it is not the case for the most part. I will propose three arguments to show that this is so. First, one of Aristotle’s more frequent recommendations to the legislator is that the constitution he is organizing should have the majority of the people on its side, or at least not against it. The reason for this is constitutional stability, which is one of the main aims the legislator should have. Aristotle is certainly not the conservative thinker some have pretended he was. This has been brought to light by Jacques Brunschwig among others. But Aristotle thinks that, to have an ethical effect on the citizens, the constitution needs time. This is why he is ready to accept some imperfect laws, which, if not too harmfull, will be rectified later, rather than engage the city in an endless cycle of revolutionary unrest. Democracy is more stable and freer from faction than oligarchy. For in oligarchies, two kinds of faction arise, one among the oligarchs themselves and another against the people. In democracies, on the other hand, the only faction is against the oligarchs, since there is none worth mentioning among the people themselves. (V.1, 1302a8)

 Ibid. 1275b3.  Ibid. 1275b13.

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Contrary to some commentators, I don’t see any contradiction between this explanation and that based on strength, which is offered elsewhere. Generally speaking, “the most important and fundamental principle, often mentioned, is to be careful that the multitude which wants the constitution is stronger than the multitude which does not.”¹⁹ “Often mentioned,” for instance at II.9, 1270b21; IV.12, 1296b14; 12, 1296b13; 13, 1297b4 (those who participate in the constitution outnumber those who do not). All this means that the party supporting the constitution must be stronger than the party which opposes it. Now the absence of internal faction is one of the components of the strength of the people in a democracy. We may add that “as a larger quantity is more incorruptible (ἀδιάφθορον), so the multitude, like a larger quantity of water, is more incorruptible than the few.”²⁰ Second, the extraordinary doctrine developed by Aristotle, especially at Pol. III.11, should be considered once more. According to this chapter, “the many, who are not as individuals excellent men, nevertheless can, when they have come together, be better than few best people, not individually but collectively.”²¹ This implies the extremely important conclusion that the multitude (under certain conditions that I will consider below) possesses a collective φρόνησις and a collective διάνοια which exceed even those of virtuous and intelligent individuals. “Being many, each can have some part of virtue and more precisely φρόνησις and when they come together, the multitude is just like a single human being, with many feet, hands, and senses, so too for their character traits and διάνοια.”²² In the following sentence, Aristotle claims that the judgment of the multitude is better than that of the specialists in the domain of fine arts, a position we have some difficulty accepting. We should notice that Aristotle, perhaps with some irony, emphasizes that his position in favour of a popular regime satisfies the requirements of the oligarchs: It is just for the multitude to have authority over the most important matters. For the people, the council and the court consist of many individuals, and their collective property assessment is greater than the assessment of those who, wether individually or in small groups, hold the important offices 〈in an oligarchy〉. (III.11, 1282a38)

   

Pol. V.9, 1309b14; cf. IV.12, 1296b13. Pol. III.15, 1286a31. Pol. III.11, 1281a42. Ibid. 1281b4.

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But the sovereignty of the multitude is not unconditional. The people capable of collectively exercising ethical and intellectual virtues must have some preliminary virtue. The idea that a great number of moderately virtuous people can exceed in virtue few very virtuous people presupposes that men of the multitude possess some virtue. But, Aristotle says, it is presumably clear, by Zeus, that in some multitudes it cannot possibly be the case, since the same argument would apply to beasts. For what difference is there, practically speaking, between some people and beasts? (III.11, 1281b18)

The people should then not be too vicious to meet the requirements of collective virtue. But, as we have seen, it is ultimately poverty that makes the members of the δῆμος vicious. This is why Aristotle thinks that a good democratic regime should involve people with some revenue. The examination by Aristotle of the different kinds of democracy in IV.6 is particularly instructive. From this chapter, which I will not consider here in detail, it follows that two things may prevent people from having a share in political virtue: first, the need for revenue that makes people obsessed with money, and, second, the lack of leisure. For a citizen, even if he is also a household manager and should, as such, be concerned with acquisition of wealth, must not primarily be an “economic” man. It is often the case, as Aristotle says, that democracies (or oligarchies) may exist with such people, because being unable to take part in the political life, they let the laws rule the city. But such people are not citizens in a true sense. On the other hand, when people of the δῆμος solve the problem of leisure by being paid by the city to attend the assembly meetings, the city becomes an extreme democracy, i. e., a demagogic regime, in which “the multitude of poor citizens come to have authority over the constitution and not the laws.”²³ Third, we should be more precise on the question of the superiority of the multitude over virtuous individuals. There is, in Aristotle’s political analysis, an important distinction between general matters which depend on laws, and particular cases which depend on decrees. Aristotle’s position is that the multitude must be obedient to laws that have not been established by this very multitude. One of the signs that a democracy has become a demagogic and arbitrary regime is the substitution of decrees for laws: in extreme democracies the multitude has authority, not the laws. This arises when decrees have authority instead of laws, and this happens because of demagogues. For in cities that are under a democracy

 Pol. IV.6, 1293a9.

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based on law, demagogues do not arise. Instead, the best citizens [i. e., “the upper class of citizens,” according to Newman] preside. Where the laws are not in authority, however, demagogues arise. For the people become a monarch, one person composed of many. (IV.4, 1292a5)

Concerning the popular regime he is advocating, Aristotle adopts completely different positions in the case of laws and in the case of decrees. In no way does Aristotle accept that the multitude be superior to the laws. The chapter III.11 is quite clear on this point: as to the question of who should have authority in the city raised earlier,²⁴ nothing is so evident as that the laws, when correctly established, should be in authority, and that the ruler, whether one or many, should have authority over only those matters on which the laws cannot pronounce with precision. (1282b1)

Contrary to what a modern citizen might think, deliberation in the Aristotelian city is concerned mainly with the application of laws to particular situations, not with the laws themselves. This can be seen, among other texts in chapter VI.8 of the Nicomachean Ethics: Political science and prudence are the same state of the mind, but their being is not the same. One part of prudence about the city is the ruling part; this is legislative science. The part concerned with particulars (…) is concerned with action and deliberation, since it is concerned with decrees and the decree is to be acted in a particular form. That is why those people only are said to be politically active, for they are the only ones who practice politics in the way handicraftsmen practice their art.²⁵

But, as to the deliberation concerning the application of general laws to particular situations, the argument of Pol. III.11 fully holds. For it is in the case of this kind of deliberation that we see more clearly what Aristotle has in mind when he compares the collective virtue of the multitude with “the many who are better judges of the works of art and poetry.”²⁶ As far as the establishment of the laws is not concerned, this kind of deliberation related to particular cases is, in effect, better if it is based on discussion involving many people. In the same way “a banquet to which many contribute is better.”²⁷

   

III.11, 1281a11. EN VI.8,1141b23. Pol. III.11, 1281b6. Pol. III.15, 1286a29.

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Conclusion Democracy is definitely a deviated polity and oligarchy a deviated aristocracy. But polity may, in fact, be considered a kind of democracy, whereas oligarchy is not at all a kind of aristocracy. This is so because, in oligarchies the criterion for taking part in political power is not virtue, but wealth. To become a polity, then, an oligarchy has to be heavily rectified through the addition of democratic dispositions: in oligarchies, it is beneficial either to select some additional people from the multitude of citizens to serve as officials or to establish a board of officials (…), and then have the assembly deal only with issues that have been considered by this board. In this way the people will share in deliberation, but will not be able to abolish something connected with the constitution. (IV.14, 1298b26)

On the contrary, a democracy which is not too much engaged in the way of a tyrannical rule of the multitude is easily enough transformed into a polity by adding some oligarchic features to the democratic regime, in order to prevent the multitude from monopolizing the power. First, the multitude must not be composed of very poor people, but should be composed of μέσοι, middle-class people. Second, the deliberation should concern the application of laws to individual situations through decrees, not the laws themselves. This is consistent with two main oligarchic requirements: that the citizens are not without revenue and that the people are not master of the laws. The fact that Aristotle called the kind of democracy which has incorporated some oligarchic/aristocratic traits a polity, “the name common to all constitutions,”²⁸ shows, more than anything else, that Aristotle’s political ideal is fundamentally a democratic one.

Works Cited Reeve (2017): C.D.C. Reeve (trans.), Aristotle, Politics, Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett. Newman (1887 – 1902): W.I. Newman, The Politcs of Aristotle: Translated with an Introduction, two Prefatory Essays and Notes Critical and Explanatory, 4 Vols., Oxford: Clarendon. Vernant (1966): Jean-Pierre Vernant, Mythe et pensée chez les Grecs. Études de psychologie historique, Paris: Maspero.

 Politics III.8, 1279a38.

George Contogeorgis

Aristotle and the Democracy of the City-state Introduction The issue of the place democracy occupies in Aristotle’s quest for the correct and, according to him, preferable πολιτεία, has long troubled contemporary thinkers. In order to be brief, I shall not deal with the so far formulated views, which I consider basically wrong, because they proceed from an erroneous starting point, i. e., the assessment of the Stagerite’s approach, on the grounds of certainties of our time about democracy, and mainly, because of the lack of epistemology regarding the notions that define the phenomena and their developmental time.¹ In my opinion, in order to understand Aristotle’s view on democracy, one must start from his fundamental views on the correct πολιτεία, as he calls it, and from the anthropocentric phase that people of the city-states of that time experienced. Indeed, the Stagerite inscribes his contemplation of the correct πολιτεία within a web of syllogisms that takes into account the stability of the πολιτεῖαι, a major issue at the time, the value priorities of the city’s societies, as well as his own axiomatic principles. His “πολιτεία” is the product of a combination of these three presuppositions. What are the principles of the πολιτεία that Aristotle adopts? Firstly, moderation as a means of socio-economic structure of the city-state, that takes into consideration productive priorities, focusing on agriculture, on the one hand, and on the distribution of wealth, which must be equally allocated and not lead to an excess of economic inequality, on the other. Secondly, moderation as a means for establishing a political system, that is, for the distribution of offices (“τίνα τρόπον νενέμηνται,” Pol. 1289a27). In this context, Aristotle is in favor of a system that leads to the convergence of social

 See Hannah Arendt (1973), E. Barker (1906), Norberto Bobbio (1996), Susan D. Collins (2006), Luciano Canfora (2006), Α. Croiset (1909), Robert Dahl (2006) [1956], Robert Dixon (1968), V. Ehrenberg (1976), Jill Frank (2005), D. Gaxie (1993), Jürgen Habermas (1997), Mogens Herman Hansen (2005), P. Hirst (1994), Claudine Leleux (1997), A. Lintott (1992), B. Manin (1995), Claude Mossé (1962), M. Ostrogorski (1993), Pierre J., and Peters, B.G. (2000), John Rawls (1971), J. de Romilly (1959), Giovanni Sartori (1987), Dominique Schnapper (2002), Manfred Schmidt (2000), Carl Schmitt (1988). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-013

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rivals in the middle of the πολιτεία. This system, however, cannot be related to the established πολιτεῖαι of oligarchy and democracy, because those πολιτεῖαι do not produce consensus among rival social layers. On the other hand, Aristotle’s “πολιτεία” is focused on the realities of his time. It focuses on some sort of synthesis of value constants, which could be the driving force of the entire society. It does not attempt to construct the ideal πολιτεία, like Plato, nor does it attempt to place itself in a different era, such as that of Solon. Solon was the greatest for his time; however, his ideas are not to be applied in the era of Aristotle. In this context, he wonders about the axiomatic constants that he himself believes should define a πολιτεία as a sine qua non condition. These constants derive from the taxonomy of the πολιτεῖαι he proposes. He makes a distinction between correct and deviant πολιτεῖαι, on the basis of their purpose. The first aim to take care of the common good, whereas the latter to self-interest (personal or class interest) of their possessors. Nonetheless, even among the correct πολιτεῖαι, Aristotle excludes monarchy and aristocracy. According to Aristotle, these systems are already classified in the past of the developmental process, while, as far as his era is concerned, it would be difficult for any πολιτεία other than democracy to prevail, for reasons he explains persuasively, in my opinion. At the same time, Aristotle observes that oligarchy is by nature a deviant πολιτεία, and, thus, it fails to satisfy the value and pragmatic priorities of his time. It is by nature a deviant πολιτεία, because it is objectively unjust towards the people, since it takes care not of the common interest, but only of the self-interest of the oligarchic class. The rejection of democracy, on the other hand, does not refer to the general principle which leads him to the denial of oligarchy. Democracy is placed among the deviant πολιτεῖαι, but not generally as a principle or a πολιτεία. It is deviant from the perspective of its radical character, as witnessed at his time. One may easily come to this conclusion by examining the correct “πολιτεία,” which he considers to be the most adequate to ensure stability within the city and as the agent of a value system, which he himself accepts as appropriate for the anthropocentric social type of his era. This decoding of the Aristotelian syllogism clearly implies that the Stagerite converses exclusively in terms of the principles and the system of democracy in order to constitute his correct “πολιτεία.” The opposition is between the correct “πολιτεία” and the deviant version of the democratic πολιτεία. The correct “πολιτεία” has democracy as a deflection, not oligarchy, nor aristocracy or any other type of πολιτεία. The fact that he does not call his “πολιτεία” correct democracy obviously does not denote its taxonomy in some other type of πολιτεία, but rather as the dialectic antithesis of democracy.

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The “πολιτεία” is to democracy what the aristocracy is to oligarchy. It is the correct version of democracy. In the end, as will become clear later on, the correct πολιτεία in the dipole with democracy is identified with Aristotle’s version of the correct “πολιτεία.” We, therefore, conclude that Aristotle’s reflection on the constitution of his correct πολιτεία is called upon essentially to answer the question about how democracy is to be restored to its correct form. In brief, Aristotle’s “πολιτεία” fully adopts the values and the socio-economic and political background of democracy, which, however, he tries to reform on the basis of moderation.

1 The Values and the Political Causes of the Correct Πολιτεία I shall now focus on Aristotle’s main value and political preferences in order to establish my line of argumentation. Firstly, Aristotle fully adopts the purpose of democracy, namely universal freedom (personal, social and political cumulatively). Freedom is defined by democracy as autonomy, that is, self-determination of life, in the sense of not being governed by any other person. He considers universal freedom as the appropriate axiomatic principle of the anthropocentrically integrated social being and as the only principle per se capable of securing the stability of the πολιτεία of his time. As far as the socio-economic field is concerned, the actualization of freedom is linked to two statutory presuppositions: it does not adopt the dependency on need (poverty) as a common identity of the citizen, nor the dependency on the field of labour. It is interesting to note that Aristotle accepts, like democracy, the oligarchic foundation of the economic system (the non-introduction of the democratic principle into it). However, he accompanies it with the axiomatic principle of the exit of the citizen from the economic process. This is because this is the only way to achieve the social freedom of the citizen. Indeed, the citizen’s “conventional” dependence on the owner of the economic system means giving up his freedom and thus becoming a slave. The productive procedure, wherever it demands dependent labor, is called upon to turn to slave labor. Having the problem of social/economic dependence solved, Aristotle faces the question as to how the citizen will participate in the redistribution of the economic product, since he does not participate in its production. At this point, the Stagerite turns to the argument of democracy, adopting the principle of leisure. Leisure is a fundamental principle of the Aristotelian πολιτεία. Aristotle points out that leisure not only resolves the question of social freedom, but also

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forms the constitutional basis of political freedom, because the “good leisure” is considered to be the condition of “good ruling.”² In the political field, the actualization of freedom depends upon the establishment of a πολιτεία, which introduces the society of citizens as the main institutional parameter into its function. Aristotle agrees with this axiomatic principle of democracy, which by definition rejects the formation of politics, in terms of autonomous political power (the political system’s belonging to the legal plasma of the “state,” as in the principle of political sovereignty). Political freedom is secured only when the society of citizens changes into a political society and acquires the main responsibility of the πολιτεία (δῆμος). The citizen in Aristotle’s “πολιτεία” is the full citizen of democracy. Hence, he introduces the simple quality of the free person (who belongs to the society of the polis-state) as a fundamental condition of “citizenship,” without the accompanying conditions or the limitations of oligarchy.³ In addition, the Stagerite points out that, in order to rule properly, the citizen must secure his livelihood (his financial self-sufficiency) through the πολιτεία. In contrast, oligarchy leaves this matter to the citizen. However, the solution for the social support of personal freedom and, furthermore, of “citizenship,” differs over time. During the era of the proto-anthropocentric transition, this issue was resolved, as Aristotle informs us, by the redistribution of the land and the cancellation of loans (“σεισάχθεια”). During his time, Aristotle considers leisure to be the solution; that is, the political salary for the class of θῆται. Aristotle often refers to leisure, which the political salary ensures: deriving either from the exercise of eponymous authorities ⁴ or from participation in “anonymous” authorities (the Ἐκκλησία, the Ἡλιαία, etc.). Apart from the fact that it ensures the social and political freedom of the citizen, the political salary also guarantees social cohesion, as it prevents severe poverty, which transforms the class of θῆται into an enemy of the πολιτεία and a victim of demagogues, so long as it (political salary) does not derive from the “confiscation” of the property of the wealthy. With this reservation, the Stagerite attempts to link the general principle of leisure with the establishment of a socio-economic equilibrium in the city, which will prevent the radicalization of democracy. This is because the latter is the result of the dominance of the class of θῆται which, on the one hand, feeds into the domination of demagogues, with whatever consequences this has for the

 See Contogeorgis (2007), (2010).  See Contogeorgis (2013).  It is estimated that those hired by the public sector in Athens at the time exceeded 35,000.

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function of the whole, and, on the other hand, abets the class of “notables” in seeking the fall of democracy as the only way to safeguard its interests. This explains Aristotle’s persistent interest in the middle class, which is essentially a mixture of the class of farmers and moderation in the distribution of wealth. According to Aristotle, the class of farmers may act as a regulatory force between the class of θῆται, which, motivated by leisure, tends to push towards radical democracy and oligarchy, which works to overturn it. This regulatory function of the middle social class is possible as long as the class of farmers can be objectively a force of equilibrium. Since farmers do not have the luxury of time (due to their occupation and their distance from Πνύξ), they cannot attend public meetings frequently. In this way, it is left to the authorities to retain greater political responsibility in the functioning of the πολιτεία and, therefore, to the upper class to preserve a greater political role in democracy.⁵ What Aristotle seeks, is to create the necessary conditions so that the upper class (the γνώριμοι) comes to terms with democracy and no longer considers its overthrow as the only alternative to its own place in the πολιτεία. According to Aristotle, this is feasible, without undermining the cornerstone of democracy, through actual compromise, which will derive from the social reconstruction of the city, that is, with the regulatory role of the middle class. Thus, it will reserve for the authorities enough of a political role that will satisfy the ambition of the upper class to lead and influence political affairs. It is obvious that Aristotle does not seek to make peace in cities with solutions that, as we have said, refer to another era or to an ideal politeian structure. He is convinced that the solution lies in moderate democracy, as he experienced it during his first years in Athens. After all, he will point out in his “Πολιτικά” that oligarchies in his time are similar to democracy (small democracy), except that they reserve the status of citizenship to those who have the necessary property (“censitary system”).

2 The Full Citizen and Universal Freedom. The Δῆμος as Holder of the Πολιτεία In this πολιτεία, the main political authority–political sovereignty as it is inaccurately called nowadays—is left to the society of citizens, which is institutionalized as a δῆμος, i. e., as a political society. This choice by Aristotle, crucial for di-

 It is not clear whether Aristotle was for or against the selection of authorities by drawing lots. Indeed, the election of the authorities leaves more space to the γνώριμοι. However, it is rather certain that he was in favor of a system based on the collegiality of the authorities.

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agnosing his position on democracy, derives from a number of assumptions found throughout his works. However, the most important point of his argument is the exhaustive justification of the democratic principle—as opposed to the rejection of oligarchy with regard to his question: who is best placed to hold the main political responsibility in the city? Aristotle would no doubt answer, “the many,” for three fundamental reasons: First, because the knowledge of the many does not convey each individual’s view, which is probably inferior to that of an expert, nor the sum of the opinions of the members of society. It is the distillation of wisdom of the whole δῆμος arising from the consultative process. Second, because it is rather certain that the few and the experts will base their decisions, consciously or not, on the prospect of the satisfaction of their personal interest or the interest of their class and not necessarily that of the common good. Third, because in this judgment there is also the value argument of universal (and, in short, political) freedom. Aristotle takes this fundamental parameter into account as a sine qua non for anthropocentric integration and, by extension, for the stability of the πολιτεία. Because, as he will say, referring to Solon’s reform, if the people do not participate in the political process, they will reach the conclusion that they are not free. Therefore, individual freedom is not enough, as before, for one to consider himself free. Political freedom (political autonomy or self-government) is required, as well, and is based only on the embodiment of the πολιτεία in the δῆμος. Should we attempt to take Aristotle’s thinking further, we will come to the conclusion that he distinguishes between the division of work, which is necessary in a society (e. g., the need for a doctor, an engineer, etc.) and that which weaves a web of dependent relationships and therefore leads to the undermining of freedom. The Stagerite specifically rejects the principle of dividing work in the fields of socio-economic and political life, for this is where freedom is at stake. In any case, his certitude that the opinion of the many is superior to that of the few, concerning the goal of the πολιτεία, is the very opposite of that principle. In the same line of thinking Aristotle, unlike Plato, rebuts the argument of complexity, which was introduced by the supporters of oligarchy in order to reject the participation of the class of θῆται and the “vulgar” professions in the πολιτεία. I have come to the conclusion that complexity for Aristotle is not an objective reason. It is linked to the degree of maturity or, put otherwise, the emancipation of the society of citizens. Xenophon will simplify the formulation of the stake of po-

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litical freedom, noting that “the people are not interested in being ruled well, but in being free.”⁶ The application of this fundamental democratic principle—Ι refer to universal freedom and, furthermore, to the embodiment of the πολιτεία by the δῆμος— is not, in Aristotle’s thinking, under institutional or other constraints. He simply seeks, as already implied, the essential social balances that will allow the πολιτεία to absorb oppositions and achieve the city’s cohesion. To achieve the objective of a correct (democratic) πολιτεία, the Stagerite cites the contribution of other parameters which go beyond the historical rivalry between democracy and oligarchy. I indicate the two most important ones: The first one pertains to the communication system. Aristotle devotes a lot of time to this issue, which is linked to the size of the city. The city, Aristotle claims, should not be too small, so that it will not be self-sufficient, nor too big, because then the communicational condition of democracy will be removed; for who would have such a stentorian voice to exercise the rhetorical function in the δῆμος? The second parameter focuses on the issue of political education. Without insisting on this major issue, which is of great concern to Aristotle, I will simply point out his preference for the education on the correct πολιτεία, which is none other than that of the moderate democracy. This political education is defined by Aristotle as the “ἔθος and education to participate in the political process.”⁷ This political education ensures that everyone agrees on the purpose of the common interest and, at the same time, it creates an environment of legality for everyone, demonstrated in the habituation and commitment to the law. For Aristotle, the law is the guardian of each individual’s freedom and the measure for the treatment of the common purpose of the πολιτεία.

 Xenophon, ᾿Aθηναίων Πολιτεία, 8: “Ὁ γὰρ δῆμος βούλεται οὐκ εὐνομουμένης τῆς πόλεως αὐτὸς δουλεύειν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐλεύθερος εἶναι καὶ ἄρχειν.”  Political education (παιδεία) according to Aristotle is “τὸ ἔθος καὶ τὴν ἀγωγήν [τοῦ] πολιτεύεσθαι δημοτικῶς,” Pol. 1292b11– 18. See, Contogeorgis (1978), 235. However, Aristotle, consistent with the general problem of the stability of the πολιτεία, would point out that each πολιτεία, in order to maintain itself over time, must ensure that its citizens become addicted to politics according to its “ethos” and its “education.”

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3 The Political System of Modernity in the Typology of Aristotle’s Πολιτεῖαι. An Elected Monarchy This version of Aristotle’s relationship with democracy would not be complete, if we did not place his concern within a dialectic correlation with the intellectual and actual environment of our time. This is essential, as it reaches the core of the dogma of modernity about democracy and also of the assertion that Aristotle is totally against it, against the democratic principle itself. This view retains from his argument the criticism he exerts against radical democracy, or false democracy, according to Aristotle. Therefore, this generalization is contrary to his unquestioned preference, as we have seen, for the correct (democratic) πολιτεία. The fact that he calls the correct democracy simply “πολιτεία” does not contradict the fact that the entire value and institutional arsenal of the democratic principle/πολιτεία is included among his options. On the other hand, Aristotle’s correct democratic πολιτεία, or simply, “πολιτεία,” is clearly in opposition to the political system of modernity. First, because in the modern political system of the Western world, there is an absence of the democratic principle, namely of the purpose of the democratic πολιτεία, which is universal freedom (cumulatively personal, social and political freedom). The modern political system chooses univocally personal freedom, setting political/social freedom as an enemy to that freedom.⁸ Indeed, some, starting with the devotees of the Western-European Enlightenment, would classify democracy along with authoritarianism, ignoring the essential element: that authoritarianism, like totalitarianism, presupposes not only the concentration of absolute power in the hands of one or a few, but also the existence of the subject of sovereignty, in this case, society. However, if society is not an individual, that is, excluded by the πολιτεία as is the case in democracy, the subject of sovereign-

 Needless to say, modern “science” teaches that the “Ancients,” in particular their democracy, had not experienced individual freedom. It obviously does not take into account what this claim means: that the citizen could be politically self-ruled but remain a slave or serf! Or, perhaps, once he gained political autonomy (social and political freedom), he deprived himself of personal freedom. Should we then assume that the citizen as a politically free entity turned himself into his own slave? As I have argued many times, individual freedom can exist alone in the early anthropocentric era, but that is not the case for social and political freedom. They require, first, the experience of individual freedom. Similarly, as the person expands the field of freedom to socioeconomic and political freedom, individual freedom also widens its own range. See Contogeorgis (2007), (2005).

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ty is absent. Thinking rationally, we would say that it would be paradoxical for a society that embodies the πολιτεία to submit itself to a totalitarian regime. We should then accept the same pro rata regarding an authoritarian or totalitarian ruler! Second, because of the absence of the condition of the democratic πολιτεία, the political institution of the society of citizens (δῆμος) and its inclusion within the main political authority. I would go so far as to say that even the principle of representation lacks in the modern political system, which contemporary thinking has chosen to identify with democracy. The political system of our time is inseparably linked to the legal construction of the “state,” as a kind of ownership, whereas society holds the position of private status. The holder of the political power is both mandator and mandatee at the same time. The citizen, therefore, is subject to the “state,” not a partner of the πολιτεία. From this point of view, the political system of our time is neither representative nor, even less, democratic. After all, it could be neither, as the coexistence of both in the same πολιτεία would be feasible only by miracle. Thus, in Aristotle’s political typology, the contemporary political system is simply an “elected” monarchy, that is, it is classified as a strictly early, monarchically-structured oligarchy. In other words, Aristotle chooses, beyond any doubt, moderate democracy as the most correct πολιτεία, to which the totally oligarchic modern thinking and action are utterly opposed.

Conclusion From another point of view, Aristotle’s approach brings us back to the fundamental problem of our time: the absence of a fundamental gnoseology, whose primary task would be the expurgation of concepts from the ideological reassignment with which modernity has burdened them, either out of ignorance, or oftentimes intentionally. This gnoseology is called upon to provide answers on the semantics and typology of social phenomena, their stages of development, namely cosmosystemic stages of cosmohistory and, hence, a self-awareness regarding the stage this anthropocentric world is going through and the clarification of its future phases.

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Works Cited Arendt (1973): Hannah Arendt, On Revolution, Great Britain: Pelican Books. Barker (1906): E. Barker, The Political Thought of Plato and Aristotle, New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Bobbio (1996): Norberto Bobbio, Libéralisme et démocratie, Paris: Ed. du Cerf. Collins (2006): Susan D. Collins, Aristotle and the Rediscovery of Citizenship, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Canfora (2006): Luciano Canfora, La Démocratie. Histoire d’une Idéologie, Paris: Seuil. Contogeorgis (1978): George Contogeorgis, La Théorie des Révolutions chez Aristote, Paris: Librairie Générale de Droit et de Jurisprudence (LGDJ). Contogeorgis (2005): George Contogeorgis, “Democracy and Representation. The question of freedom and the typology of politics,” in: E. Venizelos and A. Pantelis (eds.), Civilization and Public Law, London: Esperia Publications, 79 – 92. Contogeorgis (2013): George Contogeorgis, Citizen and State. Concept and Typology of Citizenship, Saarbrücken Germany: Lambert Academic Publishing. Κοντογιώργης (2006): Γιώργος Κοντογιώργης, Το Ελληνικό Κοσμοσύστημα, τ. I, Αθήνα: Εκδόσεις Σιδέρη. Κοντογιώργης (2007): Γιώργος Κοντογιώργης, Η Δημοκρατία ως Ελευθερία. Δημοκρατία και Αντιπροσώπευση, Αθήνα: Εκδόσεις Πατάκη. Κοντογιώργης (2010): Γιώργος Κοντογιώργης, Οικονομικά Συστήματα και Ελευθερία, Αθήνα: Εκδόσεις Σιδέρη. Croiset (1909): Α. Croiset, Les Démocraties Antiques, Paris: Flammarion. Dahl (2006; 1st edition: 1956): Robert Dahl, A Preface to Democratic Theory, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dixon (1968): Robert Dixon, Democratic Representation, New York: Oxford University Press. Ehrenberg (1976): V. Ehrenberg, L’Etat Grec, Paris: Maspero. Frank (2005): Jill Frank, A Democracy of Distinction. Aristotle and the Work of Politics, Chicago: The University of Chicago. Gaxie (1993): D. Gaxie, La Démocratie Représentative, Paris: Montchrestien. Habermas (1997): Jürgen Habermas, Droit et Démocratie. Entre faits et Normes, Paris: Gallimard. Hansen (2005): Mogens Herman Hansen, The Tradition of Ancient Greek Democracy and its Importance for Modern Democracy, Copenhagen: The Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters. Hirst (1994): P. Hirst, Associative Democracy, Cambridge: Polity Press. Leleux (1997): Claudine Leleux, La Démocratie Moderne. Les grandes Theories, Paris: Ed. du Cerf. Lintott (1992): A. Lintott, “Aristotle and Democracy,” in: The Classical Quarterly, 42, no.1, 114 – 128. Manin (1995): B. Manin, Principes du Gouvernement Représentatif, Paris: Calmann-Levy. Mossé (1962): Claude Mossé, La Fin de la Démocratie Athénienne, Paris: PUF. Ostrogorski (1993): M. Ostrogorski, La Démocratie et les Partis Politiques, Paris: Fayard. Peters (2000): Pierre J. Peters, B.G., Governance, Politics and the State, Basingstoke: Macmillan.

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Rawls (1971): John Rawls, A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. de Romilly (1959): J. de Romilly, “La Classification des Constitutions Jusqu’à Aristote,” in: Revue des études grecques LXXII, 81 – 99. Sartori (1987): Giovanni Sartori, The Theory of Democracy Revisited, Chatham, NJ: Chatham House. Schmidt (2000): Manfred Schmidt, Θεωρίες της Δημοκρατίας, μετάφραση Ελευθερία Δεκαβάλλα, Αθήνα: Εκδόσεις Σαββάλα. Schmitt (1988): Carl Schmitt, Parlementarisme et Démocratie, Paris: Seuil. Schnapper (2002): Dominique Schnapper, La Démocratie Providentielle. Essai sur l’égalité Contemporaine, Paris: Gallimard.

Christof Rapp

Aristotle and the Dialectical Turn of Rhetoric The topic for which I was invited is Aristotle’s Rhetoric, and I would like to use this opportunity to highlight what I take to be the most important innovation of Aristotle’s work on rhetoric, namely the simple idea that any future art of persuasion that deserves the name of art has to be turned into a branch of dialectic. That’s what I call the “dialectical turn of rhetoric.” Although on the whole Aristotle’s three books on rhetoric had a significant impact on the western tradition of rhetoric, I take it that his most original insight has been systematically obscured. It was obscured, for example, by rhetoricians who were primarily interested in exploiting the logical tools of Aristotle’s Rhetoric and in integrating them into a thoroughly traditional and, indeed, trivial scheme of the partes officii and the partes orationis: the tasks of the orator and the parts of the speech. It became quite common to read Aristotle’s treatise through the lenses of Cicero and Quintilian us and their Renaissance commentators, thus making it a part of the history of rhetoric and detaching it from Aristotle’s philosophical work. It is quite telling that Aristotle’s work on rhetoric has not even been transmitted together with the rest of the Corpus Aristotelicum, but in separate codices collecting Greek oratory and the rhetorical manuals of the Greek and the Roman period. In contrast to this tradition I would like to show today that Aristotle practiced a quite revisionary approach to rhetoric, which derives from his philosophical work, in particular from his Organon.

1 Rhetoric as a Counterpart (ἀντίστροφος) to Dialectic As is well known, Aristotle opens his work on rhetoric by stating that rhetoric is a counterpart (ἀντίστροφος) to dialectic. He probably chose this conspicuous notion of ἀντίστροφος, because there was an established tradition of defining rhetoric along these lines. Isocrates had defined rhetoric as a counterpart to gymnastics. And in Plato’s Gorgias rhetoric was ironically defined as a counterpart to cookery. Still, the use of the concept of ἀντίστροφος used to puzzle commentators a lot; for example, there was a long-standing discussion whether the prefix anti- can really be used to express a kinship between rhetoric and dialectic. This is why Alexander of Aphrodisias found it helpful to paraphrase ἀντίστροφος as ἰσόστροφος, in https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-014

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order to bring out the similarity rather than the contrast between both fields. There can be little doubt, though, that in this opening passage Aristotle wished to express an analogy between rhetoric and dialectic, for the text continues as follows: for both [rhetoric and dialectic] are concerned with things that are such that they are to be known as common to all and as not belonging to any separated branch of science. A result is that all people, in some way, share in both, for all, up to a point, try both to test and uphold (ἐξετάζειν καὶ ὑπέχειν λόγον) a thesis and to defend themselves and attack others (ἀπολογεῖσθαι καὶ κατηγορεῖν). (Rhet. I.1, 1354a1– 6)

The kind of proficiency that each of them (rhetoric and dialectic) conveys is not like that of a science with a well-defined, distinct subject-matter, for it concerns aspects that are common to all fields of rational discourse. And this, again, is why everybody has a certain share in them. The two pairs of practices mentioned, testing or upholding a thesis on the one hand, and defending oneself or accusing others on the other, represent everyday practices corresponding to dialectic and rhetoric respectively. Hence, the core idea of this introductory section seems to be that both rhetoric and dialectic hold a similar place in the Aristotelian system of sciences / disciplines and that rhetoric is related to the everyday practice of defending and accusing as dialectic is related to the everyday practice of testing and upholding a thesis—and dialectic, this much is uncontroversial, is related to this practice by providing a method for finding arguments for and against claims of any content. In the following lines Aristotle points out that since some engage in these practices at random and some through an ability acquired by habit, it is also possible to do these things by following a method. And since it is possible to grasp the reason why some are more successful and others less so in doing these things, it is clear that there is a τέχνη whose job it is to provide a method based on the knowledge of such reasons. In other words, it is the analogy between rhetoric and dialectic established right at the beginning of the Rhetoric that helps Aristotle to settle the old controversy about whether rhetoric can or cannot be a τέχνη. If rhetoric is similar to dialectic and if it plays the same role with respect to persuasion as dialectic does with respect to the above mentioned practices, it follows, or so the argument goes, that rhetoric is not less methodological, not less of an art, than dialectic is. And this is a most important point, for in the rest of his treatise Aristotle will claim that in contrast to what his predecessors have done or have failed to do, he is going to unfold a τέχνη-based or artful method of persuasion. It is hard to imagine, then, how Aristotle could have given more prominence to the affinity between rhetoric and dialectic. Still, we often find the view in the literature that the impact of this affinity is mostly restricted to the beginning of

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the Rhetoric, in particular to the first chapter of the first book. I do not think that this observation is right. First of all, the second chapter of the first book, which is sometimes thought to mark a turning point to a project of a different style, actually repeats the affinity between rhetoric and dialectic in other terms. Most notably, it says: …that rhetoric is like an offshoot of dialectic (ὥστε συμβαίνει τὴν ῥητορικὴν οἷον παραφυές τι τῆς διαλεκτικῆς),¹ …that it is a part of it (ἔστι γὰρ μόριόν τι τῆς διαλεκτικῆς),² …and that it is similar (καὶ ὁμοίωμα).³

It is highlighted by Aristotle that this is the same point that had already been made in the beginning of the treatise, so that we find a clear awareness of the continuity between the first and the second chapter of the book. Apart from this, we find many cross-references throughout the first two books of the Rhetoric either to dialectic or to the work that is famous for unfolding Aristotle’s dialectical method, e. g., – “in dialectics” or “in the works on dialectic” (ἐν τοῖς διαλεκτικοῖς): 1356b36, 1396b26, 1401a2, 1402a5, – “in the Topics” (ἐν τοῖς Τοπικοῖς / ἐκ τῶν Τοπικῶν): 1355a28, 1356b12, 1358a29, 1396b4, 1398a28, 1399a6, 1402a35, 1403a32, 1419a24, – “in the deductions” or “in the works dealing with deductions” (ἐν τοῖς συλλογισμοῖς): 1355a30, – “in the eristic arguments” or “in the works dealing with eristic arguments” (ἐν τοῖς ἐριστικοῖς): 1402a3. Moreover, the first two books of the Rhetoric rely heavily on the terminological inventory developed in dialectic. For example, the core theory of Aristotle’s Rhetoric makes use of notions like: συλλογισμός πρότασις ἔνδοξον ἔλεγχος ἔνστασις τόπος ἐπαγωγή

sullogismos protasis endoxon elenchos enstasis topos epagôgê

 Rhet. I.2, 1356a25 – 6.  Rhet. I.2, 1356a30 – 1.  Rhet. I.2, 1356a31.

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Clearly, these are notions that we all know from dialectic. And in addition there is considerable overlap between the rhetoric and the Topics. For example, many of the τόποι for arguing that something is better than something else mentioned in Rhetoric I.7 can also be found in chapters 2 and 3 of the third book of the Topics: Rhetoric b –  b –  b –  a –  a –  a – b b – 

Topics b –  a –  b –  b –  b –  b –  a – 

And on the top of this, the Topics mentions the encounter (ἔντευξις) with the many, which is certainly meant to include events like public speeches, the domain of rhetoric, as one of the three fields the dialectical method is useful for. πρὸς δὲ τὰς ἐντεύξεις, διότι τὰς τῶν πολλῶν κατηριθμημένοι δόξας οὐκ ἐκ τῶν ἀλλοτρίων ἀλλ᾽ ἐκ τῶν οἰκείων δογμάτων ὁμιλήσομεν πρὸς αὐτούς. (Top. I.2, 101a30 – 3) For purposes of encounters, it is useful because when we have counted up the opinions held by the many, we shall meet them on the ground not of other people’s convictions but of their own. (Translation based on Pickard-Cambridge)

And the Rhetoric too presents itself as making use of this particular aspect of the dialectical method: […] ἀλλ᾽ ἀνάγκη διὰ τῶν κοινῶν ποιεῖσθαι τὰς πίστεις καὶ τοὺς λόγους, ὥσπερ καὶ ἐν τοῖς Τοπικοῖς ἐλέγομεν περὶ τῆς πρὸς τοὺς πολλοὺς ἐντεύξεως. (Rhet. I.1, 1355a27– 9) […] rather it is necessary for pisteis and arguments to be formed on the basis of common beliefs, as we said in the Topics about the encounter with the many.

2 A New Approach to Persuasion By now I hope to have established that Aristotle really assumes a close affinity between rhetoric and dialectic and that this relation does not just derive from a random idea, but actually pervades significant parts of the first two books of the Rhetoric. What we haven’t discussed so far, however, is the ultimate rationale for establishing rhetoric and dialectic as twin disciplines. The dialectician is an expert in arguments for and against all kinds of claims and in seeing the difference

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between conclusive and non-conclusive inferences. The rhetorician is expected to see what is possibly persuasive in all given cases and to see the difference between what is actually persuasive and what only seems to be persuasive. What exactly is it, then, that dialectic can contribute to the analysis of persuasion? And here is what I take to be the core idea: τότε γὰρ πιστεύομεν μάλιστα ὅταν ἀποδεδεῖχθαι ὑπολάβωμεν. (Rhet. I.1, 1355a5 – 6) we are most (or most easily) convinced (or persuaded) when we think that something has been proven.

At first glance, I admit, this sentence does not look very spectacular. Syntactically, it even comes as a parenthesis, so that the German editor Rudolf Kassel put it into orderly brackets. However, we have to imagine the context in which this statement was made. Aristotle’s early years in Athens were probably the zenith of the Isocrates School. They, the followers of Isocrates (the Isocratics, as it were), were famous for their sophisticated subdivision of the speech, i. e., that speeches must include the exordium, the narration, the witnesses, the probabilities, the confirmation and the post-confirmation, the recapitulation and the peroration, that one must arouse benevolent feelings in the beginning of a speech and either pity or anger at the end. Orators of this time had to be acquainted with various techniques for slandering and had to know by heart certain pre-fabricated formulas for arousing pity. This is why Aristotle says that the authors of the rhetorical manuals used to give most of their attention to slandering, pity, anger and such affections of the soul and that they used to invent means for distracting the judges’ attention and for obscuring their judgement. If this is roughly the background, at least as both Plato and Aristotle thought of it, and if, against this background, Aristotle says that people are most easily persuaded if they take something to be proven, this certainly has significant implications. In order to persuade people, it is not necessary, as the state-of-therhetorical-art seems to suggest, to deal with narrations, confirmations, post-confirmations and recapitulations. It is not necessary to modulate one’s voice in a particularly solemn or pitiful manner. It is not necessary to call one’s crying wife and kids up onto the speaker’s platform. Nor is it necessary to present the victim’s blood-stained clothes, no need to refer to honor, dignity and humiliation or to use other tricks. Once we probe the cause of being-persuaded, once we get to the bottom of the phenomenon of when and why people are persuaded, we come to see, or is this the idea, that proofs or, strictly speaking, the assumption that something has been proven, is essential for persuasion, while all the other rhetorical means mentioned are more like accessories. The use of exordium, narration, confirmation, post-confirmation, slandering and recapitu-

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lation, etc. refer to things the orator can do, i. e. things that probably do have a certain effect on the audience, but, in a way, are subordinate, secondary, marginal and provide, in a word, no reliable basis for any art of rhetoric. Aristotle’s emphasis in this context is not to say that it would be morally bad or deplorable to use these accessory means [although, of course, he is in favor of legal regulations that forbid the orator in court to speak ἔξω τοῦ πράγματος (outside of the subject)]; rather he emphasizes the impossibility of developing an art of rhetoric by focusing on such superficial maneuvers and tricks, while neglecting the main thing—the main thing being the idea that people are persuaded if they take it to be the case that something has been established by proofs. And this again might be connected with the more general and more philosophical outlook that, as you know, humans are the kind of beings that by their nature desire to understand and, thus, are eager to hear arguments, proofs and explanations. Unless they happen to be inattentive, distracted or sometimes corrupted by flattery or opportunistic motives, they do have an inclination to find out what is really going on and they do not want to be fooled by the speaker. And nothing could be a better response to this general human tendency than a straightforward, understandably formulated, conclusive argument or proof. Nowadays we sometimes subdivide theories of rhetoric and argumentation into approaches that are mostly interested in the effects that are produced in the addressee on the one hand and approaches that focus on the reasonableness of arguments on the other. Now, one important aspect of Aristotle’s criticism of previous rhetoricians could be understood as saying that those people are only interested in a certain effect (namely that people surrender to the orator’s point of view) regardless of how this effect was brought about. If, in contrast, we take seriously the idea that people are most convinced when they assume that something has been proven, then the rhetorician who uses proofs and arguments will secure a certain degree of reasonableness and will at the same time be effective— at any rate more effective than people who neglect the persuasiveness of proofs and conclusive arguments. If so much is conceded, where exactly is it that dialectic enters the stage? This becomes clear, or so I hope, if we just read out the passage from which the previous quotation has been taken: Persuading (or making people believe) (πίστις) is a kind of proof (ἀπόδειξίς τις) (for we are most convinced [or persuaded] when we think that something has been proven), the rhetorical proof is the ἐνθύμημα—and this is, in a word, the most important of the ways of making people believe—but the enthymeme is a kind of συλλογισμός, while it is the task of dialectic to deal equally with each sort of συλλογισμός—either of the whole of dialectic or of a certain part of it. (Rhet. I.1, 1355a4– 10)

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The passage includes some tricky terms, but on the whole its message is clear. Πίστις can mean the result of persuasion or a point of view we came to adopt; in the rhetorical context it can also mean a certain part of the speech and in the later chapters of Aristotle’s Rhetoric it takes on a more technical meaning. Here, it probably just means the activity of persuasion in general, the effort one exerts to make people believe. ᾿Aπόδειξις is proof, but of course not the scientific proof in the sense of the Posterior Analytics. In the Rhetoric Aristotle keeps saying that what the argument, λόγος, does, is δεικνύναι or ἀποδεικνύναι, i. e., showing, proving, and demonstrating. Ἐνθύμημα is a traditional rhetorical term, which Aristotle occupies and redefines for his own purposes in terms of his own dialectical-logical terminology. The quoted passage makes it clear that he intends to equate the enthymeme with the proof in the rhetorical domain; in principle, he acknowledges that there are both deductive and inductive proofs—in dialectic and in rhetoric. But as he always privileges the deductive over the inductive proof, it is no surprise here that he straightforwardly identifies the rhetorical proof with the deductive type of argument. And this, again, is why the ἐνθύμημα is said to be a συλλογισμός—the deductive kind of argument in the rhetorical domain. So, where are we now? Rhetoric deals with the persuasive, being-persuaded essentially consists in thinking that something has been proven, the rhetorical proof is the enthymeme, the enthymeme is a συλλογισμός. And who is the expert for all kinds of συλλογισμός? The dialectician. Either dialectic as a whole or, more likely, a certain part of it, is responsible for dealing with all types of συλλογισμοί. And this is ultimately why rhetoric, properly understood, has to be based on dialectic. But why is it that, of all experts, the dialectician is responsible for the συλλογισμός?

3 The Dialectician and the Συλλογισμός In this brief section I want to argue that for Aristotle rhetorical proofs, enthymemes, make use of dialectical expertise in two distinct respects. First, there is the genuinely logical aspect that the dialectician has to know what it is to be a συλλογισμός and how the συλλογισμός comes about. Second, the dialectician has an expertise in dealing with accepted, acceptable, reputable or whatever opinions, i. e., an expertise for dealing with those famous ἔνδοξα. That the dialectical method includes these two kinds of competence is clear already from the first sentence of the Topics.

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The goal of this study is to find a method with which we shall be able to construct deductions (συλλογίζεσθαι) from acceptable premises (ἐξ ἐνδόξων) concerning any problem that is proposed and—when submitting to argument ourselves—will not say anything inconsistent. (Top. I.1, 100a18 – 21)

The announced dialectical method is meant to instruct us how to formulate συλλογισμοί, namely συλλογισμοί taken from premises that are ἔνδοξα. This is why the dialectical συλλογισμός is defined as an argument from premises that are only accepted, ἔνδοξον, as opposed to the scientific συλλογισμός that derives from true and primary premises. It is also immediately clear that the announced method is formulated with a view to a practice that necessarily includes two different roles, because it promises to help us both to actively draw conclusions on the one side, and to uphold or sustain an argument on the other. Obviously, this is meant to refer to the gymnastical σκέψις—scrutiny or examination—that is described in the first and the eighth book of the Topics. It includes a questioner who tries to refute a thesis that an answerer has chosen to defend, as well as an answerer who tries not to concede any—acceptable or reputable—premise from which the refutation of his thesis would follow. We are now in a position to spell out why dialectic includes a genuine interest in the συλλογισμός. The questioner’s aim is to compel, as it were, the answerer to admit that a certain (inconsistent) conclusion follows from the conceded premises. The answerer would not accept a suggested conclusion, if it did not actually follow from the posited assumptions. This is why the questioner must know how to construe a conclusive argument and why the answerer must know whether a suggested conclusion actually follows or not. And for this reason the dialectical method is centered on the definition of the συλλογισμός as a premise-conclusion argument, in which, when certain things are posited, something else, i. e., the conclusion, follows by necessity through the posited assumptions alone. It is one thing to know what it is to be a συλλογισμός and it is quite a different thing to know how it comes about. In the Topics this latter question is answered by the introduction of the so-called τόποι, as the τόποι incorporate many different ways in which a συλλογισμός comes about, so that for any given thesis the questioner can browse his or her repertoire of τόποι in order to identify the one τόπος by which he or she can construct the συλλογισμός that refutes the thesis of the answerer, provided that the latter concedes the required premises. This completes my answer to the question of why and how the dialectician is the expert for all kinds of συλλογισμός. I just want to add a brief remark on syllogistic theory: in general, the reader of Aristotle’s works expects the ultimate au-

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thority in all questions of logic to reside in the Prior Analytics. Indeed, it is the Prior Analytics and not the Topics that unfolds the syllogistic theory and introduces the formal restrictions of the συλλογισμός that we all associate with an Aristotelian syllogism, i. e., that such an argument consists of exactly three general terms, that there is one middle term, that all syllogisms go through three different figures, adopt different modes in accordance with the different quantities, etc. However, in some of Aristotle’s works there are traits of an interest in deductive reasoning or conclusiveness that is independent of the syllogistic theory. Most probably, this is also a chronological question of the development of Aristotelian logic; however, none of my claims depend on developmental hypotheses. I am just saying that there are works, like the Topics, the Sophistici Elenchi and, to my mind, the Rhetoric, that show no awareness of syllogistic theory, but nevertheless display a genuine interest in genuinely deductive arguments.

4 Back to Rhetoric! At first glance, the dialectical disputation between questioners and answerers is quite different from the situation of a rhetorician facing a public audience; how is it, then, that dialectical proficiency can help us to formulate rhetorical proofs? Being equipped with these two parts of the dialectical competence we distinguished, i. e. the competence in the συλλογισμός plus the competence in the selection of premises that are ἔνδοξον, the rhetorician will be able: i) first, to identify pre-existing convictions in the audience (i. e., ἔνδοξα relative to this type of target group, in the case of public speeches often οἱ πολλοί– the many) and ii) second, to derive the intended conclusions from these premises. Given certain subsidiary conditions, whoever is convinced of proposition X will also become convinced of proposition Y once he or she takes it to be the case that Y follows from X. Thus, the ἔνδοξα that are interesting for the Rhetorician are only a subset of the ἔνδοξα the dialectician deals with, since in public speech the only subset of accepted opinions that matters is the set of what is accepted by an audience consisting mostly of ordinary people, not of smart dialecticians or experts. Everything that is persuasive, Aristotle says, is persuasive to someone, to some type of audience. The same sort of competence that allows the dialectical questioner to distinguish between premises that are accepted by all or the many or certain experts and to distinguish between premises that have a better or worse reputation, also allows the rhetorician to hit upon the pre-existing convictions of a

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given audience and to draw the conclusions he wishes to establish from them. If he seeks to persuade an audience of Y, he has to take up a pre-existing conviction X, and to show that X follows from Y. Once someone masters this basic dialectical skill, it is relatively easy though not trivial to also master the rhetorical proof, the ἐνθύμημα: …it is obvious then that he who is most capable to consider where the συλλογισμός is taken from and how it comes about, will also be most “enthymematic,” if he grasps in addition about what kind of things the enthymemes are formulated and which differences there are in comparison to the logical συλλογισμοί. (Rhet. I.1, 1355a10 – 14)

It turns out that all in all, there are exactly two such differences that the dialectician has to take into account, if he or she wishes to become a successful rhetorician. Number one: As opposed to the dialectical problems typically discussed in dialectic, rhetoric does not deal with subject matters that are general and necessary, but rather with contingent matters that only hold for the most part (ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολύ). It is owing to this first difference that rhetoric is interested in arguments with ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολύ-premises and ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολύ-conclusions (this is Aristotle’s way of rationalizing the probabilities from conventional rhetoric). Number two: The second difference is that, while the dialectician can count on smart philosophically-minded disputants, the rhetorician is facing listeners who are just ordinary people (e. g., the poor and illiterate Athenian democrats), we might call them simple-minded if you like—at any rate they are not accustomed, Aristotle says, to following long-winded arguments and are not able to see remote things together: οὐ δύνανται διὰ πολλῶν συνορᾶν οὐδὲ λογίζεσθαι πόρρωθεν.⁴ And this is why Aristotle recommends that rhetorical deductions should not use as many premises as the dialectical argument, i. e., not as many intermediate deductive steps, and should not conclude πόρρωθεν⁵—not from remote premises, for example from premises that do not stand in an obvious relation to the conclusion. If someone who is trained in dialectic pays heed to these two differences and uses the τόποι that Aristotle provides in his Rhetoric, then he or she will master the way of arguing and giving rhetorical proofs that, according to Aristotle, should be central to the art of rhetoric properly understood. These differences are not negligible, but they do not interfere with the essence of a dialectical argu-

 Rhet. I.2, 1357a3 – 4.  Rhet. II.22, 1395b24.

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ment, so that rhetorical argumentation can really be seen as a branch of the dialectical method. This allows us to formulate some important concluding consequences:

(a) Proofs Are Central For artful persuasion, rhetorical proofs are central. Aristotle says that the enthymeme actually is the σῶμα τῆς πίστεως, the body of persuasion.⁶ Whoever wants to provide proofs has to engage with the given facts as well as with the advantages and the drawbacks of a certain point of view. And the audience that is being persuaded by such a proof-based rhetoric will form its convictions in accordance with reasons and will not just lend itself to the speaker’s position. Proof-based, dialectical rhetoric is, at any rate, a much more intelligible and reasonable endeavor than the style of rhetoric that deals with ornaments, rhetorical figures and other accessories.

(b) No Teaching The proofs that are provided by dialecticians and rhetoricians do not aim at teaching anything, they do not try to convey knowledge, since, after all, they rely on reputable opinions, not on established principles. Aristotle even says that it is one of the advantages of dialectical rhetoric that it enables discussion with people on the basis of their views, when teaching, strictly speaking, is not possible. This is also the crucial difference between Aristotle and Plato’s Phaedrus, which is probably the first place where a dialectical reform of rhetoric was envisaged. But dialectic in Plato’s Phaedrus is invoked for the task of grasping the truth about the subject matter and conveying knowledge about the listener’s soul. And although the word—dialectic—is the same, this is a quite different kind of project. The same point has also been misunderstood by the rhetorical tradition that took Aristotle’s rhetorical proofs as a means for docere, teaching as opposed to placere, pleasing. Aristotle’s art of rhetoric does not aim at teaching nor pleasing.

 Rhet. I.1, 1354a15.

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(c) Opposites The master of dialectic must be able to argue for both sides of a dialectical problem; hence, dialecticians must be able to deal with opposite points of view, and the rhetorician must be able to see what is possibly persuasive in any given case. Dialectic and rhetoric, indeed, are the only disciplines that draw conclusions from opposing premises. This is due to the fact that they do not draw conclusions from principles, but only from ἔνδοξα. And it is important, as otherwise their expertise in conclusiveness and persuasiveness would be limited. And this is, again, why…

(d) Neutrality … the rhetorician must be able to persuade listeners of the opposite claims. Of course, Aristotle does not want his students to actually persuade people of what he takes to be deplorable or vicious. But the dialectical art of rhetoric, as such, has no built-in moral restriction, no integrated moral goals.⁷ Authors like Cicero developed the ideal of the rhetorician as a vir bonus, a decent man, who must be morally good in order to be persuasive—and something like this has often been projected onto Aristotle, who after all, they say, is the author of the Nicomachean Ethics. However, all moral or political purposes do not define the art of rhetoric, but belong to the secondary question of how we use it. I am almost done. Anticipating the most popular kind of objection I have added, just one more thought:

5 What about the Rest of the Rhetoric? Well, that would be the stuff for many more papers, but here is briefly what I think: The project of a dialectically reformed rhetoric extends only to the end of Book II of the Rhetoric. Rhetoric III comprises two relatively independent projects (one on style and one on the parts of the speech), both of which show little interest in dialectic. Of course, Rhetoric I and II acknowledge not only proofs (λόγος), but also ἦθος and πάθος as artful means of persuasion. However, first things first. And in Aristotle’s dialectical rhetoric proofs are clearly first—of the almost fifty Bek-

 I elaborated on this view in Rapp (2009).

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ker pages of Rhetoric I and II approximately thirty-six pages are dedicated to proofs. The relation between proofs or arguments on the one hand and character and emotions on the other is a permanent source of scholarly controversies.⁸ As far as the main thesis of this paper is concerned, it might suffice, however, to say that the material that is provided on ἦθος and πάθος—this is a point that might be hard to accept—is developed with the same dialectic method by which the premises for rhetorical proofs are selected,⁹ so that even the parts of Rhetoric I & II that are not explicitly related to proofs derive from a dialectical endeavor.

Works Cited Dow (2015): Jamie Dow, Passion and Persuasion in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rapp (2009): Christof Rapp, “The Nature and Goals of Rhetoric,” in: G. Anagnostopoulos (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to Aristotle, Malden-Oxford-Chichester: Blackwell, 579 – 595. Rapp (2012): Christof Rapp, “The Moral Psychology of Persuasion in Aristotle’s Rhetoric,” in: Ch. Shields (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Aristotle, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 589 – 611.

 Indeed, I take it that for the purpose of persuasion Ἔθος and Πάθος play a mostly auxiliary role; see, e. g., Rapp (2012). For a different approach see, Dow (2015).  “Just as we have drawn up a list of propositions on the subjects discussed earlier, let us do so about these and us divide them in the way mentioned.”/ “ὥσπερ οὖν καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν προειρημένων διεγράψαμεν τὰς προτάσεις, οὕτω καὶ περὶ τούτων ποιήσωμεν καὶ διέλωμεν τὸν εἰρημένον τρόπον” (Rhet. II.1, 1378a28 – 30).

Evanghelos Moutsopoulos

Aesthetic Judgement according to Aristotle’s Politics Let me start by paraphrasing a citation from Longinus’ essay On the sublime: “In literary magnitude as well as in great wealth one does not care about insignificant details. It is rather inevitable that modest natures do not make mistakes and remain secure, precisely because, by avoiding the sublime, they do not expose themselves to any kind of danger. On the contrary, inspired natures are submitted to their own grandeur. I myself have remarked quite a lot of Homer’s mistakes (do not forget that even the divine Homerus dormitat = falls asleep).” Having this in mind, my audience will not be shocked, I hope, if I mention three irrelevances in Aristotle’s Politics. Their unimportance reveals the everlasting brilliance of his mind. In his Timaeus,¹ Plato affirms that people lacking culture and, therefore, being imprudent (ἄφρονες), while listening to musical harmonies just feel a mere pleasure, whereas cultivated people, being sensitive (ἔμφρονες) are able to reach intelligible harmonies starting from sensible ones. Such a conception directly refers to Heraclitus for whom hidden harmonies are superior to audible ones.² Aristotle, as for him, reverses in his Politics,³ such a perspective, be it apparently, by referring to a principle which he qualifies as a constant one and which is the following: the crowd (οἱ πολλοί) is able to better judge than a single, even virtuous, individual. Such is not, however, Plato’s tenet, who mentions false opinions when one should get rid of them, nor that of Proclus who follows him. On this issue, one has only to refer to Plato’s Alcibiades I,⁴ and to the Diadochus’ commentary on it,⁵ as well as to the Meno, the Republic and the Theaetetus (the latter having

 Cf. Plato, Tim., 80a-b.  C. Heracl., fr. 52, B52.  Cf. Arist., Polit. III.11, 1281a4-b17.  Cf. Alcib. I, 106c; 117d; 134b.  Cf. Proclus, in Alc. I. 5, 1– 8; 9, 4– 10; 12, 3 – 428, 4– 7; 12, 34; 43, 2– 4; 100, 23 – 101, 7; 102, 20 – 21; 103, 22– 23; 104, 10 – 15; 105, 15 – 18; 108, 9 – 11; 146, 14– 19; 155, 9 – 11; 156, 11– 12; 164, 1– 3; 175, 12– 15; 190, 17; 219, 11– 13; 225, 7– 8; 228, 8 – 9; 235, 12– 14; 243, 13 – 17; 245, 12– 13; 278, 18; 280, 12– 15; 302, 15 – 16; 329, 12– 16 (Westerink). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-015

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been qualified by John N. Theodoracopoulos as a “critique of pure reason” ante litteram), the Sophist and the Philebus. ⁶ Aristotle’s argumentation develops as follows: the principle after which the crowd would be superior even to a reduced group of persons, be they the best, has to be maintained, and though it contains some difficulties, it seems, at first glance, to include a part of truth. Indeed, a multitude of which each member is an ordinary person, once having been constituted as a body, may, probably, prove superior compared to some virtuous consciences estimated as such, provided it is envisaged not after each one of its individual members, but rather as a collectivity. This argumentation is followed up by some examples which seem—not always—to be very convincing. First example. A banquet to which several persons have offered their contribution proves to be more excellent in the sense that it is “richer in dishes” than a dinner offered by a single host, for, in the first case, each one of the numerous contributors brings his due part (in this case, his part of virtue and prudence). Such a congregation proves, in a way, to be equivalent to somebody disposing of several legs, several arms, and several senses, thus being more skillful. The image of the banquet and that of the polypode man display already some inconsequences: on the one hand, it is doubtful that a banquet be more rich, if shared by the community without any grant by some institution, rather than a dinner offered, e. g., by a chief of state to his peers (it is true however that the Stagirite provides elsewhere for the more deprived citizens a State allowance);⁷ on the other hand, an increased ability does by no means imply a necessarily more accurate and judicious judgment: it certainly presupposes a more subtle information, but by no-means a more refined taste. Second example. Concerning musical and poetical works, a large public is a better judge than a single person. It is evident that, apart from Xenophanes⁸ and Plato who follows him,⁹ who expose their reasons to blame the poets, first of all, Homer and Hesiod, for having attributed to the gods vicious behaviors proper to humans, i. e., mostly for moral reasons, but without refusing to them the traditional honors which they deserve.¹⁰ On the contrary, the crowd which is not cultivated would unlimitedly admire them.¹¹ Nevertheless, as far as music is concerned the problem is far more complicated. It suffices to mention the

 Cf. Meno 80a-d; Rép. III, 412e-413b; Theart. 145d-165d; Soph. 226d; 227d; 230de; Phil. 36c-42a.  Cf. Polit. VII.10, 1329b16.  Cf. Xenoph., fr. B 11.  Cf. Plat., Rép. III, 398a.  Cf. ibid. VI, 493c; X, 604e.  Cf. E. Moutsopoulos (1994), 50 – 52.

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teaching of the Pythagorean thinker Damon of Oa, with whom Plato¹² fully and, be it partly, even Aristotle,¹³ share views. This teaching essentially consisted in asserting that musical laws established long ago should not be modified without entailing a punishment due to the baneful effects that would follow, even revolutions susceptible to overthrowing State constitutions.¹⁴ This is why Aristotle envisages measures of protection of the States against such a menace.¹⁵ However it seems that this was not, in Damon’s case, the opinion of the large public of his time, which was fascinated by novelties introduced into music in the middle of the Vth century B.C., as well as into the fields of painting and sculpture,¹⁶ i. e., at a period when sophistry was already flourishing.¹⁷ Thus, such a current entailed a case before the Athenian Areopagus in 443, where the Pythagorean Damon held an apologetic speech, known ever since as the Areopagiticus, echoed by Plato and even with some differentiations, by Aristotle. Finally, Damon was sentenced to exile. The taste of the large public having changed since that period, Aristotle does not realize, more than a century later, the same contradiction in his own work. In order to avoid here superfluous musicological details, which have frequently been mentioned, it will suffice to report that the issue has to do with favorizing traditional musical forms involving beneficial impacts on human souls and banishing those who risk to produce opposite effects. This radical distinction became obsolete, simultaneously with the emergence of sophistry, and the large public, which was seduced by successive musical innovations, neglected these traditional forms. It was a public which tended towards carelessness rather than towards austerity, due rather to its ignorance of musical and musicological problems. Some reasonable voices within it, those of connoisseurs, had been easily smothered. One should keep in mind that the Stagirite differentiates himself from “Damonism,” from which he only retains some lessons concerning musical education. Nevertheless, for him, music consists, above all, in investing poetry into a melody and a rhythm accordingly to the former’s metric. Damon banished melodies or harmonies and rhythms that he considered predisposing to dissolute manners. For the same reason, he also banished certain musical instruments such as the αὐλὸς (reed flute). Aristotle, on the contrary, seems to have been interested in

     

Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf.

Plat., Rép. III, 397a ff.; IV, 424c. Arist., Polit. IV.3, 1290a19 – 25; IX.5, 1340b7– 10; Métaph. XIV.11, 1087b35 – 37. H. Ryffel (1949), 23 – 38. Polit. VI.2, 1317a40 – 1318a10. P.-M. Schuhl (1933). E. Moutsopoulos (1958), 364– 378.

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this instrument,¹⁸ while more or less he follows Damon, though he sometimes digresses from his views,¹⁹ for he evaluates the harmonies somehow differently. However, he stipulates the penalization of using unworthy suggestions in poetry and in plastic arts, as well as in the theater.²⁰ There is no doubt that music contributes to shaping the character of the youth, but the future citizen will not practice it unless for his own pleasure.²¹ He will never be a professional virtuoso, for this would imply that he would receive a retribution, which does not suit to a free citizen. Under these conditions, the principle of the primacy of the crowd, within which there would be dissentions, but in spite of them a consensus would finally emerge, a principle continuously evoked by Aristotle, could always prove valid?²² A Third and last example, even more complicated in its wording, is related to the notion of the association of αὐλητὴς within virtuous men who differ from one individual to another among the crowd, just as handsome people differ from ugly ones or works of art differ from natural realities. We encounter here two new completely divergent comparisons, while they are presented as being parallel ones. Indeed, if we have to do with handsomeness or beauty and ugliness, it is normal to suppose that the facial features are mainly concerned. But which ones specifically? Without any precision, any comparison grows decrepit, i. e., null. However, it lacks a criterion, according to which one might judge the differences. The Aristotelian idea, in this case, would have preceded by more than two millennia the psychology of form, the Gestaltpsychologie. ²³ Besides, as far as the second comparison is concerned, that of the work of art to its natural model, the Stagirite has recourse to at least unbecoming details. Referring to painting he reasonably—that must be conceded to him—presumes that on a picture that represents a human being, the members and organs of the body are normally put into a structured whole. But, then, how is the mention of members and organs which are separately conceived relevant? Had he announced more than two millennia ago cubism and even l’arte povera? It is evident that the examples destined to illustrate and support his argument on the principle of the crowd’s primacy in regard of the few but well informed—a democratic principle which nevertheless needs some adjustments that the philosopher himself clearly perceives—have been awkwardly chosen.

     

Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf.

Arist., fr. 43, 1483a8. Cf. K. Schlesinger (1938), 90 sq. H. Koller, (1954). Polit. VIII.6, 1340b20 – 1342b32. ibid. Anal. post. II.19, 100b5 – 8: δόξα καὶ λογισμός… ἐπιστήμη καὶ νοῦς. E. Moutsopoulos (1963), 71– 73. ibid.

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The principle of the crowd’s primacy and the argumentation that sustains it are at first glance undeniably correct and valid. However, the examples brought to reinforce them are contestable. How, then, is it possible to explain such a disparity? Its most probable reason would lie in the fact that Aristotle seems to be attracted by the Platonic “Damonism” and that, at the same time, he maintains his views on the notion of mediety which presupposes adaptations to be brought to conflictual situations; compromises at the service, among others, of the idea of equity or of reconciling the ideas of distributive and reparative justice. Great minds may, exceptionally and without reproach, allow themselves some deviations from their main ideas. Such a deviation the Stagirite allows himself when he refers to the problem of aesthetic judgment.

Works Cited Koller (1954): H. Koller, Die Mimesis in der Antike. Nachahmung Darstellang, Ausdruck, Bern: A. Francke. Moutsopoulos (1958): E. Moutsopoulos, “L’art dans le Sophiste de Platon,” Athéna, 62, 364 – 378. Moutsopoulos (1963): Ε. Μουτσόπουλος, Εισαγωγή εἰς τὴν Ψυχολογίαν, Αθήνα: Βαγιονάκης. Moutsopoulos (1994): E. Moutsopoulos, Poïésis et Technè. Évocations et résurgences, 3, Montréal: Éditions Montmagny, 50 – 52. Ryffel (1949): H. Ryffel, Métabolè politeiôn, Noctes Romanae, 2, Bern: Paul Haupt. Schlesinger (1938): K. Schlesinger, The Greek aulos, London: Methuen. Schuhl (1933): P.-M. Schuhl, Platon et l’art de son temps, Paris: Alcan.

III First Philosophy

Enrico Berti

What is Aristotle’s Metaphysics? 1 The Interpretations of Aristotle’s Metaphysics There are no sure quotations of the Metaphysics before Alexander of Aphrodisias, who commented it around 200 A.D. A summary of the work, made by a certain Nicolaus Damascenus, who was believed to belong to the first century A.D., has been recently attributed to the fourth century, therefore, its date is disputed. The commentary of Alexander, of which we have only the part concerning the first five books, was already an interpretation, nay the interpretation that influenced all the successive interpretations, not only of the late Antiquity, i. e., the Neoplatonic interpretations, but also the medieval interpretations, i. e., Arab and Latin, and the modern and contemporary interpretations, so that it is not exaggerated to say that the Metaphysics considered as Aristotelian by the tradition is, as a matter of fact, Alexander’s Metaphysics. This commentator, in fact, had the work in 14 books, the same that we have, but he saw its apex in book XII (Lambda), as it results from the commentary of Averroes, which contains some fragments of the lost commentary of Alexander to this book. For Alexander, the discipline contained in the work, i. e., “first philosophy,” is a rigorous science of demonstrative type, in perfect conformity with the theory of science expounded by Aristotle in Posterior Analytics, which has as its object being qua being, i. e., the totality of being, and it leads back this object first of all to the substance, conceived as a form, and then to the unmoved substance, conceived as a pure form, without matter, through a relationship which is not only of “relation to one” (πρὸς ἕν), but also of “dependence on one” (ἀφ᾽ ἑνός). The first unmoved mover, therefore, becomes a God, like the God of monotheistic religions, which at the Alexander’s time begun to spread in the Roman empire, that is a principle from which the whole reality derives and to which the whole reality tends. In particular, following Alexander, the heaven moves itself by circular motion in order to imitate the immobility of the unmoved mover. So, first philosophy, as we can see, is, on the one hand, an “ontology,” i. e., a science of being (even if this name in Greek does not exist), and, on the other hand, is also, and first of all, a philosophical “theology.” Alexander’s interpretation influenced deeply the Neoplatonic philosophers, first of all Plotinus, who interpreted the first unmoved mover as pure activity of thought, identifying it with Being, but affirming that it derives from the One and that the rest of reality derives from it; then the Neoplatonic commentators of Methttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-016

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aphysics, i. e., Syrianus (Vth century), who did not hesitate in identifying the whole philosophy with theology, and Asclepius (VIth century), who quite identified being qua being with God. The same reduction of first philosophy to theology can be found in the commentary made by the Byzantine, Neoplatonic and Christian, Michael of Ephesus (XIth century), who, under the name of Alexander, commented the books of Metaphysics of which the authentic commentary of Alexander was lost. The destiny of Metaphysics was not different in the Arabic speaking world. The Arabs committed the translation of Aristotle’s works in Arabic to the Christians who had been subjugated by them in Syria and Mesopotamia and presented the Metaphysics as the most apt philosophical basis for the rational foundation of monotheistic Muslim theology. The first important Arabian philosopher, Al-Kindi (IXth century), in his Book on First Philosophy, which was inspired by Aristotle’s Metaphysics, conceived first philosophy as the science of the “First True,” “Cause of every Truth,” characterized by “Sovereignty” und “Uniqueness,” i. e., conceived it as a rational theology. Nevertheless, this operation did not result so easy, because in the Metaphysics there is very few of monotheistic theology, therefore the Arabs made up themselves a work, which was translated in Latin with the title Theologia Aristotelis, putting together some parts of Plotinus’ Enneades, and a work with the title Book of the Pure Good, which was translated in Latin with the title Liber de causis and was equally attributed to Aristotle, but was formed by parts of Neoplatonic Proclus’ Elements of Theology. Against this “theologization” of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, there was the reaction of another Arab philosopher, Al-Farabi (Xth century), who in his treatise On the Purposes of Aristotle’s Metaphysics presented this work as containing a universal science, which studies the common aspects of all beings, i. e., existence and unity, known by means of abstraction, and their species and their properties. Theology, science of the divine, for Al-Farabi is nothing but a part of first philosophy. In this way, he outlined for the first time what later, in the Christian world, should become the distinction between a metaphysica generalis, or ontology, and a metaphysica specialis, or theology, where the object of the first philosophy was conceived as the most general and the most abstract of all concepts. Al-Farabi’s interpretation was taken again by Avicenna (in Arabic Ibn-Sina, XIth century), following whom first philosophy is about being, the most universal and abstract object, including in itself the necessary being, i. e., God, and contingent being, i. e., the creatures, so that in this case, too, ontology includes theology, which is reduced to a part of the first. The position of Averroes (Ibn Rushd, XIIth century) was more complicated, because in his Epitome of Aristotle’s Metaphysics this philosopher seems to agree with Avicenna, whilst in his Great Commentary to the work he seems to tend to the theologizing interpretation, probably

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by influence of Alexander’s commentary to book XII, which for us is lost, but for him was still available. In the Latin world, there was an analogous division to that of the Arab world. At first, when only a partial Latin translation was available, devoid of the book XI (Kappa) and ending with book XII (Lambda), the so called Metaphysica nova, first philosophy was identified with theology (in the first half of XIIIth century); afterwards Thomas Aquinas obtained by his brother William of Moerbeke a new complete translation of Metaphysics, including the book XI (Kappa), therefore he identified first philosophy with a science having as its object both God and the ens commune, i. e., what is common to every being, considering both these objects as immaterial and specifying that the common being is the subjectum, the causes of which are searched, while God and the spiritual substances are the causes which explain it completely. A fundamental role in this conception was played by the theory of the degrees of abstraction–which Thomas found in Boethius, who at his time had found it in the Neoplatonic Ammonius–, following which the ens commune is the most universal and the most abstract of all the concepts. First philosophy, therefore, is a unique science, but with two objects. A different interpretation was proposed by John Duns Scotus, who, tying up himself to Avicenna, claimed that first philosophy has as its object the universal being, i. e., the “transcendental,” which for Duns Scotus is a univocal concept, by whose study first philosophy arrives to understand even the specific characters of God. First philosophy, now called metaphysics, is therefore a transcendental science, of which theology is only a part, because in this science it is not God who explains being, but being which explains God. This conception was taken again in the Renaissance by the Portuguese commentator Pedro de Fonseca (XVIth century) and by the Spanish philosopher Francisco Suárez, who in his Disputationes metaphysicae (1597) assigned as the object to the metaphysics the ens reale, of which God and the spiritual substances are the highest expression, but which finds its explanation in the notion of being (ratio entis), universal essence, transcendental and univocal concept. The interpretation of Aristotle’s Metaphysics proposed by Suárez deeply influenced the philosophy of XVIIth century, above all in Germany, generating the so-called “Ontology,” a word that can be found in German philosophers of the beginning of the XVIIth century (Jacob Lorhard, Rudolph Göckel, Johannes Clauberg), and that would be taken again in the XVIIIth century by Christian Wolff to indicate first philosophy as the science of being qua being. This science was also called metaphysica generalis and distinguished from the three metaphysicae speciales, i. e., rational cosmology, rational psychology and natural theology, which have as their object respectively the world, the soul and God. This is the meta-

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physics that Immanuel Kant taught and criticised, transforming ontology into transcendental Analytics and refusing, in his transcendental Dialectic, the three special metaphysics as expressions of a non-scientific dialectic. In XIXth century G.W.F. Hegel, although appreciating several aspects of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, such as the teleology and the conception of the first unmoved mover as thought, identified general metaphysics with his Logic, i. e., the general science of the categories of a Logos not yet objectified in the Nature and not yet returned in itself in the Spirit. Hegel was opposed by Franz Brentano, who claimed as the object of Aristotle’s Metaphysics being in its many meanings, but nevertheless reduced it, first of all, to the substance and then to the immobile substance, following Thomas Aquinas’ interpretation, whilst the Neo-Kantian Paul Natorp took again the Kantian exploitation of the ontological aspect of the Metaphysics, refusing its theological issue. Finally, in the XXth century Werner Jaeger took again the distinction between theology and ontology, attributed by himself to Aristotle’s Metaphysics, but interpreted it in an evolutionistic sense, considering theology as an expression of the youthful Platonism of Aristotle and ontology as an expression of the positivism of his maturity. W. D. Ross, too, accepted the idea that in Metaphysics there was a theological nucleus, represented by the book XII (Lambda). By the influence of Natorp and Jaeger, Martin Heidegger interpreted the Metaphysics as constituted by two sciences, therefore, defined it an “onto-theology,” criticizing its presumed reduction of being, the object of ontology, to a particular being, God, the object of theology, a reduction that he interpreted as “oblivion of being.” The ontological aspect of Aristotle’s Metaphysics had, on the contrary, a remarkable success in English analytical philosophy, by the work of J. L. Austin, G. Ryle and P. F. Strawson. As it is yet evident, medieval, modern and contemporary interpretations are very far from the original meaning of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, which I will now try to outline.

2 Aristotle’s Metaphysics is not a Rational Theology The interpretation according to which Aristotle’s first philosophy is a rational, or natural, i. e., philosophical, theology, depends, I believe, on the affirmation made by Aristotle himself in Book VI, and taken again by the author of Book XI, that “there are three theoretical philosophies, the mathematical one, the

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physical one, and the theological one.”¹ This sentence, in fact, is often translated by “there are three theoretical philosophies, mathematics, natural science, and theology,” where first philosophy is of course identified with theology. Now, first of all, we must observe that the texts do not speak of “theology,” but of “theological philosophy” or “science,” and this is not without reason, because for Aristotle “theology” is not a science, i. e., a scientific knowledge, but is the whole of the myths which the poets tell about the gods, with which first philosophy has nothing to do. Then, we must consider the reason by which Aristotle declares that first philosophy is a theological science, a reason that results clearly from the lines that precede this declaration, i. e., “all causes must be eternal, but especially these, for they are the causes of so much of the divine as appears to us.”² The divine that appears to us are the celestial bodies, i. e., the stars, which all the ancient people considered divine; therefore, the causes of them too are divine, so that the science which knows theoretically these causes, is a “theological” science, i. e., a science which has to do with the divine. The reason why first philosophy is also called “theological” is, therefore, the fact that it occupies itself with the causes, with all the causes, including the causes of the stars, which are divine. But this is not the only object of first philosophy, for in the lines immediately preceding these that we quoted, Aristotle had affirmed: physics deals with things which are inseparable from matter but not immovable, and some parts of mathematics deal with things which are immovable, but probably not separable, but embodied in matter, while the first science deals also (καί) with things that are both separable and immovable. (1026a13 – 16)³

Often in translations this “also” is omitted, therefore, it seems obvious that first philosophy deals only with immovable substances, i. e., divine causes, whilst it concerns every type of causes, i. e., all the “first causes,” the moving causes, which are just the immovable movers, the material causes, which are the elements (earth, water, air and fire), the formal causes, which are the forms of material substances, and the final causes, which are the full achievement of the same form. On the other hand, in Metaph. I.2, 983a8 – 9, after having concluded that wisdom concerns the first causes, i. e., the principles, Aristotle said that this science is the most divine and the most worthy of honour, because it is a science of di-

 Metaph. VI.1, 1026a18 – 19.  Metaph. VI.1, 1026a16 – 18.  For all Aristotle’s texts I use The Revised Oxford Translation (1985).

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vine things, specifying that “the god is thought to be among the causes of all beings and to be a first principle.” Therefore, wisdom has not as its only object “the god,” i. e., the kind of the gods, but also this kind of beings, because the god is commonly considered a principle, and wisdom is the science of the principles. What, then, about book XII (Lambda), which Jaeger calls “the theology” of Aristotle, and Ross takes again in a paragraph of its introduction to Metaphysics entitled “Aristotle’s theology?” First of all, at the beginning of this book Aristotle declares that he is searching “the principles and the causes of the substances”;⁴ then he dedicates the first five chapters, i. e., the half of the book, to the principles of movable and corruptible substances, i. e., terrestrial bodies, specifying that such principles are matter, form and moving cause, that they are the same causes of everything only by analogy, and that only the first moving cause, i. e., the first unmovable mover, is the same for all the substances numerically, too. Therefore, the first half of the book that should be the “theology” does not deal with the divine. Afterwards, in the other five chapters of the book, Aristotle indicates the moving principles of movable eternal substances, i. e., of the heavens, and having established that the mover of the first heaven is an unmoved mover, he declares: “on such principle, then, depend the heavens and the world of nature.”⁵ Therefore, we have to do always with the science of the principles, i. e., of the first causes, and the divine enters into it as a principle, nay as one of the principles. Then, I don’t see any reason for saying that the book XII is the theology of Aristotle. In book XI (Kappa) speaking about the immovable substance, the author says: “this must be a first and most important principle,”⁶ which means that the divine, this time too, is an object of metaphysics because it is a principle, and the emphasis put on it (“a first and most important”)–an emphasis which is not present in book VI, of which the book XI will be a summary–is a further reason for doubting the authenticity of this book, already made suspect by the tendency of this book to identify the being qua being with the substance. On the other hand, Jaeger is not even satisfied with such an emphasis and, on the base of the commentary of pseudo-Alexander, he proposes to introduce in the text the article (ἡ), making the text saying “this must be the first principle and the most important of all.” Probably the book XI is the first and most ancient attempt of “theologizing” Aristotle’s Metaphysics, an attempt that was taken again by Alexander and brought to its complete fulfillment by the Neoplatonism.

 Metaph. XII.1, 1069a18 – 19.  Metaph. XII.7, 1072b13 – 14.  Metaph. XI.7, 1064b1.

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This attempt was due, probably, to the pre-eminence obtained by the religious problem in Greek philosophy at the moment when Aristotle’s Metaphysics begun to circulate in the philosophical milieu of the Roman empire.

3 Aristotle’s Metaphysics is Neither an Ontology But the Metaphysics is neither an ontology, if by this word we mean what it indicated at its origin, an origin which, as we said, is modern. For the word “ontology” was introduced in philosophical lexicon of the so-called Schul-Metaphysik, i. e., the metaphysics of the German scholasticism in XVIIth and XVIIIth centuries, to indicate the science of being, considered as the most universal and the most abstract of all the concepts. In respect to this being, God is only a particular being, the characters of which can be deduced from the general concept of being; therefore, the rational theology becomes a part of the ontology, together with rational cosmology and rational psychology. We have seen that this conception of metaphysics was attributed to Aristotle already by the Arab philosophers (Al-Farabi and Avicenna, this last a Persian, but writing in Arabic), and it was taken again by the late medieval Scholasticism, i. e., by Duns Scotus and his school, and was transmitted to the modern philosophy above all by Suárez, imposing itself definitively with Wolff. For Aristotle, on the contrary, being, just because it is the most universal of all the concepts, i. e., because it is predicated of everything, is also predicated of its differences, therefore, is not a genus.⁷ The fact that it is predicated of its differences, too, means that being does not leave out anything from itself, i. e., it is not the result of an abstraction, it is not an abstract concept, it is not the most abstract of all the concepts. The doctrine of the three degrees of abstraction is an invention of Neoplatonism (Ammonius, Boethius), taken again by the Arab philosophy and by Christian Scholasticism, but it has nothing to do with Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s first philosophy, somebody could say, is, in any case, a science of being qua being; therefore, it can even be considered as an ontology, although in a different sense than in the modern word. Well, in my opinion, the characterisation of first philosophy as science of being qua being by Aristotle has a very precise, and limited, function. In fact, after having defined, in book I, “wisdom” as science of the principles, i. e., of the first causes, and having shown, in book II, that in every kind of causes (material, formal, moving and

 See Metaph. III.3, 998b22 – 27.

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final) it is not possible to go to the infinite, but there must be some first causes, in book III Aristotle raises a series of questions, some of which concern the possibility that the first causes, i. e., the principles, are all the object of the same science, while the others concern the nature of the principles. In order to resolve the first kind of questions Aristotle, in book IV, introduces the concept of being qua being, observing that all the first causes, just as first, must be causes of being qua being, not of being qua characterized in a particular way, and then that all the first causes can be the object of the same science, which tends just to find the first causes of being qua being. In this science, the being qua being is the subject that has to be explained (in the language of the epistemology of today we should say the explanandum), while the first causes are what explains it (the explanans). The same also holds for the so-called “axioms,” i. e., the principle of noncontradiction and the principle of the third excluded, the defence of which occupies the whole book IV, and even for the distinction, belonging to being, between substances and accidents, which are the object of the same science, because all the accidents are in relationship with the substance and contain it in their own definition. Therefore, the notion of being qua being serves uniquely to justify the unity of first philosophy, as it results from the fact that this expression, after being briefly mentioned again at the beginning of book VI, where Aristotle illustrates the difference between first philosophy and the other theoretical sciences, is no more utilized in the whole Metaphysics, because it has exhausted its function. The work, in fact, continues as a research for the principles of the substance, i. e., of the primary meaning of being qua being, giving the solution of all the other questions developed in book III. That this is the function of being qua being, it is confirmed, in my opinion, by the way in which Aristotle introduces this expression at the beginning of book IV, that is: “it exists a kind of science, which knows scientifically being qua being and the attributes which belong to this in virtue of its own nature.”⁸ In this famous passage the emphasis falls on “it exists” (ἔστιν), which means also “it is possible,” and on “a kind of science” (ἐπιστήμη τις), ie., a sui generis science, and which serves just to identify “wisdom,” which was introduced in book I as the science of the first causes, with this “kind of science,” which conceives the first causes as the causes of being qua being and therefore is able to embrace all of them, although they are not contrary to each other, and to embrace even the “axioms,” which are another kind of principles, but always of being qua being. In fact, at the end of chapter 1, the text says:

 Metaph. IV.1, 1003a21– 22.

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Since we are seeking the first principles and the highest causes, clearly there must be some thing to which these belong in virtue of its own nature. If then our predecessors who sought the elements of existing things were seeking these same principles, it is necessary that the elements must be elements of being not by accident but just because it is being. Therefore it is of being as being that we also must grasp the first causes. (1003a26 – 32)

The theme of being qua being is practically abandoned beginning from the book VII until the end of Metaphysics, for the reason exposed in chapter 1 of this book: “The question which, both now and of old, has always been raised, and always been the subject of doubt, viz. what being is, is just the question, which is the substance?”⁹ This passage means that Aristotle does no more search for “what being is,” as the Presocratics (“of old”) and the Academics (“now”) made, but from now onwards he is searching only for “which is the substance?” i. e., the first substance, which at the end of the book will result to be the form. Many translators, perhaps by influence of Heidegger, for whom the sense of being is the “eternal” problem of metaphysics, interpret the adverb ἀεί, which here means “both now and of old,” as it would mean “eternally,” and therefore they attribute to Aristotle a research which concerns eternally the being. But this is clearly denied by the end of the passage. The emphasis on being, too, is probably due to the diffusion in the ancient world, at the time when the works by Aristotle begun to circulate (IInd-IVth centuries), of the great monotheistic religions (Judaism and Christianity), for which the concept of creation is fundamental, and of the Neoplatonism, too, for which the concept of procession, or derivation, or emanation, is fundamental: these all are explanations which have to do with being, or with a unique source of being. The same happened some centuries afterwards, when the Arabs introduced the Muslim religion, which is equally based on the concept of creation, i. e., of an origin of being (VIIth-XIIth centuries), and then with the Christian Scholasticism (XIIIth-XIVth centuries). It is not by chance that Heidegger, like Brentano before him, had an essentially scholastic formation: Brentano through the study of Thomas Aquinas and Heidegger, through the study of Duns Scotus.

 Metaph. VII.1, 1028b2– 4.

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4 Aristotle’s Metaphysics Contains “First Philosophy,” i. e., the Science of the Principles, or of the First Causes But why do we insist so much on the fact that Aristotle’s Metaphysics is neither a theology, nor an ontology, but a science of the first causes? The scope of such declaration is, first of all, to re-establish the historical truth: the studies on the text and the most recent translations do show just this, and the Metaphysics has to be considered in this way. But re-establishing the historical truth, though being valid and important in itself, also has important consequences from the point of view of the history of philosophy, which is not useless to stress. If, in fact, Aristotle’s Metaphysics is neither a theology nor an ontology, it avoids the criticisms which, along the history of philosophy, were addressed to this kind of metaphysics. I am thinking above all of the criticisms by Kant, after which, following many philosophers, “it is no more possible” to do metaphysics. But I am thinking also of the criticism by Heidegger, who declares that Aristotle’s Metaphysics has to be abandoned because it would be an “onto-theology,” and of the contemporary criticism by Carnap, who considers as a non-sense to speak of being, nothing, God, and similar subjects. Obviously, by being neither a theology nor an ontology, Aristotle’s Metaphysics also loses the appreciation of the supporters of these disciplines and lays itself open to criticisms of people who find that it is not enough theological or enough ontological. Already, the Muslims needed to confect a Theologia Aristotelis, taking abstracts from Plotinus’ Enneades, which is a more theological work, and the Christians attributed improperly to Aristotle the doctrine of creation (Thomas Aquinas in middle age and Brentano in modern age), or criticised him because he did not conceive God as the cause of being, but only as the cause of movement (Duns Scotus and all the so-called Christian Spiritualists). In this regard, the position of sir David Ross, the greatest contemporary commentator of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, is emblematic: in the section of his Introduction to this work, entitled Aristotle’s Theology, he criticizes Aristotle for not having attributed to “God” the knowledge, and therefore the creation of the universe, and for having limited himself to a description of God which is completely insufficient from the religion’s point of view. For this reason Ross concludes that Kant was probably right in claiming that practical reason has more to say to us about God than the pure reason. Speaking, instead, of “science of the first causes,” Aristotle wanted first of all to stress the fact that the discipline in question is an authentic and a true “sci-

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entific knowledge.” For Aristotle, the distinction we make today between “science” and “philosophy” did not exist; for him, these two words are quite synonymous, because he calls “theoretical philosophy” not only the “first philosophy,” but also the mathematics and the physics,¹⁰ and he calls the first philosophy also “first science.”¹¹ The task of science, for Aristotle, is to find the causes of the sensible world, i. e., to explain it, and this task is accomplished first of all by physics, which for him recovers the role of science attributed to it by the Presocratics and denied by Plato. The physics, in fact, discovers the first material causes, that is the elements (earth, water, air and fire, for the terrestrial bodies, and ether for the celestial bodies), but it also discovers the first formal causes, that is the soul of plants, of animals and of human beings (sciences which we call biology and psychology for Aristotle are parts of the physics, i. e., of the science of nature). Finally, the physics discovers also the first moving cause, that is the mover of the heaven,¹² but as this results to be unmovable, that is immaterial, the physics must give way for first philosophy, which concerns also immaterial beings. The first philosophy, therefore, is nothing but the continuation of the physics, and it is “metaphysics” in this sense, i. e., because it comes “after (μετά) the physics,” not in the sense commonly attributed to this word, i. e., of purely rational, or abstract, fanciful, speculation, which pretends to know the unknowable. Modern science has turned down the Aristotelian cosmology and astronomy (which was not only Aristotelian, but also Platonic and Neoplatonic cosmology), but has not subverted Aristotle’s researches on the animals and on the soul, which obtained the appreciation of Darwin and of the specialists in genetics of the XXth century (Max Delbrück and others). In some cases, modern science itself has attained the first causes, for instance, the material ones (subatomic particles, “obscure” matter), or the formal ones (the genetic code of plants, of animals and of human beings). The discourse about the first moving, or efficient, cause remains open, as it results from the divisions that it produces among the philosophers and the scientists themselves. About, at last, the final cause, the discourse is committed to what Aristotle called “practical philosophy,” that is ethics and politics.

 Metaph. VI.1, 1026a18 – 19.  Metaph. VI.1, 1026a15 – 16, 22– 23, 29 – 30.  Cf. Phys. VII – VIII.

Lambros Couloubaritsis

The Complex Organization of Aristotle’s Thought Introduction I would like to thank Demetra Sfendoni-Mentzou for the honor in asking me to present my paper at Mieza, the city where Aristotle taught. Even though, since 2000, I have replaced the meanders of Ancient and medieval thought¹ by those of contemporary thought,² I have not been able to free myself completely from the Aristotelian background of my intellectual itinerary, which continues to mature and allows me to have a better vision concerning the organization of Aristotle’s thought. It is this vision that I will outline here, taking into consideration two themes neglected by Aristotle’s interpreters, the One and the Multiple (henology) and the Good (agathology). When I presented my thesis in 1975,³ my ambition was to establish Aristotle’s system relying on the debates around the theory of the equivocity of the Being and of the analogy brought up by a generalized ontology, which comes from Thomism, centered in the book Epsilon of Metaphysics. The thoughts of St. Thomas Aquinas were restored by the Pope Leo XIII in 1879. This initiative recognized ontology as the main reference of contemporary metaphysics.⁴ In adopting Aristotle’s thought in the 13th century, St. Thomas had defended the absolute convertibility of the Being with the One, the True and the Good, and reduced the connections of the categories to the “substance” by an analogy of predication. Moreover, he binds the successive substances to God, envisaged as the identity of the “to be” (esse) and of the “Being” (ens) and as producer of being by division. He organizes into a hierarchy the system by the difference between actuality and potentiality.⁵ The first to have disturbed the disfigured filiation between Aristotle and St. Thomas was Pierre Aubenque. He established in 1962 the character almost homonymous of the Being, and defended the dialectic and non-scientific character

 I have presented a synthesis of this work in two histories of philosophy: Couloubaritsis (1998) and id. (2003).  See Couloubaritsis (2005a) and id. (2014).  See Couloubaritsis (1975).  See Couloubaritsis (1991a) and id. (1991b).  See Couloubaritsis (1998), 1184– 1214. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-017

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of Metaphysics. ⁶ Moreover, he showed that the only analogy in Aristotle was that of proportion.⁷ Four years later, and following these lines, Enrico Berti proposed a new reading of Aristotle’s system, but still based on Thomism.⁸ In 1970, his student, Walter Leszl, criticized the modern interpretations of the equivocity of Being and opened the way for new reflections on the possibility, or not, of a system in Aristotle.⁹ It is in this context that I hoped to establish the scientificity of Aristotle’s metaphysics in associating Physics and Metaphysics. It appears to me that the multiplicity of themes concerning Metaphysics, taken into consideration at the time (archelogy, aporetic, ontology, ousiology, energeiology and theology), which had allowed Jäger to propose an evolution of Aristotle, but in destroying the possibility of a system, could lead to a non-Thomistic solution, in alining these themes according to a progression with an argumentative method. This approach based on the aporetic, shows that the way Aristotle establishes his work is not demonstrative (in harmony with the Analytics), but argumentative, and aims at establishing principles adapted to the subjects dealt with. Moreover, this approach does not interfere with Aristotle’s evolution. He could have integrated, in his lifetime, these investigations on the line of synthesis. I have illustrated this process in my book on Physics (1980), showing the meaning of successive studies: becoming, φύσις, motion, change, circular locomotion and Prime mover unmoved (τὸ πρῶτον κινοῦν ἀκίνητον). The argumentative progression, dominated by the institution of principles (εἶδος, ὕλη, στέρησις) and of the four causes, achieve a science of becoming, which Plato refused. It announces the possibility of a metaphysics.¹⁰ Three years later, I realized that I had neglected—as had all the other commentators—the importance of henology (= the One and the Multiple), whereas Aristotle introduces this notion in Phys. I.2, 181b6 sq. and applies it throughout this work. He develops it in book III as well as in book I of the Metaphysics. This fact was forgotten by the interpreters, obsessed by the idea of the exclusivity of ontology. Yet Aristotle states that One is the measure of all things (“πάντων μέτρον τὸ ἕν”) (X.1, 1053a18 – 19). This expression was a reply to the thesis of Man as measure according to Protagoras and God as measure according to Plato. Since 1983, and because of this discovery, I set out to clarify Aristotle’s henology with-

 See Aubenque (1962).  See Aubenque (1978).  See Berti (1966).  See Leszl (1970).  See Couloubaritsis (1980) and id. (2001).

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out a neoplatonic influence and to the detriment of the Thomist theory of the absolute convertibility of the Being and of the One.¹¹ This investigation led me to an initial observation concerning language. Aristotle bases his reflection on “the things said” (τὰ λεγόμενα) and establishes a spread-out theory of language (λέξις). Τα λεγόμενα are divided, on the one hand with dialogue, dialectic, rhetoric, mythical speech, tragedy…, organized with the help of the One and the Multiple, and on the other hand, with apophantic or technical language according to heno-onto-logy the basic structure “subject” and “attribute” (τὸ κατηγορούμενον), which is the origin of predicative logic and of attributive grammar.¹² The aim of this incision in language was to render possible a scientific discourse which studies things that are (τὰ ὄντα) and things that become (τὰ γιγνόμενα). Aristotle proceeded in this way, starting with Physics. This classification, which is often neglected in favour of the ontological discourse of the predicative mode, which allows the treatment of numerous themes, from rhetoric and poetic to practical philosophy, passing by physics and the study of a multidimensional nature, including the sky, the soul and the intellect. The outcome of these studies was the constitution heno-onto-agathological of the Divine in Metaph. XII.10, which plays an important part in the completion of energeiology and in the institution of theology in connivance with the One and the good. Hence, the question, often put aside: What do henology and agathology contribute to Aristotle’s thought? My reply: The one and the multiple bring the conditions of the complex organization of the real, which is not reduced only to the ontological references. And the good allows to specify the best state in each modality of being and according to different forms of unity. In other words, henology intervenes as the starting point of human activity in the search and the organization of knowledge, production and action. On the other hand, agathology, which establishes itself in the action and the final aspirations of man, finalizes the organization of the Whole via God. The bond between man and God is fulfilled by the intellect which exceeds nature, in resembling the celestial body.¹³ Besides, Aristotle considers God and the intellect from the agathological point of view, considering them as two expressions of οὐσία in the nature of good.¹⁴ Let’s take a closer look at these themes.

   

See See See See

Couloubaritsis (1983a); id. (1983b); id. (1992a); id. (1999b) and id. (2005b). Couloubaritsis (1986b) and id. (1993). Couloubaritsis (2012). EN I.6, 1096a23 – 25.

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1 Reassessment of the Interpretation of Aristotle’s Thought Henology ¹⁵ concerns the different ways to consider the One and the Multiple, the application of which can be found at the very beginning of Greek thought.¹⁶ It is, however, Plato who achieves a first typology in his Parmenides, through the nine hypotheses, which became hypostasis since the diverse Neoplatonism. I have analyzed the presence of henology in Aristotle in a set of specific studies.¹⁷ Moreover, I have shown that his henology constitutes an application of the One and the Multiple since the beginning of Greek thought until the present day.¹⁸ The neoplatonic henology, wrongly considered as the only henological practice, is an extreme case, which is characterized by a hierarchical theological dimension, where the One is beyond the Being and at the same time immanent in all, and is at the same time the Good. This detail has always puzzled me, as well as the question to know, if Aristotle had integrated the philosophy of action in the Metaphysics, without which we cannot state that there is a general system in his work. Hence the importance of agathology. Henology states that the One is the measure of all things, and enumerates four methods of the One and the Multiple: 1. The continuous and the discontinuous with a series of cases (for example fingers). 2. The whole and the parts according to different cases (for example heap of sand and head with eyes, mouth, nose, etc.). 3. The εἶδος, the γένος and the analogy. 4. The things numerically one (in each category). Henology allows the organization of the real, framing ontology, which is resumed in Metaph. E.2 (being by accident, being as true, being according to the categories, being in potentiality and in actuality). The ousiology in Metaph. VII develops the whole and the parts, and opens to all forms of composition and of blending, which link the books VII and VIII, rendering necessary the introduction of potentiality and of actuality (energeiology).¹⁹

 With three directions of research: see Couloubaritsis (2001), id. (2005a) and id. (2011).  See Couloubaritsis (1986a), id. (2003) and id. (2008).  See Couloubaritsis (1994), Platonism; id. (2005c), Stoicism; id. (1992b), Plotin; id. (2004), modern sciences; id. (2005), contemporary philosophy.  Cf. Phys. I.2; Metaph. III; IV.6; I.  See Couloubaritsis (1985a) and id. (1996).

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As to ontology,²⁰ this concerns the different ways to look at the “to be” (εἶναι) and the being (τὸ ὄν) in the field of sense. Aristotle states correctly that the “to be” signifies in a multiplicity of ways (τοσαυταχῶς τὸ εἶναι σημαίνει).²¹ It signifies according to the methods of attribution (categories), placing the οὐσία as the subject (ὑποκείμενον). In the Topics, the predicables of a henological order dominate: εἶδος and definition, gender, proper and accident; in Metaph. III.2 different ways of unification are put forward (καθ’ ἕν, πρὸς ἕν, τὰ δὲ τῶ ἐφεξῆς) and various proper or essential accidents of the One and the Multiple: identity, difference, similar, dissimilar, equal, unequal, contrary…. There is a great variety of references concerning henology whereas those for ontology are limited and dependent on henology. It appears that without henology, ontology would be a confused discourse, and that without ontology, henology would be an empty discourse. The case of “Physics” is eloquent, and in the second edition of my book on Physics,²² I had to correct the absence of henology in the first edition. The analysis of becoming replaces the being (τὸ ὄν) by the becoming (τὸ γιγνόμενον), which is numerically one, but specifically two (ἓν ἀριθμῷ καὶ δύο εἴδει). This transforms the subject into substratum (= ὕλη) in the becoming of οὐσία, and submits the substratum to εἶδος, which specifies the kind of becoming. This submission introduces a privation (στέρησις). Thus, the three principles: εἶδος, ὕλη and στέρησις. In order to establish the scientificity of becoming, Aristotle introduces the causes of οὐσία, adding to matter and specificity, finality (expressed by the form) (μορφή) and the efficient cause, which transmits the εἶδος by that which produces the motion (τὸ κινοῦν) (Phys. II.7, 198a21-b9). In the other categories, the transmission of εἶδος specifies several motions: alteration (quality), increase (quantity), locomotion (place). However, in order to analyze motion, Aristotle uses the notions of potentiality, actuality and entelechy, which guarantee continuity (= first mode of the One) by the transmission of εἶδος (third mode of the One), in the sublunar world. These processes result in the first motion, the circular locomotion, considered as the measure of other motions and changes. In fact, in every case, the being according to the different categories specifying the changes that are subject to the modes of the One and the Multiple. These include the previous and the latter in the motion, transformed into before and after in time, defined as the number of motions according to the previous and the latter and the continuous. In short, physics is influenced

 See Metaph. IV.2 and V.7– 8; Cat. and Top., I.9.  Metaph. V.7, 1017a22– 24.  See Couloubaritsis (1997a).

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by henology, thus making the ontological approach possible. On top of this, henology puts energeiology (potentiality and actuality) into action and agathology by entelechy, which manifests the end (τέλος), as that which is the best and not as death. Energeiology, which plays an essential role in the question of motion,²³ centres the difference between potentiality (δύναμις) and actuality, activity or actualization (ἐνέργεια). We find this duality right at the beginning of Aristotle’s work, but his realization is accomplished in Metaph. VIII and IX by the distinction between motion (= transitive activity) and direct actualization (= immanent activity) which leads to God as a simple actuality or activity and thinking of thinking. The notion of ἐντελέχεια, sometimes wrongly identified to ἐνέργεια,²⁴ attests as an accomplishment either as mediation, which retains the potentiality, or as completion, preserving a kind of continuity by the transmission of εἶδος. This notion is a copy of the term ἐνδελεχής, which states continuity, but in integrating discontinuity for the finality achieved in the way of what is best in order to accomplish new activities. In this way, the soul is defined as “first entelechy of an organized natural body which possesses the potentiality of life.”²⁵ The soul is in a situation of biological completion, capable however of accomplishing a considerable number of activities binding with the good. It puts into play the action with the aim of finding happiness. All these facts lead to the agathology. Agathology concerns the different ways of considering the good, according to different categories.²⁶ Here are some properties of the good as introduction to agathology. According to οὐσία, the good is God or the intellect, according to quality, it is virtue, according to quantity, it is the exact measure, according to time, it is the favorable time (καιρός), and according to place, it is the habitat. With the expression ἀγαθόν, let’s remember the εὖ, often used as in expressions like: τὸ εὖ, τὸ εὖ πράττειν, τὸ εὖ ζῆν, or in composites like εὐδαιμονία, εὐτυχία, εὐβουλία, εὐστοχία, εὐημερία. Let’s add the use of the verbal form, “that which suits best” (δεῖ): ὡς δεῖ, ὅτε δεῖ, τοῦ δέοντος, and the notions of τέλος or ἐντελέχεια.²⁷ All these expressions exceed ontology.

 See Couloubaritsis (1997a), 265 – 306. I have presented my interpretation of δύναμις, ἐνέργεια and ἐντελέχεια in the treatises of Physics and De anima, during the meeting on “Energeia and Dunamis in Aristotle” organised by A.P. Mesquita and R. Santos of the University of Lisbon; the Proceedings will be published in the series Études Aristotéliciennes, Bruxelles/Paris: Ousia-Vrin.  See Couloubaritsis (1985a).  De an. II.1, 412a3-b9.  Cf. EN and Couloubaritsis (1997b); id. (1999a); id. (2000); id. (2006) and id. (2016).  See Couloubaritsis (1985b).

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On the other hand, agathology leads to theology, in Metaph. XII. In fact, God is not only Prime mover unmoved (Physics’ point of view), neither simply “ὄν” and “πρώτη οὐσία,” but also “simple” (ἁπλή), “actuality” (ἐνέργεια), “thinking” (νόησις) which is the “supreme good” (ἄριστον) and manifests itself as “thought of the thought” (νόησις νοήσεως), it moves by being loved (ὡς ἐρώμενον).²⁸ “We must,” says Aristotle, “also think how the good (ἀγαθόν) and the supreme good (ἄριστον) match with all of nature (ἡ τοῦ ὅλου φύσις).”²⁹ Are they like something separate or like components in the order of nature? We will see that Aristotle replies that we must associate the two perspectives. In fact, the chain that unites the themes, apparently separate in Aristotle’s work, is clearer when we associate ontology, henology, energeiology and agathology. And it is this association which renders pertinent the coherent organization of his thought. Also, the progression of the argumentation of the treatise of Metaphysics shows that it is richer in themes than thought in the 80’s.

2 The Meaning of the Organization of Aristotle’s Work Aristotle starts the historical analysis of the causes by an archelogy and forms the aporetic method (books I and II). Then he examines the science of the being as being (ontology) by a henological contact between the categories and οὐσία (book III), in order to found metaphysics as a universal and first science (book V). The emergence of the pre-eminence of οὐσία, according to the perspective of the subject, leads to ousiology (book VI), which shows that the duality of εἶδος and matter (ὕλη) proves to be insurmountable. In order to overcome this dualism which leads to a diverted form of Platonism, Aristotle resorts to energeiology (books VIII and IX). In book VIII, he absorbs the difference between εἶδος and ὕλη by the matter as potentiality (δύναμις), which manifests by actualization (ἐνέργεια) a form (μορφή) for what concerns οὐσία, and according to various differences for the other categories through connections, mixtures, compositions, etc. In this way, εἶδος connected to the differences, finds itself exteriorized as an efficient cause that guarantees the unity of the being which blossoms, that is made up of parts forming a whole (= different henological approaches). In book IX, he treats δύναμις and ἐνέργεια according to two perspectives: the first is that of motion (transitive activity), developed in Phys. III, and the second  Metaph. XII.7– 9 and Couloubaritsis (2001).  Metaph. XII.10, 1075a11– 13.

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concerns the immanent activity outside motion, which reveals the absolute continuity in God, once the unity of the being is guaranteed in book H and the possibility of a continuous immanent actualization, according to the divine thought, is established. This account leads inevitably to the question of the One and the Multiple, that is, the realization of henology [books I, XIII and XIV (where he criticizes Plato)]. Aristotle finishes his account by theology, which adds to the other themes, agathology (books XII and XIV.4). The presence of good in Metaphysics leads to action (πρᾶξις), with the presence of an “architectonic” in Book I of the Nicomachean Ethics, which associates ethics and politics. All these facts produce a complex organization of his work, via the De anima, which can be situated between Physics (including the treatises concerning nature, the sky and their parts) and Metaphysics. It’s the question of the intellect (νοῦς), which establishes the link, as the nature of the intellect is similar to the celestial body and shows its value in the order of action (EN X). The organization of Aristotle’s work is, therefore, completed by the association of ethics and politics, via the theoretical and practical intellect. The action is completed with the help of exterior goods through ethical and intellectual virtues, friendship, love and study (θεωρία), which contribute to a virtuous life, the only one that can assure happiness to man. The simplicity (ἁπλῶς) and the simple life (ζωή) of God contrast with human activity which, without being the measure of all things as for Protagoras, is however dynamic in the idea that the One is the measure of all things and that the good can be fulfilled. This allows me to assert that even if God is the final entity of the analysis, and his activity the most imminent, because it is continuous and permanent, he does not constitute, however, the last word in Aristotle’s thought. It is man, with his complex life (βίος), who possesses the key, with the soul as the centre of gravity and who lays the grounds for language and thought. This study is situated between that of nature and metaphysics,³⁰ maybe because the question of the intellect outweighs physics, and the activity of the soul flourishes especially in the man who possesses the intellect, which is of a divine order,³¹ and is also active in the city. This attributes to action and virtues an imminent part.³² Also, the expression “complex organization” seems to me more appropriate than that of “system.” In order to conclude, I think that it is useful to illustrate these perspectives by referring to a passage in Metaph. XII. Aristotle writes that the good (τὸ εὖ)

 See Metaph. VI.1, 1026a4– 7.  See EN X.  See Couloubaritsis (2006).

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resembles an army where the general “does not depend upon the order, but the order depends upon the general.” To this, he adds: “all things are ordered together in some way (συντέτακται), but not in the same way.” Fish and birds and plants are disposed and ordered, and everything is ordered together to one end (πρὸς μὲν γὰρ ἓν ἅπαντα συντέτακται), that is, God as such is the best among the beings. But in the case of human beings, the arrangement is like that in a household, where the free persons have the possibility to act freely, although all things, or at least most, are ordered for the good, whereas slaves and animals have little responsibility and act for the most part at random.³³ The comparison with the house reminds us of the analysis of the good in the EN X.6 where the place is the habitat, the best way to occupy a place. A house is produced by a τέχνη, which assembles several activities and accomplishes the process of construction.³⁴ Once finished, the house is lived in and puts into action the freedom of the free man. Thus, we can say that Metaphysics leads to a human action, to Ethics and to Politics, which complete Aristotle’s thought.³⁵ In short, reducing Aristotle’s work as is usually done to an ontology, which includes categories, truth, potentiality and actuality, weakens the multiple organizational possibilities of beings and of man on the whole. On the contrary, the study of the One and the Multiple, of potentiality and of actuality, as well as the good, produce a lot of possibilities and applications which express the richness and the complex organization of his thought. The obliteration of henology by St. Thomas Aquinas in favor of a generalized ontology, made an open system impossible in Aristotle’s thought. I think that we can reconstruct the organizational coherence of his thought in associating henology, ontology, energeiology and agathology, which weave a systematic convergence, with multiple relations, maybe even with complex and creative interactions. According to the actual problematic of complexity formulated by contemporary sciences, interactions between independent constituents without a pre-established project, produce an auto-organization from which something new emerges with new properties and functions.³⁶ This is to say, that even if there is no organic system in Aristotle’s work, we can, however, establish a complex organization which is non-organic but synthetic and coherent.

   

See See See See

Metaph. XII.10, 1075a11– 25. EN X.6, 1096a27. Couloubaritsis (2006). Couloubaritsis (2005) and (2014).

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Works Cited Aubenque (1962): Pierre Aubenque, Le problème de l’être chez Aristote, Paris: PUF. Aubenque (1978): Pierre Aubenque, “Les origines de la doctrine de l’Analogie de l’être. Sur l’histoire d’une controverse,” in: Les Études philosophiques 1, 3 – 12. Berti (1966): Enrico Berti, L’unità del sapere in Aristotele, Padova: Cedam. Couloubaritsis (1975): Lambros Couloubaritsis, L’être et le changement chez Aristote. Essai sur la possibilité d’un “système” métaphysique aristotélicien, Doctorat, 3 vols., Bruxelles: ULB. Couloubaritsis (1980): Lambros Couloubaritsis, L’avènement de la science physique. Essai sur la “Physique” d’Aristote, Bruxelles: Ousia. Couloubaritsis (1983a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’être et l’un chez Aristote (1),” in: Revue de philosophie ancienne I (1), 49 – 98. Couloubaritsis (1983b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’être et l’un chez Aristote (2),” in: Revue de philosophie ancienne I (2), 143 – 195. Couloubaritsis (1985a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Le statut du devenir dans Métaphysique Z et H,” in: Jürgen Wiesner (ed.), Aristoteles Werk und Wirkung I, Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Couloubaritsis (1985b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “La notion d’entelecheia chez Aristote,” in: André Motte and Christian Ruttens (eds.), Aristotelica. Mélanges offerts à Marcel De Corte, Bruxelles-Liège: Ousia, 129 – 155. Couloubaritsis (1986a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, Mythe et philosophie chez Parménide, Bruxelles: Ousia. Couloubaritsis (1986b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Legomenon et katégoroumenon chez Aristote,” in: Henri Joly (ed.), Philosophie du langage et grammaire dans l’antiquité, Bruxelles/Grenoble: Ousia, 219 – 238. Couloubaritsis (1991a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “La métaphysique s’identifie-t-elle à l’ontologie?” in: Rémi Brague et Jean-François Courtine (eds.), Herméneutique et ontologie. Hommage à Pierre Aubenque, Paris: PUF, 295 – 322. Couloubaritsis (1991b) Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’être et l’un chez saint Thomas d’Aquin,” in: Methexis. Mélanges E. Moutsopoulos, Athena: Société Hellénique d’Études Philosophiques. Couloubaritsis (1992a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Le statut de l’un dans la Métaphysique,” in: Revue philosophique de Louvain 90, 497 – 522. Couloubaritsis (1992b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Le logos hénologique chez Plotin,” in: Chercheurs de sagesse. Mélanges offres à Jean Pépin, Paris: Études Augustiniennes, 231 – 243. Couloubaritsis (1993): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’institution du langage selon Aristote,” in: Études Phénoménologiques 17, 51 – 69. Couloubaritsis (1994): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’un comme mesure de toutes choses,” in: Jean-Claude Beaune (ed.), La mesure. Instruments et Philosophie, Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 197 – 204. Couloubaritsis (1996): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’energeia selon Aristote et la question de l’art,” in: Recherches Poïétiques 4, 10 – 25. Couloubaritsis (1997a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, La “Physique” d’Aristote, Bruxelles: Ousia.

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Couloubaritsis (1997b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Le temps hénologique,” in: Lambros Couloubaritsis and Jean-Jacques Wunenburger (eds.), Figures du temps, Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg, 89 – 107. Couloubaritsis (1998): Lambros Couloubaritsis, Histoire de la philosophie ancienne et médiévale. Figures illustres, Paris: Grasset. Couloubaritsis (1999a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Can Aristotle contribute to the contemporary debate on the question of time?” in: D. Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Aristotle and Contemporary Science, New York: Pater Lang, 39 – 151. Couloubaritsis (1999b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Les fondements hénologiques de la Métaphysique,” in: Th. Pentzopoulou-Valala and S. Dimopoulos (eds.), Aristotle on Metaphysics, Thessaloniki, 83 – 93. Couloubaritsis (2000): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Temps et action dans l’Éthique à Nicomaque,” in: Luis-Nestor Cordero (ed.), Ontologie et dialogue. Hommage à Pierre Aubenque, Paris: Vrin, 131 – 148. Couloubaritsis (2001): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Causalité et scientificité dans la Métaphysique d’Aristote,” in: Vinciane Pirenne (ed.), supplément Kernos 12, Liège, 213 – 226. Couloubaritsis (2003): Lambros Couloubaritsis, À l’origine de la philosophie européenne, De la pensée archaïque au néoplatonisme, 4th Édition, Bruxelles: De Boeck. Couloubaritsis (2004): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “De pratique de l’Un d’Aristote à la formation de la science moderne,” in: Michel Cazenave (ed.), De la science à la philosophie. Y a-t-il une unité de la connaissance?, Paris: Albin Michel-France Culture 379 – 421. Couloubaritsis (2005a): Lambros Couloubaritsis, La Proximité et la question de la souffrance humaine, Bruxelles: Ousia. Couloubaritsis (2005b): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Le statut de l’un et du Multiple dans “Métaphysique,” in: Michel Narcy and Alonso Tordesillas (eds), La “Métaphysique” d’Aristote, Bruxelles-Paris: Ousia-Vrin, 17 – 47. Couloubaritsis (2005c): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “L’hénologie stoïciennne,” in: G. Romeyer-Dherbey (ed.), Le stoïcisme, Paris: Vrin. Couloubaritsis (2005d): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Ontologies et hénologies contemporaines,” in: Bruno Pinchard and Yves-Charles Zarka (eds.), Y a-t-il une histoire de la Métaphysique?, Paris: PUF, 305 – 343. Couloubaritsis (2006): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Phronèsis éthique et politique chez Aristote,” in: D. Papadis (ed.), L’éthique d’Aristote, Athena: Travlos, 189 – 215. Couloubaritsis (2008): Lambros Couloubaritsis, La pensée de Parménide, Bruxelles: Ousia. Couloubaritsis (2011): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “La causalité dans les traités Les Parties des animaux et De la génération des animaux,” in: L. Couloubaritsis and S. Delcomminette (eds.), La causalité chez Aristote, Bruxelles-Paris: Ousia-Vrin, 99 – 124. Couloubaritsis (2012): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “Le problème de l’intellect dans le De anima et les Parva naturalia,” in: Cristina Rossetti (ed.), La psychologie d’Aristote, Bruxelles/Paris: Ousia-Vrin, 145 – 164. Couloubaritsis (2014): Lambros Couloubaritsis, La philosophie face à la question de la complexité. Le défi majeur du 21e siècle, 2 Vols., Bruxelles: Ousia. Couloubaritsis (2016): Lambros Couloubaritsis, “La question du temps l’Éthique à Nicomaque,” in: D. Sfendoni-Mentzou (ed.), Le temps chez Aristote, Bruxelles/Paris: Ousia-Vrin, 167 – 200. Leszl (1970): Walter Leszl, Logic and Metaphysics in Aristotle, Padova: Antenore, 1970.

Teresa Pentzopoulou-Valalas

Interpretation Problems in Aristotle’s Metaphysics Λ. The Case of the Sentence: καὶ ἔστιν ἡ νόησις νοήσεως νόησις

Book XII (Λ) presents Aristotle’s theology. It has been characterized as “the only systematic essay in theology and a cοping stone of Aristotelean Metaphysics”¹. In spite, however, of this generally admitted view, puzzling questions relevant to the doctrines in Book XII (Λ) have provoked lengthy discussions. It appears, indeed, that no final answers have been given to questions such as, for instance, whether the Prime Unmoved Mover causes motion in the universe as final or efficient cause, whether God’s self-knowledge includes also knowledge of the world, i. e. of other things than Himself; and, finally, how we are to interpret the famous sentence “thinking as thinking of thinking”. Does it refer to divine intellection or to human intellection in general? As to the last question we may only suggest a reading that we hope will throw a different light on the alternative divine or human intellection. Book Λ consists of ten rather short chapters. Chapters 1 to 5 deal with perishable and unperishable substance. Chapters 6 to 10 concern the third kind of substance, the immaterial substance, object of Aristotle’s investigation. The last five chapters are rightly seen as among the most important texts in Aristotelian metaphysics, since here Aristotle is in search of the immaterial substance, an inquiry that is totally absent in the elaborate discussion on substance in the great Books VII, VIII, IX. Yet Book XII has offered considerable difficulty in the history of Aristotelian interpretation. This is understandable because in chapter 6, 7 and 9 Aristotle presents the doctrine of the Prime Unmoved Mover, i. e. the first principle which moves the universe as an object of desire (ὡς ἐρώμενον) and, finally, the problem of νοῦς and of νοεῖν. These doctrines have had such an impact on philosophy and in particular on Western philosophy that many scholars look at the first five chapters of XII as being a mere introduction to the last chapters.²

 Ross (1970), cxxx. For the view that Book Λ is Aristotle’s Theology cf. Jaeger (1955), 224; Elders (1972), 72.  Guthrie (1981), 253; Jaeger (1955), 229; Ross (1970), cxxx. Against this view see Frede (2000), 5. Cf. Lang (1993), 258 – 259. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-018

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In what follows I argue (a) that Book XII should not be seen as an inquiry on God; it is by no means a theological treatise (b) that Aristotle’s God appears in ch. 7 as a necessary first principle in the context of the Aristotelian theory of motion (c) that the sentence νόησις νοήσεως νόησις should be read in the light of Aristotle’s general doctrine of νοῦς and νόησις. By νοῦς we should understand something like insight, i. e., immediate intuitive knowledge and not just abstractive knowledge.³ Now, let us trace Aristotle’s line of thought in the second part of Book XII. In ch. 6 we have the demonstration of the necessary existing first principle, the Prime- Unmoved Mover. The word “God” does not appear in the text. In ch. 7 Aristotle proceeds to ascribe to the Unmoved Mover eternal motion, eternal life, pure intellection. Here, in ch. 7 “God” is mentioned for the first time. In ch. 9 the difficulties around the problems relative to νοῦς and to νοεῖν are set forth. Once again the word “God” is absent from the whole argument. Thus, in a nutshell, in Book XII, considered to contain Aristotle’s theology, the term God appears only in the lines 1072b25, b29, b30, while the expression “theological science”—θεολογικὴ ἐπιστήμη—occurs not in XII but in Books VI, 1026a19 and XI, 1064b3. This is indeed a strange situation. The image of God is introduced when Aristotle ascribes the attributes of the Prime Unmoved Mover to God, with no further explanation. Yet, we do not have to feel embarrassed if we approach the text in the light of Aristotle’s main concern, the necessity of a first principle, which moves the universe. We may then easily accept the idea that this first principle on which universe and nature depend is in Aristotle’s mind identified with God. When I argue that XII is not a theological treatise, I mean that in Λ Aristotle does not undertake an inquiry into God. He is not working from the very beginning on determining God’s predicates or providing a proof of God’s existence. As I said, his sole preoccupation is the solution to the problem of a Mover that moves the universe by an eternal motion. The Mover has to be necessarily unmoved, because in the opposite case it could not be a first principle. This conception reveals Aristotle’s genius. Two terms seem to play here the leading role: motion and intellection, κίνησις, νόησις. How do the two fit together in the context of Aristotle’s theory of motion? Up to now we have intentionally left aside the key-word that would allow us to understand the connection between motion and intellection. The key-word is ἐνέργεια. The prime Unmoved Mover endowed with everlasting motion is

 For the meaning of Νοῦς in Plato and Aristotle see L. Elders (1972), 15 – 32.

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above all an everlasting activity, an actuality. Its essence is an everlasting action and intellection. Thus we reach the conclusive statement: ἐστί τι ὅ οὐ κινούμενον κινεῖ, ἀΐδιον καὶ οὐσία καὶ ἐνέργεια οὖσα (1072α25).

Apparently, immateriality is the link between eternal motion and intellection since intellection is immaterial. So far so good. But the question still arises: how is the identity of the first principle with God made possible? Our answer is that this identity remains “unexplained”. In what follows we hope to shed light on this question. At this point we think it necessary to give a short account of the variety of views concerning the interpretation of νόησις νοήσεως νόησις. Two prevailing lines of thought have been followed by scholars down to this present day. The first has its provenance in the Christian tradition with Thomas Aquinas as the leading figure. Brentano, Rolfes, Maritain, Tricot are the prominent philosophers in the first group. The second is that of historicism represented by philosophers such as Zeller, Elser, Ross, Oehler.⁴ The sentence referring to God’s self-knowledge (αὐτογνωσία) implies that God has no other knowledge than of Himself and that consequently he has no knowledge of the world. An icy cold separates God from the world.⁵ Thomas Aquinas herald of the Christian Western theology summed up the answer to the question in his well-known statement: Intelligendo se intelligit omnia alia. ⁶ By knowing Himself, God knows all other things, i. e. the world. More close to us, nowadays, Jean Tricot describes God as thinking of thinking in the following terms: God, pure form, transcendent supreme being, is the summit and endpoint of a series of forms. God, by giving form to all things is first cause and supreme intelligible (cause première et suprême intelligible) and, in this sense God is final cause, supreme Good, ultimate object of desire and love.⁷ D. Ross adopted the standard interpretation. The Prime Mover is God whose knowledge is knowledge of that which is best. But that which is best in the fullest sense is God Himself. What Aristotle ascribes to God is knowledge which has only itself for its object.⁸

 See Krämer (1984), 871– 873.  See Elser (1893), 46.  In Metaphysica XII lectio 11, no 2614. The statement illustrates the best integration of aristotelism in the Christian dogma.  See Tricot (1974), 672– 673. For an exhaustive study of νόησις-νοήσεως see De Koninck (1991), 69 – 151.  See Ross (1970), cxli and cxlii.

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Against this interpretation R. Norman observed that the image of God that Ross’s reading conveys, suggests that the Prime Mover is a sort of heavenly Narcissus who looks around him for the perfection he wishes to contemplate, finds nothing rival to his own self and settles in a position of self- admiration.⁹ Norman’s οbjections gave rise to what is known as the Narcissus—debate. Aristotle, he observed, could not have in mind such a caricature. Ross’s and other scholars’ error lies in the misconception of what Aristotle means by mind thinking itself.¹⁰ The expression does not mean self-contemplation (αὐτοθέαση) but suggests the identity of νοῦς and νοητόν that characterizes abstract thinking. The Prime Mover, i. e. God, is everlasting abstract thinking and pure actuality in the sense of abstract thinking which is always a thinking of thinking. An attempt to approach the enigmatic νόησις νοήσεως in the light of philosophical hermeneutics was made by Aryeh Kosman. Dismissing the idea that Book Λ is a theological treatise, he suggests that “thinking of thinking” does not mean thinking of God’s thinking; and that Aristotle actually reverses the terms. He does not ascribe thinking to God but he ascribes the divine to thinking. What is divine is the very thinking of thinking. Νόησις νοήσεως νόησις is not meant to signify a mode of self-awareness, in which the self is alienated from itself as subject from object. This is what led to the narcissistic image of God wrapped in eternal self-contemplation. Νόησις thinking itself signifies merely the activity of thinking independent of the nature of its object. In νόησις νοήσεως νόησις we have the self-presence of the subject which is condition of its consciousness.¹¹ More recently M. Frede argued also against the view that Book XII is a theological treatise and that ch. 9 concerns the divine intellect. The discussion in the second part of XII refers to νοῦς and to νοεῖν in general. He concludes that divine thinking as thinking of thinking may well be seen as a special case of thinking in general.¹² It is time now to turn to our reading of νόησις νοήσεως νόησις. For this we should have in mind two important features that characterize Aristotle as philosopher. The first is his keen interest in popular conceptions and tradition. In a certain sense we could call Aristotle a traditionalist. But this should not be misun-

 See Norman (1969), 64.  See ibid, p.70. It is noteworthy to observe that Aristotle’s commentators do not seem to have been involved in such debates, notwithstanding their differences. For the historic background of the νόησις-νοήσεως interpretation see Brague (1991), 153– 186.  Kosman (2000), 311.  See Frede (2000), 42– 43.

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derstood. He often chooses his examples in commonly admitted truths, but not to the point of adopting them uncritically. The second feature is Aristotle’s unconditional admiration for θεωρία and θεωρών, which he considers the noblest activity of man. Νοῦς is a most divine phenomenon and active contemplation is a most pleasant activity. Now, in chapter 7 he tells us that it so happens that sometimes man enjoys this activity. It is a state of happiness (εὖ ἔχει) that man endowed with intellect experiences. But if what happens “sometimes” happens everlastingly, then this is an even more wonderful state. This is the case for God. If the state of contemplation is reached by man incidentally then, in the case of God it is an everlasting contemplation, an everlasting actual life. God is indeed this continuous eternal life, the best. I maintain that in this whole passage [XII, 1072b24– 30] we do not have a demonstration of God’s existence, for the simple reason that Aristotle never felt the need to prove that God exists. The reference to God here does not come as the conclusion of an argument, but as a simple and straight statement. It is my own belief that for Aristotle there is no need for a “quod erat demostrandum” as far as God’s existence is concerned. In the above passage without realizing it we pass from man to God. In other words, Aristotle shifts from a level A to a level B. This is easily confirmed by the very text. We read indeed: ὡς ἡμεῖς ποτέ —θεὸς ἀεί. On one side we have the term “we” (human beings), on the other side the word God. But let us now go on reading chapter 7 to the end. It is clear, he writes, that there is a certain substance—oὐσία τις—eternal, unmoved, separate from sensible substance, with no magnitude, free of change [1073a3 ff.]. His task, the search for the immaterial substance, came to a most successful end. Still, we meet here with a difficulty which is not as yet overcome. We refer to the sentence: τοῦτο γὰρ ὁ θεός [072b30] that comes prominently to the fore. Our question is: how do the two expressions τοῦτο γὰρ ὁ θεὸς and οὐσία τις fit together? Aristotle did no write something like “thus, this οὐσία is God”. What really happens is that we, ourselves, assume the identity. It is only fair to attribute to God all attributes assigned to the immaterial substance. What I mean to say is that Aristotle’s belief in God is part of the popular conceptions that he shares with the earlier philosophers. However, τοῦτο γὰρ ὁ θεὸς is not equivalent to “God exists”. In the light of these considerations, how are we to understand νόησις νοήσεως νόησις? For a possible answer the recourse to Plato is required. In the dialogue Charmidis we come across the distinction between “knowledge of knowledge” (ἐπιστήμη ἐπιστήμης) (169a) and “knowledge of oneself” ἐπιστήμη ἑαυτοῦ, 165c). In the first case the meaning is that I know that I know. In the second case it indicates self-awareness. The whole discussion is about the Delphic

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motto “γνῶθι σαυτόν”. Knowledge of oneself has as its object not something that I know that I know, but the knowing self, a permanent self-identical substance. If this is the case, then νόησις νοήσεως νόησις is not the same as self-thinking. In chapter 9 νοῦς thinks itself and this implies that thinking is a thinking of thinking.¹³ In De anima we meet with Aristotle’s fundamental thesis: there is no thinking without object. To reply to the question, what does νοῦς νοεῖ, by saying that νοῦς just νοεῖ, is quite wrong. A void intellect does not exist. It becomes actual intellect by coming in contact with an intelligible. Νοῦς and νοητὸν are one and the same [430α3 – 4]. It is in the process of thought that νοῦς becomes the intelligible object. But in De anima the distinction between passive and active intellect is presented on the level of human mind, a distinction which is by no means to be found on the level of God. Thus, if God is pure thinking, it would be wrong to maintain that God just thinks. It is necessary that there be an object even in pure thinking. God being the best, God can only think the best i. e. Himself. All this reasoning that we reproduce here implies that we have moved to the level of God. Aristotle, however, is always preoccupied with the problem of νοῦς and νοεῖν on the human level. Expressions such as ἀρίστη οὐσία, θειότατον καὶ τιμιώτατον may well suggest that it is all about divinity and divine intellect. Still the puzzling questions Aristotle raises concern the way human mind works. And yet one feels that there has been a shift, to the level of divinity, once the way to the human level has been cleared. Let us now go back to lines 1072b. We read: ἡ δὲ νόησις ἡ καθ’ αὑτὴν τοῦ καθαυτὸ ἀρίστου, and further on ἡ μάλιστα τοῦ μάλιστα. It is clear for us that we have left the human level. We suggest to read the above lines in the light of the two-levels hypothesis. These two distrinct levels, however, on which Aristotle conducts his investigation are never explicitly indicated; they are assumed all through the way leading to the immaterial substance. The interpretation of νόησις νοήσεως νόησις takes a new light, if we keep in mind the assumed parallelism between man and God that underlies Book XII. It is significant that Aristotle uses the word “ἡμεῖς” as opposed to God. This personal touch points directly to Aristotle’s popular belief that man and God differ essentially and that God is above man. Thus, it is quite natural to proceed from the human level to the divine. It is quite natural to say that what is a pleasant activity for man—the act of θεωρεῖν—is the most pleasant when it comes to  We reproduce here J. Brunschwig’s [(2000), 289 – 290] analysis: In the quarrel, he writes, between those who stick to the letter of XII and those who want to give a philosophical respectable face to Aristotle’s Theology everybody is right and everybody is wrong (306). The doctrine in XII.9 is a Narcissus—like theology while ch. 7 is a theology of God’s omniscience (304).

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God. It is only natural to think of God as αὐτὴ αὑτῆς ἡ νόησις τὸν ἅπαντα αἰῶνα [1075a10 – 11] even if the word God does not figure in the text. What is explicitly stated concerns the human mind, in a way pointing at the difference with divine mind: ὥσπερ ὁ ἀνθρώπινος νοῦς [1075a]. A last comment on the sentence τοῦτο γὰρ ὁ θεός. It is undoubtedly a very straight statement. The style is quiet impressive. It appears to me that here Aristotle addresses an imaginary audience. We might indeed imagine that Aristotle speaks to the mythologists, to the theologians and even to other philosophers in a way that settles the question of God definitely. It is as if he addressed them in the following way: your stories about God are naive, unfounded and uncertain. If you want to know what God is—because God does exist—then that is what God is. On the basis of the two parallel levels assumption the νόησις νοήσεως νόησις may be well read as an indication of the highest point that can be reached by human mind when it comes to the grasping of God as living being, eternal, most good, pure actuality. It is Aristotle’s deepest insight and at the same time his radical rejection of any kind of popular anthropomorphism concerning God.

Works Cited Brague (1991): Rémi Brague, “La destinée de la ‘Pensée de la Pensée’ des origines au début du Moyen Age”, in: La question de Dieu selon Aristote et Hegel, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Brunschwig (2000): Jacques Brunschwig, “Metaphysics Λ 9: A Short-Lived Thought Experiment,” in: M. Frede and D. Charles (eds.), Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 276 – 306. De Koninck (1991): Thomas De Koninck, “ ‘La Pensée de la Pensée’ chez Aristote,” in: La question de Dieu selon Aristote et Hegel, Th. De Koninck and G. Planty Bonjour (eds.), Paris: PUF. Elders (1972): Leo Elders S. V. D., Aristotle’s Theology. A Commentary on Book Λ of the Metaphysics, Assen: Van Gorcam Co, N. V.—Dr. H. J. Prakke & H. H. G. Prakke. Elser (1893): Konrad Elser, Aristoteles, Die Lehre über das Wirken Gottes auf die Welt, Münster: Aschendorf. Frede (2000): Michael Frede, Introduction, in M. Frede and D. Charles (eds.), Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1 – 52. Guthrie (1981): W. K. C. Guthrie, A History of Greek Philosophy VI, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jaeger (1955): Werner Jaeger, Aristoteles. Grundlegung einer Geschichte seiner Entwicklung, Berlin: Weidmann. Kosman (2000): Aryeh Kosman, “Metaphysics Λ 9., Divine Thought”, in Aristotle’s Metaphysics Lambda, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 307 – 326.

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Krämer (1984): Hans Joachim Krämer, “Noesis-noeseos,” in: J. Ritter (ed.), Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, Basel: Schwabe Verlag, 871 – 873. Lang (1993): Helen Lang, “The Structure and Subject of Metaphysics Λ,” Phronesis, xxxviii/3, 257 – 280. Norman (1969): Richard Norman, “Aristotle’s Philosopher God”, Phronesis 14, 63 – 74. Ross (1970): William David Ross, Aristotle’s Métaphysics. A revised Text with Introduction and Commentary, vol. I, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tricot (1974): Jean Tricot, Aristote. La Métaphysique, vols. I - II, Paris: Vrin.

IV Theory of Thinking

Robert Bolton

Two Conceptions of Practical Skill (Τέχνη) in Aristotle 1 Types of Τέχνη in Aristotle In a little noticed passage in Sophistical Refutations 11 Aristotle contrasts two very different types of skilled practical knowledge or τέχνη. Thus, he argues: There is a certain kind of τέχνη (τέχνη τις) which is not of the same sort as are those [τέχναι] which are able to prove things (δεικνύουσαι). (172a39-b1)

Here Aristotle distinguishes one type of skill or τέχνη, a type which enables its possessor in the exercise of that skill to prove things, from another type of τέχνη which involves no such power. As types of genuine skill or τέχνη both powers will of course be capacities for regular practical success, in a broad sense, in some domain or other. But only one of the two involves the ability successfully to prove anything. What, then, is the precise difference for Aristotle between these two types of powers, or τέχναι, both in how each is acquired and in how each is, actively, successfully exercised? To answer this question, it will be best to begin with a consideration of those texts where Aristotle articulates the main features of that type of τέχνη whose possession does, for him, involve the ability to prove and, indeed, to demonstrate results.¹ The most prominent of these texts is the familiar passage in Metaphysics I.1– 2 where, however, Aristotle is directly concerned not to distinguish different types of τέχνη, but rather to contrast τέχνη of at least one type with accumulated experience or ἐμπειρία. Thus, to this end, he argues:

I am most grateful for the opportunity for the presentation and discussion of the matters treated in this essay that was offered by the “Aristotle 2400 Years” World Congress, and most grateful to the organizers of the Congress for their efforts in putting together such a splendid event. I also thank Daniel Devereux in particular for most helpful comments and suggestions.  It is clear from the context of the remark quoted above from SE 11 that it is proof by demonstration that Aristotle has especially in view there (172a15 ff.). He frequently uses his verb to prove (δεικνύναι) when he has in mind the special kind of proof that counts as a demonstration. See, e. g., Apo. I.5, and further below. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-019

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With a view to action, experience (ἐμπειρία) is held to differ in no way from τέχνη… But, still, we think that knowledge in the sense of understanding (τὸ ἐπαΐειν) belongs rather to τέχνη than to ἐμπειρία, and we believe those with τέχνη to be wiser than those with ἐμπειρία in that their knowledge, in every case, is consequent on wisdom (σοφία). This is because they know the cause (αἰτία) while the others do not. For, those with experience (ἔμπειροι) know that something is so but do not know why it is, while the others [with τέχνη] know why it is, and its cause… Generally, also, the ability to teach is an indicator of who knows and who does not [in various ways]. That is, because of this [ability to teach] we regard τέχνη as [involving] scientific knowledge (ἐπιστήμη) by contrast with ἐμπειρία. For, those with τέχνη can teach while those with ἐμπειρία cannot… We suppose that one who is more exact and [thus] capable of teaching, in the matter of causes (αἰτίαι), is wiser, as concerns all scientific knowledge (ἐπιστήμη). (981a12– 982a14)

Aristotle remarks further in Metaph. I.1 that in his Ethics he addresses what differences there are between ἐπιστήμη and τέχνη, indicating, as is in fact clear enough, that in I.1– 2 he has talked chiefly about their similarities rather than about any differences. (981b25 ff) In any case, however, this further remark in I.1 shows us that in I.1– 2 Aristotle is not simply using the two terms τέχνη and ἐπιστήμη interchangeably, as some would suppose, but rather for different powers, despite their important similarities for his purposes there in I.1– 2. In the Ethics itself in fact, in our EN VI.3, in the passage to which he refers in Metaph. I.1, Aristotle clearly means by ἐπιστήμη the type of knowledge reached by and only by scientific proof or demonstration (ἀπόδειξις), since, among other things, he explicitly refers us there, in EN VI.3, for more details concerning this very ἐπιστήμη, to his Analytics where it is clearly such demonstrative knowledge and the power to reach and to provide it, and to “teach” it in a special way that is based on this, that he means to designate by this term (1139b31 ff.).² So, while Aristotle does not use his term for demonstration (ἀπόδειξις), in the special sense of the Analytics, in Metaph. I.1– 2, his assignment there of the ability to give causal explanations of the same sort to those who possess the distinct powers both of τέχνη and of ἐπιστήμη shows us the main character of that type of τέχνη referred to in SE 11, a type which is described, in the case of ἐπιστήμη, as a “capacity for demonstration” in EN VI.3 (1139b31 f.), one that does involve the ability actively to prove and to teach things in that particular causal, demonstrative mode. This indicates, then, in few, what Aristotle has in mind in SE 11 by one of the two types of τέχνη which he distinguishes there, namely the one that involves the ability to prove, in this demonstrative manner.

 Cf. EN VI.3 with, e. g., Apr. I.1 and Apo. I.2.

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2 Τέχνη and Scientific Theory Aristotle’s account of τέχνη in Metaph. I.1– 2, as containing a theoretical, strictly scientific, component, reached by demonstration, fits well with the close parallel drawn also in Apo. II.19 and Apr. I.30 between the proper mode of the acquisition of τέχνη and that of ἐπιστήμη, where again, despite their stated differences there, both are reached in the same way, by demonstration of items of appropriate pre-existing knowledge of just the same sort starting from indemonstrable principles (100a3 – 9, 46a17– 27). These texts show further why, as we have seen, Aristotle treats τέχνη and ἐπιστήμη together, as reached through knowledge of explanatory causes, again in I.1– 2 (981a1– 3), since both of them, as understood there, have this type of theoretical component. Such an account also fits well with Aristotle’s references in the PN to medical τέχνη in particular—which involves suitable knowledge of health and disease by doctors—as including and requiring knowledge of a proper part of natural science, a part which he indicates there that he himself aims to pursue. Thus, as he asserts there: Not only the doctor but also the natural scientist [e. g., Aristotle himself] must, up to a point, state the causes [of health and disease]… since those doctors who are refined and accomplished do treat in part of natural science and [properly] deem it right to find the causes [of health and disease] there. (Juv. 480b22 – 28)

This passage confirms that ἰατρική, or medical τέχνη, for Aristotle himself, does indeed include a theoretical scientific component and the grasp of causes of the sort proper to that, a component which he may himself have pursued in a now lost work in two books, entitled Medicine (Ἰατρικά), which is listed by Diogenes Laertius in his catalogue of Aristotle’s works.³ But, while this “scientific” conception of τέχνη, as we may call it, with its grasp of and power for scientific proof and demonstration, and teaching in that mode, is clearly the one offered in Metaph. I.1– 2, as in Apo. II.19 and Apr. I.30, and is one that fits closely with the details of Aristotle’s references in the PN to his own, apparently, now lost scientific study of health and disease, there are other main texts which make it clear that, as we have seen directly indicated in SE 11, Aristotle did not have only this one monolithic theoretical, scientific conception of a τέχνη, one which essentially involves this special ability to prove and demonstrate as well as a certain practical

 D.L. V.25; see Düring [(1957), 88, 228], for mention of such a work under related titles in the other ancient lists. Cf. Moraux (1951).

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productive ability. There are signs of this elsewhere in the PN where Aristotle says, in Sens.1: Most natural scientists and most doctors who pursue the τέχνη [of medicine] more philosophically [i. e. more theoretically, than do other doctors]… begin their study of medicine with a study of natural science. (436a19 – 22)

This singular passage bears clear witness to the existence, in Aristotle’s own acquaintance, both of a standing group of “doctors” who took their τέχνη of medicine to involve a substantial explanatory scientific component and also another standing group of doctors who viewed the τέχνη of medicine very differently. (Cf. Pol. III.11, 1282a3 f.) That Aristotle himself was more than sympathetic to the idea that a genuine τέχνη need not, and in certain cases could not, involve or require a theoretical scientific component and a capacity for proof and demonstration, and for teaching, of the special sort mandated for medical and other τέχνη in Metaph. I.1– 2, Apr. I.30 and Apo. II.19 is made quite evident in the opening lines of the Rhetoric, where he says: Rhetoric is a counterpart of dialectic. For both are concerned with the sorts of things which it is in a certain way common to everyone to know and which [in order to know] do not involve any distinct type of scientific knowledge (ἀφωρισμένη ἐπιστήμη). This explains why everyone [not simply some few with ἐπιστήμη] takes part [successfully] in a way in both [dialectic and rhetoric]. For everyone, up to a point, engages in [the dialectical] examination [of others] and in submitting to argument [i. e. to dialectical examination from others]; and also [everyone takes part] in the [rhetorical] defense of himself and in the accusation of others [e. g., before a jury]. Now, most people do these things [successfully] either at random (εἰκῇ) or due to a capacity reached through habituation (συνήθεια). Since both are possible, it is evident that their [successful] procedures can be reduced to a system (ὁδῷ ποιεῖν), since it is possible to see why some succeed [regularly] due to habituation and some succeed [at random] by chance (ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου), and everyone would agree that this sort of thing [i. e., practical success due not to chance but to the mastery and use of procedures that can be systematized] is the function (ἔργον) of a τέχνη. (Rhet. I.1, 1354a1– 11)

Here, then, to focus first on dialectic, Aristotle tells us that dialectic is a τέχνη. It is a τέχνη because its successful procedures can be reduced to a system that can be mastered, one suitable for use for regular practical success. However, Aristotle insists, dialectic is a τέχνη whose mastery and skilled use does not involve or require the possession of any ἐπιστήμη, any scientific knowledge, at all. These points are echoed in SE 11 where Aristotle again affirms that dialectic is a genuine τέχνη (172a34– 36) but also says:

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Now dialectic is not concerned with any definite kind (γένος τι ὡρισμένον), nor does it establish anything concerning any [definite γένος], nor is it such as to be of what is universal (καθόλου) [pertaining to a given γένος]. For [dialectic deals with all things and] all things are not contained in any single γένος nor, if [per impossibile] they were, could all things fall under the same principles (ἀρχαί). So no τέχνη [of the type] that is able to prove things (δεικνυουσῶν) [from special principles] that concern a particular nature (τινα φύσιν) proceeds by asking for concessions… Dialectic, however, does proceed by asking for concessions, while if it aimed to establish things [universally concerning a particular nature and kind] it would refrain from asking for concessions, especially about the primitive things (τὰ πρῶτα) [that fix the kind or γένος in question] and [more generally] about the special principles (τὰς οἰκείας ἀρχάς) [e. g., also the special definitions that concern the γένος in question and items covered by it]. (SE 11, 172a11– 20)⁴

Here it is evident that dialectic as such, as indeed a genuine τέχνη, cannot involve a scientific component, or thus the capacity for scientific, demonstrative proof, since this would require that dialectic, like medicine in Aristotle’s own view, be concerned with a special φύσις and γένος, a natural kind such as health, and with special principles of explanation that determine and that apply strictly within that γένος (Apo. I.2, 10). This is not the case for dialectic because it is concerned with everything that is, not with what has to do with a particular γένος since, contrary to Plato, what is (τὸ ὄν) is not a γένος or natural kind. (EE I.8, 1217b34 ff., Metaph. VII.1, 1028a10 ff.). Thus, unlike the τέχνη of medicine in I.1 for Aristotle, the proper norms or strategies (τόποι) for the practice of the τέχνη of dialectic cannot, at any level, be reached or mastered, or confirmed or understood, by scientific causal explanation and proof, since, as earlier noted, this can only take place where the subject concerns a particular φύσις and γένος, such as health.⁵  The somewhat puzzling counterfactual assumption at 172a14– 15 seems to reflect the fact that there are two types of special, as opposed to common, principles for Aristotle in a science, those that fix the γένος and those that provide the definitions (Apo. I.2,10). Aristotle seems to be saying that even if, per impossibile, dialectic could meet the requirement of having a single γένος it still could not plausibly meet the further requirement of having a single unified set of ultimate explanatory definitions on which its reasoning would be based.  Aristotle also says here in SE 11 that dialectic cannot involve anything that holds or that can be established to hold καθόλου since dialectic does not concern any particular γένος. Here he seems to be using the term καθόλου as it is defined in Apo. I.4– 5 (73b26 – 74a32) where it covers only truths that can be demonstrated to hold within a given γένος and not as that term καθόλου is used in, for instance, Top. I.12 where dialectic does rely importantly on what is καθόλου in the sense of what applies generally with broad scope (105a13 – 16). In Metaph. IV.2 Aristotle does say further that dialectic and sophistry deal with the very same γένος as does philosophy/science (1004b22). This does not mean, which would be contrary to what we find in SE 11, that dialectic, like a science, concerns a single distinct γένος or natural kind. For one thing, dialectic impor-

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3 Τέχνη without Scientific Theory Nevertheless, as Aristotle tells us in the Rhet., since it is a genuine τέχνη the proper procedures or rules of dialectic can be “reduced to a system.” If this system cannot have any of its practical norms reached, or confirmed or understood through scientific explanation and proof, unlike norms of the τέχνη of medicine according to Metaph. I.1– 2, how then are these norms to be reached or learned? In the Rhet. as we have seen Aristotle informs us that, as he sees it, highly successful dialecticians have been guided in practice by norms of proper procedure which they internalized by habituation without the grasp of any distinct science or ἐπιστήμη.⁶ We know, in addition, that Aristotle himself undertook, for the first time as he says in SE 34, to collect and to offer as the basis for a μέθοδος for the successful practice of dialectic a systematization of a sort of the norms that did govern the reputedly successful practice of dialectic as it actually existed in his day. This is of course just what we are presented with in the Topics (including the SE). There, Aristotle commonly introduces those τόποι, or strategies for successful argument, that he collects and systematizes for use in dialectic, as the ones that are themselves generally taken to be proper and accredited (ἔνδοξοι) and thus to have been successful (Top. I.14, 105b30 – 31, IV.2, 121b29 ff, 3, 123b20 ff, VI.1, 129a28 – 31, VI.4, 142a13 – 16 et passim). So, not only are the proper premises for dialectic generally accredited (ἔνδοξα, Top. I.1), so are the strategies or τόποι, and they are collected and systematized only on that basis. Thus, as we can now see, the Top. provides us with a paradigm example of a systematized manual of a sort for use for the exercise of a genuine τέχνη, as Aristotle several times calls it, where that τέχνη is one whose mastery does not and cannot include the grasp of any scientific component, or capacity to prove or teach in a scientific mode. Rather, Aristotle offers us this in Top. I.2 as a prime use for his manual for dialectic: That this endeavor (πραγματεία) [as codified here for the first time in the Top.] is useful for training (γυμνασία) is apparent on its face. For if we have a systematic procedure (μέθοδος)

tantly concerns the accidental which is the concern of no science (Top. II – III; Metaph. VI.2). Aristotle means rather that any scientific subject or domain can be treated not only scientifically but also dialectically, or indeed sophistically, as can any non-scientific subject or domain. Cf. SE 11, 172a21-b4, and Bolton (2012), (2013), (2017). Contrast Irwin (2000) and see also Henry and Neilsen (2015).  One of course cannot help but think here of Socrates, as a practiced master of dialectic who, as Aristotle knew (SE 34, 183b7), lacked and even disavowed all such ἐπιστήμη.

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[acquired by this training], we shall be able quite easily to tackle the thing [i. e., any problem] proposed. (Top. I.2, 101a28 – 30; cf. I.3, 101b5 ff., SE 34, 183a37 ff.)

Here Aristotle indicates that the μέθοδος whose mastery constitutes the τέχνη of dialectic is acquired by training or repeated practice, and thus by habituation, in the use of the various standardly well-regarded strategies of argument, or τόποι, that he catalogues. Elsewhere in the Top., especially in VIII.14, he emphasizes the necessity of such repeated practice on particular successful, and unsuccessful, examples—of which the Topics is full— for acquiring the “habituation” (τὸ ἐθίζεσθαι) and the “trained memory” (μνημονική) that underwrite the mastery of the μέθοδος and τέχνη of dialectic (163a29 ff., b24 ff.; cf. VIII.9, 160b14 ff.). This shows the importance for Aristotle of habituated, trained memory access to groups of similar past examples for the skilled practice of the τέχνη. As commentators have noted, the reference to τόποι, or, literally, places, in the title of the work, itself, apparently alludes to the elements of typical mnemonic devices used to accomplish recollection for practical purposes which were popular in antiquity.⁷ This would seem to confirm further that the organization of the Topics by different types of “places” is itself specifically designed to facilitate its habituated assimilation, through practice on the proper groups of particular similar examples, for subsequent use as a mnemonic system (Top. VIII.14, 163b23 ff., Mem. 2, 452a13). Some have argued that the μέθοδος of dialectic that Aristotle has specifically in mind in the Topics is not one acquired by practice and habituation for use in the ordinary reasoned consideration of any problem at all, including practical questions, but rather is a μέθοδος to be used in dialectic, when mastered, only for training.⁸ So, on this account, what one trains for in practicing dialectic, for use in further dialectical argument, is just more training. It is as if, in practicing how to write, what one practices for is not, say, the writing of letters to others; one practices writing only to be ready for more practice in writing. But Aristotle says in Top. I.1– 2 that one use of the fully habituated μέθοδος is for dealing dialectically, in ordinary practical situations involving others, with any problem at all, on the basis of accredited opinions that others would find noteworthy (ἔνδοξα), so that the training or practice must be at least for that use (101a30 ff., cf. Rhet. I.1, 1355a26 ff.). We have seen it further confirmed in the opening lines of the Rhet. (1354a1 ff.) that dialectic for Aristotle does have important uses in a wide variety of practical social situations involving others, the point emphasized

 See Mem. 2, 452a14, and Solmsen (1929); Sorabji (1972), (2004), followed by Smith (1997).  See Brunschwig (1985), Primavesi (1996) for whom any further uses would be non-dialectical.

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also in Top. I.2 where the μέθοδος acquired by training is assigned still further uses in scientific inquiry (101a25 ff.). This reliance on habituation and trained memory does not mean, of course, that the skilled dialectician cannot give or use explanations or reasons, in an ordinary sense, for moves that he may make in employing the τόποι. He may for instance avoid or object to some proposed definition, say of a human being as a rational animal, on the ground that this proposed definition does not put the genus of the entity to be defined first in the proposed definition (Top. VI.5 et passim). But the correctness, or truth, of the norm in question is not something that can be scientifically demonstrated, or learned or understood scientifically, or taught thereby. It is embedded in and has its standing only as a reasonable part of an accepted practice and, as such, it is mastered for regular successful use by habituation or training (γυμνασία), training which provides a base for suitable memory and for a non-scientific mode of reasoning relying on that training to reach results. There is, in addition, clear indication in the Top. itself that in the standing practice of dialectic a given τόπος will be more accredited (ἐνδοξότερος) for use in certain circumstances than in others, or with certain people than with others, so that there is an analogue in dialectic to the situation for Aristotle in ethics where general norms of practice will hold only for the most part, and one where their holding for the most part, in dialectic, clearly cannot in any way be scientifically demonstrated, even with a rider such as “if nothing external prevents” (See, e. g., Top. VI.4, 141a23 ff. at 142a12– 16). One may, for instance, wisely choose in some context of discussion to put the differentia in a definition first, as in the above definition of a human being, as grammar permits for a desirable emphasis. Here too, then, as for deliberation and wise choice of correct action in other practical matters, reliance on trained memory concerning particular successful and unsuccessful past cases and situations would be crucial for success. Nor does this reliance on habituation and trained memory mean that the skilled dialectician cannot be creative, or experimental, in dealing with new cases where, for instance, access to past successes and failures does not easily determine a present course. But this will be done by imaginative use and adaptation of the particular past successes and failures lodged in memory, not by use of any scientific theory or of any stock of exceptionless rules (Top. I.3, with VIII.14). Thus, in sum, as we can now clearly see, the τέχνη of dialectic consists of the mastery of a system of norms of procedure all found generally successful in numerous past cases, a mastery acquired and exercised by habituation and trained memory without the possibility of any ἐπιστήμη or causal scientific explanation, or proof of why those norms are proper or correct, or will be successful. This type of genuine τέχνη, however, one acquired and effectively used only

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by proper habituation and trained memory, is of course, as we have seen, not what Aristotle calls a τέχνη in Metaph. I.1. This type of τέχνη is rather what Aristotle calls an ἐμπειρία in I.1. Some might suggest, against this, that ἐμπειρία as understood in I.1 does not involve the ability to give reasons of any kind, scientific or otherwise, for its successful actions on the ground that Aristotle says there that its success is achieved in the exercise of a habit (δι’ ἔθος, 981b5). But, as we have seen, Aristotle holds that such a dependence on habit for success holds for dialectic in particular where, as he clearly supposes, reliance on τόποι or rules (with exceptions) can be used in guiding deliberative reasoning to determine how to argue in particular circumstances. Similarly, to consider another case of τέχνη to which we will return below, a successful empirically knowledgeable builder guided by habit could explain, in the ordinary sense, why he uses a pine rather than an oak plank in a certain sort of location on the ground that in groups of situations, e. g. in houses, very similar in type to the current one (in his extensive experience) a pine plank has worked best in such locations— even if in fact it only so works for the most part and even if, normally, he would not overtly appeal to this, but would make the successful choice more or less automatically from suitable memory. In Metaph. I.1 Aristotle only denies the ability to give scientific explanatory reasons and causes to those with ἐμπειρία. He does not deny to those with ἐμπειρία the ability to give reasons of any kind. Unlike, perhaps, Socrates in Plato’s Gorgias, Aristotle nowhere describes any type of ἐμπειρία in these terms, as unable to give adequate reasons of any kind (Grg. 462b ff. at 465a, 500e ff.). As we have seen, Aristotle does in I.1– 2 deny the ability to teach (διδάσκειν) to those with ἐμπειρία (981b9 – 10), but as we have seen and as often elsewhere he has a special notion of teaching in mind there where “those who teach are those who tell the causes of each thing” (982a29 – 30). This fits well with the fact that in the Rhet. and Top., unlike the case in I.1, Aristotle does not oppose τέχνη to ἐμπειρία. Rather, as we have seen in Rhet. I.1, in those texts he opposes τέχνη and what its use may regularly accomplish to chance and its merely random mode of success. It has often been argued that Aristotle himself opposes τέχνη to ἐμπειρία unlike the authors of the Hippocratic treatises who rather oppose τέχνη to chance.⁹ But Aristotle recognizes one type of τέχνη which is properly opposed not to ἐμπειρία, since it is a form of ἐμπειρία, but rather is opposed, as in the Hippocratic corpus, to chance. As we can now infer then, the Topics gives us an early example of a systematized codification or manual of practical procedures previously found successful in remembered

 See, e. g., Schiefsky (2005).

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groups of similar particular past cases, procedures to be mastered and exercised by habituation and trained memory, for use in the practice of a τέχνη, as τέχνη came to be understood in the later so-called medical empiricist school. That is, the conception of τέχνη found in the Top. is one variant, at least, of the very conception of τέχνη, as ἐμπειρία, defended by the later medical empiricists.¹⁰ The further study of the Top. then can only help to improve our grasp of the early history of that empiricist conception of τέχνη as a form of ἐμπειρία, by contrast with the later so-called rationalist conception of τέχνη which is anticipated, if not articulated, by Aristotle, with special reference to medicine, in Metaph. I.1– 2 and elsewhere. Dialectic is not, however, the only example of a τέχνη for Aristotle that must be understood in this empiricist fashion. We have already seen Aristotle pair rhetoric with dialectic in this regard. In Rhet. I.2 he says: Neither dialectic nor rhetoric concerns how any distinct ἐπιστήμη stands; both are [simply] certain powers to invent arguments [on any subject]. (Rhet. I.2, 1356a32– 33)

Apart from rhetoric, Aristotle also commonly speaks, for instance, of the τέχνη of housebuilding (οἰκοδομική). This, in fact, is his prime example of a τέχνη in his chapter on τέχνη in the EN (VI.4, 1140a6 f.). But there can be no theoretical scientific base for this τέχνη of housebuilding as such for Aristotle since, for him, there is no natural kind or φύσις of the house—or of the couch or the shuttle for weaving either, contrary it seems to Plato (Rep. X, Crat.). The house is an artifact whose proper function, for Aristotle, depends on our interests, whether that be shelter of a sort, or also narcissistic trophy display, or whatever; and, as artifacts, houses are the objects of study of no explanatory theoretical science—neither of mathematics, nor of physics nor of theology, which are for Aristotle the only theoretical sciences (Metaph. VI.1, 1026a18 – 19). How then is the full τέχνη of housebuilding acquired? Aristotle’s answer in EN II.1 is this: We learn (μανθάνομεν) a τέχνη by [repeatedly] producing the very products which we must produce [by using it] when we have learned it. For example, we become [skilled] housebuilders [with the τέχνη in question, simply] by building houses. (EN II.1, 1103a32– 34)

This is Aristotle’s conception of a τέχνη and of its mode of full acquisition and use in the EN. In line with this, in EN VI.4 Aristotle says flatly: A τέχνη does not concern things that are or come about… by nature (κατὰ φύσιν). (1140a14– 15)

 See, e. g., Galen (1985), for the views of this school and for indication of variations within it.

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So a τέχνη according to the EN has no concern with natural science or its proper objects, objects which do come about by nature as such. Such an account, in the EN, of a τέχνη clashes sharply of course with what we have found in the account offered in the PN where one type, at least, of genuine medical τέχνη, concerns, in a main part, the natural kind health and requires for its mastery the study of health and its natural causes as a proper part of natural science, and as such as a proper part of medical τέχνη. In Metaph. I.1 Aristotle does use the term ἀρχιτέκτων for one who has τέχνη (981a30). But the term does not mean there ‘master-builder,’ as it sometimes does elsewhere, since it is applied (and only applied) in I.1 to one who has medical τέχνη. It refers rather there, quite generally, to anyone who has mastered the basic explanatory scientific principles (ἀρχαί) of some productive skill (τέχνη), and there are no such explanatory scientific principles for housebuilding as such, though it still counts, as it does of course in common usage, as a paradigm example of a τέχνη by the lights of the EN. This answers for us now the intriguing question: Why is full ἐμπειρία, given its acquired power for regular practical success, not a virtue (ἀρετή), even, with its acquired power in humans for excellent reasoned deliberation and wise choice, an intellectual virtue, for Aristotle? The answer is that, according to the doctrines of the EN, as one type of τέχνη, ἐμπειρία is an intellectual virtue, not because it contains a reasoned explanatory scientific component, since it does not, but because, at least in humans, it embodies an acquired power for successful reasoned deliberation, one based on extensive habituation and the subsequent ability adequately to recollect and to review relevant past cases to achieve new success. In Mem. 2, in his chapter on recollection, Aristotle counts the use of trained, skilled memory (μνημονική) as an operation of reason in view of its ability to draw in deliberation on relevant past cases and to make a proper selection from among them applicable for success in present cases, even where no explanatory demonstration, or even strict deductive reason, is necessary or possible to reach a successful result in this reasoned process (453a4 ff.). It is a serious mistake, then, to rely too heavily on Metaph. I.1 and on its more rationalist conception of a τέχνη, especially medical τέχνη, for Aristotle’s conception of a τέχνη overall.

4 Theory and Practice in Τέχνη A τέχνη of the type to which dialectic belongs does not, therefore, rely at all for its mastery or successful use on any theoretical or scientific component, since there is no such component. But it is still worth asking whether a τέχνη of the

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more rationalist type such as medicine, where there is a scientific component for Aristotle himself, does, for him, rely on its theoretical component and the knowledge of causes which it brings for full practical success beyond what is provided by its necessarily rich empirical component? Many interpreters would answer yes. But Aristotle never says directly that it does in the Metaph., or in other works where this rationalist conception of τέχνη is under discussion, as one would expect he would if he believed it; and there is very good reason why he should not. To see this, consider first the famous case which he discusses in Apo. I.13, 78b34 ff. where he claims that an empirical doctor will know that circular wounds heal more slowly than non-circular wounds of equal length of outer boundary and, he implies, be able to use this knowledge that for regular success in his healing practice, while a mathematical theoretician will know why this is so, namely because circular figures have a greater geometrical area than do those others. It is extremely implausible that the practical skill of the fully experienced doctor, who knows well how to treat circular and other wounds in all of the individual variability in which they come, would be enhanced by learning this explanation, and Aristotle certainly does not say or suggest in I.13 that it would. Again, in line with what was noted earlier, the experienced housebuilder will know, for instance, that oak timbers will bear a greater weight than pine and will know how in deliberative reasoning to make use of this in certain locations in building. But it would be highly implausible to claim, should one wish to claim, that knowledge of the scientific cause of this—due for Aristotle to the differing imperceptible mixtures and ratios of hot, cold, wet and dry in the different materials (Meteor. IV.4– 5)—would improve his practical ability and, again, Aristotle does not suggest otherwise. Consider finally another, perhaps even clearer, case from Apo. I.13, where the experienced navigator will know well the movements of the stars and planets, and will be able effectively to use this knowledge for the successful steering of his ship. It would be again extremely implausible, indeed absurd, to propose that theoretical knowledge of the causes of the various specific regular movements of these various heavenly bodies—due for Aristotle to the special movements of the imperceptible ethereal spheres in which they are imbedded—would improve his practical ability and, again, Aristotle does not suggest otherwise.¹¹ In EN VI.1 Aristotle assigns the use of scientific reason

 In EE I.5, 1216b2 ff. Aristotle does suggest that astronomy is not prevented by its theoretical status from having practical use. But he does not say that such practical use would be due to a grasp of, for him, its demonstrative explanatory component rather than to the mastery of its necessarily full empirical component. See, e. g., Apr. I.30 for the two components; the two are not distinguished in the EE. In any case, the EE lacks, in its special books at least (but see the common IV.10 =EN V.10), the general conception of the inexactness of all practical matters found,

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(τὸ ἐπιστημονικόν), e. g. in reaching or deploying knowledge of causes, exclusively to the sphere of things which cannot be otherwise, as opposed to the sphere of things which can be otherwise, such as, he indicates, practical matters involving τέχνη, as understood there, where it is not scientific reason but only deliberative reason (τὸ λογιστικόν) that is of use. (1139a5 ff.) It is, thus, in this sense alone, as a power for deliberation not for any scientific explanation that τέχνη is “reason involving” (μετὰ λόγου) in EN VI.4 (1140a3 ff. at a10 ff.). In Metaph. I.1, according to most manuscripts, Aristotle does contrast the knowledge that a certain similar treatment, say rest and fasting, has in the past cured a certain familiar ailment, say a certain familiar sort of fever, in very many similar cases of such an ailment—knowledge used by an empirical doctor to successfully heal—with the knowledge as to why this is so, namely perhaps because the similar fevered sufferers who were so similarly cured were phlegmatics in constitution (981a5 ff.). But he does not say at all, as some would seem to suppose, that this knowledge of a cause would enhance the doctor’s practical ability to heal. He introduces the notion of a phlegmatic here, in a standard then current use, as an explanatory theoretical notion of humoral medical theory, one available as such, on Aristotle’s own account, only to one who has medical τέχνη in the sense of knowledge of causes (981a10 – 12 ff.).¹² Thus, the notion of a phlegmatic is not introduced in I.1, as it sometimes is elsewhere, as, so to speak, an empirical notion with standard empirically recognizable features and instances, which notion could somehow substitute for or be used to improve on some more ordinary means of empirical recognition of sufferers from that certain fever in facilitating a cure.¹³

e. g., in EN II.2, 1104a1 ff., where navigation is specifically mentioned and where the inadequacy and inapplicability of any general theoretical or systematic knowledge for regular success in particular cases of navigation is emphasized. See also Hasper and Yurdin (2014). For broader discussion see Bengson and Moffett (2011) Sorabji (2010) and Gottlieb (2009).  Cf. Problems I.29, Hippocrates (2005).  In Metaph. IX.2 (1046b2 ff.), Aristotle treats τέχνη and other modes of human productive knowledge as capacities of a special sort whose exercise can involve the use of reason or reasoning (λόγος) in the determination either of how to bring about some practical result or of how to bring about its opposite. But nothing there indicates that it is the scientific use of reason in providing knowledge of causes by demonstration that he has in mind for use in such opposite practice rather than the deliberative use of reason available to the ἔμπειρος as well as to the scientific τεχνίτης, which deliberative use of λόγος Aristotle distinguishes from the former, scientific use in EN VI.1. Contrast Charles (2000) and Johansen (2017), and see, more generally, Miller (2014) and Primavesi (2012).

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5 Generality and Particularity in Τέχνη There remains, however, one feature of Aristotle’s more rationalist type of τέχνη, the type that is opposed to ἐμπειρία in Metaph. I.1, which requires attention. On that conception, ἐμπειρία, as a necessary persisting base included in full τέχνη, as τέχνη is understood in I.1, has both to be general enough in its content somehow to allow the search for its scientific causal explanation, and also to embody enough by way of memory knowledge of distinct groups of ground level similar concrete past successful cases, to enable that ἐμπειρία to serve psychologically for present and future practical success in the day to day world where practical generalities typically hold only for the most part. The necessity for this latter content is emphasized in I.1 itself (981a5 ff.) just as is the former (981a24 ff.). How then is this dual status for ἐμπειρία possible? We can begin to see Aristotle’s answer if we concentrate on a particular case of ἐμπειρία, or of knowledge that as Aristotle describes ἐμπειρία in I.1. In Apo. II.8 a main example offered of knowledge that is the knowledge concerning the lunar eclipse that the moon is subject to “a certain loss of light (στέρησις τις φωτός)” (93a23). This instance of knowledge that is presented in II.8, as are the cases of knowledge that in I.1, as a prime candidate for causal explanation and thus for knowledge why and ἐπιστήμη (or τέχνη) as understood there (93a16 ff.). In Apo. I.31 Aristotle indicates further that in this case our initial knowledge that comes from “observing repeated instances” of the loss of light in question, instances which are, as Apo. II.19 makes clear, lodged together in a unified collection in memory (88a2 ff., 100a3 ff.). Nevertheless, in Metaph. VIII.4, concerning this very case of knowledge that, to the effect that the moon from time to time undergoes that certain “loss of light,” Aristotle says this: A [lunar] eclipse is … a [certain] loss of light [by the moon]… But this account [of the eclipse as a certain loss of light] is unclear (ἄδηλον) if it is not accompanied by the cause (αἰτία) [of that loss of light]… But if we add “by the earth coming in between” [the moon and the sun], this will be the account accompanied by the cause [of that loss of light]. (1044b12– 15)

This passage shows us that, for Aristotle, it is quite possible to look for and indeed to discover the cause or the why of some still “unclear,” or less than precisely grasped or formulated that, as one can ask, quite reasonably, why the moon repeatedly undergoes those many similar actual losses of light, without wanting, or being able, to state precisely which losses of light are involved. We could mean initially to leave it open, for instance, in asking why, whether or not the partial eclipses, as we call them, are a different phenomenon with a different cause than the total eclipses, as we call them. Further, and more impor-

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tantly, Aristotle says here that one will only reach a clear or precisely formulated that by or as a result of the process of proper causal explanation and demonstration. Prior to this, as I.1 tells us, the knowledge that will be captured only in ἐμπειρία where one’s grip on the kind in question, such as the lunar eclipse, while looking for its cause, is essentially constituted by accumulated memory knowledge of many past individual instances, grouped together as similars which are naturally and correctly taken to belong on the whole to some single real natural kind, but a kind which is as yet not clearly specified (981a7 ff.). In DA II.2 also Aristotle explicitly describes our initial knowledge that (τὸ ὅτι) as unclear (ἄδηλον, ἀσαφές), and he says there again, as in H.4, that for a final clear grasp of the that it is necessary to “make evident the cause (αἰτία)” (413a8 – 20). This point is duplicated and developed further in Phys. I.1 where, as in DA II.2, Aristotle again describes our cognitive and epistemic ascent to scientific knowledge as starting from what is unclear in itself though clearer to us (184a19 – 21). This first stage is further described as involving the grasp of one sort of universal (καθόλου), one which captures what is in accord with perception (κατὰ τὴν αἴσθησιν)—which is of course always for Aristotle of groundlevel individuals and individual facts involving them—prior to knowledge of any causal principles, and as a type of “universal,” or generality, in the grasp of which the kinds involved are not clearly and precisely demarcated (ἀδιόριστος, 184b2). Rather, as in Metaph. VIII.4, it is [starting] from the grasp of these things [these universals or generalities wherein the kinds involved are not precisely distinguished] that… the principles (ἀρχαί) become known and serve to render distinct (διαιροῦσιν) these [previously not precisely distinguished kinds of] things. (184a21– 26)

In HA also, Aristotle offers various examples of ἐμπειρία or knowledge that which, as generalities, have similar imprecision and unclarity. In VIII.24, for example, he says: “Those with ἐμπειρία say that in general (ὅλως) the horse and the sheep have nearly (σχεδόν) as many ailments as affect humans” (604b25 ff.). Elsewhere in HA he cites as matters of ἐμπειρία what happens in some cases (ἐνίοτε) and, very frequently, what happens often (πολλάκις) (IX.49a-b, at 633a9; IX.8 614a12 ff.). These imprecise facts are nevertheless, in HA itself, facts of which, according to Aristotle, one may begin to look for an explanation, one which, when reached, will make “apparent (φανερόν) both the items to be explained and the things [the causes or αἰτίαι] on the basis of which it is necessary to demonstrate them” (I.6 491a10 – 13). So, again here as in Metaph. VIII.4, it is only in, or as a result of, proper causal explanation that previous items of ἐμπειρία are made precise. Prior to this, as items of ἐμπειρία,

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they lack such precision. In Phys. I.1 Aristotle cites, as parallel to other cases of our initial imprecise knowledge that, the case where “children call all women [not mother but] mothers (μητέρας)” (184b3 – 4). He again there treats such an imprecise fact, that women are mothers, as a fact of which, though imprecise, it is possible to look for an explanation, as obviously it is, an explanation in virtue of which, as he says, the two previously unclearly distinguished kinds, women and mothers, will, again obviously, become clearly distinguished. Nevertheless, and crucially now, when such unclear initial knowledge that is refined and clarified in or by the process of reaching a proper causal demonstration, the prior ἐμπειρία with its special involvement of the extensive habituated memory knowledge of ground level particulars and particular facts will of course still remain, as a suitable basis for practical action, should the ἐμπειρία in question be of the sort that serves for action (Apo. II.19, 100a8 – 9). What the clarification through demonstration brings with it is knowledge why and, with this, more precise knowledge that, it does not add any further power for action. Aristotle makes this clear, as we have seen, in I.1 when he says that those with τέχνη are not wiser than those with ἐμπειρία “in virtue of being able to act [correctly] but rather [simply] in virtue of knowing the causes [of the correctness of what is done by those with ἐμπειρία]” (981b5 – 6). This cannot mean, as some would seem to suppose, that one with, say, medical τέχνη need not know how correctly to heal particular individuals in the way that one with medical ἐμπειρία does, but need only know the causes of this correctness to possess this τέχνη, since, for Aristotle in A.1, one cannot get medical τέχνη as knowledge of such causes at all without having, as a prior condition, the appropriate ἐμπειρία, and thus the full practical ability for success that this brings (981a1 ff., cf. Apo. II.19, 100a3 ff.). It is at this point that it becomes most evident how different Aristotle’s conception of τέχνη is, in I.1, from that of Socrates in the Gorgias. There ἐμπειρία provides no sound power or capacity for regular successful action on a subject such as medicine, however well it may fare on, say, persuasion (464a ff.). Rather it is τέχνη alone, understood there as causal or explanatory scientific knowledge, which provides such a power for success in such important cases. This also seems to be the doctrine of Phaedrus 268a ff. For Aristotle, by contrast, ἐμπειρία not only does provide real power for regular successful healing in particular cases in medicine, as in dialectic, it is the only thing that does. Thus, as so often, we see how much Aristotle’s attitude towards the cognitive achievements

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open to our perceptual powers distances him from Plato.¹⁴ In any event, we can also see now how it is that our original genuine ἐμπειρία or knowledge that has the dual status which Aristotle requires of it in A.1, both to be sufficiently general as to be ready for the search for its causal explanation and for the full refinement in its content which that alone can bring, and also to be sufficiently particular in its content, in the required sense, as to be fit to enable successful present and future action.

Conclusion In conclusion, then, while more study would be needed properly to grasp in full the scope and the details of Aristotle’s multifaceted treatment of τέχνη, we can at least now appreciate the main basis for his distinction in SE 11 between two types of τέχνη, one whose possession involves the capacity to prove in a special mode and one whose possession does not.¹⁵

Works Cited Bengson and Moffett (2011): J. Bengson and M. Moffett, Knowing How, New York: Oxford UP. Bolton (2012): R. Bolton, “The Aristotelian Elenchus,” in: J. Fink, (ed.), The Development of Dialectic from Plato to Aristotle, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 270 – 295. Bolton (2013): R. Bolton, “Dialectic, Peirastic and Scientific Method in Aristotle’s Sophistical Refutations,” in: Logical Analysis and History of Philosophy 15, 267 – 285. Bolton (2017): R. Bolton, “The Search for Principles in Aristotle: Posterior Analytics II and Generation of Animals I,” in: A. Falcon and D. Lefebvre (eds.), Aristotle’s Generation of Animals: A Critical Guide, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 227 – 249. Bolton, R. forthcoming, “Technê and Empeiria: Aristotle on Practical Knowledge.” Brunschwig (1984/85), J. Brunschwig, “Aristotle on Arguments without Winners or Losers,” Wissenschaftskolleg-Jahrbuch, 31 – 40. Charles (2000): D. Charles, Aristotle on Meaning and Essence, Oxford: Oxford UP. Düring (1957): I. Düring, Aristotle in the Ancient Biographical Tradition, Göteborg: Almqvist & Wiksell. Galen (1985): Three Treatises on the Nature of Science, with an introduction by M. Frede, IndianApo.lis: Hackett. Gottlieb (2009): P. Gottlieb, The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics, New York: Cambridge UP.

 The Philebus, however, seems to leave open the door to a more Aristotelian account, perhaps, by that time in Plato’s career, under Aristotle’s influence (62a ff.).  For some of the further details and an expanded treatment of some of the matters discussed here, see Bolton forthcoming, “Technê and Empeiria: Aristotle on Practical Knowledge.”

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Hasper and Yurdin (2014): P.S. Hasper and J. Yurdin, “Between Perception and Scientific Knowledge: Aristotle’s Account of Experience,” in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 47, 119 – 150. Henry and Nielsen (2015): D. Henry and K. Nielsen, Bridging the Gap Between Aristotle’s Science and Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Hippocrates. On Ancient Medicine. See Schiefsky (2005). Irwin (2000): T. Irwin, “Ethics as an Inexact Science: Aristotle’s Ambitions for Moral Theory,” in B. Hooker et al. (eds.), Moral Particularism, Oxford: Oxford UP, 100 – 129. Johansen (2017): T. Johansen, “Aristotle on the Logos of the Craftsman,” Phronesis 62, 97 – 135. Miller (2014): D. Miller, “Aristotle on How to Fell a Tree and Other Matters involving Experience,” in M. Lee (ed.) Strategies of Argument, New York: Oxford UP, 124 – 146. Moraux (1951): P. Moraux, Les Listes Ancienne des Ouvrages d’Aristote, Louvain. Primavesi (1996): O. Primavesi, Die Aristotelische Topik, Munich: Beck. Primavesi (2012): O. Primavesi, “Aristotle, Metaphysics A,” in: C. Steel (ed.), Aristotle’s Metaphysics Alpha, Oxford: Oxford UP, 385 – 464. Schiefsky (2005): M. Schiefsky, Hippocrates: On Ancient Medicine, Leiden: Brill. Smith (1997): R. Smith, Aristotle, Topics: Books I and VIII, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Solmsen (1929): F. Solmsen, Die Entwicklung der Aristotelischen Logik und Rhetorik, Berlin: Weidmann. Sorabji (2004, 1st edition: 1972): R. Sorabji, Aristotle on Memory, London: Duckworth. Sorabji (2010): R. Sorabji, “The Ancient Commentators on Concept Formation,” in: F. De Haas and M. Leunissen (eds.), Interpreting Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics in Antiquity and Beyond, Leiden: Brill.

Richard McKirahan

“As in a Battle When a Rout has Occurred” This paper is dedicated to the memory of my close friend Costas Alexopoulos.

My explanation of the rout simile in Posterior Analytics II.19 will cover some material that has been intensively studied. I will be ranging over such topics as νοῦς, ἐπαγωγή, ἐμπειρία, the nature of scientific knowledge and how we come to know scientific principles. I begin with a brief look at several translations of the simile which is the title of this paper. The Greek text is, οἷον ἐν μάχῃ τροπῆς γενομένης ἑνὸς στάντος ἕτερος ἔστη, εἶθ’ ἕτερος, ἕως ἐπὶ ἀρχὴν ἦλθεν. (100a22 – 23)

The first part of the sentence is unproblematic: “as in a battle when a rout has occurred.” The problem is the last four words. Most translators take ἀρχή to mean “beginning,” translate the phrase something like “until it comes to the beginning,” and give various unacceptable interpretations. The translations (see Appendix 1, below) of Ross (1949), McKirahan (1992), Detel (1998), Pellegrin (2005) and Mignucci (2007), which follow the interpretations of Philoponus and Zabarella, are totally implausible, implying that Aristotle is saying that after being routed, retreating in disorder as fast as they can run, the soldiers reassemble back where they were before they were routed. But many of the soldiers would have been killed as they ran, stumbling over their shields, their naked backs an easy target for the charging enemy. It would be difficult to reform their reduced ranks at all, let alone to re-form back where they were before they started running away. And we can be sure that Aristotle would have known about this kind of thing. Mure’s (1928) “until the original formation has been restored,” accepted word for word by Tredennick (1960) and Warrington (1964) and followed by Tricot (1970), is more plausible from a military point of view, but is unacceptable as a translation of the Greek. Goldin’s addition of “new” seems a matter of desperation (Goldin 2009). Apostle’s “till a principle is attained” and Tuominen’s “until it arrives at a starting point” are true to the Greek, but what they mean in context is left obscure. And Barnes’s (1975, 1994) arbitrary emendation of the text to give the translation “until a position of strength is reached” amounts to an admission of defeat (or a gesture of defiance). This is only one of the many similes and examples found in the Posterior Analytics. Their purpose is to illustrate Aristotle’s claims, not to puzzle his readers further. To understand the simile we need to consider its context and decide https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-020

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what it is meant to illustrate. The context is the discussion of how we obtain knowledge of scientific principles. In an Aristotelian demonstrative science, everything depends on the principles. The science consists of demonstrations that show how everything that is not a principle depends on the principles. We have ἐπιστήμη of the facts stated in the conclusions of the demonstrations. In this sense our knowledge of the principles is basic. This is the Achilles’ heel of the whole enterprise. Unless he can account for how this knowledge can be obtained, the theory will be useless. He tells us a good deal about the principles. In book 1 chapter 2 (T1) (see Appendix 2, below) he tells us that they are true, primary and immediate, also that they are more intelligible than, prior to, and grounds of the conclusions that follow from them. Since they are ultimate, they are not just prior but primary, and not just more intelligible but the most intelligible of all the facts in the science. But how do we get to know them? Not by demonstrations. How, then? Just by intuition? Just because they seem obvious? Is this good enough to guarantee that they are true or (even assuming that they are true) is this sufficient to guarantee that they are basic? Not for Aristotle, for the following reason. He distinguishes two ways of being more familiar (γνωριμώτερος): something can be more familiar to us, or it can be more familiar by nature (e. g., 1.2 71b33 – 72a5). What is most familiar to us is what we perceive—particulars, whereas what is most familiar by nature (i. e., most intelligible) is what is farthest from perception—the scientific principles. But since “we” tend to think that what we perceive is obvious—after all, it’s better known to us—it is clear that simply being obvious in any old way is not enough to qualify as a principle. Aristotle needs to say more. In fact, he says some more, although elsewhere. He tells us that “it is our work to start from what is more familiar to oneself and make what is familiar by nature familiar to oneself” (T2, 1029b1– 12) and he gives an example: ordinary people are astonished when they hear that the diagonal of a square is incommensurable with the side, but not nearly as astonished as a mathematician would be, if it turned out to be commensurable (T3, 983a13 – 21). The mathematician has upgraded his sense of what is obvious. He has assimilated the basic facts and proof procedures of his subject and regards them and the conclusions that follow from them as more certain than what the senses suggest. But Aristotle says very little about how this upgrading occurs. This is a crucial omission, which I hope to explain in this paper. I will sketch my understanding of Aristotle’s account of how we come to know scientific principles. This is treacherous territory: there are many interpretations currently on the table, and the relevant texts may well allow a plurality of

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equally plausible interpretations. For this reason, I don’t want to linger on it. But I need to outline my view in order to get to my interpretation of the simile of the routed soldiers. The account of how we come to know principles in Posterior Analytics II.19 (T4) is paralleled by a very similar account in Metaphysics I.1 (T5) and I have found it useful to use them together, since both are incomplete and each throws light on the other, and since I do not think that there are any significant inconsistencies between them. The general picture resembles an empiricist account, in which we begin by perceiving particular things and particular events. The relevant texts are: (T4, sec. A) From αἴσθησις memory comes about, as we say, and from memory of the same thing occurring many times comes experience, for memories many in number constitute a single experience. From experience, or when the entire universal has come to be at rest in the soul — the one beside the many, whatever is one and the same in them all—the starting-point of art and science comes about. (T5, sec. A-B): By nature animals are born with αἴσθησις, and from αἴσθησις memory is produced in some of them, but not in others…. from memory experience is produced in men; for many memories of the same thing produce finally the capacity for a single experience. Experience seems to be very similar to science and art, but really science and art come to men through experience. And art arises when from many notions gained by experience one universal judgement about similar objects is produced. One question that arises is how many stages there are: four or five? Both texts agree that αἴσθησις, memory and experience precede the level where we have scientific knowledge. The question is whether at the stage of experience we have knowledge of universals. If we do, then there are four stages; if we don’t, then there are five. For my money, the assertions “art arises when from many notions gained by experience one universal judgement about similar objects is produced” and “experience is knowledge of individuals, art of universals” (T5, sec. B 981a5 – 7, sec. C 981a15 – 16) make it clear that knowledge of universals is not part of experience. Up through the level of experience, we simply see individuals as individuals, at most as individuals that share some similarities. At the level of experience we know that Callias and Socrates were both cured by this remedy when they had this disease and we can successfully cure other people in the same way, but at that point we have not reached the state where “the entire universal has come to be at rest in the soul — the one beside the many, whatever is one and the same in them all” (T4, sec. A, 100a6 – 7), for example, “all persons of a certain constitution, marked off in one class … e. g. phlegmatic or bilious peo-

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ple”) (T5, sec. B 981a10 – 12). At this point we no longer just see these people as individuals; we see them as humans, and indeed as humans that share some common characteristics. At the level of experience we presumably know some rules of thumb, but have no worked-out theory, and we cannot give the kinds of explanations that we could if we had achieved full scientific knowledge. On this account there seems to be no particular mystery about how we move up the scale from αἴσθησις to memory, to experience. Each time we advance to the next stage we somehow integrate information from the previous stage into a whole. And, as Aristotle stresses, this is good enough for many practical purposes. The problem I am going to talk about is, how we move from the level of particulars to the level of universals. This is absolutely crucial for Aristotle. The example in T4 (man, animal) deals with simple universals; the example in T5 deals with universal propositions/facts (that this cures all phlegmatic people when they have this disease). Science deals with universal facts, but knowledge of them presupposes knowledge of the relevant simple universals. Aristotle insists that scientific explanation works at the level of universals. Also, a demonstration shows not only that its conclusion is true, but why it is true. The Metaphysics account emphasises this aspect: it is the universal knowledge that a scientist has, that allows him to give explanations, whereas at the level of experience we only deal with facts. At that level we cannot articulate the facts well: we have not reached the stage of “marking off the unique class (εἶδος)” under which the particulars in our experience fall and are not in a position to begin the work of systematization that explanatory scientific knowledge presupposes. Already we see that several kinds of knowledge count as “universal knowledge”: the knowledge of human (as opposed to Socrates); also the knowledge that this cures bilious people (as well as that it cured Socrates and Callias); further, the knowledge why this cures bilious people; and in some cases, knowledge that this is a principle. Aristotle declares that we obtain knowledge of universals by ἐπαγωγή, usually translated “induction” (T6). One question is whether this holds for all four kinds of universal knowledge mentioned above. Another, harder, question is, how ἐπαγωγή works. We already know the answer to part of the first question: ἐπαγωγή gives us knowledge of the first two kinds. I will argue that it plays a role in the other two kinds after treating the question, how ἐπαγωγή works. The translation “induction” is seriously misleading. I interpret it not as a kind of argument or as a procedure, but as a kind of insight into individual cases, an ability to grasp universals present in them—seeing Socrates as a man, seeing that the moon always has its bright side towards the sun; this kind of seeing. Aristotle actually speaks of “seeing” (ὁρᾶν) the universal: seeing

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that a figure is a triangle (T7, 67a25), seeing that the moon always has its bright side toward the sun (T9, 89b11), also seeing the extreme terms—[T9, 89b15]. And he makes it clear that seeing the universal is not the result of having performed an induction. Rather, it is something that happens simultaneously (ἅμα) with performing one (T7, 67a23 and T8, 71a19, a21; alsο εὐθύς—“right away” at T7, 67a24). In the example given in T7 and T8, contrary to what we might expect, what we recognize by means of ἐπαγωγή is that a certain figure is a triangle; at that point and simultaneously (supposing we already know enough elementary geometry), we know that it has angles equal to two right angles. Aristotle’s example of ἐπαγωγή in T10 refers to moving from particular humans to ‘human being’ and from human beings and other kinds of animals to ‘animal.’ These are not facts or propositions, but the example is used to illustrate how we obtain general facts and propositions. The parallel passage in T11 (from the Metaphysics speaks of a certain treatment curing individual humans (Socrates and Callias) when they were suffering from a certain disease, and moving from this level to the universal proposition/fact that that treatment cures all people of a certain identified type (phlegmatic, or bilious, for example) when they suffer from that disease. So I believe that Aristotle holds that ἐπαγωγή applies to both kinds of moves: from individual entities to the relevant universals under which the individuals fall, and from facts about individual entities to facts about the relevant universals under which the individuals fall. Aristotle’s word for the grasp of universal facts resulting from ἐπαγωγή is νόησις. The word occurs only twice in the Posterior Analytics. One of them is not directly relevant (77b31). The other occurs in T5 at 88a7, where it is translated “thought.” The point seems to be that since scientific explanation is done through universal claims, not by reference to individual cases, knowledge of universals (here propositions/facts) is superior to perception (which grasps only particulars) and also superior to νόησις, which is the grasp of isolated universals and of isolated universal propositions/facts, but not in their relation with one another. “Universal knowledge” seems to be ambiguous, between the kind of knowledge that enables you to pick out a bulldog when you see one and the kind of knowledge of bulldogs that enables you to give certain kinds of explanations about them. With mere νόησις you are not in a position to do that. Sometimes it requires effort to grasp the universal. T10 talks of hunting (88a3) for the universal in the case of a lunar eclipse. From our position on earth, it is not so obvious that the moon loses its light because the earth is between it and the sun. It would take a number of observations and some careful thought to recognize that there is a common feature to lunar eclipses which accounts for this astronomical phenomenon, something that distinguishes eclipses from, say, cases where we fail to see the moon because of clouds. But eventually,

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lunar eclipses came to be recognized, “marked off in one class” and identifiable as such when they occur. “From many cases” (if things go well) “the universal becomes plain.” Aristotle recognizes that this is different from ordinary perception: “not because we have knowledge by seeing but because we possess the universal from seeing” (T10, 88a13 – 14) At one point he calls this grasp of the universal by the name νόησις (T10, 88a7). The context is a discussion of ἐπαγωγή where he tells us that “from many particulars the universal becomes plain” and speaks of “hunting for” the universal. Here the word νόησις is used with reference to provables (“items which have an explanation different from themselves”; he is discussing the explanation of lunar eclipses), so it is not the same as νοῦς, which has to do only with principles. If νοῦς is always true, does the same hold for νόησις? That is, does ἐπαγωγή always result in truth? One reason for thinking that it doesn’t is that Aristotle says that there are only two cognitive states that are always true: νοῦς and ἐπιστήμη. Another reason for thinking that it doesn’t is that in some of Aristotle’s examples the results of ἐπαγωγή are or could well be false. (Cf. the explanation of burning lenses in T10, and the conclusions drawn by the acute person in T9 about why someone is talking to a rich man and why two people are friends.) If νόησις, the state that results from ἐπαγωγή, is a matter of seeing something as an instance of a universal, there is no guarantee that we always see it right, and every reason to believe that people do make mistakes of this kind. So far we can say that we gain knowledge of scientific facts through ἐπαγωγή. This holds for all scientific facts alike, principles as well as provables. At this point we still don’t know how ἐπαγωγή works. All Aristotle says is that “the [human] soul is such that it can be affected in this way” (T4 sec. B: 100a14). The question, how we obtain knowledge of the principles of a science is really two questions: 1) if P is a principle, how do I learn P?—the answer to this is that we learn it through ἐπαγωγή. 2) how do I learn that P is a principle? I will take this up next. We can imagine someone going out and first collecting all the facts of a science (in practice, this would be difficult or impossible to do). Some of them will be principles and the rest will be provables. How will we go about finding out which ones are which? Here we rely on the nature of demonstrations, which are syllogistic proofs that show how the provables follow from the principles. So the first part of this task will be to determine which facts can be deduced from which. For example, suppose we have a very small science that is limited to the following facts (a) all animals are mortal

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(b) all humans are animals (c) all dogs are animals (d) all humans are mortal (e) all dogs are mortal (f) no human is a dog (g) no dog is a human (h) some animals are not humans (i) some animals are not dogs We can form several deductions that contain premises and conclusions drawn from this list: (1) (a,b→d) all humans are mortal, because they are animals and all animals are mortal (2) (a,c→e) all dogs are mortal, because they are animals and all animals are mortal (3) (g→f) no human is a dog, because no dog is a human (4) (f→g) no dog is a human because no human is a dog (5) (c,g→h) some animals are not humans, because all dogs are animals and are not humans (6) (b,f→i) some animals are not dogs, because all humans are animals and are not dogs No deduction can be formed whose conclusion is (a), (b) or (c) The single-premise deductions (3) and (4) are not demonstrations, because demonstrations are syllogistic and syllogisms have more than one premise (Apr. 24b18 – 20). Instead, the inferences depend on formal properties of universal negations (Apr. 25a5 – 7). I will not consider them further here. Of the seven remaining facts (a), (b), (c) are principles and (d), (e), (h) and (i) are provables. I take it that the kind of work sketched here is the work of dialectic, something that is not mentioned in the Posterior Analytics, but that is clear enough from passage T11 from the Topics. The key words are “this task [discussing the principles of sciences] belongs properly, or most appropriately, to dialectic; for dialectic is a process of criticism wherein lies the path to the principles of all in-

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quiries” (101b2– 4). As I understand the passage, the “process of criticism” (ἐξεταστική) includes this work of determining which facts follow from which. So far there is no mystery, just the systematic application of the rules of logic. But there is more to it! In order to reach the principles, we also need to determine which facts are more intelligible than others, because, as Aristotle notes, there are cases where two facts are deductive consequences of one another, more precisely there are cases where two syllogisms are such that the conclusion of each is a premise of the other. Aristotle discusses this kind of case in Posterior Analytics I.13. He gives an example. Some heavenly bodies twinkle, but a few do not. The non-twinklers are unusual in another way too: they are planets, identifiable as such by their changing positions in the sky in relation to the twinklers (the stars). Also, the planets are a lot nearer the earth than the stars are. This was known to Aristotle. Here are two facts, then, in astronomy: The planets do not twinkle The planets are near the earth In fact, says Aristotle, all non-twinkling heavenly bodies are near the earth and all heavenly bodies near the earth do not twinkle. We can form two parallel arguments: A

B

(A1)

All heavenly bodies near the earth do not twinkle

(A2)

The planets are heavenly bodies near the earth

(A3)

So, the planets are heavenly bodies that do not twinkle

(B1)

All heavenly bodies that do not twinkle are near the earth

(B2)

The planets are heavenly bodies that do not twinkle

(B3)

So, the planets are heavenly bodies that are near the earth

Both arguments have (let us suppose) true premises and true conclusions, and in both the reasoning is valid. But A3 (the conclusion of argument A) is a premise (B2) of argument B and B3 (the conclusion of argument B) is a premise (A2) of argument A. It follows that arguments A and B cannot both be demonstrations (If argument A is a demonstration, then A2 cannot be demonstrated, and so argument B cannot be a demonstration. And vice versa). In our search for the principles of astronomy, we need to decide whether A2 is a principle for the proof of B2, or vice versa. But how can we decide? Neither logic nor dialectic can help. Aristotle says that A is a demonstration and B is not. Why? Because demonstrations explain why the conclusion is true. Argument A tells us that the reason why

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the planets do not twinkle is that they are near: they don’t twinkle because they are near. Argument B tells us that the reason why the planets are near is that they don’t twinkle: they are near because they don’t twinkle. Aristotle thinks that they don’t twinkle obvious that this is false. No reasonable person would suppose that it is the fact that they do not twinkle that causes the planets to be near! On the other hand, that they do not twinkle is more obvious to us than that they are near, and we might well say that we can tell that they are near because we see that they do not twinkle. This is more familiar to us. In general, the explanations of these obvious facts are not so easily observed. But they are more basic, and they explain the facts. In the terms of Aristotle’s distinction between the two kinds of familiarity, the ultimate cause is what is most familiar in nature. He says that when we become experts, what is more familiar in nature is more familiar to us (T2). This means that by “more familiar to us” he means what is obvious to non-experts. When we have become experts we “see” things differently. What is more familiar in nature has become more familiar to us. The things that were originally more familiar are now less familiar, not because they are less obviously true, but because we see that they are no longer isolated facts to be treated individually, but are explained by other, initially less familiar facts, and so are incorporated into a systematically organized body of knowledge. As Aristotle says elsewhere (Apo. 1.2 72a37– 39), “a person who has knowledge through demonstration must know the principles better and be more convinced of them than of what is being proved.” How, then, does what is more familiar in nature become more familiar to us? Not by dialectic, evidently. But then how? I believe that Aristotle has an answer to this perplexing question, and an answer that may be correct. The answer depends partly on the interpretation I have given of what ἐπαγωγή is, partly on Aristotle’s accounts of how we reach knowledge of scientific principles, and partly on an application of some recent work in cognitive psychology. Two questions remain: (1) how does ἐπαγωγή work when we obtain knowledge of universal facts and (2) how do we obtain knowledge that a candidate principle is actually a principle? First, question (1). In many cases ἐπαγωγή works effortlessly. We see Socrates and recognize him as a man. But sometimes it takes effort to identify the universal. T10 (88a3) speaks of a case where it was necessary to “hunt for” the universal, where the universal became plain only after observing a phenomenon many times. Some people are better at this than others: the acute people discussed in T9. But how does it work?

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Let me give a mathematical example that I found helpful here.

Look at the circle on the left. Look at it. What do you see? A circle. Now look at the other circle, the one with a line through the middle. Look at it. What do you see now? More than a circle. The additional line lets you see more: that the line divides the circle into two parts. That the two parts have the same shape and size; that they are equal. That this is true no matter what line you draw through the middle of the circle and whatever the size of the circle. You see that these things are true and that they cannot be otherwise. If you have a circle, you have something with these properties. No proof or argument is needed to show you this. You see that it has those properties in a different way than you see the circle itself, but in some sense of the word “see” you do see that it has them. The discovery that a circle is bisected by its diameter is attributed to Thales. We do not know whether Thales actually made this discovery. But it is the kind of discovery that someone could make for himself by looking at a circle in the right way, with the right kind of question in mind. Not asking how best to construct a wheel or about some other practical use that a round object might have, and not asking what kind of shape it is, but asking about the properties, it has, given that it has that shape, the properties that any circle has. Next consider a way of representing numbers: by pebbles. One pebble stands for the number 1, two pebbles for 2, etc. This is an easy way to portray numbers and to represent the arithmetical operations of addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. If we play with the ways of arranging pebbles we see that three pebbles form a triangle and four form a square.

Also six pebbles form another triangle that includes the 3-triangle,

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and nine pebbles form a square that includes the 4-square.

So this way of presenting numbers invites us to ask what numbers can be represented by pebbles arranged into triangles (answer: 3, 6, 10, 15, …)

and what numbers can be represented by pebbles arranged as squares (answer 4, 9, 16, 25…).

If we build outwards from one square to the next, we are invited to see some properties of these “square” numbers.

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Here are three of them. (a) Each time we increase from one square number to the next, we add an odd number of pebbles. (b) Each time the number of pebbles we need to add increases by two. (c) (n+1)2 = n2 + 2n + 1 (although as beginners we wouldn’t be able to formulate it like that). Again, we learn to see that these properties hold of the cases at hand and we immediately grasp that they hold generally as well. We understand that the cases at hand are typical and that their relevant properties hold for all other cases of the same type. We can also give explanations. For example, from the last-mentioned property of square numbers, n2 + 2n + 1 = (n+1)2, we can explain why 49 (=72) is a square number: it is equal to 62 + 2x6 + 1. This way of showing properties of numbers was employed by the Pythagoreans, perhaps in the fifth century, earlier than Plato and Aristotle. One more case study before returning to Aristotle. In a famous passage of the Meno (82a-86b) Socrates gives a lesson in geometry to an uneducated slave. He draws a diagram, presents a simple problem, shows its solution, and asks the slave to solve a similar problem. He says that the square has side with length two units and area of four units, and asks the slave how long is the side of a square with double the area. The slave is confident that he knows the correct answer, and says it: 4 (double the original length), but is easily shown wrong. He tries another answer (3), which is wrong too. At that point he has no further ideas. He does not question that the problem has a solution, but he does not know what to do. Socrates then draws some more lines and leads the slave to see the correct solution. At the end he tells Meno that the slave has reached the point where he has true opinion. This is not yet knowledge: “these opinions have now just been stirred up like a dream, but if he were repeatedly asked these same questions in various ways, you know that in the end his knowledge about these things would be as accurate as anyone’s” (85c-d).

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I have come to think of these ways of showing results as proofs. I will call them ostensive proofs. I also think it likely that this distinctively Greek contribution to mathematics (namely, proofs of general results) was present very early. However, when we think of mathematical demonstrations, we tend to think of deductive proofs, the kind found in geometry as we learned it in school, which is the kind found in Euclid’s Elements. Euclid’s proofs are based on definitions and other unproved principles. In ostensive proofs, there is nothing like that. In fact, there is no argument at all; in particular, there is no deduction. Instead they invite us to see that the result holds. However, once we see that it does hold, we see that it holds generally in all similar cases, and that it must be so. If we really grasp the result our confidence in it is unshakeable. What more can we ask of a proof? My suggestion is that what happens in ἐπαγωγή is like what we saw happening in the mathematical proofs. Thales saw a circle with a line through the middle and “saw” that the two halves are equal; the Pythagoreans looked at a pebble diagram and “saw” that the numbers represented by particular groups of pebbles in the diagram have certain relations. They saw that this is the case generally, that is, they grasped the fact as holding not just for one particular case, but for all the particulars that fall under a certain universal. They also saw that it must hold for them all and they could give an account of why this is and must be the case. How does this come to be? It is hard to analyze the process, which seems to be a matter of things falling into place. It is tempting to say with Aristotle simply that our mind can do this. But even so we can ask some questions about this capacity. In particular, whether it can ever go wrong. Aristotle denies this for νοῦς. He states without argument that νοῦς and ἐπιστήμη never err (100b7). We accept that this is the case for knowledge in general and scientific knowledge supported by demonstration in particular. If something is false, it cannot be known. No one can know that 2+2=5 and no one can demonstrate that the angles of any Euclidean triangle are not equal to two right angles. Aristotle thought that νοῦς is similar. As far as I know, he says no more than this on the present question, and nothing at all about ἐπαγωγή and νόησις. If that were all there were to say about it, we would have to leave it there and how ἐπαγωγή works would remain a mystery. I found a possible approach to this mystery in a recent book, an international bestseller called to my attention by Costas Alexopoulos, a close friend in Athens. He was an engineer and had nothing to do with Aristotle or with philosophy. The book is Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow. In it Kahneman describes two systems or modes of thinking, which he calls System 1 and System 2. System 2 is “slow thinking.” It allocates attention to the effortful mental activities that demand it, including complex computations (say, multiplying 26 by 36

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in your head—possible for some of us, but requiring concentration). The operations of System 2 are often associated with the subjective experience of agency, choice and concentration. Examples of tasks that engage System 2 are focussing our attention on the shape of a wave, searching memory to identify a surprising sound, monitoring the appropriateness of our behavior in a social situation, and checking the validity of a complex logical argument. System 2 will engage in the kind of work involved in examining which scientific facts follow from which. System 1, on the other hand, engages in the following sorts of activities: recognizing a friend when you see her, detecting that one object is more distant than another, orienting to the source of a sudden sound, answering the question ‘how much is 2+2?’ System 1 works quickly and without effort. It works from immediate impressions and internalized knowledge, beliefs and memories, sometimes knowledge that it took effort and years of experience to acquire. An example in the book describes an expert chess player walking past two people playing chess, glancing at the chessboard and saying, without stopping, “white mates in three moves.” Another example he gives is a physician who makes a diagnosis of a patient’s condition after one quick look. Like all System 1 thought, these judgments are quick and effortless, but these ones are based on knowledge and experience. In these cases, it takes a great deal of knowledge and experience; in other cases, it does not. On this analysis, getting knowledge of some scientific facts, the ones that require effort (recall the phrase “hunting for the universal” in T10, 88a3 – 4) is a job for System 2. This is not true in all cases, though, since it may be plain from a single good example (as we learn from an example in T10 that I will discuss shortly). In addition, forming Aristotelian scientific demonstrations and determining what facts are principles are jobs for System 2. It takes effort to see what propositions can be proved from others, and to determine which ones are basic. But recognizing Callias as a man is the work of System 1, even though does not happen from birth. Aristotle refers to a young child who calls all men “daddy”—the child has not yet grasped the universal (Phys. 184b12– 14). Similarly for Thales and the Pythagoreans. They saw the (particular) circle or arrangement of pebbles and “saw” the universal features of it and some of the associated properties. A brief chapter from the Posterior Analytics (T9, 1.34) discusses ἀγχίνοια (“acumen”). An acute person is one who can grasp explanations “in an imperceptible time” (ἐν ἀσκέπτῳ χρόνῳ) : 89b20). This is fast thinking indeed! Aristotle gives an example: “someone sees that the moon always has its bright side towards the sun and quickly conceives why this is so—because it gets its light from the sun” (T9, 89b11– 13). Elsewhere he says that in some cases we do not need to have much experience to understand a phenomenon, even a single in-

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stance may be enough. “If we saw some things we would not investigate further… not because we had knowledge by means of seeing, but because we had the universal as a result of seeing” (T10, 88a12– 14). He gives a burning lens as an example: “If we saw the glass perforated and the light going through it, it would also be clear why it burns—by seeing this case individually, but grasping at the same time that it is the same in all cases” (T10, 88a14– 17). Here we have the characteristics of System 1’s fast thinking: effortless, speedy, relying on experience and collateral knowledge—as much experience and knowledge as the phenomenon demands. So as a first approximation we might say that what Aristotle has in mind when he speaks of ἐπαγωγή is some of the thinking that System 1 does. However, System 1 often makes mistakes. Kahneman calls it “a machine for jumping to conclusions” and, as it turns out, System 2 is lazy and usually allows System 1 to leap before it looks. In fact, looking takes time and effort, but taking time and making efforts are not what System 1 does. Among the faults of System 1 are that takes shortcuts in forming judgments, it is subject to irrational biases, it manufactures nonexistent causes and neglects statistical evidence—and its judgments generally are left unchallenged by the rational but lazy System 2. Consider one of Aristotle’s favorite examples of a scientific explanation: thunder is caused by the quenching of fire in clouds. His treatment of thunder in the Meteorologica reveals that this is not Aristotle’s own theory but Anaxagoras’s and perhaps Empedocles’. Aristotle criticises this account of thunder. Those who held this theory associated thunder with clouds and with lightning, they thought that lightning is the gleam of fire in the clouds and that the quenching of fire causes noise, and they jumped to the wrong conclusion that thunder is the noise caused when fire is quenched in clouds. It is significant that Aristotle expresses his disapproval of this theory as having been stated hastily or offhand (προχείρως): its author jumped to the wrong conclusion. He claims among other things that this explanation does not account for how fire gets into the clouds. In other words, the theory was a bright idea but it was wrong. In Kahneman’s terminology, it did not stand up to the scrutiny of the kind engaged in by System 2. Recall that Meno’s slave jumped to mistaken conclusions too, initially answering Socrates’ question by quickly (unthinkingly, we might say) proposing two wrong answers. If νοῦς involves “seeing” things correctly (correctly grasping how the moon is illuminated, by seeing that its bright side is always turned towards the sun) and System 1 makes mistakes, is System 1 useless for understanding νοῦς? Likewise, if ἐπαγωγή is how we reach universals, is it infallible? And if not, is System 1 useless for understanding it? I don’t think so. I will take up two objections.

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The first objection is that System 1 makes mistakes that go unnoticed and unchallenged by System 2. Therefore, it cannot be the source of infallible knowledge of scientific facts or of infallibly grasping universals (It might group whales together with fish). Just as we can’t know that 2+2=5, we can’t have νοῦς of anything that is false. So System 1 thought cannot be the entire explanation for νοῦς. But if νοῦς is always true, does the same hold for νόησις? That is, does ἐπαγωγή always result in truth? One reason for thinking that it doesn’t is that Aristotle says that there are only two cognitive states that are always true: νοῦς and ἐπιστήμη. Another reason for thinking that it doesn’t is that in some of Aristotle’s examples the results of ἐπαγωγή are, or could well be, false. (The explanation of burning lenses in T9, and the conclusions drawn by the acute person about why someone is talking to a rich man and why two people are friends). If νόησις, the state that results from ἐπαγωγή, is a matter of seeing something as an instance of a universal, there is no guarantee that we always see it right, and every reason to believe that people do make mistakes of this kind. So ἐπαγωγή provides candidates for scientific facts, but these need to be verified. And this is a job for System 2, which can examine the judgments of System 1 and lead us to accept them, or revise, modify, or reject them. Where System 2 becomes active, we tend to give a good deal of weight to its judgments. In the case of a science, we are keenly interested in the truth of the universal claims the science makes. And so, we are more likely to scrutinize claims and consider alternatives than we are in typical cases where System 1 is running on automatic—when we recognize a friend, or drive our car without paying much attention, and so on. But when we are doing science or philosophy, we are very much in System 2 mode, thinking slowly, carefully and laboriously. Considered beliefs are the province of System 2; System 1 deals more in feelings and impressions and snap judgments. Kahneman speaks of System 1 “originating impressions and feelings that are the main sources of the explicit beliefs and choices of System 2” (p.21). So even if System 1 jumps to a wrong conclusion we are not condemned to incorporating the mistake in our finished science. If the attentive, effortful rational System 2, detects that the conclusion is somehow incompatible with other beliefs, it can consider the relative merits of each and decide which beliefs to keep and which to reject. This mechanism for rejecting and revising beliefs is essential to the progress of science. Knowledge of scientific facts, then, is not simply the result of raw, unfiltered System 1 work, but is this product after ratification by suitable examination and verification. The examples of acute thinking in T9 where a person jumps to the conclusion that someone is talking to a rich man because he is borrowing from him, or that two men are friends because they have a common enemy, may be mistaken. They are based on incomplete information. I might talk to a rich man for any

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number of reasons other than wanting to borrow money from him, and I might be friends with someone for any number of reasons other than that we have a common enemy. Nor should we forget Anaxagoras’s mistaken account of thunder, reached, according to Aristotle, by hastily jumping to the wrong conclusion: ἐπαγωγή gone wrong, resulting in false νόησις. In view of Aristotle’s interest in earlier thinkers and his readiness to find fault with their views, he ought to admit that ἐπαγωγή may frequently go wrong and that instances of false νόησις are rife. The second objection is that even if we have the facts, System 1 is unable to give us knowledge of which of the facts are basic principles. My defense against this charge has two parts. First, that it can be blocked in the same way as the first objection: System 1 thinking may make us confident that a given fact is a principle (that it is true and so plainly true that it cannot be further explained), but it takes the laborious work of System 2 to check this out. And when the results of this System 2 work have been assimilated, System 1 has the capacity to take them into account. How else could Kahneman’s chess player make his call on the best possible outcome for “white”? Where there is more than one possibility, as in the case of the near and nontwinkling planets, experts know which property depends on which. They are like the doctor who rapidly diagnoses a patient. They have learned to see things in the right way—another possible role for ἐπαγωγή. Not only to spot the loss of light from the moon as an eclipse, but also to spot how eclipses fit into the complex system of facts that constitute a science. The second part of my defense begins with an argument that it is difficult or impossible to know for sure whether we have located the principles of a science. Earlier, for the sake of simplicity, I imagined a scenario where we first identify all the facts in a science and then go on to examine them in order to determine which facts are principles and how the remaining facts can be proved from them. But can we ever be sure that we have assembled all the facts? Unless we can, then we are open to the possibility that a further undeniable fact may be discovered that requires us to revise our science, even our principles. This is exactly the effect of a scientific revolution. Even the principles of Euclid’s geometry needed revision—a major enterprise undertaken by the great mathematician David Hilbert about a century ago, when he found Euclid’s principles incomplete and the whole structure of the Elements in need of radical revision (Die Grundlagen der Geometrie, 1899). Under these circumstances it is reasonable to say that we do not know that what we now take to be the basic principles of a science are in fact basic, or even that they are true. The history of science encourages this belief; we can hardly be in a position to know that there will be no further scientific revolutions. The facts

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that we now consider basic are in principle subject to revision. But this gives us a very good reason to say that Aristotle’s account of νοῦς as always true is not a threat to the proposed interpretation in terms of System 1 and System 2. Νοῦς is not simply an intuitive (System 1) grasp that something is the case; we begin with that kind of grasp but then subject it to rigorous tests, which in the best case confirm that what is grasped is, in fact, the case and further establish it as a basic truth, a principle. However, since it is rarely or never possible to know that we are in this kind of best-case situation, we are left with principles that are merely provisional. But in that circumstance we do not know that they are principles and so the grasp of them that we have is not νοῦς. So νοῦς turns out not to be something that we can know that we have. It is the grasp of the principles as principles, one which we may think that we have, but we should be aware that we may not actually have it. It is the grasp that we would have, if we had full knowledge of the entire science, and as such it is an important goal to aim for. If this is right, then the second objection is disarmed. System 1 thought may give us confidence that something is both true and a basic principle, but System 2 cautions us to resist this certainty, leading us not to put too much confidence in it, and to be aware that it may not be a principle at all. Aristotle has little to say along these lines, and for good reason. After all, his aim in the Posterior Analytics is to discuss the ideal case: a science all of whose facts have been identified, whose demonstrations have been discovered and whose principles have been identified. Now, finally, back to the simile of the routed army. It illustrates the “coming to a stand” of individuals: soldiers not behaving like soldiers (unrecognizable as soldiers), each trying to save his own life, a bunch of running men who, one by one, come to behave like soldiers again. Likewise for the case of Socrates and Callias, who are both humans, where we transition from not yet recognizing them as such (as being individuals of a kind), to so recognizing them. This has to do with ἐπαγωγή, not with the discovery of principles. By the time we are ready to do the work needed to discover which universal facts are principles, things are no longer chaotic; individuals have been grouped into classes (Socrates and Callias into human), classes have been located as belonging to higher classes (human and dog falling under animal) and properties of classes have been identified (all humans are mortal, and so are all animals). The soldiers regroup where they can, not where they were before they were routed (not back at their starting-point). They were soldiers all along even though they were not acting the way soldiers are supposed to do. When they stop and regroup, they can begin to behave as soldiers again. They are recognizably soldiers; we see them as soldiers and no longer as individuals acting in panic. So Socrates and Callias are men all along—they are just not recognized such.

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When we recognize them as such, we see them differently, as humans, which entails that they have many things in common and are not simply individual unrelated things each with its idiosyncratic properties. At this point we can begin to ask what they have in common, what makes them humans, what being human entails. In other words, only then can we begin exploring human nature, working towards a science of humanity, or biology, or of the workings of nature. On this interpretation, the problematic stage described by the simile is the transition called ἐπαγωγή. This view is supported by what follows (100a14-b5), a passage that begins “let us say once more what has already been said, but not clearly” and that goes on to talk about how we acquire knowledge of universals. How, then, are we to translate the simile? Look again at McKirahan (1992): “As happens when a rout has occurred in a battle and one man has stopped, another stops and another until it reaches the original position.” When I looked at this recently in gathering translations for this paper, I noticed a footnote: “Perhaps the phrase in question continues the thought of the passage before the simile: these states … come from perception one after the next (like soldiers recovering one by one from a rout) until we reach knowledge of the principles.” In 1992 McKirahan cowardly followed Ross and others, but he has become bolder in the past quarter-century. When his translation of the Posterior Analytics, now under contract to be published by Hackett, comes out, the passage will look very different: “until it reaches the original position” becomes “until one reaches a principle” and the translation of the problematic Greek words is put in parentheses. So the states come from perception (as happens when a rout has occurred in a battle and one man has stopped, another stops and another) until one reaches a principle.

Finally, one last remark about Aristotle’s use of examples. In the Posterior Analytics they are rife. They make concrete his highly general and abstract discussion and without them it would be difficult or perhaps impossible to understand his theory. When they succeed, they enable us to give meaning to his general remarks. We understand them in the light of the examples. We “see” the point and “see” how to apply it in practice. This is ἐπαγωγή. So we can see the simile of the routed army in the same light: it invites us to understand ἐπαγωγή. If I’m right, it’s a pity that he didn’t set out his example more clearly, since (if my interpretation is correct) it seems that no one has performed the necessary ἐπαγωγή until now.

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Appendix 1—Translations οἷον ἐν μάχῃ τροπῆς γενομένης ἑνὸς στάντος ἕτερος ἔστη, εἶθ’ ἕτερος, ἕως ἐπὶ ἀρχὴν ἦλθεν. Mure (1928): It is like a rout in battle stopped by first one man making a stand and then another, until the original formation has been restored. Ross (1949): … as when after a rout one man makes a stand and then another, till the rally goes right back to where the rout started. (‘Following Philoponus and Zabarella.’) Tredennick (1960): … just as when a retreat has occurred in battle, if one man halts so does another, and then another, until the original position is restored. (‘The phrase “ἕως ἐπὶ ἀρχὴν ἦλθεν” simply means “until it reaches the starting point,” i. e., “until the rally has extended to the man who first gave way”’). Warrington (1964): … as when after a rout one man makes a stand and then another, till the original formation has been restored. Tricot (1970): C’est ainsi que, dans une bataille, au milieu d’une déroute, un soldat s’arrêtant, un autre s’arrête, puis un autre encore, jusqu’à ce que l’armée soit revenue à son ordre primitif. Barnes (1975): … as in a battle when a rout occurs, if one man makes a stand another does and then another; until a position of strength is reached. (“Reading ἀλκὴν for ἀρχὴν; at 100a13 the MSS. read ἀρχὴν ‘principle,’ which makes no sense”). Apostle (1981): … like a reversal in a battle brought about when one may make a stand, then another, then a third, till a principle is attained. McKirahan (1992): As happens when a rout has occurred in a battle and one man has stopped, another stops and another until it reaches the original position. Barnes (1994): as in a battle, when a rout has occurred, first one man makes a stand, then another does, and then another, until a position of strength is reached.

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Detel (1993): … wie etwa in einer Schlacht, wenn eine Wende zustandekommt, falls einer stehen bleibt, ein anderer stehen bleibt, darauf ein weiterer, bis man zum Anfang kommt. Pellegrin (2005): … comme dans une bataille, quand il y a déroute, si un homme s’arrête, un autre s’arrête, puis un autre, jusqu’à ce qu’on en revienne au point où l’on en était au début 〈de la déroute〉. Mignucci (2007): … così come in una battaglia, verificatasi una rota, se un solo soldato si ferma, un altro si ferma pure e un altro ancora, finché non si arrivi alla prima fila. Goldin (2009): … as when there is a rout in a battle and there was one who took a stand, and someone else took a stand, and then another, and then they came to a [new] beginning. Tuominen (2010): … as in a battle, when a retreat takes place, after one soldier has stopped the others do, until it arrives at a starting point.

Appendix 2—Texts T1 Apo. I.2, 71b33 – 72a5 (tr. McKirahan) Demonstrative scientific knowledge must be based on things that are true, primary and immediate, and better known than, prior to and causes of the conclusion.

T2 Metaph. VII.3, 1029b3 – 12 (tr. Ross) It is an advantage to advance to that which is more intelligible. For learning proceeds for all in this way—through that which is less intelligible by nature to that which is more intelligible … it is our work to start from what is more intelligible to oneself and make what is intelligible by nature intelligible to oneself … one must start from what is barely intelligible but intelligible to oneself, and try to understand what is intelligible in itself, passing, as has been said, by way of those very things which one understands.

T3 Metaph. I.2, 983a12– 22 (tr. Ross, revised by Barnes) All men begin by wondering that the matter is so (as in the case of … the incommensurability of the diagonal of a square with the side; for it seems wonderful to all men who have not yet perceived the explanation that there is a thing which cannot be measured even by the smallest unit). But we must end in the contrary and … better state … when men learn

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the cause; for there is nothing that would surprise a geometer so much as if the diagonal turned out to be commensurable.

T4 Apo. II.19, 100a3-b5 (tr. McKirahan) Α So from perception memory comes about, as we say, and from memory of the same thing occurring many times comes |5| experience, for memories many in number constitute a single experience. From experience, or when the entire universal has come to be at rest in the soul — the one beside the many, whatever is one and the same in them all—the startingpoint of art and science comes about: the starting-point of art if it is concerned with coming to be, but the starting-point of science if it is concerned with what is. [Ἐκ μὲν οὖν αἰσθήσεως γίνεται μνήμη, ὥσπερ λέγομεν, ἐκ δὲ μνήμης πολλάκις τοῦ αὐτοῦ γινομένης ἐμπειρία· αἱ γὰρ πολλαὶ μνῆμαι τῷ ἀριθμῷ ἐμπειρία μία ἐστίν. ἐκ δ’ ἐμπειρίας ἢ ἐκ παντὸς ἠρεμήσαντος τοῦ καθόλου ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ, τοῦ ἑνὸς παρὰ τὰ πολλά, ὃ ἂν ἐν ἅπασιν ἓν ἐνῇ ἐκείνοις τὸ αὐτό, τέχνης ἀρχὴ καὶ ἐπιστήμης, ἐὰν μὲν περὶ γένεσιν, τέχνης, ἐὰν δὲ περὶ τὸ ὄν, ἐπιστήμης.] Β |10| So the states [up to and including scientific knowledge] are not present in us as determinate states, nor do they arise from still other, higher cognitive states, but from perception, as in a battle after a rout has occurred when one man comes to a stand, another does too and then another, until it reaches a starting-point. And in fact the soul is such that it can be affected in this way. [οὔτε δὴ ἐνυπάρχουσιν ἀφωρισμέναι αἱ ἕξεις, οὔτ’ ἀπ’ ἄλλων ἕξεων γίνονται γνωστικωτέρων, ἀλλ’ ἀπὸ αἰσθήσεως, οἷον ἐν μάχῃ τροπῆς γενομένης ἑνὸς στάντος ἕτερος ἔστη, εἶθ’ ἕτερος, ἕως ἐπὶ ἀρχὴν ἦλθεν. ἡ δὲ ψυχὴ ὑπάρχει τοιαύτη οὖσα οἵα δύνασθαι πάσχειν τοῦτο.] C |15| But let us say again what was said just now but not in detail. When one of the undifferentiated things comes to a stand, the first universal in the soul — for in fact it perceives the particular, but the perception is of the universal |100b1| (for example, of human being, not of Callias the human being) — once more it comes to a stand in these, until whenever the things that have no parts and are universals come to a stand (for example, such and such a kind of animal, and then animal, and then likewise in this). [ὃ δ’ ἐλέχθη μὲν πάλαι, οὐ σαφῶς δὲ ἐλέχθη, πάλιν εἴπωμεν. στάντος γὰρ τῶν ἀδιαφόρων ἑνός, πρῶτον μὲν ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ καθόλου (καὶ γὰρ αἰσθάνεται μὲν τὸ καθ’ ἕκαστον, ἡ δ’ αἴσθησις τοῦ καθόλου ἐστίν, οἷον ἀνθρώπου, ἀλλ’ οὐ Καλλίου ἀνθρώπου)· πάλιν· ἐν τούτοις ἵσταται, ἕως ἂν τὰ ἀμερῆ στῇ καὶ τὰ καθόλου, οἷον τοιονδὶ ζῷον, ἕως ζῷον, καὶ ἐν τούτῳ ὡσαύτως.] D So it is clear that it is necessary for us to come to know the primary things by ἐπαγωγή For |5| this is the way perception produces the universal in us. [δῆλον δὴ ὅτι ἡμῖν τὰ πρῶτα ἐπαγωγῇ γνωρίζειν ἀναγκαῖον· καὶ γὰρ |5| ἡ αἴσθησις οὕτω τὸ καθόλου ἐμποιεῖ.]

T5 Metaph. I.1, 980a27– 981b9 (tr. Ross, with minor modifications) A By nature animals are born with the faculty of sensation, and from sensation memory is produced in some of them, but not in others…. |980b25| The animals other than man live by appearances and memories… but the human race lives also by art and reasonings. And from memory experience is produced in men; for many memories of the same thing | 981a1| produce finally the capacity for a single experience. Experience seems to be very similar to science and art, but really science and art come to men through experience…

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[φύσει μὲν οὖν αἴσθησιν ἔχοντα γίγνεται τὰ ζῷα, ἐκ δὲ ταύτης τοῖς μὲν αὐτῶν οὐκ ἐγγίγνεται μνήμη, τοῖς δ’ ἐγγίγνεται. … τὰ μὲν οὖν ἄλλα ταῖς φαντασίαις ζῇ καὶ ταῖς μνήμαις … τὸ δὲ τῶν ἀνθρώπων γένος καὶ τέχνῃ καὶ λογισμοῖς. γίγνεται δ’ ἐκ τῆς μνήμης ἐμπειρία τοῖς ἀνθρώποις· αἱ γὰρ πολλαὶ μνῆμαι τοῦ αὐτοῦ πράγματος μιᾶς ἐμπειρίας δύναμιν ἀποτελοῦσιν. καὶ δοκεῖ σχεδὸν ἐπιστήμῃ καὶ τέχνῃ ὅμοιον εἶναι καὶ ἐμπειρία, ἀποβαίνει δ’ ἐπιστήμη καὶ τέχνη διὰ τῆς ἐμπειρίας τοῖς ἀνθρώποις.] B |5| And art arises, when from many notions gained by experience one universal judgement about similar objects is produced. For to have a judgement that when Callias was ill of this disease this did him good, and similarly in the case of Socrates and in many individual cases, is a matter of experience; |10| but to judge that it has done good to all persons of a certain constitution, marked off in one class, when they were ill of this disease, e. g., to phlegmatic or bilious people when burning with fever—this is a matter of art. [γίγνεται δὲ τέχνη ὅταν ἐκ πολλῶν τῆς ἐμπειρίας ἐννοημάτων μία καθόλου γένηται περὶ τῶν ὁμοίων ὑπόληψις. τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἔχειν ὑπόληψιν ὅτι Καλλίᾳ κάμνοντι τηνδὶ τὴν νόσον τοδὶ συνήνεγκε καὶ Σωκράτει καὶ καθ’ ἕκαστον οὕτω πολλοῖς, ἐμπειρίας ἐστίν· τὸ δ’ ὅτι πᾶσι τοῖς τοιοῖσδε κατ’ εἶδος ἓν ἀφορισθεῖσι, κάμνουσι τηνδὶ τὴν νόσον, συνήνεγκεν, οἷον τοῖς φλεγματώδεσιν ἢ χολώδεσι [ἢ] πυρέττουσι καύσῳ, τέχνης.] C With a view to action experience seems in no respect inferior to art, and we even see men of experience succeeding better than those |15| who have theory (logos) without experience. The reason is that experience is knowledge of individuals, art of universals, and actions and productions are all concerned with the individual; for the physician does not cure a man, except in an incidental way, but Callias or Socrates or some other |20| called by some such individual name, who happens to be a man. If, then, a man has theory without experience, and knows the universal but does not the individual included in this, he will often fail to cure; for it is the individual who is to be cured. [πρὸς μὲν οὖν τὸ πράττειν ἐμπειρία τέχνης οὐδὲν δοκεῖ διαφέρειν, ἀλλὰ καὶ μᾶλλον ἐπιτυγχάνουσιν οἱ ἔμπειροι τῶν ἄνευ τῆς ἐμπειρίας λόγον ἐχόντων (αἴτιον δ’ ὅτι ἡ μὲν ἐμπειρία τῶν καθ’ ἕκαστόν ἐστι γνῶσις ἡ δὲ τέχνη τῶν καθόλου, αἱ δὲ πράξεις καὶ αἱ γενέσεις πᾶσαι περὶ τὸ καθ’ ἕκαστόν εἰσιν· οὐ γὰρ ἄνθρωπον ὑγιάζει ὁ ἰατρεύων ἀλλ’ ἢ κατὰ συμβεβηκός, ἀλλὰ Καλλίαν ἢ Σωκράτην ἢ τῶν ἄλλων τινὰ τῶν οὕτω λεγομένων ᾧ συμβέβηκεν ἀνθρώπῳ εἶναι· ἐὰν οὖν ἄνευ τῆς ἐμπειρίας ἔχῃ τις τὸν λόγον, καὶ τὸ καθόλου μὲν γνωρίζῃ τὸ δ’ ἐν τούτῳ καθ’ ἕκαστον ἀγνοῇ, πολλά κις διαμαρτήσεται τῆς θεραπείας· θεραπευτὸν γὰρ τὸ καθ’ ἕκαστον)] D But yet we think that knowledge and understanding |25| belong to art rather than to experience, and we suppose artists to be wiser than men of experience (which implies that wisdom depends in all cases rather on knowledge); and this, because the former know the cause, but the latter do not. For men of experience know that the thing is so, but do not know why, while the others know the ‘why’ |30| and the cause…. |981b7| And in general it is a sign of the man who knows, that he can teach, and therefore we think art more truly knowledge than experience is; for artists can teach, and men of mere experience cannot. [ἀλλ’ ὅμως τό γε εἰδέναι καὶ τὸ ἐπαΐειν τῇ τέχνῃ τῆς ἐμπειρίας ὑπάρχειν οἰόμεθα μᾶλλον, καὶ σοφωτέρους τοὺς τεχνίτας τῶν ἐμπείρων ὑπολαμβάνομεν, ὡς κατὰ τὸ εἰδέναι μᾶλλον ἀκολουθοῦσαν τὴν σοφίαν πᾶσι· τοῦτο δ’ ὅτι οἱ μὲν τὴν αἰτίαν ἴσασιν οἱ δ’ οὔ. οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἔμπειροι τὸ ὅτι μὲν ἴσασι, διότι δ’ οὐκ ἴσασιν· οἱ δὲ τὸ διότι καὶ τὴν αἰτίαν γνωρίζουσιν. … ὅλως τε σημεῖον τοῦ εἰδότος καὶ μὴ εἰδότος τὸ δύνασθαι διδάσκειν ἐστίν, καὶ διὰ τοῦτο τὴν τέχνην τῆς ἐμπειρίας ἡγούμεθα μᾶλλον ἐπιστήμην εἶναι· δύνανται γάρ, οἱ δὲ οὐ δύνανται διδάσκειν.]

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T6 Apo. I.18, 81a38-b10 (tr. Barnes) Demonstration |81b1| depends on universals and induction on particulars, if it is impossible to study universals except through induction … |5| and it is impossible to make an induction without having perception (for particulars are grasped by perception). It is not possible to get understanding (ἐπιστήμη) of these items—neither from universals without induction nor through induction without |10| perception. [ἡ δ’ ἐπαγωγὴ ἐκ τῶν κατὰ μέρος, ἀδύνατον δὲ τὰ καθόλου θεωρῆσαι μὴ δι’ ἐπαγωγῆς … ἐπαχθῆναι δὲ μὴ ἔχοντας αἴσθησιν ἀδύνατον. τῶν γὰρ καθ’ ἕκαστον ἡ αἴσθησις· οὐ γὰρ ἐνδέχεται λαβεῖν αὐτῶν τὴν ἐπιστήμην· οὔτε γὰρ ἐκ τῶν καθόλου ἄνευ ἐπαγωγῆς, οὔτε δι’ ἐπαγωγῆς ἄνευ τῆς αἰσθήσεως.]

T7 Apr. II.21, 67a11– 25 (tr. Smith) Therefore, if someone knows that A belongs to everything to which B belongs, then he also knows that it belongs to C. But nothing prevents him being ignorant that C exists, as, for example, if A is two right angles, B stands for triangle, and C stands for a perceptible triangle: for someone could believe |15| C not to exist, while knowing that every triangle has two right angles, and consequently, he will at the same time know and be ignorant of the same thing. For to know of every triangle that it has angles equal to two right angles is not a simple matter, but rather one 〈way of knowing it〉 is in virtue of having universal knowledge, and another way is in virtue of having the particular knowledge. In this way, then, i. e., by means of the universal knowledge, he knows C, that it has two right angles; |20| but he does not know it as by means of the particular knowledge; consequently, he will not possess contrary states of knowledge. And the argument in the Meno that learning is being reminded is also similar; for it never results that people know the particular in advance, but rather that they get the knowledge of the particulars at the same time, by means of the induction, like those who recognize something. For there are some things which we know right away |25| (for example, we know that something 〈has angles equal〉 to two right angles, if we see that it is a triangle). [ἅμα τῇ ἐπαγωγῇ λαμβάνειν τὴν τῶν κατὰ μέρος ἐπιστήμην ὥσπερ ἀναγνωρίζοντας. ἔνια γὰρ εὐθὺς ἴσμεν, οἷον ὅτι δύο ὀρθαῖς, ἐὰν ἴδωμεν ὅτι τρίγωνον.]

T8 Apo. I.1, 71a17– 29 (tr. McKirahan) It is possible to recognize things one has previously come to know and also to recognize things simultaneously with acquiring knowledge of them, for example, everything that falls under a universal of which we have knowledge. For we had prior knowledge that every triangle |20| has angles equal to two right angles. But that this figure in the semicircle is a triangle—we recognized [that it has angles equal to two right angles] at the same time as we performed the induction. [ὅτι μὲν γὰρ πᾶν τρίγωνον ἔχει δυσὶν ὀρθαῖς ἴσας, προῄδει· ὅτι δὲ τόδε τὸ ἐν τῷ ἡμικυκλίῳ τρίγωνόν ἐστιν, ἅμα ἐπαγόμενος ἐγνώρισεν.]

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T9 Apo. I.34, 89b10 – 20 (tr. Barnes, modified) Acumen is a talent for hitting upon the middle term in an imperceptible time. E. g. if someone sees that the moon always has its bright side toward the sun and quickly conceives why this is so—because it gets its light from the sun; [Ἡ δ’ ἀγχίνοιά ἐστιν εὐστοχία τις ἐν ἀσκέπτῳ χρόνῳ τοῦ μέσου, οἷον εἴ τις ἰδὼν ὅτι ἡ σελήνη τὸ λαμπρὸν ἀεὶ ἔχει πρὸς τὸν ἥλιον, ταχὺ ἐνενόησε διὰ τί τοῦτο, ὅτι διὰ τὸ λάμπειν ἀπὸ τοῦ ἡλίου·] for he knows that someone is talking to a rich man because he is borrowing from him; or why they are friends—because they are enemies of the same man. |15| Seeing the extreme terms he gets to know all the explanatory middle terms. [ἢ διαλεγόμενον πλουσίῳ ἔγνω διότι δανείζεται· ἢ διότι φίλοι, ὅτι ἐχθροὶ τοῦ αὐτοῦ. πάντα γὰρ τὰ αἴτια τὰ μέσα [ὁ] ἰδὼν τὰ ἄκρα ἐγνώρισεν.] The bright side’s being toward the sun, A; getting light from the sun, B; the moon, C. B, getting light from the sun, holds of C, the moon; and A, the bright side’s being toward that from which it gets light, of B: hence A holds of C |20| through B.

T10 Apo. I.31, 87b37– 88a17 (tr. Barnes, modified) Particulars must be perceived, whereas understanding (ἐπιστήμη) is a matter of getting to know universals. This is why, if we were on the moon |40| and saw the earth screening it, we would not know the explanation |88a1| of the eclipse. We would perceive that it is now eclipsed but not why; for we have seen that there is no perception of universals. Nevertheless, if we observed this happening often and then hunted for the universal, we would possess a demonstration; for it is from many particulars |5| that the universal becomes plain. Universals are valuable because they make the explanations plain. Hence universals are more valuable than perception or thought (νόησις)—with regard to items which have an explanation different from themselves….[οὐ γὰρ ἦν τοῦ καθόλου αἴσθησις. οὐ μὴν ἀλλ’ ἐκ τοῦ θεωρεῖν τοῦτο πολλάκις συμβαῖνον τὸ καθόλου ἂν θηρεύσαντες ἀπόδειξιν εἴχομεν· ἐκ γὰρ τῶν καθ’ ἕκαστα πλειόνων τὸ καθόλου δῆλον. τὸ δὲ καθόλου τίμιον, ὅτι δηλοῖ τὸ αἴτιον· ὥστε περὶ τῶν τοιούτων ἡ καθόλου τιμιωτέρα τῶν αἰσθήσεων καὶ τῆς νοήσεως, ὅσων ἕτερον τὸ αἴτιον· περὶ δὲ τῶν πρώτων ἄλλος λόγος.] In some cases if we saw we should not seek—not because we have knowledge by seeing but because we possess the universal from seeing. E. g., if we saw the glass to be perforated and the light coming through it, it would also be plain why it causes burning: by seeing each case separately but grasping simultaneously that it is thus in every case. [οὐχ ὡς εἰδότες τῷ ὁρᾶν, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἔχοντες τὸ καθόλου ἐκ τοῦ ὁρᾶν. οἷον εἰ τὴν ὕαλον τετρυπημένην ἑωρῶμεν καὶ τὸ φῶς διιόν, δῆλον ἂν ἦν καὶ διὰ τί καίει, τῷ ὁρᾶν μὲν χωρὶς ἐφ’ ἑκάστης, νοῆσαι δ’ ἅμα ὅτι ἐπὶ πασῶν οὕτως.]

T11 Top. I.2, 101a36-b4 (tr. Barnes) [Dialectic] has a further use in relation to the principles used in the several sciences. For it is impossible to discuss them at all from the principles proper to the particular science in hand, seeing that the principles are primitive in relation to everything else; it is through reputable opinions about them that these have to be discussed, and this task belongs properly, or most appropriately, to dialectic; for dialectic is a process of criticism wherein lies the path to the principles of all inquiries (ἐξεταστικὴ γὰρ οὖσα πρὸς τὰς ἁπασῶν τῶν μεθόδων ἀρχὰς ὁδὸν ἔχει).

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Works Cited Apostle (1981): H. G. Apostle, Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics, Grinnell, Iowa: Peripatetic Press. Barnes (1975): J. Barnes, Aristotle, Posterior Analytics, Clarendon Aristotle Series, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barnes (1994): J. Barnes, Aristotle, Posterior Analytics, Clarendon Aristotle Series, 2nd edn., Oxford: Oxford: Oxford University Press. Detel (1993): W. Detel, Aristoteles, Analytica Posteriora, Aristoteles Werke, Berlin: Akademie. Goldin (2009): O. Goldin, Philoponus: On Aristotle Posterior Analytics 2, Ancient Commentators on Aristotle, London: Duckworth. McKirahan (1992): R. McKirahan, Principles and Proofs, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mignucci (2007): M. Mignucci, Analitici secondi. Organon IV, Roma-Bari: Laterza. Mure (1928): G. R. G. Mure, Posterior Analytics. In W.D. Ross (ed.), The Works of Aristotle translated into English vol. 1, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pellegrin (2005): P. Pellegrin, Aristote. Seconds Analytiques, Paris: Flammarion. Ross (1949): W. D. Ross, Aristotle’s Prior and Posterior Analytics, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tredennick (1960): H. Tredennick, Aristotle, vol. 2: Posterior Analytics and Topica, Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Tricot (1970): J. Tricot, Aristote. Organon IV: Les Seconds Analytiques, Paris: Vrin. Tuominen (2010): M. Tuominen, “Back to Posterior Analytics II 19: Aristotle on the Knowledge of Principles,” in: J. H. Lesher (ed.), From Inquiry to Demonstrative Knowledge, Kelowna = Apeiron 48, n. 2 – 3. Warrington (1964): J. Warrington, Aristotle, Prior and Posterior Analytics, London: Dent.

V Aristotle in the History of Philosophy

Dermot Moran

Aristotle’s Conception of οὐσία in the Medieval Christian Tradition: Some Neoplatonic Reflections It would be impossible to review in detail the medieval Neoplatonic Christian reception of Aristotle, even in the period prior to the ‘rediscovery’ of Aristotle’s key texts (including the Physics, Nicomachean Ethics, Metaphysics, and the biological writings) in the mid-twelfth century. What was known of Aristotle before the eleventh century was largely what is known, somewhat inaccurately—as it was larger—in the medieval curriculum, as the logica vetus, i. e., the Categories, De Interpretatione, and Porphyry’s Isagoge (“Introduction” in Boethius’s translation).¹ Other texts were included in the logica vetus, but the only works truly known were the three just cited. To further compound the confusion, a number of false texts circulated, most notably the Liber de Causis that was thought to be a work by Aristotle but was actually a Proclean text.² Boethius was the major influence and he synthesizes Aristotle and Plato. Cicero knew the Topics but others knew it only through Cicero. The Categories was a favorite work of the Neoplatonists who wrote many commentaries on it.³ The main debate was whether it was a work of logic and semantics (as Andronicus of Rhodes thought) or a work of ontology. Around 1120 Boethius’ translations of the Prior Analytics, Topics, and Sophisti Elenchi were re-discovered. Around 1150, James of Venice translated Aristotle’s Metaphysics, De anima, and Posterior Analytics. Eventually, the rediscovery of Aristotle provided a new research agenda for the newly-founded universities of the thirteenth century, inspiring the writings of Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, Robert Grosseteste, Roger Bacon, and others. The Neoplatonic tradition which antedated the rediscovery of Aristotle was not vanquished and continued to flourish, however, especially in the theology faculties, following the old tradition that Aristotle was a good guide to the sublunary world, but that Plato was needed to understand the unchanging intellectual world. Furthermore, Platonism and the idea of a divine goodness ‘beyond being’ continued, especially in the Christian negative theological tradition, including Bonaventure, Meister Eckhart, and

 See Marenbon (2014), 349 – 36.  Brand (2001).  Griffin (2015). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110566420-021

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others, who conceive God (or more properly deitas) as intellect ‘before being’ and ‘cause of being.’ In this paper, I shall focus on the reception of Aristotle in this continuous Christian Neoplatonic tradition, specifically in St. Augustine (354– 430 CE), Johannes Scottus Eriugena (c. 800 – c. 877 CE), and Nicolas of Cusa (1401– 1464 CE), thinkers who ‘book end’ Medieval philosophy from its beginning to its conclusion. I shall focus especially on the tradition of the via negativa (into which St. Augustine is inducted by Eriugena’s radical hermeneutics) which eventually evolved into the docta ignorantia of Nicolas of Cusa. The Christian philosophical tradition in the early Middle Ages had enormous respect for Aristotle, despite a lack of familiarity with the primary sources. Aristotle is described by John Scottus Eriugena, for example, as “the shrewdest of the Greeks” (acutissimus apud Graecos, Periphyseon I.463a).⁴ Aristotle was known to the Carolingians largely through the section on dialectica in the Liberal Arts textbook of Martianus Capella, his De Nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, and through the anonymous Categoriae Decem text, a fourth-century Latin summary of Aristotle’s Categories, which was often attributed to St. Augustine (hence “PseudoAugustine”), but now is thought to come from the circle of Themistius.⁵ In general, and entirely understandably given the available works, Aristotle was regarded as a logician and rhetor. His conception of the categories was well known, although there was a general sense that these categories applied only to the created world and that the infinite God could not be comprehended within the categories, but surpasses them. Alcuin’s (c.735 – 804 CE) De dialectica, for instance, is based on the Categoriae decem. Interestingly Eriugena, an expert on dialectic, will introduce a new form of dialectic of opposites, of affirmations and negations (homo animal est; homo animal non est), which he will equate with the Dionysian contrast between kataphatic and apophatic theology. Eriugena is the first explicitly to link Aristotelian logic to the Neo-Platonic dialectics of affirmation and negation. Aristotle’s theory is invoked in relation to the question as to whether the ten categories can be applied to the “ineffable nature” of God (PP I.457d), a discussion that is inspired by Augustine’s De Trinitate Book Five and by Boethius’ theological tracts, as well as by discussions in Maximus Confessor. In particular, Eriugena proposes an overarching category that goes beyond the ten categories—something “called by the Greeks τὸ πᾶν (to pan) but by our writers Uniuersitas” (PP I.469b) which is the “universalis natura” that admits of four divisions.

 Henceforth the Periphyseon will be cited as “PP.”  Marenbon (1980).

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This is Eriugena’s originality, along with his conception of God as self-creating (se creare), interpreted as ‘manifestation in another’ (manifestatio in aliquo).

1 Augustine’s Reading of Aristotle’s Categories Let us briefly look at the intellectual background, namely, St. Augustine’s relationship to Aristotle. Augustine saw Aristotle primarily as a logician and seems to have known of him largely through Cicero. Cicero claims to write his De Oratore (On the Orator) “in the Aristotelian style” (scripsi igitur Aristotelio more, Ad Fam. i.9.23; Ad Atticum xiii.19.4). Augustine generally considers Aristotle’s work to be obscure, as he says in The Advantage of Believing (De Utilitate credendi 6.13) and, indeed, “defective” (De pulchro et apto).⁶ He will, however, be very interested in Aristotle’s treatment of the categories. Augustine had been introduced to philosophy by reading Cicero’s Hortensius (Conf. 3.4), which may have been a Latin version of Aristotle’s Protrepticus. Aristotle’s association of happiness (beatitudo) with contemplative knowledge is praised by Augustine. In De Dialectica Augustine refers to Aristotle’s distinction between single and combined words, and possibly he had access at some stage to Aristotle’s De Interpretatione which may have influenced his theory of signs in De Doctrina Christiana.⁷ Augustine’s discussion of time in Confessions Book Eleven shows some knowledge of Aristotle’s Physics, and this will be taken up by Eriugena. When Augustine was about twenty (Conf. 4.16.28), he read Aristotle’s Categories probably in the Latin translation of Marius Victorinus (Conf. 4.16). He even reports that he was able to read it without the help of a teacher. However, as Augustine interpreted the Aristotelian doctrine of substance, he found that it limited him in his way of thinking about God. Augustine writes: The book [The Ten Categories] seemed to me to speak clearly enough of substances, such as a man is, and of what are in them, such as a man’s figure; of what quality he is; his stature; how many feet tall he is; his relationships, as whose brother he is; where he is placed; when he was born; whether he stands or sits; whether he is shod with shoes or armed; whether he does something or has something done to him; and the innumerable things that are found in these nine categories, of which I have set down some examples, or in the category of substance. (Conf. 4. 28)⁸

 See Tkacz (2012), 71.  Fitzgerald/Cavadini (1969).  Augustine (1960), 118.

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In other words, Augustine had tried to understand God by applying the Aristotelian categories. Augustine generally knew of Aristotle’s doctrine of the four elements and of the soul as a “fifth element,” but worries his account is too materialistic (De immortalitate animae 10.17; De civ. D. 12:11; De Genesi ad Litteram 7.21.27). Augustine refers to Aristotle’s Categories again in his De Trinitate Book Five to discuss the Neoplatonic view that none of the categories, strictly speaking, applies to God. In De Trinitate Augustine uses substantia and essentia interchangeably and he generally thinks that only the category of substance can apply to God. Augustine conceives of God as the fullness of being, as “Being Itself,” Ipsum Esse (De Trin. 5.2.3; De Trin. 6.7.8) or Idipsum Esse (De immort. an. 7, 12; De lib. arb. 3, 20 – 21; De mor. Eccl. 1, 14, 24, “therefore we must love God… of whom I will say nothing else than that he is being itself,” idipsum esse).⁹ Of course, Augustine is interpreting the famous Ego sum qui sum of Exodus 3:14, which he understands as identifying God with Ipsum Esse (see De Civitate Dei 8.11), which is also identified with Platonic unchangeable and immutable being. Augustine says it is hard to name God, although we know that He is and that He is the greatest of all beings. In De libero arbitrio 3.7.20, he speaks of God as “id quod summe est.” Some scholars argue that Idipsum (“self-same”) cannot be identified with ipsum esse (“being itself”).¹⁰ Normally, Augustine identifies idipsum esse with quod est, and quod aeternum est (En. In Psalmos. 121.5, PL 37, 1621– 22). In particular, Augustine is identifying God with self-identity, permanence, immutability. At De vera religione 21.41 Augustine says “idipsum, id est naturam incommutabilem” (cf. De Trin. 3.3.8). God is the One who never changes, who is self-same. This emphasis on Idipsum esse was read, especially in the Greek Orthodox Christian tradition, as emphasising the unspeakable nature of the divine; God cannot be named; His essence cannot be expressed in language by finite beings. Thus Idipsum esse can be understood as an apophatic appelation. Indeed, the contemporary French philosopher Jean-Luc Marion has taken this discussion up in order to recuperate Augustine over and against the Thomistic reading of Gilson and others.¹¹ In fact, Eriugena anticipated this negative reading of St. Augustine a thousand years earlier and was already proposing St. Augustine as a negative theologian saying more or less the same thing as Dionysius.

 Zum Brunn (1988), 101. Burkill (1974), 1– 17.  See Marion (2008), 171.  Ibid. 167– 191.

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2 Oὐσία in Eriugena’s Periphyseon Let me briefly introduce Johannes Scottus Eriugena and his Periphyseon before discussing the role of Aristotle. The Irish-born, Christian Neoplatonic philosopher Johannes (c. 800–c. 877 CE), was known in his own days as “Scottus,” or the “Irishman,” and he signed himself, in the oldest and best surviving Berne manuscript of his translation of Dionysius the Areopagite’s complete works, “Eriugena,” meaning “born in Ireland.”¹² This pen-name became attached to him largely to distinguish him from John Duns Scotus in nineteenth-century histories of philosophy where he became known as “Scotus Erigena” and now “Scottus Eriugena.” Eriugena’s main work, Periphyseon, is a sprawling dialogue, divided into five books, between a teacher and student (named simply Nutritor and Alumnus). It purports to be a systematic “study of nature” (physiologia, PP IV.741c), a Neoplatonic summa on the meaning of universitas rerum, that is, everything gathered under “universal nature” (universalis natura, PP II.525b). The title Periphyseon is Eriugena’s own (see Expositiones II,1038) and was clearly meant to echo Origen’s Peri Archon,¹³ and, moreover, Eriugena wrote with his own hand in the manuscript Reims 875 “peri physeos merismou,” “concerning the division of nature.” The teacher in the dialogue, Nutritor, sees himself as a cosmologist (fisicus, sapiens mundi), but also as philosopher, philosophus, and theologian, theologus, who is conducting an “inquiry into natures” (inquisitio naturarum, PP II.608c) guided by “nature, the teacher herself” (natura ipsa magistra, PP II.608d). The pupil is more or less a foil for the teacher, asking questions and eliciting more clarity from the Teacher, but sometimes the pupil shows a great deal of knowledge. So, the structure of the dialogue is actually quite complex and dynamic.

 John Scottus (“the Irishman”) is referred to by Prudentius in his De Praedestinatione (851) as a follower of Pelagius (Pelagii … sectatorem Ioannem videlicet Scotum, PL CXV.1011B), who alone “Ireland sent to Gaul” (te solum … Galliae transmisit Hibernia, PL CXV.1194a). He is mentioned by Bishop Pardulus of Laon (as quoted by Remigius) as “that Irishman, who is in the king’s palace, named John” (Scotum illum qui est in palatio regis, Joannem nomine’ (PL CXXI.1052a). Johannes Scottus signs his letter of dedication to his translation of the works of Dionysius with the penname “Eriugena.” Eriugena corrected and extended the earlier translation of Dionsyius by Hilduin and challenges anyone who doubts his translation to check the Greek (see PL CXXII.1032c). On Eriugena’s life, see Cappuyns (1933) and Moran (1989), 35 – 47.  See Jeauneau (2014), 139 – 182. Eriugena’s work appears in medieval libraries as “Periphyseon id est de naturis.”

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At the outset of Periphyseon Book One, Nature is defined as the “general name for all things that are and all things that are not” (Est igitur natura generale nomen, ut diximus, omnium quae sunt et quae non sunt, PP I.441a) that includes “both God and the creature” (deus et creatura, PP II.524d). In the course of the dialogue, he gives an account of the nature of the divine One, its cosmic outgoing into created nature, and its return into its own hidden depth. Eriugena then proposes a “fourfold division” (quadriformis divisio) of nature: nature nature nature nature

which which which which

creates and is not created, creates and is created, is created and does not create, and is neither created nor creates.

These divisions (also referred to as “forms” and “species,” formae et species) express the various aspects of the divine manifestation and also enumerate the stages of the cosmic procession out of and return to God. Everything takes place within Nature, and hence God is also present in all four divisions. The fourfold division of nature is both “from God and in God” (de deo et in deo, PP III.690a). God is initially described in Augustinian terms as the “light of minds” (lux mentium, PP I.442b), but also as “the cause of all things that are and are not” (causa omnium quae sunt et quae non sunt, PP I.442b). Yet at the same time, God can be understood as a non-being above being, a superessential nothingness dwelling in divine darkness. This insight, inspired primarily by the Greek Neoplatonic tradition and specifically Dionysius the Areopagite, had a profound impact on Eriugena. Interestingly, when Aristotle was first being revived in the newly founded University of Paris, it was through the teaching of David of Dinant (c.1160–c. 1214) and Amaury (Almericus) of Bène (d.1206). Little is known about these two teachers except through the condemnation of their works. David of Dinant, an Aristotelian commentator and possibly a master at Paris, and Almericus, who taught theology at Paris, were both condemned at the Synod of Paris in 1210. David’s Quaternuli is specifically cited. Eriugena’s Periphyseon is mentioned in relation to this condemnation in the papal condemnation by Pope Honorius II in 1225, and so Eriugena is drawn into the theological dispute. Thomas Aquinas in the Summa theologiae (1.3.8. responsio) and Summa contra gentiles (1.17, 1.26) distinguished between Almericus and David as follows: Almericus taught that God was the forma omnium whereas David taught “the really stupid thesis” that God was the prime matter of all things (materia omnium). Albertus Magnus also discusses Almericus and David. The basis of the heresy seems to be the identification of God with the matter or form of the created universe. Of course,

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Eriugena’s apophatic approach to the divine rescues him entirely from this charge, which would later be known as pantheism, but Eriugena will use the phrase forma omnium—although he will also insist that God is beyond all form and is formless. He does refer to God as essentia omnium, which might be seen as veering close to a pantheist formulation. While emphasising the fundamental agreement between Christian Fathers, Eriugena generally favoured Greek Eastern Christian over the Latin Christian formulations of specific theological doctrines. In particular, he esteemed the enigmatic, but deeply spiritual, writings of that pious forger Dionysius the Areopagite, whom he calls summus theologus, sanctus Dionysius, magnus Dionysius Areopagita (PP III.644a) and praeclarissimus episcopus Athenarum (PP III.644b). While he fully recognises that Dionysius disputes in an “involved and distorted” manner (more suo perplexe yperbaticeque disputat, PP I.509c), nevertheless, for Eriugena, he has unique insight into the mysteries of the divine nature, the “hid divinity” (occulta divinitas). The chief characteristic of this theological tradition is its emphasis on God as “above being” to the extent that God may be called a “non-being.” Thus, right at the beginning of Periphyseon Book One, Eriugena blends both the affirmative description of God as essentia omnium and also says he is “super esse diuinitas” (PP I.443b): And rightly so: for as Dionysius the Areopagite says, He is the Essence of all things who alone truly is. “For,” says he, “the being of all things is the Divinity Who is above being” [Esse enim, inquit, omnium est super esse diuinitas]. (PP. I.443b)

Eriugena had access to a fragment of Plato’s Timaeus in Calcidius’ translation, along with the latter’s commentary, and the pseudo-Aristotelian Categoriae decem which we have already mentioned above. At one point in the dialogue Periphyseon, he refers to Aristotle’s De Interpretatione (Περὶ ἑρμηνείας/Peri ermenias, PP II.597b-c) on the distinction between possibility and impossibility: Again, that the possibles and impossibles are reckoned in the number of things none of those who practice philosophy aright will dispute, and they are said to be for no other reason than that the possible can come into being in something even if they are not, while the impossibles are contained [continentur] within the virtue of their impossibility alone. For their being consists in the impossibility of their appearing in any intelligible or sensible thing. […] But if anyone wishes to make a full study of these, let him read Aristotle περὶ ἑρμηνείας/peri ermeneias, that is De Interpretatione, in which the philosopher has devoted his discussion exclusively or mainly to them, that is, to the possibles and impossibles. (PP. II.597b-c)

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This is part of a larger argument that the “nature of things” (natura rerum) includes more than can be known either as substances or accidents (PP. II.597b).¹⁴ Eriugena’s sources were almost exclusively Christian, e. g., Ambrose and Augustine, but also included (unusually for the time) the Eastern Greek Christian theologies of the Cappadocians, Dionysius, Maximus Confessor, and Epiphanius—some of whose works he personally translated from the original Greek. Eriugena struggled always to construct a consistent philosophical system out of these diverse sources, and operated a very broad version of the principle of charity—all interpretations which are consistent with the Divine Word are accepted, and there are innumerable such interpretations, as many as there are colors in a “peacock’s tail” (penna pavonis, PP IV.749c): For the Holy Spirit Who is the infinite founder [infinitus conditor] of Holy Scripture in the minds of the prophets established therein infinite meanings [infinitos intellectus], and therefore no commentator’s interpretation displaces another’s, provided only that what each says is consistent with the Faith and with the Catholic creed, whether he receives it from another or finds it in himself, albeit enlightened by God [a deo illuminatus]. (PP III.690b-c)

The Christian Neoplatonic tradition identifies the Neoplatonic One with the Creator. This One is infinite, timeless, and unchanging. Moreover, it cannot be properly spoken about or comprehended by the human mind. This infinite One is both transcendent above and immanent in creation, but the stress—in Eriugena and Dionysius—is on God as transcendent of all predication, beyond all that can be said of Him. As Eriugena puts it, God “surpasses all essence” (superat omnem essentiam), is infinite and cannot be defined (PP II.589a-b): Or how can the infinite be defined by itself in anything or be understood in anything when it knows itself to be above every finite [thing] and every infinite [thing] and beyond finitude and infinity. (PP II.589b)

Eriugena, moreover, is insistent that God cannot define Himself—it is not simply (as Alumnus suggests) that human beings are unable to define God because of their limitation. God cannot define God because that would limit his infinity: He would not be “universally infinite” (universaliter infinitus, PP II.587c) if he were “circumscribed” by a definition. To define is to delimit, to set limit, and

 Sheldon-Williams in his edition references Boethius’ In lib. De interpretatione, editio secunda, iii. 9, ed. Meiser, ii. Pp. 185 – 250. But it is not clear Eriugena had access to Boethius’ text (which was in circulation at the time). Eriugena did have access to Maximus Confessor—who had his own account of the Porphyrian descent from the highest genus to the lowest species.

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there are no limits to God. God cannot define Himself, but that is not a weakness but a strength and testimony of his genuinely infinite status. In contrast to the infinite Being of God, Eriugena follows Plato in thinking of the created cosmos (at least what he calls “the Created Effects”) as belonging to the realm of time and becoming (γένεσις, genesis), of mutabilitas, neither wholly non-existent nor completely real, “not completely not being” (nec omnino non esse) in Augustine’s terms.¹⁵ This realm is entirely dependent on immaterial and eternal principles, namely the Primary Causes (causae primordiales) which themselves are the held in the Verbum or Logos. In Eriugena’s conception, furthermore, God, the cosmos, and human nature, are all –in some respect—infinite. God is infinite and manifests himself infinitely in his “theophaniae” (θεοφάνιαι), the Primary Causes (causae primordiales) of all things, which are the Ideas in the mind of God and are also infinite, as is the created cosmos (the Effects) before the Fall. Finally, human nature is essentially unbounded and infinite and would have been a perfect image of the divine. It gains corporeality and finitude only as a consequence of the Fall. Space and time, moreover (and this is the part of the restriction imposed by the Fall), are to be understood as “definitions” in the mind rather than as substantial entities in their own right. Heaven and hell, furthermore, are not places (non in loco) but are states of mind, phantasiai, φαντασίαι enjoyed or suffered by the saved or fallen souls or minds. The entire world then is a realm of appearances, of transitory images, whereas the true essence of all things is incorporeal, incorruptible, and ultimately resides in the divine. Eriugena then thinks of God as a transcendent non-being or hyper-being who is responsible for the appearing of all beings, but whose boundlessness means that God is an infinite and unnamable creative source. Indeed, in Periphyseon Book One, Eriugena characterizes God as “without beginning” (sine principio, I.451d), “the infinity of infinities” (infinitas infinitorum, I.517b), “the opposite of opposites and the contrariety of contraries” (oppositorum oppositio, contrariorum contrarietas, I.517c), a phrase that would influence Nicolas of Cusa’s coincidentia oppositorum, and as “above all entities that are and are not” (super omnia quae sunt et quae non sunt, PP. II.598a).

 Augustine (1961), 147.

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3 Eriugena’s Reading of St. Augustine For Eriugena, Augustine is the preeminent Latin authority, the most quoted author by far, and this is already evident in De Praedestinatione.¹⁶ In that early work, De Praedestinatione, he refers to as many as 46 different works by Augustine, especially De libero arbitrio and De civitate dei. In his later writings, Eriugena utilises De vera religion, De Trinitate, and especially the long commentary on Genesis, De Genesi ad Litteram, which is an important source for Eriugena’s anthropology. Overall his aim is to harmonize Dionysius with Augustine. He accepts Augustine on the tripartite nature of the soul. However, he opposes the reading of Augustine that says paradise is a physical reality and in Periphyseon Book Five disagrees with Augustine on the resurrection of the body.¹⁷ Shortly after writing the work on predestination Eriugena encountered the writings of Dionysius. These extraordinary mystical texts, written in a complex and difficult Greek that Eriugena eventually mastered and translated, albeit in the word-for-word style current at that time, led him to read Augustine in a new light, highlighting (as we saw that Jean-Luc Marion does) Augustine’s commitment to the via negativa: that God is better known by not knowing, for his ignorance is true wisdom (qui melius nesciendo scitur, cuius ignorantia vera est sapientia, PP I.510b), which is a quote from Augustine’s De Ordine XVI.44 (Deus qui melius scitur nesciendo).¹⁸ For both Augustine and Boethius, moreover, God is not captured truly by the category of substance. But Eriugena’s reading of the categories is further informed by Maximus Confessor, who sees them as applying only to the created world. Eriugena is clear that whatever is substance is finite and subject to accidents, but that God has no accidents, and therefore, God is not a substance: “For that substance which has the first place among the categories is finite and subject to accidents, but that universal essence admits in itself no accident” (PP II.597a). God has no accidents. Thus, Eriugena can say in Periphyseon Book Two: The Divine Nature is without any place [omne loco caret], although it provides place within itself for all things which are from it, and for that reason it is called the place of things [omnium locus], but it is not able to provide place for itself because it is infinite and uncircumscribed [infinita et incircunscripta]. (PP II.592c)

 Madec (1988).  See McEvoy (1999), 315 – 16.  Augustine (1948), 438.

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He similarly says that God is without “relation which is called by the Greeks πρός τι” (PP II.591c). Eriugena concludes that it is “superfluous” (superfluum) to discuss the categories individually: For God understands himself to be in no defined substance or quantity or quality or relation, to whom will it not be clearer than day that no position nor possession, place or time, action or passion at all is an accident in Him. (PP II.591d-592a)

According to Eriugena, God does not know what he is; he is not a “what” (quid, PP II.589c). Eriugena was particularly impressed by Dionysius’ Celestial Hierarchy, where, in Chapter Four (PG III.177d1– 2) he read: τὸ γὰρ εἶναι πάντων ἐστιν ἡ ὑπὲρ τὸ εἶναι θεότης (to gar einai panton estin he hyper to einai theotes), which he translates, Esse enim omnium est super esse divinitas, “the being of all things is the Divinity above being” (PP I.443b).¹⁹ This is perhaps Eriugena’s favourite phrase from Dionysius.²⁰ In the manuscripts, it is sometimes rendered, probably by a copyist without knowledge of the Greek original, as esse enim omnium est super esse divinitatis.²¹ Sometimes, instead of invoking the Dionysian formula super esse divinitas, Eriugena speaks of the “divine superessentiality” (divina superessentialitas, PP III.634b), or—quoting Dionysius Divine Names I 1– 2 (PG III.588b-c)—of the “superessential and hidden divinity” (superessentialis et occulta divinitas, PP I.510b). What does it mean to say that the being of all things is the One who is “beyond being” or “beyond essence” (superessentialis)? In Book One of the Periphyseon Eriugena comments on the meaning of superessentialis: Nutritor: Did we not say that, strictly speaking, the ineffable nature [ineffabilis natura] can be signified by no verb, by no noun, and by no other audible sound, by no signified thing? And to this you agreed. For it is not properly but metaphorically [Non enim proprie sed translatiue] that it is called Essence, Truth, Wisdom and other names of this sort. Rather

 PP I.516c, III.644b, V.903c; Patrologia Latina CXXII.1046b – c. See also Eriugena, Expositiones in Ierarchiam Coelestem PL CXXII.169a, CCCM31.  Maximus Confessor also comments on Dionysius’ phrase in I Ambigua xiii, Patrologia Graeca XCI 1225D, a passage well known to Eriugena as he translated the Ambigua.  See Eriugena (1969), 323 – 326. The Greek definite article ἡ (he) before θεότης (theotes) cannot be rendered in Latin. In Expositiones Eriugena gives another version: esse omnium est divinitas quae plus est quam esse. Elsewhere he renders ἡ ὑπὲρ τὸ εἶναι θεότης (he hyper to einai theotes) as superessentialis divinitas (Hom. 289b): esse omnium est superessentialis divinitas. Superessentialis is, of course, the translation for Dionysius’ ὑπερουσιώδης (hyperousiodes). These various renderings have led Dondaine to remark on the care Eriugena took to improve his translations to get the exact import of Dionysius’ theology.

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it is called superessential [superessentialis], more than truth, more than wisdom. But do not even these [names] seem to be, in a way, proper names [propria nomina]? For it is not called Essence properly, yet it is properly called superessential; similarly, if it is not called Truth or Wisdom properly, yet it is properly called more-than-truth and more-than-wisdom. For although among the Latins these names are not usually pronounced under a single accent [sub uno accentu] or by a unitary harmony of composition, except the name superessentialis, by the Greeks, on the other hand, each is expressed by a single compound. (PP I.460c461a)

Eriugena regards apparently affirmative designations such as superessentialis as actually belonging to negative theology. As Alumnus comes to realise: For when it is said: It is superessential, this can be understood by me as nothing else but a negation of essence [negatio essentiae]. For he who says ‘It is superessential,’ openly denies [aperte negat] that it is essential, and therefore although the negative is not expressed in the words pronounced, yet the hidden meaning of it is not hidden from those who consider them well. (PP I.462a-b)

For Eriugena, terms like superessentialis compound the two kinds of theology— positive and negative—since they outwardly appear positive, but their meaning has the “force of the negative” (virtus abdicativae, PP I.462c). These terms encapsulate the dialectic of seeming to affirm and at the same time denying, and hence participate in the dialectics of knowledge and ignorance. The main point is that God is not to be understood solely affirmatively as “being” or “essence” (essentia) but as “more than essentia” or “beyond essence.” As Eriugena himself argues, both Augustine and Boethius also state that the Aristotelian categories do not apply proprie to God. Moreover, Aristotle—“the shrewdest of the Greeks”—considered the categories not to apply to God but only to the created universe: Aristotle the shrewdest of the Greeks, as they say, in discovering the way of distinguishing natural things [naturalium rerum] included the innumerable variety of all things which come after God and are created by Him in ten universal genera which he called the ten categories, that is predicables. For as he holds, nothing can be found in the multitude of created things and in the various motions of minds which cannot be included in one of these genera. (PP I.463a)

In support of the view that the category of substance does not apply to God, Eriugena cites Augustine De Trinitate (5.1.2), that the categories of created things are not relevant to the divine essence. Eriugena reads Aristotle through the eyes of Augustine. God is not ousia, but more than ousia and the cause of all ousiai (PP I.464a). The categories are not

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predicated proprie but metaphorice of God. Yet, in Book Five of De Trinitate, Augustine had written: There is at least no doubt that God is substance, or perhaps a better word would be essence [substantia, vel, si melius appelatur, essentia]; at any rate what the Greeks call οὐσία […] And who can more be than he that said to his servant I am who am (Ex. 3:14). (De Trinitate V.1.3)²²

Boethius in his De Trinitate IV (a text with which Eriugena was also familiar) was more explicit that God is not substance in the normal sense of the categories: There are in all ten categories which can be universally predicated of all things, namely, substance, quality, quantity … But when anyone turns these to predication of God, all the things that can be predicated [quae praedicari] are changed … For when we say ‘God’ [deus] we seem indeed to denote a substance; but it is such as is beyond substance [quae sit ultra substantiam]. (translation modified)²³

Eriugena himself accepts the principle that a simple nature does not admit of the notion of substance and accidents (PP I.524a). God, then, is not ousia. At the center of Eriugena’s philosophy then is a conception of God as “beyond being,” “beyond essence.” He even goes further and understands God as “nothingness” (nihilum, PP III.685a) and as the negation of essence (negatio essentiae, PP I.462b). God is “not this nor that nor anything” (nec hoc nec illud nec ullum ille est, PP I.510c). This is inspired by Dionysius. The closing lines of the Mystical Theology are among the most radical in Christian theology. God is beyond every affirmation and negation: “We make assertions and denials of what is next to it, but never of it, for it is beyond every assertion, being the perfect and unique cause of all things” (Dionysius, Mystical Theology, 1048 A). Eriugena adopts this view of God as utterly transcendent, beyond speech and mind. God is a transcendent nothingness, nihil per excellentiam, as opposed to a “nothingness through privation,” nihil per privationem, which characterizes materia prima. Eriugena writes of Dionysius (having quoted from the Divine Names): Notice how the theologian [Dionysius] has no hesitation in ascribing the name Nothing [nihilum] to the Supreme Light, or God, Which lightens every intelligible and rational creature. And he gives his reason for doing so: ‘Because It is superessentially exalted above all things that are.’ (PP V.898C)

 Augustine (1991), 190. Translation modified.  Boethius (1918), 16 – 18. Translation modified.

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Moreover, this “non-being” is the being of all created things. The divine first principle is best understood as a nothingness, which through an act of self-negation brings itself into being. Ex nihilo creation, Eriugena explains, really means ex deo.

4 Eriugena on Time and Creation In Periphyseon Book Two (and again in Book Five) Eriugena has a mini-treatise on why the categories do not determine God and also why they apply not to physical extended matter but rather to the immaterial domain. These categories are actually attributes that “circle around” οὐσία. Quantity, quality, space, and time have a particular relevance for Eriugena. For Eriugena’s cosmic descent, time and space play a crucial part in the dynamics of the divine self-articulation in its exitus and recollection in its reditus. As Marta Cristiani has emphasized in her study of time and space in Eriugena, Eriugena follows Maximus in emphasizing the positive aspects of creation as the concrete manifestation of the divine.²⁴ Eriugena writes: “For place and time are counted among all the things that have been created” (Locus siquidem et tempus inter omnia quae creata sunt computantur, PP I.468c). Eriugena takes from Augustine and Maximus the idea that the categories (which contain the spatiotemporal world) are themselves created by God. For Augustine, time commences with the creation of the world; there was no time before it. Being a creature and being temporal are one and the same.²⁵ Presumably the same is true of space (although he does not discuss it explicitly). Eriugena remains squarely within the common Christian-Stoic-Platonist tradition, which holds that the whole created domain falls under the spell of time and hence of mutability (mutabilitas) and corruptibility. According to Augustine, where there is time there is mutability (De musica VI.11.29). Time as mutability is essentially connected with finitude and death, with semblance, deception, and the shadowy realm of φαντασία, phantasia. In fact, the very τέλος, telos, of temporal life is death, θάνατος, thanatos; the inner core of sensuous life is death. Time, as Augustine had shown with his famous distentio animi conjecture in Confessiones XI, inevitably involves stretching, dispersion, and disintegration, and therefore is the opposite of the kind of integration and attention (attentio, intentio) sought for by the contemplative mind. Eriugena also speaks of the dis-

 Cristiani (1973), 47.  See Augustine, De Genesi ad litteram V.12.

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tentio of times and places, understood as some kind of scattering from the Primal Causes. On the other hand, for him, the essence of human life in its perfection is to be timeless, and, in that sense, to be a true image and likeness of the divine. So the distracting temporal φαντασίαι, phantasiae, must be transformed into timeless θεοφάνιαι, theophaniae, of the divine. Eriugena seems to be familiar—at least in broad outline and without attribution—with Aristotle’s definition of time in the Physics as the measure of motion in respect of “before” and “after.” In Periphyseon Book Five he writes: For when there is no motion [motus] to be measured by or divided into temporal intervals, how can there be any time? For time is the exact and natural measure of movements and pauses [Est enim tempus morarum vel motuum certa et naturalis dimensio]. So when the measurable thing passes, the measure must pass also: in what does time consist when motion ceases to be observed? (PP V.890a)

Of course, Eriugena was familiar with Augustine’s Confessiones Bk XI.24, where Augustine rejects the view that time is constituted by the movement of a material body. For bodies move in time and it is in time that we measure their movement. Time then, cannot itself be the measure of movement. The same body can move at different speeds, and hence the measure of the movement cannot be the same as time. For Eriugena, God creates or manifests Himself in the creature, expressing His own inexpressible nature. Eriugena introduces theophania, “what the Greeks call Θεοφάνια” (PP I.446d), which he explains as a “divine manifestation” (dei apparitio). Thus, in a justly famous passage in Periphyseon Book Three, Eriugena, in the voice of Nutritor, attests that God and nature are unum et id ipsum and that there is a dynamic exitus or “ineffable descent” (ineffabilis condescensio, PP III.678d), whereby God moves from invisible to visible and from the supratemporal to the temporal: For both the creature by subsisting is in God; and God, by manifesting Himself [se ipsum manifestans], in a marvellous and ineffable manner creates Himself in the creature, the invisible making himself visible and the incomprehensible comprehensible, and the hidden revealed and the unknown known […] and the infinite finite [infinitus finitum] and the uncircumscribed circumscribed and the supratemporal temporal [supertemporalis temporalem] and the Creator of all things created in all things. (PP III.678c)

God, then, is supratemporal but makes Himself temporal. Temporality, then, while alien to, or other than the divine nature in itself, becomes the very expression of this timeless nature. Eriugena stresses that this entrance of the divine into time is not to be thought simply as the Incarnation (incarnatio et inhumanatio verbi, PP

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III.678d) whereby God is made flesh, but as the original exitus or “ineffable condescension” (ineffabilis condescensio) of the divine nature, whereby “It Moves from Its Causes into Its Effects.” So in this sense, some version of temporal becoming or succession belongs to the very essence of the divine as Creator. But the kind of succession that belongs to the divine cannot have anything to do with decay or mutability, but has an order and measure given by God, who makes all things according to measure, number, and weight. The Primary Causes in God allow both for the infinite and for some kind of multiplication and succession according to divine plan. Among the Primary Causes, Eriugena even lists “magnitude in itself” (per se ipsam magnitudo) and “eternity in itself” (per se ipsam aeternitas, PP II.616c). Furthermore, the “causes of all places and times” (causae locorum et temporum) are in the Primary Causes (PP II.547c). Both eternity and time, then, issue forth from the divine through the Primary Causes into the Effects. There is even a suggestion that Eriugena considers there to be a primary cause of time—just as there is of evil (primordialis causa totius malitiae, PP IV.848c), placing him within the sphere of late Neoplatonism which maintained a Platonic form of time. Following Maximus, Eriugena holds that our return to the primordial causes consists of bringing body back to mind and of overcoming the dimensions of space and time. The Resurrection involves an overcoming of the spatial and temporal. Furthermore, Christ’s Ascension is also proof that the humanity of the Second Person of the Trinity cast off all spatial and temporal characteristics and returned to its timeless and eternal and wholly spiritual nature. Indeed, for Eriugena, in theological terms, the humanity of the Second Person of the Trinity cannot be located in any place or time: Do not imagine that the Humanity of Christ which after the resurrection was transformed into his Divinity [is] in place. The Divinity of Christ is not in place [Diuinitas Christi in loco non est]: so neither is His Humanity. Be sure that it is the same with time [Eodem modo sane intellige de tempore], with quality, with quantity, with circumscribed form. (PP II.539c)

In Periphyseon Book Five Eriugena insists with Maximus that the return involves a falling away of everything local and temporal, including any such aspects of Christ, all of which are transformed into timeless spirit (PP V.993b). Eriugena understands the procession or outgoing of God into creation in terms of the movement from the highest genus to the lowest species and individuals (he calls them “atoma”). In Periphyseon IV.748c, Eriugena says that God creates everything according to genera and species. Dialectic (division) is tracking the way nature itself unfolds. Porphyry first divides ousia into ‘corporeal’ and incorporeal and Eriugena’s division of nature also proceeds from a most general

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essence into the various modes of division to arrive ultimately at the fourfold division of “Nature.” Everything flows from God as divine essence and is absorbed back into Him in a dialectical process of exitus and reditus. But, ultimately, Eriugena says, “God shall be all in all (omnia in omnibus).”

5 Nicholas of Cusa’s De Docta Ignorantia (1440) Let us make a bold leap forward to the fifteenth century when there is an antiAristotelian backlash that will continue into Descartes and modernity. The Neoplatonic suspicion of Aristotle continued on in the Middle Ages (especially in reaction to the Thirteenth-Century revival of Aristotle) where even Thomas Aquinas could be seen as a “radical Aristotelian.” Meister Eckhart admired Aristotle as the greatest scientist of nature, but on the other hand he believed that Aristotle failed to grasp the nature of the One. God cannot truly be called Being because being implies limitation.²⁶ God is not a “what,” a quidditas. Nicholas of Cusa (Niklas Krebs or “Cusanus”), one of the most original and creative intellects of the fifteenth-century,²⁷ has been variously described as “the last great philosopher of the dying Middle Ages,”²⁸ as a “transition-thinker” between the medieval and modern worlds,²⁹ and as the “gatekeeper of the modern age.”³⁰ He is a lone figure with no real success, although he had some influence on Copernicus, Kepler, Bruno, and, tangentially, on Descartes who refers to his characterization of the universe as a “contracted infinite” or as “indefinite.” Descartes writes: In the first place I recollect that the Cardinal of Cusa and many other doctors have supposed the world to be infinite without ever being censured by the Church; on the contrary,

 Mojsisch (2001), 140.  Cusanus’ complete works were first published in Strasbourg in 1488, now reprinted by Paul Wilpert as Nikolaus von Kues. Werke (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1967). A second edition was produced in Milan in 1502 and Lefèvre D’Étaples (Faber Stapulensis) produced his 3-volume edition, which included De concordantia Catholica and some sermons, in Paris in 1514. The Heidelberg Academy has been preparing a complete critical edition of his works since 1932 (Leipzig/Hamburg, Felix Meiner). It was begun on the instigation of Cassirer and Rickert under the direction of Ernst Hoffman and Raymond Klibansky. Over 20 volumes have now been published, including several volumes of sermons (he wrote over 300 sermons in all). The Acta Cusana series also publishes source material on his life. There is an active Cusanus Gesellschaft in Germany and an American Cusanus Society which produces an informative Newsletter.  Koyré (1957), 6.  Copleston (1953), 231.  Haubst (1988), 6.

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to represent God’s works as very great is thought to be a way of doing him honor. And my opinion is not so difficult to accept as theirs, because I do not say that the world is infinite but only that it is indefinite. There is quite a notable difference between the two: for we cannot say that something is infinite without a reason to prove this such as we can give only in the case of God; but we can say that a thing is indefinite simply if we have no reason to prove that the thing has bounds. (Letter to Chanut, 6 June 1647)³¹

Besides this influence on Descartes, it is now thought likely that Cusanus had a subterranean influence on Spinoza and Leibniz. Some of Cusanus’ formulations (“God is actually all that He can be” or “God is actually every possibility,” ut sit actu omne id quod possible est, De docta ignorantia I.5.14) anticipate Spinoza’s concept of a God as the actualisation of all possibilities.³² Cusanus’ “all things exist in the best way they are able to exist” (omnia sunt eo meliori modo quo esse possunt, DDI I.5.13) may be compared with Leibniz’s best of all possible worlds.³³ Cusanus was a Humanist scholar, Church reformer (his De concordantia Catholica of 1434 included proposals for the reform of Church and state), papal diplomat, and Catholic Cardinal. In the course of his life he attempted to reconcile Papal and Conciliar, Greek Eastern and Latin Western Christianity, Muslim and Christian, and traditional theology and emerging mathematical science. In many ways, he is a Renaissance figure. An exact contemporary of Gutenberg, he is credited with introducing printing into Italy.³⁴ An eager collector of manuscripts,³⁵ he eventually owned some 300 manuscripts, including Latin translations of Plato’s Phaedo, Crito, Apology, Seventh Letter, Republic, Laws, Phaedrus, and Parmenides. He owned Moerbeke’s translation of Proclus’ Elements of Theology, Proclus’ Commentary on the Parmenides, and Petrus Balbus’s translation of the Platonic Theology (Codex Cus. 185). He had copies of part of Eriugena’s Periphyseon, Hugh of St. Victor’s Didascalikon, and several works by Eckhart. Cusanus cites Dionysius from his earliest to his last works (e. g., De li non aliud), although he later said that at the time of writing De docta ignorantia

 Descartes (1996), 52.  See Copenhaver/Schmitt (1992), 184.  See Zimmermann (1852), 306 – 328.  In 1469 the Italian Giovanni Andrea de’ Bussi (1417– 1475), personal secretary to Cusanus from 1458 to 1464, eulogised him in the Preface to his edition of the first volume of Jerome, calling Cusanus the most learned of men and referring specifically to his interest in the recently invented sacred art of printing. (It has been suggested that Cusanus was responsible for introducing art of printing into Italy from Germany).  In 1429 he even discovered a manuscript containing twelve previously unknown plays of Plautus.

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(1440), he had not yet read Dionysius (Apologia 12).³⁶ He characterises his Platonism as stemming from Dionysius, but he also draws on Dionysius’ Latin translators and commentators, including Eriugena (whom he calls “Johannes Scotigena”),³⁷ Albertus Magnus’ Commentary on the Divine Names,³⁸ Robert Grosseteste (whose translations of Dionysius’s Mystical Theology and Celestial Hierarchy he owned in manuscript), Thomas Gallus, and Meister Eckhart. Cusanus wrote an informed treatise, De correctione calendarii, on the reform of the calendar. His astronomical instruments are still preserved in the library at Kues. He has earned a place in the history of mathematics for his attempts to “square the circle.” His De docta ignorantia (1440)³⁹ already offers criticisms of the Ptolemaic universe, and postulates that the earth is in movement and that the universe has no fixed center. In fact, the phrase “docta ignorantia” appears first in Augustine, Epistola 130, PL XXXIII.505 (as Cusanus knows), and the concept of knowing through unknowing appears also in the De ordine ii,16,44 (PL XXXII.1015), where it is said that “deus scitur melius nesciendi.” As we saw, Eriugena links this Augustinian phrase with Dionysius at Periphyseon II.597d. Eriugena is the first to interpret Augustine as a negative theologian in essential agreement with Dionysius, but Cusanus greatly develops the historical lineage of this “learned ignorance” tradition to include all great philosophers—including (somewhat in spite of himself) Aristotle! By temperament Cusanus is always Platonist and even Pythagorean. He speaks of the “divine Plato” (DDI I.17.48; Apologia 10.25). Pythagoras is “the first philosopher both in name and in fact” (DDI I.11.32). The Platonists spoke “sensibly” about the Forms (DDI II.9.148); the Parmenides opened a “way to God.” Cusanus also regards Aristotle as “very profound” (DDI I.1.4) and the sharpest of minds, and to have been right to say that the entire created world divides up into substance and accident (DDI 1.18.53), but he also thinks of him as rather puffed up, wanting to show his greatness by refuting others (DDI I.11.32). The Ar-

 Hopkins (1988), 50. Dionyius is cited several times in the Apologia. Cusanus, in fact, refers to Dionyius twice in his De Concordantia Catholica of 1433, but these references might have been drawn from other sources.  See Beierwaltes (1994) 266 – 312. Besides Eriugena’s translations of Dionysius, Cusanus, at the very least, was familiar with Periphyseon Book I, which he owned in manuscript (British Museum Codex Additivus 11035) and annotated, as well as the Clavis Physicae of Honorius Augustodunensis (Paris Bib. Nat. cod. lat. 6734), a compendium of Eriugenian excerpts, and the homily Vox Spiritualis (under the name of Origen).  Albertus Magnus (1972).  Cusa (1985). (Henceforth, DDI.)

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istotelian Johannes Wenck von Herrenberg (c.1390 – 1460), a theologian from Heidelberg, accused him of pantheism,⁴⁰ and claimed Cusanus “cares little for the sayings of Aristotle” (De ignota litteratura, 22).⁴¹ In his reply to Wenck, Cusanus himself regrets that the Aristotelian sect now prevails (Apologia 6)⁴² and thinks Aristotle was overly preoccupied with logic, rhetoric, and seeking definitions. Cusanus is preoccupied by a single problem that runs through all his works: how can we, as finite created beings, think about the infinite and transcendent God? From the outset Cusanus was focused on the difficulty of a finite mind gaining knowledge of the infinite God. An early sermon, In principio erat Verbum (1438), already recognises the immensity, unnamability, and unknowability of the divine (Sermon I).⁴³ His first short dialogue between a pagan and a Christian, De Deo abscondito (1444/5), opens with the question: how does one seriously adore what one does not know?⁴⁴ For Cusanus, as he says in De docta ignorantia, God is “infinite oneness” (unitas infinita, DDI I.5.14). God is “absolute infinity” (infinitas absoluta, De visione dei 13), which is reminiscent of Eriugena’s “universally infinite.” He writes in De docta ignorantia: “Now according to the theology of negation, there is not found in God anything other than infinity” (Et non reperitur in deo secundum theologiam negationis aliud quam infinitas, I.26.88). Cusanus begins from what he takes to be the “self-evident” proposition that there is no proportion between finite and infinite (DDI I.3.9). Our rational knowl-

 Born in Herrenberg, Germany, around 1390, Johannes Wenck received his Master of Arts from the University of Paris in 1414, and then attended the University of Heidelberg, where he began teaching in 1426, receiving his licence in theology in 1432. He was elected Rector of the University of Heidelberg on three separate occasions (in 1435, 1444, and 1451). He sided with Pope Eugene IV and the Conciliar movement at Council of Basel, and therefore on the opposite side from Nicholas, ‘the condemned cause of the men of Basel’ as Cusanus characterises it in the Apologia 5:11– 12. Wenck had a considerable philosophical output. Among his writings are a Parva logicalia (before 1426), De imagine et similitudine contra eghardicos (1430); Das Buchlein von der Seele (1436) edited G. Steer (Munich: Fink, 1967), Commentary on Boethius’ de Hebdomadibus, Commentary on Aristotle’s De anima III, commentary on the Liber de causis. He also wrote a commentary of Pseudo-Dionysius’ Celestial Hierarchy (1455). Wenck wrote better in German, and Latin is relatively unsophisticated compared with Cusanus, whose style Wenck characterises as ‘sufficiently elegant’ (De Ignota 19). After Cusanus’ reply, Wenck wrote his own further riposte, De facie scolae doctae ignorantiae (1449 – 55). There is a reference to this work in the Vatican Library, but no manuscript has been found. We have then only an incomplete record of this dispute.  Hopkins (1988), 23.  Hopkins (1988), 46.  Cusa (1970), 3. See Flasch (1998), 21– 26.  Cusa, Opuscula I: De Deo Abscondito, De Quaerendo Deum [et alia]. Nicholas of Cusa (1994), 131– 137.

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edge progresses by degrees, ratios, and proportions, and can get infinitely more precise without coinciding exactly with its object. The infinite is precisely that which cannot be measured and which therefore cannot be an object of the mind as measurer.⁴⁵ In De coniecturis I.8.35, he writes: “Reason analyzes all things in terms of multitude and magnitude.” Every inquiry makes use of comparison and relation (proportio), but proportio indicates agreement in one respect, otherness in other respects (DDI 1.1.3). Number is needed to understand proportio, even though the precise relations between corporeal things surpass human understanding. Reason is beset by “otherness”; only intellect employed in a certain way can gain oneness through a certain kind of self-negation and self-transcendence. All the great sages since Socrates have known this truth. Cusanus frequently invokes the claim (found in Plato’s Theaetetus and Aristotle’s Metaphysics) that philosophy begins in wonder or amazement (admiratio).⁴⁶ All humans desire to know, but exact knowledge is impossible, “precise truth inapprehensible” (DDI I.2.8). Truth can only be grasped with a degree of “otherness” (De coniecturis II.6.101). He declares—in sympathy with Socrates—that in a certain sense “to know is to be ignorant” (scire est ignorare, DDI I.2). His starting point is self-aware ignorance: “the more he knows that he is unknowing, the more learned he will be” (DDI I.1.4). He proposes a new “science of ignorance” (scientia ignorantiae, Idiota de sapientiae, or doctrina ignorantiae, DDI II. Prol) or “sacred ignorance” (sacra ignorantia, DDI I.26.87; also Apologia). Reason (ratio) must be supplemented by a kind of intellectual unknowing, a knowing that recognises its own limitations in the sphere of the transcendent and infinite. The arrogant kind of knowing used in disputation and dialectic (which he associates with the Aristotelian Schoolmen—including his nemesis, the Heidelberg Aristotelian theologian Johannes Wenck) must be contrasted with “learned ignorance” (docta ignorantia). Cusanus’ aim is always to show the finitude of human knowledge and to instruct us in our ignorance. This is the “instruction of ignorance” (doctrina ignorantiae, DDI II Prol. 90), the prelude to the Cartesian focus on the capacity of the human mind to obtain true knowledge. Learned ignorance is not a kind of discursive reasoning, which even hunting dogs have, but rather is a kind of seeing with intellect (intellectuabilitas, Apologia 14)⁴⁷ which “transcends the power of reason” (De beryllo 1). Reason (which Cusanus associates very closely with mathematics) is bound to the principle of con Cusanus borrows from Aquinas ST I.11.2 the false etymology of mens as related to mensura.  See Cusanus, Idiota de mente. 1.1, p. 41. For the claim that philosophy begins in wonder, see Plato, Theaetetus 155d and Aristotle, Metaphysics 1.2.982b. See also Cusanus, De coniecturis II.11.  Hopkins (1988), 51.

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tradiction, and false reason results in the “coincidence of opposites” that is anathema to it qua reason (De coniecturis II.1.76). But there is a higher understanding that can employ contradictions in order to go beyond them. For Cusanus, following in the tradition of Augustine and Eriugena, God is not strictly speaking substance (because some accident is essential for a substance). Nevertheless, God can be described as the quidditas absoluta mundi (DDN II.iii.116). Aquinas and Cusanus agree that God is not really to be understood as a substance, since substance implies accident. Cusanus goes further than Aquinas by making use of the terms essentia, quidditas, and actus for God. God is the “cause of all things,” the “being of beings” (entitas rerum, DDI I.8.22) or “being of all being” (entitas omnis esse, DDI I.23.73), and the “form of forms” (forma formarum, DDI II.2.103).⁴⁸ In Eckhartian fashion, he then denies that God is “this or that.” God is not so much being or a substance as, following Dionysius, “more than substance” (DDI I.18.52). Following Eriugena, Cusanus calls God “nihil omnium” (DDI I.16.43), who is also “omnia simul” (DDI III.3.197). In De docta ignorantia Cusanus gives a number of ambiguous formulations of his concept of the divinity. God is the coincidentia oppositorum and also beyond the coincidentia oppositorum. Cusanus has many different formulations of coincidence—including coincidence of contraries, of opposites, as well as of contradictories. In De uisione Dei (xiii.55) he says that coincidence is contradiction without contradiction (contradictio sine contradictione). Strictly speaking, there is no concept of the coincidence of opposites either in Dionysius or in Eriugena. Eriugena does talk about God as the oppositio oppositorum (I.517c) or as an armonia of opposites, but not as a coincidentia. Cusanus makes use of the concept of an oppositio oppositorum sine opposition. Nicolas of Cusa always tries to implicate Aristotle as supporting his own Neoplatonic interpretations, although he sometimes takes some backhanded swipes at Aristotle. Thus, in De Docta Ignorantia, he argues that all ancient philosophers (he begins with Pythagoras and Plato and goes on to reference Augustine and Boethius) had recourse to mathematics when they wanted to develop some point: And none of the ancients who are esteemed as great approached difficult matters by any other likeness than mathematics. […] How was Aristotle (who by refuting his predecessors wanted to appear as someone without parallel) able in the Metaphysics [Metaphysics VIII,3 (1044a l0 – 11)] to teach us about the difference of species otherwise than by comparing the species to numbers? And when, regarding natural forms, he wanted to teach how the one

 Also found in Thierry of Chartres’ Lectiones II.38.

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form is in the other, he resorted of necessity to mathematical forms, saying: “Just as a triangle is in a quadrangle, so the lower [form] is in the higher [form]” [De Anima II, 3 (414b29.1– 32)]. (DDI 1.11.32)⁴⁹

Aristotle is cited by name just three times in De Docta Ignorantia and the references are to the Metaphysics and De anima. Pursuing his mathematical analogy, Cusanus claims the finite is enfolded in the infinite: It follows, then, that an infinite line is the essence of a finite line. Similarly, the unqualifiedly Maximum is the Essence of all things. But the essence is the measure. Hence, Aristotle rightly says in the Metaphysics that the First is the measure [metrum et mensura] of all things because it is the Essence of all things. (DDI 1.17.47)⁵⁰

He goes on to claim that Aristotle considers the straight line to be the measure of itself and of the crooked line (DDI I.18.52). He further claims: Moreover, through this [illustration] we see how it is that there can be only beings which participate in the being of the First either through themselves or through other than themselves—just as there are only lines, either straight or curved. Wherefore, Aristotle was right in dividing all the things in the world into substance and accident. (DDI Bk 1.18.53)⁵¹

Nicolas of Cusa always regarded Aristotle as limited by his conception of the logic of contradiction. Thus, he writes in his late work De Li Non Aliud: NICHOLAS: I laud your remarks. And I add that also in another manner Aristotle closed off to himself a way for viewing the truth. For, as we mentioned earlier, he denied that there is a Substance of substance or a Beginning of beginning. Thus, he would also have denied that there is a Contradiction of contradiction. But had anyone asked him whether he saw contradiction in contradictories, he would have replied, truly, that he did. Suppose he were thereupon asked: “If that which you see in contradictories you see antecedently (just as you see a cause antecedently to its effect), then do you not see contradiction without contradiction?” Assuredly, he could not have denied that this is so. For just as he saw that the contradiction in contradictories is contradiction of the contradictories, so prior to the contradictories he would have seen Contradiction before the expressed contradiction (even as the theologian Dionysius saw God to be, without opposition, the Oppositeness of opposites; for prior to [there being any] opposites it is not the case that anything is opposed to oppositeness). But even though the Philosopher failed in first philosophy, or mental philosophy, nevertheless in rational and moral [philosophy] he wrote many things very

 Cusa (1985), 19.  Ibid. 27.  Ibid. 30.

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worthy of complete praise. Since these things do not belong to the present speculation, let it suffice that we have made the preceding remarks about Aristotle.⁵²

The term “opposite of opposites” of course is found in Eriugena’s Periphyseon. Cusanus thought that Aristotle contradicted himself in both denying that there could be an actual infinite quantity (Metaphysics 1066b) and at the same time as positing the First Mover as an infinite first cause (De Li Non Aliud 10). However, the actual text of Aristotle does not, in fact, make the First Mover infinite. Aristotle would not allow for an “essence of an essence” for fear of an infinite regress. According to Cusanus, Aristotle did not reject an infinity that was “prior to quantity and prior to everything which is another and all in all” (De Li Non Aliud 10.40). This infinity—which is also the First Mover—is Cusanus’ “Not Other.” NICHOLAS: Aristotle rightly said that with respect to the mind’s conceiving of quantity there cannot be a continuation unto infinity, and hence he rules out this infinity. But Aristotle did not refute an infinity which is such that it is prior to quantity and is prior to everything other and is all in all. Rather, he traced all things back to it—as being things from the First Mover, which he found to be of infinite power. He regarded all things as participating in this power—to which infinity I give the name “Not-other” [Non aliud]. Hence, Not-other is the Form of forms (or the Form of form), the Species of species, the Boundary of boundary, and likewise for all things. There is no further progression unto infinity, since we have already reached an Infinity which defines all things. (De Li Non Aliud, 10.40)

Chapter 18 of Di Li Non Aliud is a more detailed exploration of Aristotle, “the greatest and most acute Peripatetic.” Cusanus goes on to say that if Aristotle had been more attentive to the “Not Other” he would not have needed such a complicated logic or “art of definition” (De non aliud, 19.86). Nicholas is concerned to show that Aristotle should have pressed his principle of non-contradiction further. He writes: The Philosopher held it to be most certain that an affirmation contradicts a negation and that both cannot at the same time be said of the same thing, since they are contradictories. He said this on the basis of reason’s concluding it to be true. But if someone had asked Aristotle, “What is other?” he surely could have answered truly, “It is not other than other.” And, if the questioner had thereupon added, “Why is other other?” Aristotle could rightly have answered as at first, “Because it is not other than other.” And thus, he would have seen that Not-other and other do not contradict each other as contradictories. And he would have seen that, that to which he gives the name “the first principle” [primum prin-

 Cusa (1999), 89.

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cipium] does not suffice for showing the way to the truth which the mind contemplates beyond reasoning. (De Li Non Aliud, 19.88)

This is a standard, Proclean-inspired refutation of Aristotle’s principle of contradiction as applying to everything. The principle of contradiction rules the realm of finite being, but not the realm of the infinite divine which enfolds contradictories as well as contraries and opposites. In itself, the Godhead is itself (idipsum); in the other, it is not other than the other (“non aliud quam ipsum aliud”). This is a higher dialectic, which can make use of contradictories in order to transcend them and to lead the finite mind to transcend itself.

Conclusion Aristotle is a great authority (especially in logic) but he was too argumentative in his approach (especially in relation to the views of his predecessors). Aristotle’s great contribution in logic is his recognition of the Principle of Non-Contradiction, which is for him a foundational principle. However, Aristotle, while he understood the importance of understanding through reason and causes, lacked a grasp of the divine nature as actually infinite. The understanding of an infinitely actual being requires a new logic that transcends or overcomes the principle of contradiction. Similarly, the categories, which require every substance to have an accident, cannot apply to the divine realm since God has no accidents or relations. God then is not strictly οὐσία, ousia, but ὑπερουσία, hyperousia. His being is best understood as non-being.

Works Cited Albertus Magnus (1972): Albertus Magnus, Super Dionysium de Divinis Nominibus, in: P. Simon (ed.), Opera Omnia Vols. 36 and 37, Münster: Aschendorff. Augustine (1948): Augustine, De Ordine, in: R. Jolivet (ed.), Oeuvres de saint Augustin. Première série. Oposcules Vol. IV. Dialogues philosophiques, Paris: Desclée de Brouwer. Augustine (1960): Augustine, The Confessions of St. Augustine, trans. John K. Ryan, New York: Image Books. Augustine (1961): Augustine, Confessions, trans. R. S. Pine-Coffin, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Augustine (1991): Augustine, De Trinitate, in: Edmund Hill (trans.), The Works of St. Augustine Vol. 5, Brooklyn: New City Press. Beierwaltes (1994): Werner Beierwaltes, “Eriugena und Cusanus,” in: Eriugena. Grundzüge seines Denkens, Frankfurt: Klostermann, 266 – 312.

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Boethius (1918): Boethius, Tractates, De Consolatione Philosophiae, trans. H. F. Stewart, E. K. Rand, S. J. Tester, Loeb, Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press, 16 – 18. Brand (2001): Dennis J. Brand, translator, The Book of Causes: Liber de Causis, Milwaukee: Marquette University Press. Burkill (1974): T.A. Burkill, “St. Augustine’s Notion of Nothingness in the Light of Some Recent Cosmological Speculation,” in: Augustinian Studies 5:15, 1 – 17. Cappuyns (1933): Maïeul Cappuyns, Jean Scot Érigène: Sa vie, son oeuvre, sa pensée, Louvain: Abbaye du Mont-Ce´sar. Christiani (1973): M. Christiani, “Lo spazio e il tempo nell’opera dell’Eriugena,” in: Studi Medievali XIV, 39 – 136. Copenhaver/Schmitt (1992): Brian P. Copenhaver and Charles B. Schmitt, Renaissance Philosophy. A History of Western Philosophy 3, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Copleston (1953): F. Copleston, S.J., History of Philosophy Vol. III Late Medieval and Renaissance Philosophy, New York: The Newman Press. Cusa (1959): Nicholas of Cusa, Opuscula I: De Deo Abscondito, De Quaerendo Deum, [et alia], in: P. Wilpert (ed.), Nicolai de Cusa Opera Omnia Vol. 4, Hamburg: Meiner. Cusa (1970): Nicholas of Cusa, “Sermo I,” in: Rudolf Haubst, M. Bodewig and W. Krämer (eds.), Nicolai de Cusa Opera Omnia Vol. XVI, Hamburg: Meiner. Cusa (1985): Nicholas of Cusa, De docta ignorantia, ed. E. Hoffmann and R. Klibansky (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1932), trans. Jasper Hopkins, Nicholas of Cusa on Learned Ignorance. A Translation and Appraisal of De Docta Ignorantia, Minneapolis: Arthur J. Banning Press. Cusa (1994): Nicholas of Cusa, De Deo Abscondito, in: Jasper Hopkins (trans.), A Miscellany on Nicholas of Cusa, Minneapolis: Arthur J. Banning Press, 131 – 137. Cusa (1999): Nicholas of Cusa, De Li Non Aliud, 1461 – 2, in: Jasper Hopkins (trans.), Nicholas of Cusa on God as Not-other, Minneapolis: Arthur J. Banning Press. Descartes (1996): Rene Descartes, “Letter to Chanut, 6 June 1647,” in: Charles Adam and Paul Tannery (eds.), Oeuvres de Descartes vol. V, Paris: Vrin. Eriugena (1969): Jean Scot, Homélie sur le Prologue de Jean, SC 151, Paris: CERF, 323 – 326. Eriugena (1975): John Scottus Eriugena, Expositiones in Ierarchiam Coelestem, ed. J. Barbet, Turnhout: Brepols. Fitzgerald/Cavadini (1999): Allan Fitzgerald and John C. Cavadini (eds.), Augustine Through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, Amsterdam: Eerdmans Publishing. Flasch (1998): Kurt Flasch, Nikolaus von Kues: Geschichte einer Entwicklung, Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann. Griffin (2015): Michael J. Griffin, Aristotle’s Categories in the Early Roman Empire, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haubst (1988): R. Haubst, “Nikolaus von Kues—‘Pfoertner der neuen Zeit,’” in: Kleine Schriften der Cusanus-Gesellschaft 12. Hopkins (1988). Jasper Hopkins, Nicholas of Cusa’s debate with John Wenck: a Translation and an Appraisal of De Ignota litteratura and Apologia doctae ignorantiae. Minneapolis: Arthur J. Banning Press. Jeauneau (2014): Edouard Jeauneau, “From Origen’s Periarchon to Eriugena’s Periphyseon,” in: Willemien Otten and Michael I. Allen (eds.), Eriugena and Creation. Proceedings of a Conference to Honor Edouard Jeauneau. XI International Eriugena Conference, 9 – 12 November 2011, Turnhout: Brepols, 139 – 182.

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Koyré (1957): Alexander Koyré, From the Closed World to the Infinite Universe, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Madec (1988): Goulven Madec, Jean Scot et ses auteurs, Paris: Etudes augustiniennes. Marenbon (1980): John Marenbon, “John Scottus and the ‘Categoriae decem’,” in: Werner Beierwaltes (ed.), Eriugena: Studien zu seinen Quellen, Vorträge. III. Internationalen Eriugena-Colloquium, 27 – 30 August 1979, Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag. Marenbon (2014): John Marenbon, “Eriugena, Aristotelian Logic and the Creation,” in: Willemien Otten and Michael Allen (eds.), Eriugena and Creation. Proceedings of a Conference to Honor Edouard Jeauneau. XI International Eriugena Conference, 9 – 12 November 2011, Turnhout: Brepols, 349 – 36. Marion (2008): Jean-Luc Marion, “Idipsum esse: The Name of God According to Saint Augustine,” in: George Demacopoulos and Aristotle Papanikolaou (eds.), Orthodox Readings of Augustine, New York: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 167 – 190. McEvoy (1999): James J. McEvoy, “Eriugena, John Scottus,” in: Allan Fitzgerald and John C. Cavadini (eds.), Augustine Through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, Amsterdam: Eerdmans Publishing, 315 – 16. Mojsisch (2001): Burtkhart Mojsisch, Meister Eckhart: Analogy, Univocity, Unity, Amsterdam: B.R. Grüner. Moran (1989): Dermot Moran, The Philosophy of John Scottus Eriugena. A Study of Idealism in the Middle Ages, New York: Cambridge University Press. Tkacz (2012): Michael Tkacz, “St Augustine’s Appropriation and Transformation of Aristotle’s Eudaimoneia,” in: Jon Miller (ed.), The Reception of Aristotle’s Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 67 – 84. Zimmermann (1852): Robert Zimmermann, “Der Cardinal Nicolaus Cusanus als Vorläufer Leibnitzens,” in: Sitzungsberichte der philosophisch-historischen Classe der kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften 8, 306 – 328. Zum Brunn (1988): Emilie Zum Brunn, St. Augustine: Being and Nothingness, New York: Paragon.

Index nominum Al-Farabi 246, 251 Al-Kindi 246 Albertus Magnus 325, 330, 343 Alexander, pseudo 117, 202, 245 – 247, 250 Alexander of Aphrodisias 109 f., 112 f., 117 f., 223, 245 Alexander of Macedonia 117 Alexopoulos, C. 297, 309 Allan, D. J. 28 Almericus of Bène 330 Ammonius 247, 251 Anagnostopoulos, Andreas 8 – 10, 16 Anaxagoras 311, 313 Anjum, Rani Lill 18 Apostle, H. G. 297, 316 Arendt, Hannah 211 Aristophanes 127 Aristoxenus 103 Armstrong, David 42 Asclepius 246 Athens 9, 143, 175, 202, 214 f., 227, 309 Aubenque, Pierre 110, 257 f. Augustine, St. 326 – 328, 332 – 334, 336 – 339, 343, 346 Austin, C. 57, 71, 248 Austin, John L. 57, 71, 248 Averroes 245 f. Avicenna 246 f., 251 Bacon, Francis 27 Bacon, Roger 325 Balme, D.M. 59, 64, 66, 83, 112, 114 Barker, E. 211 Barnes, Jonathan 20, 48, 121, 125, 297, 316 f., 320 f. Beere, J. 85, 118 Beierwaltes, Werner 343 Bennett, Karen 4 Bergson, Henri 28 Berti, Enrico 186, 245, 258 Bitsakis, Eftichios 29, 45 Bobbio, Norberto 211

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Boethius 247, 251, 325 f., 332, 334, 336 f., 344, 346 Bolton, Robert 279, 284, 295 Bonaventure 325 Bowin, John 22 Brentano, Franz 248, 253 f., 271 Brown, James R. 42 Bruno, Giordano 341 Brunschwig, Jacques 205, 274, 285 Burnyeat, Miles 22, 130 Canfora, Luciano 211 Čapek, Milič 29, 45 Cappuyns, Maieul 329 Carnap, Rudolph 254 Cashdollar, S. 126, 140, 143, 146 Cassirer, Ernst 341 Chalmers, David 172 – 174, 176 Charlton, William 45 Choi, Sungho 8 Cicero 115, 223, 234, 325, 327 Clark, Andy 172 – 174, 176 Clauberg, Johannes 247 Cleon 133 f. Collins, Susan D. 211 Comte, Auguste 27, 40 Connell, S.M. 75, 88 f., 92 Contogeorgis, George 211, 214, 217 f. Cooper, J.M. 89 Copernicus, Nicolaus 27, 341 Corcilius, Klaus 21 f., 109, 113 Cornford, Francis M. 34, 76, 88 Cristiani, Marta 338 Croiset, Α. 211 Dahl, Robert 211 Damon 239 f. Darwin, Charles 255 David of Dinant 330 Davidson, Donald 176 de Romilly, Jacqueline 211 Delbrück, Max 186, 255 Democritus 30, 96

354

Index nominum

Descartes, René 32, 42, 341 f. Detel, W. 297, 317 Diares 143 Dionysius the Areopagite 329 – 331 Diotima 69 Dixon, Robert 211 Dondaine 335 Dretske, Fred 42 Drossaart Lulofs, H.J. 77 Druart, Thérèse-Ann 143 Duns Scotus, John 247, 251, 253 f., 329 Echeñique Sosa, Javier 10 Ehrenberg, V. 211 Empedocles 59, 106, 311 Eriugena, Johannes 326 – 344, 346, 348 Euclid 309, 313 Falcon, A. 80, 88 Fara, Michael 8 Fonseca, Pedro da 247 Frank, Jill 211 Frede, Michael 5, 269, 272 Fritsche, Johannes 19 Galen 288 Galileo 11, 27, 32 Gaxie, D. 211 Gaye, R.K. 84 Gill, Marie Louise 10 f., 22 Gilson, Étienne 328 Göckel, Rudolph 247 Goldin, O. 297, 317 Gotthelf, Allan 57, 80, 117 Gottlieb, P. 291 Gouyon, P.H. 75 Graham, Daniel W. 23 Gregoric, P. 113, 134, 136 Guthrie, W.K.C. 269 Guyer, P. 78 Habermas, Jürgen 211 Hansen, Mogens Herman Hardie, R.P. 84 Harré, Rom 30, 40 f. Harvey, William 58 Hegel, Georg W.F. 248

211

Heidegger, Martin 248, 253 f. Heil, John 3 – 8, 20 f., 23 Heinaman, Robert 10 – 12 Heinemann, Gottfried 3, 6 f., 12 Heisenberg, Werner 29, 51 f. Henry, D. 67, 89, 125, 183, 284 Heraclitus 237 Hesiod 238 Hilbert, D. 313 Hirst, P. 211 Homer 96, 117, 237 f. Honorius Augustodunensis 343 Hugh of St. Victor 342 Hume, David 27, 39 f. Hurst, L.D. 75 Hussey, Edward 18 Ibn Rushd (see also Averroes) 246 Ibn Sina (see also Avicenna) 246 Ingthorsson, Rögnvaldur 18 Ippocrates 190, 291 Irwin, T. 284 Isocrates 223, 227 Jaeger, Werner 113, 117, 179, 248, 250, 269 James of Venice 325 Jansen, Ludger 8, 10, 12 Johansen, T. 64, 68 f., 109, 291 Jones, Barrington 44 Kahneman, D. 309, 311 – 313 Kant, Immanuel 78 f., 182, 190 f., 248, 254 Kelsey, Sean 20 Kepler, Johannes 27, 341 King, Hugh R. 45, 117 Koons, Robert C. 29 Kosman, Aryeh 10, 18, 57, 109, 118, 272 Kuhn, Thomas S. 6 Lefebvre, David 75, 85, 89 Leibniz, Gottfried W. 342 Leleux, Claudine 211 Lennox, James G. 7, 57, 66, 71, 80, 86, 99, 107, 114 Leszl, W. 258 Leunissen, M. 88 Lewis, David 3 – 6, 113

Index nominum

Lintott, A. 211 Longinus 237 Lorhard, Jacob 247 Louden, R.B. 78 Louis, P. 86, 151, 156 f. Luyten, Norbert 44 MacBride, Fraser 4 Madden, Edward H. 30, 40 f. Manin, B. 211 Marion, Jean-Luc 328, 334 Marius Victorinus 327 Marmodoro, Anna 7 f., 15, 19, 130, 146 f. Martianus Capella 326 Matthen, Mohan 10 Matthews, E. 78 Maximus Confessor 326, 332, 334 f. Mayhew, R. 92 McKirahan, Richard D. 297, 315 – 318, 320 McLaughlin, Brian 4 McMullin, Ernan 45 Meister Eckhart 325, 341, 343 Menn, S. 69, 109 Mesquita, António Pedro 262 Michael of Ephesus 246 Mieza 117, 257 Mignucci, M. 297, 317 Miller, D. 291 Miltenburg, Niels van 7, 18 Moerbeke, William of 247, 342 Moffett, M. 291 Moraux, P. 118, 281 Mossé, Claude 211 Moutsopoulos, Evanghelos 237 – 240 Mumford, Stephen 18 Mure, G. R. G. 297, 316 Natorp, Paul 248 Nemesius 103 Newman, William Lambert 204 f., 208 Newton, Isaac 18, 27 f., 42, 49 Nicholas of Cusa (Cusanus) 341, 344 Nicolaus Damascenus 245 Nuño de la Rosa, L. 57 Olshewsky, Thomas

45

355

Ostrogorski, M. 211 Owens, Joseph 45, 128, 133 f. Parmenides 30 f., 57, 260, 342 f. Patzig, Günther 5 Peck, A. L. 64, 75, 77 Peirce, Charles S. 28 – 30, 34 Pelagius 329 Pellegrin, Pierre 197, 297, 317 Peters, B.G. 211 Peterson, Donald 176 Petrus Balbus 342 Philoponus, Ioannis 297, 316 Pierre, J. 211 Plato 42, 61, 68 f., 76, 82, 88, 110, 113, 115 – 120, 127, 136, 139, 148, 170, 179, 197, 200, 212, 216, 223, 227, 233, 237 – 239, 255, 258, 260, 264, 270, 273, 283, 287 f., 295, 308, 325, 331, 333, 342 f., 345 f. Plotin 260, 266 (see also Plotinus) Plotinus 245 f., 254 Polansky, Ronald 18, 68, 109, 125, 129 f., 179 f., 187 f., 190 Pope Leo XIII 257 Porphyry 325, 340 Prigogine, Ilya 28, 186 Primavesi, Oliver 285, 291 Proclus 237, 246, 342 Protagoras 39, 258, 264 Psillos, Stathis 3, 5 Pythagoras 343, 346 Randall, John Herman 28, 107 Rashed, M. 80 Rawls, John 182, 211 Reichenbach, Hans 28 Rickert, Heinrich 341 Robert Grosseteste 325, 343 Robinson, H.M. 45 Ross, William D. 20, 84 f., 115, 248, 250, 254, 269, 271 f., 297, 315 – 318 Ryle, Gilbert 248 Santos, R. 8, 262 Sartori, Giovanni 211 Scaltsas, Theodore 19, 167 f.

356

Index nominum

Schiefsky, M. 287 Schmid, Stephan 8 Schmidt, Manfred 211 Schmitt, Carl 211, 342 Schnapper, Dominique 211 Sellars, Wilfrid 45 Sfendoni-Mentzou, Demetra 27, 29, 33 f., 42 f., 50, 57, 257 Shields, C. 62, 68 f., 104, 109 Simpson, William M. R. 29 Smith, R. 285, 320 Socrates 69, 131, 139, 148, 197, 284, 287, 294, 299 – 301, 305, 308, 311, 314, 319, 345 Solmsen, Friedrich W. 285 Solon 212, 216 Sophonias 100 f. Sorabji, Richard 285, 291 Spinoza, Baruch 342 Stagira 57 Stavrianeas, S. 80 Strawson, Peter F. 248 Strobach, Niko 7 f., 13, 20 Suárez, Francisco 247, 251 Suppes, Patric 29, 45 Syrianus 246 Thales

119, 306, 309 f.

Theophrastus 160, 162 Thomas Aquinas, St. 247 f., 253 f., 257, 265, 271, 325, 330, 341 Thomas Gallus 343 Tooley, Michael 42 Tredennick, Hugh 47, 297, 316 Tricot, J. 271, 297, 316 Tuominen, M. 297, 317 Vernant, Jean-Pierre Vetter, Barbara 8

203

Walsh, D. 57, 70 f. Warrington, J. 297, 316 Wenck, Johannes 344 f. Whitehead, Alfred North 28 Wicksteed, Philip H. 34 Wieland, Wolfgang 11 Williams, G.C. 75, 332 Wolff, Christian 247, 251 Woodbridge, Frederic J. E. 28 f. Xenophon

131, 216 f.

Zabarella, J. 297, 316 Zeller, Eduard 44, 271 Zeno 30 f., 33

Index rerum Absolute power 218 Abstraction 60, 177, 246, 251 – degrees of abstraction 247, 251 Accident 125, 134 f., 144, 174, 252 f., 260 f., 332, 334 f., 337, 343, 346 f., 349 Accuracy / inaccuracy 129 Action / passion 41, 64, 105 – 107, 129, 138, 143 f., 148, 167 – 176, 180, 183, 185 – 187, 201, 208, 219, 259 f., 262, 264 f., 271, 280, 286 f., 294 f., 319, 335 Actuality (see also energeia / ἐνέργεια) 11, 16, 33, 36, 47, 51, 84, 86, 95, 98, 101 – 104, 115, 129 – 133, 137 – 139, 144 – 146, 148, 184, 186, 190, 257, 260 – 263, 265, 271 f., 275 Acumen (ἀγχíνοια) 310, 321 Affections 125, 227 Agathology (equivovity of the Good) 257, 259 f., 262 – 265 Agôgê / ἀγωγή 217 Aisthêsis / αἴσθησις 87, 299 f., 318, 321 alloíôsis / ἀλλοίωσις (alteration) 9, 32 Analogy 30, 33 f., 104, 181, 224, 250, 257 f., 260, 347 Analytics 147, 229, 231, 245, 258, 280, 297, 299, 301, 303 f., 310, 314 f., 325 – transcendental analytics 248 Animal locomotion 21 Anonymous authorities 214 Anthropocentric 211 f., 216, 218 f. – anthropocentrically 213 Anticipation 142, 148 Anti-Humean views 40 Aporetic 258, 263 Archê / ἀρχή (see also principle) 19 f., 22, 23, 32, 36, 39, 49, 84 f., 89, 101 f., 117, 204, 297, 316, 318 – of motion/change (κινήσεως / μεταβολῆς) 19 f., 23, 32, 39, 49, 84 f., 89.101, 117 Archelogy 258, 263 Architectonic 264 Aristocracy 198, 201, 204, 209, 212 f.

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Aristotelian Essentialism 71 – supervenience 3 – 6, 23 Aristotelianism (in contemporary metaphysics) 3 – 5, 70, 108 Astronomy 151, 255, 290, 304 Atomism 32 – Atomic theory of matter 49 – Atomists 33, 37, 132 – Democretian atomism 30, 49 – static model of the atomists 39 Authoritarianism 218 Authorities 214 f. Autonomy 190 – 192, 213, 216, 218 – autonomous 214 Axioms 252 Becoming 11 – 13, 17 f., 22, 28, 30 f., 33 f., 44, 48, 64, 69 f., 116, 130, 167, 170, 213, 258, 261, 333, 340 – becoming of nature 27, 43, 47, 49 – becoming of physical reality 28 Begetter 109, 114, 118 f. Behaviour 155 f., 158, 160, 168 Being qua being 46 f., 245 – 247, 250 – 253 Bending 154, 159, 161 Bile 142 f. Biology 41, 57, 69, 71 f., 75, 87, 95 f., 98, 114, 117, 119, 186, 188, 255, 315 – Evo-devo 71 – Evolutionary 71 f., 75 Birth 59, 63, 67, 76, 113 f., 172, 191, 198, 203 f., 310 Breakable 152 f., 159 Breath 112, 114 Cancellation of loans (σεισάχθεια) 214 Capacities 63 f., 71, 84, 130, 174, 180, 279, 291 Categories 8 f., 28 f., 44, 47, 51, 58, 95, 99, 143 f., 151, 159, 248, 257, 260 – 263, 265, 325 – 328, 334 – 338, 349

358

Index rerum

Causal 3 – 5, 10, 18 f., 41, 62, 90, 102, 138, 147, 149 f., 173 f., 280, 286, 293 f. – causal explanation 138, 280, 283, 292 f., 295 – causal powers 30, 40, 43, 147 – causation 19, 21, 147 Cause (αἴτιο) 17, 19, 21 f., 40 f., 43, 46 f., 62, 64 f., 67, 75, 86, 89 f., 106, 110, 130 f., 144, 147, 161 f., 199, 213, 227, 246 f., 249 – 255, 258, 261, 263, 269, 271, 280 f., 287, 289 – 294, 305, 311, 317 – 319, 321, 326, 330, 333, 336 f., 339 f., 344, 346 f., 349 – efficient cause 20, 58, 61, 65, 261, 263, 269 – final cause 20, 65, 67, 86, 91, 249, 255, 271 – first cause 32, 47, 249 – 255, 271, 348 Censitary system 215 Chance 30, 59 f., 70, 171, 253, 282, 287 Change 8 – 11, 13 – 23, 30, 32 – 34, 37 – 39, 43 – 50, 52, 57 f., 60 f., 71 f., 83 – 85, 112, 135, 146, 151, 171, 184, 201, 214, 258, 261, 273, 328 – analysis of change 8, 10 f., 14, 19 – definition of change 3, 8, 10 – 16 Character 6 f., 28, 30, 36, 44, 48, 52, 89 f., 101, 151, 153, 167 – 172, 175 f., 188, 192, 201, 205 f., 212, 235, 240, 247, 251, 257, 280 Chemistry 41, 151 Christianity 253, 342 Citizen, citizenship 197 – 205, 207 – 209, 213 – 215, 217 – 219, 238, 240 Class of “notables” 215 – class of farmers 215 – class of θῆται 214 – 216 Coincidence of opposites 345 f. Cold 39, 131, 153, 271, 290 Coming to be (see also becoming) 23, 30, 33, 58, 61, 318 Common good 212, 216 – common interest 212, 217 Common sense 131, 135 – 137, 139 f., 142 Communication system 217 Complexity 58, 216, 265

Compression 155 – 157, 159 – compressibility 155 – compressible 152 f., 155 f., 158 Consultative process 216 Contemplation 170 f., 211, 273 – active contemplation 273 – self-contemplation 272 Continuity 30, 34 f., 37, 88, 133, 225, 261 f., 264 – continuous 34 f., 37 f., 50, 58, 60, 66, 68 f., 120, 260 f., 264, 273, 326 – continuum (συνεχές) 33 – 35 Contraction 155, 157 Contradiction 12, 14, 18, 198, 206, 239, 252, 345 – 349 Contraries 9, 11, 14, 16, 58, 78, 81, 83 f., 86, 121, 333, 346, 349 Convertibility 257, 259 Cosmohistory 219 Cosmology 151, 255 – rational cosmology 247, 251 Cosmosystemic stages 219 Coupled system 173 – 175 Creation 75, 151, 253 f., 332, 338, 340 Decree 207 – 209 Definition 6 – 11, 17, 20, 35 f., 44, 46, 64, 84, 88 f., 96 – 100, 104, 109f., 117, 120, 125, 147, 155 – 158, 199, 204 f., 214, 230, 252, 261, 283, 286, 309, 332 f., 339, 344, 348 Deformability 155 Deformation 153 f., 156 – 158, 161 Demagogues 199, 207 f., 214 Demiurge 88, 118 Democracy 197 – 199, 201 – 207, 209, 211 – 219 – correct democracy 212, 218 – false democracy 218 – moderate democracy 215, 217, 219 – radical democracy 215, 218 Democratic principle (πολιτεíα) 213, 216 – 218, 241 Demonstration(s) (ἀπόδειξις), (see also proofs) 270, 273, 279 – 282, 289, 291,

Index rerum

293 f., 298, 300, 302 – 305, 309f., 314, 320 f. – demonstrative knowledge 280 – demonstrative science 298 Dêmos / δῆμος 197, 205, 207, 214 – 217, 219 Desire 21 f., 48, 82, 120, 147 f., 168 f., 199 f., 228, 345 – object of desire (ὡς ἐρώμενον) 21 f., 269, 271 Development 13, 57 f., 71 f., 106, 108, 114, 119, 148, 160, 170, 179, 189, 191, 219, 231 Deviation 197, 199, 241 Diachronic regularity 59 Dialectic 212, 218, 223 – 230, 232 – 235, 248, 257, 259, 282 – 289, 294, 303 – 305, 321, 326, 336, 340, 345, 349 – transcendental dialectic 248 Discontinuity 262 Disposition 8, 17 f., 27, 33, 43, 102 – 104, 167 f., 170 f., 175, 209 – dispositional properties 13, 71 Dissolution 151 f. Distribution 3, 5, 174, 198 – distribution of offices 211 – distribution of wealth 211, 215 Divine 63 – 69, 89 f., 170 f., 246, 249 f., 259, 269, 272, 328, 330 f., 333, 338 f., 340, 344, 349 – causes 249, – celestial/astral beings 110 – darkness 330 – element 120, 170 – essence 336 341 – first principle 338 – goodness 325 – intellect / intellection / mind / thinking / thought 118, 120, 264, 269, 272, 274 f. – manifestation 330, 339 – names 335, 337, 343 – nature 331, 334, 339 f., 349 – order 264 – power 117 – providence 131 – realm 349 – self-articulation 338

359

– superessentiality 335 word 332 Division of work 216 Ductile 152 – 154, 157 f. Dunamis / δύναμις (see also power, potentiality) 7, 10, 19, 39 f., 48 f., 83, 112 – 115, 118, 120, 136, 147, 262 f. Dynamic vision of nature 27, 30 f., 39, 41, 43, 52 Economic inequality 211 – economic system 213 Education 188, 217, 239 Effect 7, 40 f., 49, 120, 134, 154, 170, 182, 201, 203, 205, 208, 228, 239, 292, 313, 333, 340, 347 Eîdos / εἶδος (species form, see also morphê / μορφή) 19, 41 f., 46 – 48, 89, 96 – 100, 103 f., 106, 112, 115, 258, 260 – 263, 300, 319 Ekklêsía / Ἐκκλησíα 214 Elastic 153, 155 – elasticity 156, 161 Elected monarchy 218 – election 199, 215 Elemental motion 20, 22 f. Emanation 253 Emancipation 216 Empeiria / ἐμπειρíα (see also experience) 295 Enactive virtue 172, 175 End (telos) 9 f., 15, 20, 28, 36, 48, 60, 64, 66, 71, 76, 78, 85, 89, 98, 101, 104, 115, 117, 149, 161 f., 170, 180, 182, 186 f., 200 f., 213, 227, 234, 252 f., 262, 265, 273, 279, 308, 317, 326, 338 Energeia / ἐνέργεια (see also activity, actuality) 7, 16 f., 33, 36 f., 39 f., 46 f., 51, 84, 101, 102, 130, 262 f., 270 f. Energeiology 258 – 260, 262 f. Ens commune, reale 247 Entelecheia / ἐντελέχεια (see also actuality, Energeia / ἐνέργεια) 9, 12, 15 – 18, 32, 37, 47, 49, 101 – 104, 115, 262 Enthymeme 228 f., 232 f. Epagôgê / ἐπαγωγή 225, 297, 300 f., 305, 309, 311 – 315, 318, 320 Epigenesis 58

360

Index rerum

Epistêmê / ἐπιστήμη 32, 46, 116, 188 f., 240, 252, 270, 273, 280 – 282, 284, 286, 288, 292, 298, 309, 318 – 320 Equilibrium 103, 162, 185, 187, 214 f. Equity 182 f., 241 Essence (see also οὐσíα) 44, 67, 86 f., 95, 97, 118, 146, 170, 232, 247, 271, 328, 331 – 337, 339 – 341, 347 f. Eternal being 58 Ethics 179 – 192, 205, 208, 234, 255, 264 f., 280, 286, 325 – Bioethics 179 – 192 Εthos / ἔθος 217, 287 Eulogon / εὔλογον 87 f. Examples 98, 103, 142, 148, 158, 174, 238, 240 f., 273, 285, 293, 297, 302, 310 – 312, 315, 327 – Aristotle’s use of examples 315 Experience (see also empeiria / ἐμπειρíα) 27, 40, 46, 112, 139 f., 147 f., 168 f., 181, 185 f., 188, 192, 218, 273, 279 f., 287, 299 f., 310 f., 318 f. Extended mind 172, 174, 176 External goods 167, 169 – 173, 175, 177 Faction 205 f. Familiarity 140, 305, 326 Fertilization 112, 114, 191 First philosophy 245 – 249, 251 f., 254 f., 347 Fissile 152 f., 159 f. Flexible 152 – 154 Form (μορφή, see also eîdos / εἶδος) 3 f., 6, 12 f., 19 – 21, 23, 29, 38, 42, 44 – 48, 51 f., 58, 60– 63, 66– 71, 80, 83, 89 – 91, 95– 101, 114, 118, 120f., 129– 131, 142, 147, 154, 158, 170, 176, 182, 184 – 186, 189, 198 f., 201 – 204, 208, 213 f., 233, 239 f., 245, 249 f., 253, 259 – 263, 271, 287 f., 291 f., 297, 303 f., 306 f., 319, 326, 330 f., 340, 343, 346– 348 – formal identity 61 For the most part 21, 75, 125 f., 128, 131, 189, 205, 232, 265, 286 f., 292 Freedom 51, 200 f., 213 f., 216 – 218, 265 – individual freedom 216, 218 – personal freedom 214, 218

– political freedom 214, 216 – 218 – social freedom 213, 218 – universal freedom 213, 215, 217 f. Friendship 180, 183, 264 Full citizen 214 f. Function argument 169 Generality 292 f. Genesis / γένεσις (see also generation) 9, 32 f., 47, 60 f., 68, 85, 87, 333 f. Geometry 4, 151, 301, 308 f., 313 God 79, 109, 117 – 120, 238, 245 – 251, 254, 257 – 259, 262 – 265, 270 – 275, 326 – 328, 330 – 344, 346 f., 349 – God’s existence 270, 273 – God’s omniscience 274 – God’s self-knowledge 269, 271 Goodness 167 – 170, 172, 175 – 177, 325 Hammering 158 Hearing 98, 130, 138 f., 141, 149 Heat 77 f., 80, 90, 110 – 114, 119, 121, 131, 152 f. Heaven 43, 64, 245, 250, 255, 333 Hêliaía / Ἡλιαíα 214 Henology (equivocity of the One and the Multiple) 257 – 265 Hermeneutics 186, 326 – philosophical hermeneutics 272 Historicism 271 Hot 7, 39, 151, 153, 290 Human nature 40, 315, 333 Humean empiricism / positivism / antirealism 39 – Humeanism (in contemporary metaphysics) 3 f. – Humean supervenience 3 – 5 Huperousia / ὑπερουσία 349 Hylomorphism 90 f., 104 Impressible 152 – 155, 158 Incompressible 156 – incompressibility 156 Induction 225, 300 f., 320 Infinite 31, 34 – 37, 252, 326, 332 – 334, 339 – 342, 344 f., 347 – 349 – infinity 34 f., 37, 332 f., 344, 348

Index rerum

– potential infinite 36 f. Instrumental body 63, 109 – 115, 120 Intellect (see also nous / νοῦς, noêsis / νόησις) 29, 115 – 121, 126, 259, 262, 264, 273 f., 326, 341, 345 – active intellect 274 – divine intellect 120, 272, 274 – human intellection 269 – intellection 137, 269 – 271 – passive and active intellect 274 – pure intellect 117 Intelligibility 150 Intuition 298 In virtue of itself / themselves 126 – 129, 131 – 133, 135 – 138, 140, 142, 147 f. Judaism 253 Justice 180, 188 – 191, 200, 241 Kairos / καιρός 179, 262 Kinêsis / κíνησις (see also motion, movement) 8, 9, 11, 14, 17, 32, 33, 37 f., 49, 130 Knowledge 11 f., 18, 87 f., 91, 97, 101, 103, 106, 116, 144 f., 147 f., 152, 156, 158, 170, 176, 187 f., 192, 216, 224, 233, 254, 259, 269 – 271, 279 – 281, 290 – 295, 298 – 302, 305, 308 – 315, 319 – 321, 327, 329, 335 f., 344 f. Knowledge of knowledge (ἐπιστήμη ἐπιστήμης) 273 – knowledge of oneself (ἐπιστήμη ἑαυτοῦ) 273 f. – self-awareness 219, 272 f. Labour 213 Law 18, 42 f., 181 f., 198 f., 201, 203, 205, 207 – 209, 217, 239, 342 – laws of nature 4, 40, 42 f., 52 Legislator 197, 200 f., 204 f. Leisure 207, 213 – 215 Life 7, 63, 67, 76, 88 f., 95 – 97, 99 – 109, 111 – 114, 116, 118 f., 126, 148 – 150, 169 – 172, 174, 181 – 185, 187 – 190, 199 – 203, 207, 213, 216, 262, 264, 270, 273, 314, 329, 338 f., 341 f. Life-bearing spirit 112 Liquid 156, 158, 160

361

Living being 7, 57 f., 65, 69, 79 f., 88, 95 – 100, 105, 114 – 116, 119 f., 130, 185, 275 Logic 12 f., 27, 186, 231, 248, 259, 304, 325 f., 344, 347 – 349 Logos 67, 81, 89, 248, 319, 333 Lunar eclipse 292 f., 301 f. – explanation of lunar eclipse 302 Malleable 152 – 155 Materia prima (see also prôtê húlê / πρώτη ὕλη, prime matter) 46, 337 Materia secunda 46 Mathematics 27, 183, 249, 255, 288, 309, 343, 345 f. – mathematicians 132 Matter (see also prôtê húlê / πρώτη ὕλη) 4 f., 8, 11, 18, 28 – 32, 34, 43 – 52, 60 – 62, 67, 76, 78 – 81, 83, 85 f., 88 – 91, 95 – 100, 103, 117, 120, 125, 129 f., 147, 151, 180, 183, 206 – 208, 214, 224, 231 – 233, 245, 249 f., 255, 261, 263, 279 f., 286, 290 f., 293, 295, 297, 302, 306, 309, 312, 317, 319 – 321, 330, 338, 346 Means 31, 36, 38, 42, 50 f., 58, 66, 77 f., 83, 88, 90, 95, 98, 102, 106 f., 110, 112, 114, 121, 128, 131 f., 134, 136, 145, 148, 151 f., 159, 167, 170, 172, 174 – 177, 186, 197 – 199, 201 f., 204 – 206, 211, 213, 218, 227 – 229, 233 f., 238, 246, 250 – 253, 270, 272, 274, 280, 284, 291, 301, 305, 311, 316, 320, 333, 338 Measure, measuring 38, 87, 146, 183, 192, 201, 217, 239, 258, 260 – 262, 264, 339 f., 345, 347 Mechanics 49, 151, 156 – Mechanistic determinism 40 Medicine 179, 181 – 184, 186 – 189, 281 – 284, 288, 290, 294 – medical practice 181, 187 – medical τέχνη (ἰατρική) 281, 289, 291, 294 Memory 97, 125 f., 140 f., 147 – 150, 173, 286 f., 289, 292 – 294, 297, 299 f., 310, 318 Mendelian genetics 71 Menstrual fluid 81, 111, 114 f.

362

Index rerum

Μesotês / μεσότης / mediety / moderation 179, 190, 211, 213, 215, 241 Metaphysica generalis 246 f. – metaphysica specialis 246 Meteorology 58, 151 Method 81, 83, 182, 189, 191 f., 224 – 226, 229 f., 233, 235, 258, 260 f., 263 Micro-world 49 Mind (see also nous / νοῦς) 19, 32 f., 42, 44 f., 47, 62, 83, 98 – 100, 102, 104 – 106, 119, 146, 172 – 174, 183, 191, 208, 231, 237, 239, 241, 270, 272, 274 f., 279 f., 285, 287, 291, 306, 309, 311, 330, 332 f., 336 – 338, 340, 343 – 345, 348 f. Mineralogy 151 Modern political system 218 f. – modernity 180, 218 f., 341 Monarchy 212, 219 Moon, explanation of its illumination 32, 110, 292, 300 f., 310 f., 313, 321 Moral character 168, 171, 176 Morphê / μορφή (form, see also eîdos / εἶδος) 47 f., 96, 98 f., 186, 261, 263 Motion (see also Kinêsis / κíνησις) 19 f., 23, 28, 30 – 34, 37, 39, 41, 47, 49, 62, 76, 79 f., 84 f., 90, 101, 112, 114 – 117, 130, 132, 134 f., 137 – 141, 143 f., 146 f., 149, 161 f., 245, 258, 261 – 264, 269 f., 336, 339 – eternal motion 270 f. – movement 20, 30 – 34, 37 f., 41, 49, 52, 81, 84, 86, 89, 91, 105, 133, 147, 254, 290, 339 f., 343 f. Mover (κινοῦν) 17, 19 – 21, 62, 80, 157, 249 f., 255, 258, 261, 263, 270 – 272, 348 Mutual manifestation (or, joint manifestation) 7 f., 17 – 20, 22 Naming 139 Narcissistic image of God 272 Narcissus 272, 274 – Narcissus debate 272 Natural kind 41 f., 52, 283, 288 f., 293 – natural necessity 39 f., 42 – natural philosophy 27, 29, 41

– natural science 11, 62, 135, 249, 281 f., 289 Nature 7, 17, 19 – 21, 23, 27 – 34, 38 – 44, 46, 48 f., 60 – 64, 66 – 71, 77 f., 81 – 92, 95, 104, 110 f., 116, 121, 125, 130, 146 f., 153, 168 f., 171, 180, 182, 184, 197, 199, 212, 228, 237, 248, 250, 252 f., 255, 259, 263 f., 270, 272, 283, 288 f., 297 – 299, 302, 305, 315, 317 f., 326, 328 – 331, 334 f., 337, 339 – 341, 349 – model of nature 28, 31 – nature of things 42 f., 332 Necessity 13, 42, 77, 86 f., 89, 91, 98, 199, 230, 270, 285, 292, 346 Neo-Aristotelian perspective 27, 29, 52 – Neo-Aristotelian approach 43 – Neo-Aristotelianism 186, 188 Neo-Darwinism 71 Neo-Democritean 71 Neoplatonic One 332 Newtonian Mechanics 27 – Newtonian Physics 28, 30, 40 Newton’s 3rd law 18 Noêsis / νόησις (see also intellect) 21, 263, 270, 272, 274 f., 301 f., 309, 312 f., 321, – noêsis noêseos noêsis / νόησις νοήσεως νόησις 269 – 275 – noeîn / νοεῖν, noeî / νοεῖ 269 f., 272, 274 – noêton / νοητὸν 272, 274 Non-Being 65 f., 330 f., 333, 338, 349 Nothingness 330, 337 f. Not-Other (Non aliud) 342, 347 – 349 Nous / νοῦς (see also mind) 126, 240, 264, 269 f., 272, 274 f., 297, 302, 309, 311 f., 314 Obligate sex 75 Octopus 70 Oligarchy 198 – 201, 204 f., 209, 212 – 217, 219 – oligarchic class 212 – oligarchic foundation 213 One 7 – 18, 28, 30 – 40, 42, 44 f., 48, 50 f., 58 – 64, 67 – 71, 75 – 83, 86 – 92, 95 f., 98, 100 – 103, 105 f., 113 – 119, 121, 125, 127 – 130, 132 – 143, 151, 153 f., 157,

Index rerum

161 f., 167, 169, 172, 174, 176 f., 181 f., 184 – 187, 190, 192, 197, 199 – 201, 203 – 209, 211 f., 214, 216 – 218, 224, 226 – 235, 237 – 240, 245, 248 – 250, 255, 257 – 261, 264 f., 273 f., 279 – 295, 297, 299 – 304, 306 – 320, 328, 330 – 333, 335 f., 338, 341, 344 – 346 – Ontology (equivocity of the Being) 5, 7, 58, 71, 172, 245 – 248, 251, 254, 257 f., 260 – 263, 265, 325 – Onto-theology 248, 254 Opinion of the many 216 Opposite 11 f., 51, 83, 90, 106, 121, 148, 156 f., 200, 216, 234, 239, 270, 291, 326, 333, 338, 344, 346 – 349 Optics 151 Organ 58, 79, 97 f., 101 – 107, 109 – 111, 113, 129, 131 – 133, 136, 170, 240 – organism 41, 59, 63, 66, 68 – 72, 98 – 100, 102 – 107, 170, 173, 184, 191 – organismal purposes 70 Organization 78 f., 257, 259 f., 263 – 265, 285 Orthotropy 160 Oscillation 161 f. Ousia / οὐσíα (see also essence, substance) 5 f., 20, 32, 36, 41 f., 46, 48, 58, 60 – 63, 68, 87, 95 – 99, 103, 119, 125, 295, 261 – 263, 271, 273 f., 325, 337 f., 340, 349 Ousiology 258, 260, 262 f., 336 f., 349 Pale (untanned) 127 f., 143, 145 Pandispositionalism 6 f. Pantheism 331, 344 Parmenidean a-temporal universe 30 Perception 21, 67 f., 77, 87 – 89, 91, 101 – 103, 105, 115, 126 f., 129 – 150, 293, 298, 301 f., 315, 318, 320 f. – accidental perception 125 f., 136 f., 140 – 143, 145 – 150 Persuasion 223 f., 226 f., 229, 233 – 235, 294 Phantasia / φαντασíα 21 f., 126, 140 – 143, 146, 148 – 150, 319, 333, 338 f. Philosophy of Biology 57, 67, 70 f. – Philosophy of Nature 27, 29 f., 33

363

– Philosophy of Science 28, 40, 43, 57, 70 Phronêsis / φρόνησις 126, 185 – 190, 206 Phusis / φύσις (see also nature) 19 f., 30, 32, 38 f., 41 f., 77, 81 f., 84 – 87, 121, 125, 258, 263, 283, 288 – physical reality 27, 30, 40, 42, 44, 49, 334 – physical world 28, 30, 38 f., 43, 47 f. Physics 27 f., 31 – 36, 38, 45, 49, 51, 57 f., 60, 62, 84, 90, 120, 125 f., 135, 148, 151, 186, 249, 255, 258 f., 261 – 264, 269, 288, 325, 339 – Aristotle’s physics 28, 327 – classical physics 28, 45, 52 – contemporary physics 29, 43 – modern physics 45, 51 – physics of Elementary Particles 45, 49 Pity 167, 169, 227, 315 Planets, explanation of their non-twinkling 290, 304 f., 313 Plastic 153 f., 175, 240 Platonist version 42 Pleasure 67, 144, 146, 150, 167, 169, 237, 240 Pneuma 80, 90, 109 – 113 Politeia / πολιτεíα (see also polity) 197, 203, 211 – 219 – correct πολιτεία / πολιτεῖαι 211 – 213, 217, 219 – deviant πολιτεία / πολιτεῖαι (see also polity) 212 – political authority 215, 219 – political education 217 – political responsibility 215 f. – political salary 214 – political society 214 f. – political sovereignty 214 f. – political system 211, 214, 218 f. Polity (see also πολιτεíα) 197 f., 201, 205, 209 Potency 39, 41, 45, 48 – potential 17, 19 f., 32, 35 – 37, 46 f., 51, 59, 86, 151, 191 – potentiality (see also dunamis / δύναμις, power) 8 – 18, 30, 32 f., 35, 37, 39, 43, 45 – 50, 52, 84, 95, 102 – 104, 129 – 131, 144 – 147, 190 f., 257, 260 – 263, 265

364

Index rerum

Poverty 207, 213 f. Power (see also dunamis / δύναμις) 3, 5, 7 f., 10, 13, 15 – 23, 27, 39 – 41, 48 f., 68, 76, 78 f., 83 – 85, 111 – 115, 117 – 120, 125, 127, 129 f., 135 – 137, 146 f., 161, 172, 184, 197 – 204, 209, 214, 219, 279 – 281, 288 f., 291, 294 f., 345, 348 – active / passive power 8, 10, 14, 17, 19 – 23, 83 f. – common power 136 – powerful (qualities etc.) 5 – 8 Practical philosophy 186, 255, 259 Prime Unmoved Mover (πρῶτον κινοῦν ἀκíνητον) 269 f. – unmoved mover 18, 21 – 23, 64, 245, 248, 250, 270 Principle(s) 11 f., 19, 36, 45 f., 64 f., 76, 78 – 82, 85 f., 88, 89 – 91, 101 f., 116, 120, 156, 173, 181, 183, 187, 189 – 191, 206, 2011, 212 – 214, 216, 219, 233 f., 237 f., 240 f., 245, 249 f., 250 – 252, 254, 258, 261, 281, 283, 293, 297 – 299, 300, 302, 303 – 305, 309 f., 313 – 315, 321, 333, 349 – axiomatic principles 211, 213, 214 – causal principle 102, 293 – democratic principle 2013, 216 – 218, 240 f. – ethical principle(s) 189, 191 – explanatory scientific principles 289 – first principle(s) 46, 117 f., 192, 250, 252, 269 – 271, 338, 348 – form principle 114 – immaterial principle 120 – male and female principle(s) 75 f., 80 – 82, 86 – 88, 91 – moral principle 180 – nutritive principle 85; rational principle(s) 169 – principle of (non‐)contradiction 252, 345, 348 f. – of charity 332 – of movement / motion 20, 32, 39, 41, 49, 76, 79, 80, 84 – 86, 89 f., 114, 116, 147 – of self-motion 110 – of the soul 68, 102, 114, 120 – of the third excluded 252

– of change 57, 83, 84 – of generation 80, 121 – of Astronomy 304 – of matter 120 – of sciences 303, 313 Principlism 189 f. Process 7, 11, 14 – 18, 22, 28, 32 – 34, 37, 43, 48, 50, 58, 60 – 62, 102, 111 – 114, 116, 118, 151, 173 – 175, 192, 212 f., 216 f., 258, 261, 265, 274, 289, 293 f., 303 f., 309, 321, 341 – generating process 40 – natural process 34 Proofs 109, 227 – 229, 231 – 235, 302, 309 prôtê húlê / πρώτη ὕλη (see also prime matter, materia prima, matter) 29, 43 – 49, 51 Proto-anthropocentric 214 psuchê / ψυχή (see also soul) 19, 41, 67, 77, 95 – 102, 105 – 108, 112, 116, 119, 125, 318 Psychology 41, 95, 108, 117, 186, 240, 255, 305 – rational psychology 247, 251 Purposiveness 78 f. Putrefaction 151 Pythagoreans 308 – 310 Quantum Mechanics Quarks 50 – 52

51

Ratio entis 247 Rational law 117 Realism 28, 39 f., 42 f. – real qualities 27 Reason 27, 31, 33, 45, 48, 50, 64, 66 f., 76 – 78, 87 f., 90, 106 f., 110, 130, 150, 161, 168 – 171, 180, 183 – 185, 188, 190, 199, 205, 212, 216, 224, 230, 233, 238 f., 241, 249 f., 253 f., 273, 286 f., 289 – 291, 298 f., 302, 304 f., 312 – 314, 319, 331, 334, 337, 342, 345 f., 348 f. – reasonableness 182 f., 228 Receptivity 129 f., 138 Redistribution 213 f. Religion 245, 253 f., 328, 334 Representation 176 f., 219

Index rerum

Rhetoric 282, Rotation Rupture

223 – 226, 228 f., 231 – 235, 259, 288, 344 161 153, 159 f.

Scala naturae 88 Scholasticism 251, 253 Schul-Metaphysik 251 Science 18, 23, 27, 29 f., 32, 36, 42 f., 45 f., 50, 52, 96, 110, 130, 135, 147, 151, 179, 185 – 188, 208, 218, 224, 245 – 252, 254 f., 258, 260, 263, 265, 283 f., 288, 298 – 300, 302 f., 312 – 315, 318, 321, 342, 345 – scientific thought 30 – scientific explanation 284, 286, 291, 300 f., 311 – scientific knowledge 126, 153, 249, 255, 280, 282, 293 f., 297, 299 f., 309, 317 f. – scientific principles 289, 297 f., 305 – scientific proof 229, 280 f. – scientific revolutions 313 – scientific theory 281, 284, 286 Scissile 152 f., 160 Seismology 151 Self-determination 213 – self-motion 21 f., 110 – self-mover 19 – 21, 23 – self-preservation 70 – self-sufficient 118, 120, 217 Semen 59, 77, 81, 110 – 114 Sense medium 129 – sense organ 129 f., 134 – 141, 147 Sensible forms without the matter 129 f., 138 – sensible objects 127 – 131, 133, 136 f., 140 – 142, 148, 150 Sensibles 126 – 129, 131 – 133, 135 – 138, 140 – 149 – common sensibles 127 f., 131 – 141, 143 – 150 – primary sensibles 131 – proper sensibles 128 – 139, 141 – 149 Sensing of sensing 136 Shattered 152 f., 159 Shear 158 – 160 Similes, Aristotle’s use of 297

365

Slavery 180 – slave labor 213 Society of citizens 214 – 216, 219 Socio-economic 211, 213 f., 216, 218 Softening 152 f. Solid 151 – 153, 159 f. – solidification 151 – 153 Son of Cleon 134, 143 Son of Diares 127 f., 137, 143, 145, 148 Soul (see also psuchê / ψυχή) 20 f., 41, 62 – 69, 76 f., 82, 88, 95 – 121, 125, 127, 129 f., 145, 147 f., 167 – 172, 190, 227, 233, 239, 247, 255, 259, 262, 264, 299, 302, 318, 328, 333 f. – nutritive soul 63 f., 67, 76 f., 88, 101 – soul as an agent 104 – 106 Space 27 f., 31, 40 f., 43, 49, 51, 215, 333, 338, 340 Speech 147 – 149, 180, 188, 203, 223, 226 f., 229, 231, 234, 239, 259, 337 Spirit 27, 43, 112, 154, 180, 182, 248, 332, 340 Spontaneous generation 79 – 81, 111, 114 – spontaneous manifestation 7, 23 Squashed 152 – 155, 158 Stimulus 17, 20, 22 f. – stimulus condition (see also trigger) 8, 18, 20, 23 Stoicism 260 Straightening 154 Strength of materials 151 Sub-atomic 50 – sub-atomic particles 52 – sub-atomic world 50, 52 Substance (see also ousia /οὐσία) 5 f., 8, 32, 36, 40, 45 – 48, 52, 58, 62, 65, 81, 95 – 97, 99 – 101, 105, 113 f., 144, 146, 245, 247 – 250, 252 f., 257, 269, 273 f., 327 f., 332, 334 – 337, 343, 346 f., 349 – immaterial substance 269, 273 f. – substantial beings 58, 143 f., 146 – unperishable Substance 269 Substratum 43 – 46, 49, 51, 129, 141, 261 Syllogistic theory 230 f. Synthesis 70 f., 212, 257 f.

366

Index rerum

Systematic procedure (μέθοδος) 284 – systemic treatment 9, 41, 76, 125 f., 128, 135, 148, 150, 183, 188, 217, 259, 291, 295, 301, 311, 327 Tangibles 129 – 131, 141, 144, 149 Teaching 179, 190, 233, 239, 280 – 282, 287, 330, 344 Technê / τέχνη (practical skill) 19, 108, 125, 224, 265, 279 – 295, 318 f. Teleology 87, 186, 248 Temperature 152 f. Tension 108, 157, 159, 171 Theology (θεολογíα) 117 – 119, 245 – 251, 254, 258 f., 263 f., 269 – 271, 274, 288, 325 f., 330, 335 – 337, 342 – 344 – theological science (θεολογική ἐπιστήμη) 249, 270 – theological treatise 270, 272 Theôreîn / θεωρεῖν 116, 274, 321 – theôría / θεωρíα 264, 273 Theoretical sciences 252, 288 Thomism 257 f. Thought 5, 27 f., 30, 49 f., 58, 70, 96, 100, 102 f., 105, 125, 130, 140, 145 – 148, 170, 186, 202, 225, 227, 234, 245, 248, 250, 257, 259 f., 263 – 265, 270 f., 274, 301, 309 – 312, 314 f., 321, 325 f., 339, 342, 348 Time 11 f., 28 – 31, 33 f., 36 – 40, 42 f., 47, 52, 59 f., 69, 71, 85, 87 – 89, 91, 106, 110, 118, 135 f., 138 – 141, 143 – 146, 148, 150, 156 f., 159 – 162, 169, 179 f., 199, 202, 205, 211 – 215, 217 – 219, 227 f., 239, 241, 245 – 247, 250, 253, 258, 260 – 262, 270, 272, 275, 284, 292, 295, 299 f., 305, 308, 310 f., 314, 318, 320 f., 327, 330, 332 – 336, 338 – 340, 342 f., 347 f. – temporal structure 28, 31 Totalitarianism 218 Τotalitarian regime 219

Tractile 152 f., 156 – 158 Traction 156 – 158 Tradition 113, 118, 167, 190, 192, 223, 233, 245, 271 f., 325 f., 328, 330 – 332, 338, 343, 346 – traditionalist 272 Trained memory (μνημονική) 285 – 288 Transcendental 247 Transparency 145 Trigger 22 Universal(s) 42, 52, 118, 137, 139, 144 – 147, 179 f., 189, 191, 216, 246 f., 251, 263, 283, 293, 299 – 303, 305, 309 – 312, 314 f., 318 – 321, 329, 334, 336 Universe 5 f., 21, 30, 50 f., 117, 119, 142, 254, 269 f., 330, 336, 341, 343 Unobservable entities 27 Virtual particles 50, 52 Virtue 6 f., 10, 16 f., 34, 41 f., 46, 70 f., 112, 133, 137, 140, 167 – 171, 175, 180, 185 f., 188 – 190, 192, 197 – 199, 201, 205 – 209, 238, 252 f., 262, 264, 289, 294, 320, 331 – virtue ethics 167, 169, 185, 188 f., 192 Viscous 152 f., 158 Voids 155 Vulcanology 151 Welding 158 Wind-eggs 76 Wisdom 126, 168, 185, 187 f., 190 f., 216, 249 – 252, 280, 319, 334 – 336 World 3 – 5, 22, 27, 30 – 32, 40, 42 f., 46, 49 f., 57, 76, 78, 80, 111, 118 – 120, 135 f., 147, 151, 160, 170, 174 f., 184, 186, 189, 198, 218 f., 246 f., 250, 253, 255, 261, 269, 271, 279, 292, 325 f., 333 f., 338, 341 – 343, 347 Yield-limit

154, 156